Cradling his unconscious brother, Gordon saw the small hole in the shoulder of the white and red uniform, framed in the wrong shade of red. Horrified, he settled John on the deck, and hurriedly opened the fasteners of the jumpsuit. Oh, shit, no! Please! he begged silently. His fingers fumbled as they tugged at the fabric, pulling it back.
Underneath the jumpsuit, John's white turtleneck was also stained. It bore a matching hole to the one in the jumpsuit, with a wider border of that same red. Gordon tore at the fabric, but it resisted his attempts. He rose, and after a quick glance at Brad–who gestured permission–went to the medical kit. Grabbing the items he needed, he returned to his brother.
John's eyelids fluttered. Gordon cut through the shirt, pulling the pieces away from the wound. Automatically, he reached for the gauze pads, wiping away the blood in order to see the site.
I'm sorry, his mind chanted, I didn't mean to. He'd said those words often enough during his lifetime. After practical jokes gone wrong, and even those that had gone "right" but the recipient–or Dad–didn't appreciate the subtlety of said joke. I didn't try to hit you, John. Please, please be okay.
He grabbed for the antiseptic, his hands shaking as he opened the bottle. It spilled, adding its orange stain to John's shirt. The new stains spread, seeping into the old, creating an odd, rusty color.
You just don't want to admit how rusty you are. . . . Scott's words came flooding from his memory. A surge of panic rose inside, and he desperately wished Scott were here now. Or better yet, Dad. He paused, and shut his eyes, his mind jumping between thoughts. Something that Kyrano had said, when he was teaching them first aid. What was it? His own breathing slowed as he tried to remember, and the adrenaline deluge subsided. Oh, yeah. In an emergency, the first thing you do is check your own pulse. He opened his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he poured the antiseptic onto a piece of gauze, and dabbed at the wound.
The sting of the antiseptic caused John to flinch. "Whoa, easy," Gordon said, setting the bottle down. His free hand moved to his brother's chest, not so much holding him down as it was steadying him, and continued to dab at the area. This elicited a gasp from John, and his eyes opened, initially blank with shock. Realization slowly settled in them, and Gordon recoiled.
By deliberately focusing on the wound, Gordon managed to evade his brother's perusal. He grabbed for a topical antibiotic, then ripped open more packages of large gauze pads. Laying several of the squares on the wound, he held them with one hand, then realized that the tape had rolled away. Silently cursing, he reached for the errant item, which lay just beyond his fingertips. He adjusted his hold on the gauze, and tried again.
A hand nudged his aside, and Gordon froze. Slowly, he faced his brother, reluctantly meeting John's gaze. He hesitated, struggling against a rush of guilt and remorse. "John." His voice caught as he spoke, then the words poured out. "I didn't mean . . . I wasn't trying to. . . to . . .oh, God, John, I'm sorry. "
"Pure dumb luck," John said, with a ghost of his usual smile. "I forgot to duck." He held the gauze while Gordon retrieved the roll of tape.
Gordon secured the edges of the gauze, then helped John to a sitting position. Belatedly, he remembered to check for an exit wound. There was none. That was good, and not good. Good, because he didn't have to worry about a second wound site. Bad, because the bullet was still in John, along with whatever it had carried in with it.
"Hey, Gordon."
"What?" He looked at John apprehensively.
John tapped his uniform lightly. "White," he said, in a blatant attempt to distract his brother, "Good guy. And next time you can get hurt, okay?"
In spite of his trepidation, Gordon snorted "But you do such a good job at it," he managed to retort. He pulled John's uniform back over the wounded shoulder, and felt his brother shudder.
"Hah," was John's response, "I've done my share already." He winced as he settled back against the bulkhead.
"Yeah," Gordon continued, "I think I'll put your name on the sling. You're the only one who's ever used it."
John laughed, then coughed, curling up slightly. "Oh, god, Gordy," he said, "Don't make me laugh."
Painkillers, thought Gordon, I should've given him some. And antibiotics. And the sling. He stood, and headed back to the locker, digging in the bin that held the prescription medicines. The amount left in the tetracycline bottle worried him, as did that in the codeine bottle. He considered the other antibiotics, a vague remembrance of something Ohana had drilled into them.
John and Gordon cannot use the penicillin-related drugs, she had stressed. And the cephalosporin-related drugs could cause the same reactions, so avoid them if possible.
That left the quinolone, which he wasn't sure about. Two pills, total, then. Twenty-four hours' worth, maybe. Gordon wasn't sure if that would be enough to stave off any infection John might develop from the wound. Like trying to hold off Scott with one punch, he thought grimly. He took the tetracycline bottle, palmed one pill, and tucked the bottle into his pocket. Then he picked up the codeine bottle, and removed two pills from it.
"What're you up to, Junior?"
Gordon started guiltily. He replaced the bin, and turned toward Brad. "I'm just getting some pills for my. . ." he hesitated, "my friend." No sense in giving them any leverage. He juggled the pills in his hand, then opened it, revealing only two of them. "Just something for the pain."
"Got anything good in there?" Brad asked. He wandered up behind Gordon, inspecting the interior of the locker. Gordon moved aside, allowing him access to the area.
Rob turned from the console, glaring at them. "Keep your mind on business," he snapped.
"Chill out," Brad responded laconically, continuing to poke about in the kit, "You made contact yet?"
"Yeah." His partner faced them, leaning casually against the console "Oden's checked in at IWN. They should broadcast the first message within the hour. After that, we got . . ." he checked his chronograph ". . . maybe ninety minutes before we go on air."
"Plenty of time," Brad said. His attention shifted, and he scowled. "Hey, Junior."
Partway to the galley, Gordon stopped, and looked at him. "I'm getting some water," he explained.
The man walked over to him, the knife coming to rest with its point at the right side of Gordon's jaw. "You don't move unless I say so," he said softly, as if explaining to a wayward child, "I don't want you running around where I can't see you." He smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Got that?"
Gordon looked at him, refusing to answer. The knife tip traced a path under his chin, scoring just enough at one area to cause a shallow cut, then paused.
He didn't remember making any sound. But there was an exclamation behind him, and movement of some sort. He heard Rob caution, "Don't," and the soft snick of a hammer drawing back. It was followed by a sharp intake of breath–from John, he guessed.
Unsure