| �Bastard Motherfu-!�
Fingers stinging from the way-too-close-for-comfort PPG
shot that had whizzed passed his hand, Michael dropped
back behind the blast wall, ass to the ground, knees bent,
eyes watering from the pain. Stephen looked at him
with an expression that didn�t contain half the sympathy
he thought he deserved. �What?� �You have to admit, for someone with twenty-three broken bones in his body, six of them in his fingers, eighty percent bruising over his body, multiple organs close to failure and more drugs in him than the 1960s, his aim is pretty good.� Michael grunted. �You�re enjoying this.� Stephen�s expression got serious. �God, no. But look at his positioning. You of all people have to appreciate the strategic importance of that corner over the rest of the docking bay.� �Defence mechanisms honed to perfection. That�s great.� Using sarcasm to cover fear - his very own party piece. �He�s shooting at us, Doc!� �Technically he isn�t. He�s shooting at illusions of us. The �us� he thinks are only in his head. He doesn�t get that we�re real.� Shoulder to shoulder, Michael heard Franklin drop his head back to the hard steel behind them with a low echoing clunk. He glanced across, tearing his eyes from the gap through which their captain was waiting for his next opportunity to kill them. Or not them. The imaginary �them�s. �Why did he let us get this far?� Shrugging, Stephen met his look under the bright lights. �Waiting for an opportunity?� The guard John had stolen the PPG from had been very, very lucky. John�s first shot had gone wild, hit a panel in the ceiling, burnt out a couple of wires, fused the docking bay door closed. No bad thing, it meant someone couldn�t open it by accident and space all of them. And it meant John wouldn�t have to hate himself later - when he could think straight enough to do so - for killing an innocent man, a man on their own side. �What do we do?� �I was considering waiting until he lost consciousness.� From his tone of voice there was definitely a �but� at the end of that sentence. Michael added it, encouragingly. �But� if he loses consciousness, I think he�ll die.� �What?� �He�s being poisoned; by the psychotropics, by failing organs, toxins he�s been fed. I think the only thing keeping him alive is adrenaline.� �Right. Great.� Without really considering his next move, Michael tensed, held his own PPG up at an angle that would send the shot - if he fired it - several safe feet over John�s head, and rolled across the gap between the blast door and the exit. The answering shot came almost instantaneously, and he felt the heat of it inches from his twinging back. He straightened, paused, took a couple of deep breaths and met Stephen�s stunned gaze across the well-lit room. �What. Are. You. Doing?� He mouthed the words, and Michael mouthed back, �Keeping him alive.� He watched Stephen roll his eyes and understood the sentiment but this was an extremely short-term strategy. If he kept it up John would hit him eventually, even if it was by luck rather than judgement. PPG caps these days lasted longer than the average firefight. And firing back with the aim of disarming wasn�t an option. John�s already shattered body wasn�t in any state to cope with any new injury. He waited, and a minute later Michael repeated the move, rolling back to crash into Stephen�s side as this time the shot skimmed the curve of his shoulders just as he crossed the gap. �Taught him everything he knows,� he muttered as Stephen briefly checked his back for any burn marks. �You�re fine. And I�ve got a better idea.� Michael stared at the small, transparent circular pad sitting in the centre of Stephen�s palm when he opened his hand. He took a deep breath and shook his head. �No way.� �It isn�t what you think.� �It�s a fucking tranq. I�m not doing that to him a second time.� �It�s not a tranq - it�s the opposite. And this time it�s for his own good.� Michael thought he might actually cry. �That�s what I told him last time!� A PPG shot shaved sparks of metal from the edge of the blast door at the same time as the docking bay door hissed open and a second shot was aimed to take the head off whoever was standing on the other side. The Agamemnon�s captain dropped unceremoniously tp Stephen�s other side, pulling all his limbs in as close as possible. �What the hell�s going on? I thought the firefight was supposed to be out there, not in here. Where�s Johnny?� Stephen grimaced. �Captain.� Michael reached out the hand not holding the gun. �Jack. Good to see you again.� Jack didn�t shake his hand, his expression was understandably hostile and for a moment Michael thought Maynard might take him out himself and save John from wasting any more shots. But word had preceded him from Mars and for now Michael�s recent good work was enough for him to be saved from execution for past crimes. For now. �Where�s is he?� Stephen pointed at the gap where the shots had been fired from. �Over there. He palmed a PPG when we stepped off the shuttle. No one�s been hurt but only because it�s taken him a while to work out how to fire it with six broken fingers and a system full of psychotropic drugs.� The look on Jack�s face made Michael feel instantly, additionally guilty. He and Stephen had been dealing with the stress since Mars, using black humour to alleviate its otherwise debilitating effects. But one look at Maynard brought back, with horrible clarity, the reality of the situation. There was a war, paused just beyond the hull of the ship, waiting for a man who could barely walk to take control of a massive fleet against a merciless enemy. A man who didn�t know reality from the fiction he�d been fed. Jack pointed to the thing in the palm of Stephen�s hand. �What�s that?� �It�s a tranq.� Michael said flatly. �It�s not a tranq.� The doctor was insistent. �It�s a chemical patch. It�ll drip feed a mix of chemicals into the blood stream - specifically in this case penicillin, anti-toxins, counteragents and adrenaline.� �Adrenaline? You don�t think he�s got enough of that in his system right now?� Stephen glanced up at him. �Like I told Michael, if the adrenaline subsides, if he stops fighting, the most likely outcome is coma and death.� �Jesus.� Jack lifted the patch. �Where does it need to go?� �Anywhere on his skin. Somewhere it won�t get torn off in the battle.� Jack nodded and crawled around them to get a view on the situation. They caught a low, barely audible groan and he sat back, closed his eyes for a brief moment before turning his head and staring at Michael. He didn�t have to say a word, the accusation was clear. Michael forced himself not to look away. He nodded once, and with a second deep breath, Jack crawled on all fours through the gap to the whine of a PPG heating up. Time passed. They waited. The shot never came. Finally a PPG came skidding out through the gap at the same time as the harsh sound of sobbing reached them. Michael looked away. This was all his fault, but sucking vacuum was the coward�s way out. He had to face what he�d done; to John, to Susan, to Stephen, to everyone. There were others responsible, and they would pay. He watched as Stephen moved to peer around the blast door. When he could bare to, he followed. Jack was sitting with his back against the hull, John held loosely in his arms, head on his shoulder. Jack was talking to him quietly, words meant for his ears only, and his hand was on John�s waist, just above his hip, where a slice of bare flesh bore the patch Stephen had provided. One mini-crisis over. So many more to come. This was a snapshot of their chaotic, war-torn lives and a man who should rightfully be under intensive medical care was about to lead a massively overwhelmed fleet into an impossible battle. �How long�s he got with that?� Michael asked, referring to the patch. And Stephen replied, �Twenty hours. No more.� Twenty hours. Come tomorrow, if there were all still breathing, that would be a miracle. |