John hasn't had a heart attack.
He's in an acute state of some kind of tachyarrhythmic cardiac something, and though the biometrics on the slate gray spacesuit aren't nearly of the caliber Alan's used to, he knows enough about what he's looking at to know that his brother hasn't had a heart attack.
It's not enough to say that he won't, though. And right now it doesn't look good.
A long ago version of Alan had a very different version of this encounter in his head. Finally finding his brother—tracking John down and hemming him in and pinning him in place—and just scorching the earth where he stood with pure, righteous fury. Getting angry, because not-actually-all-that-long-ago-Alan had been pretty sure that by this point he'd be entitled to be angry with his brother. For being stubborn and solitary and obsessive and sociopathic, for disregarding his health and his safety and his family and international law, and just throwing himself off a cliff's edge, in pursuit of a lost cause.
Only, Alan hadn't ever stopped to consider what would actually happen, if John were to lose this cause.
It turns out it looks a lot like falling off an edge.
Actually finding his brother—at first, Alan had been sure he'd found him too late. That it had been like EOS had said; that John just hadn't been able to go on without her, that he'd given up completely. EOS had warned him that there was something wrong with John's heart. It's possible that Alan hadn't fully understood just how imminent that threat could be, until he'd gotten aboard the station, down into the gravity ring. The first thing he'd seen had been John, crumpled lifelessly onto his side, held in place by the inertial pull of centrifugal force—but all alone and empty and so terribly still. There'd been a shock of sudden dread, deja vu, and Alan had gone skidding to his knees at John's side, babbling his brother's name, before he'd realized that—alive or dead—of course John couldn't hear him, their comms on separate channels.
But he hadn't been dead.
And he isn't dead yet.
So he's absolutely not going to die on Alan's watch, because John's is the life Alan's promised to save.
Okay.
Brake the gravity ring. No reason for this to be harder than it already is. Get John up, even if his limbs are limp and resistant and heavy; even in zero-g. Keep talking to him, babbled, vaguely positive nonsense, even if the only answer is his shallow, laboured breathing. Go quickly, it isn't far, and every second counts. Get to the aftward airlock, where there's a small shuttle docked, and air and heat and light and a space-rated emergency med kit, and Jefferson Grant Tracy, who surely hasn't come back from the dead just to watch one of his boys die.
Open the hatch.
The first time he sees his father in nearly three years, and Alan's first words to him, thumbing on an external audio channel, are a clipped, stern, "Move, Dad."
Because his Dad's in the way, waiting right up at the inner door of the airlock, and Alan—and John, more critically—doesn't have the time for blank, staring shock; wide, grey-blue eyes and hands that reach for his son, even as he moves backward, gets out of the way. If his father says anything, Alan's still got his helmet on, can't hear him.
Nothing he could say right now would be helpful, anyway. Right now his father is a resource, and is only useful if he does what he's told.
Everyone in the family credits Alan's obsession with video games as a mark of his obsession with hand-eye coordination, a means of honing his reflexes and tightening his reaction time, staying sharp. It's the general consensus that Alan's good at games for the same reason he's a good pilot—and that those same skills are what he develops while he plays, and are what he values most.
This isn't untrue, but it's also not the whole of the truth.
Because what Alan values most is the learned ability to detach his self from his actions; to step backwards, out of himself, and render the world around him in terms of objectives and obstacles, goals and parameters, and how they relate to the avatar of Thunderbird 3. Shouldering past his long-lost father to haul his dying older brother into the cabin of the little shuttle—not the sort of action he can really be present in the moment for. Something he needs to be separate from, or else risk breaking down entirely. Alan's aware that his eyes are still slightly blurred with tears, but the emotion attached to them is gone, put aside for later.
Okay.
Get John over to the co-pilot's seat, secure him. Pop his helmet open and pull it off—don't be distracted by the way his face is wet and his eyes are red-rimmed against ashy, pale skin; the way he looks awful, so far from how he's supposed to be—and find a pulse, because he has to still have one, and—"Dad, gimme the—oh, good, thanks. Standby." Crack open a space-rated standard medkit. Oxygen and an AED. Remember the dozens, probably more like hundreds of times Gordon's done this demo, because it's always easiest to remember the way Gordon does it, which is why Gordon's done it a few hundred times.
Which, in turn, is why Alan can do it without thinking or feeling, making sure that the oxygen mask is tight but not too tight, 40% concentration, seal is good, valves are all clear. Pulling John's spacesuit open, unzipping it from the collar down to expose his chest—not getting distracted by the horrorshow of a scar that mars the hollow below his collarbone, or the hard, evident edges of the device beneath his skin. Letting his fingers linger only briefly on the IR logo on the opposite side, a tattoo plainly inked against his brother's skin, before using it as a guide for where to place the rightward pad of the defibrillator, and then the other lower down on the left side, against the curve of John's ribcage. His brother still isn't even vaguely conscious, but maybe that's a mercy.
There's not a hell of a lot more Alan can do. And so far all his dad's done is watch.
There's really no time for this.
Alan pulls his own helmet off and turns, addresses his father, his tone still clipped and brisk and short, "I've gotta open TB3's cargo bay, this thing can't de-orbit fast enough on its own and we need to get to a hospital."
His father continues to be useless, staring and helpless and apparently not listening as he pulls himself over to the other side of the co-pilot's seat. He doesn't seem to know what to do expect press a hand against John's chest, over his heart, maybe feeling for the same pulse Alan had been after.
But Alan took care of that already. If there's anything to be done about John's heart, there's a device in place that'll do it, that's taken care of, that's handled. Alan's already pulling up the remote controls for the cargo bay on his wrist control, keying in access-codes, rapid fire. They need to move forward, and Alan doesn't look up as he asks, "Can you bring her in and dock? I can do it if you—"
Jeff's voice breaks slightly as he says, "Allie, your brother—"
There's a version of Alan that's not immediately annoyed, irritated with this stricken old man for looking so obviously frightened, for not achieving the same level of detachment that Alan has to force his way through—but it's not the version of Alan that's present, here and now. He feels his back teeth grind together and snaps, "I'll do it."
He shifts himself away and into the pilot's seat, takes in the controls at a glance and then reaches up to flick a few switches, disengage the airlock before switching to full manual control. As an afterthought he says—"Don't touch him. If that thing says he needs a shock, you can't be touching him. That's what 'clear' means."
"...I know that, Alan, I—"
"Hold on."
Disengage the docking mechanism. Get clear of the station overhead. Fire up the maneuvering thrusters, make a quick, careful beeline over to TB3 and the gleaming white sanctuary of the cargo bay. Take a minute to be thankful for how nimble and responsive the little shuttle is. Tuck it up inside his Thunderbird's massive interior, and lock securely onto the docking mechanisms. Don't be distracted by the way John stirs and groans in response to the sudden jerk of movement, or what Jeff says to him, low and soft, with one hand on his son's arm and the other brushing through his hair, his head bowed close.
That's fine. Someone needs to look after John. Alan can't do it, and plainly his father isn't going to be good for much else. If he were alone he'd take John with him up to TB3's cockpit, but with his father here there's no need. Better not to move John more than necessary. "You got him, Dad? I gotta go."
"I—yes. I've got him, Alan, I—"
"I have to go. Strap in, reentry's gonna be rough."
Leave. Get out of the shuttle, get up to the access hatch for the cockpit. Dad's here. Dad's back and John's back and Dad's got John, so it's fine. John's not going to die, because he just can't—but if he does, he won't be alone, because Dad's here. Dad's got him. John's in really bad shape, but it's okay, because at least their Dad is here. Alan can go, Alan still has a job to do. Everything Alan's done so far is a stopgap, because John needs real help. Badly. Get John to a hospital and a doctor and to people who can do more for him than Alan can. Get John some help. Take John home.
Stop crying.
He has, mostly, by the time he gets up to his control panel. He's had to ditch his helmet so he can wipe his eyes and cough and pull h imself together. He has to clear his throat and take a deep breath and try and someone up Thunderbird 3's essential steadiness, even as he brings his ship around, and starts to set a course. He knows where he's going. There's only one hospital in the world that can handle Thunderbird 3, only one hospital rated for emergency medical situations, straight out of orbit. John's even been there before. They'll probably remember him. Malaria's pretty memorable, after all.
Only one thing left to do.
Call the island.
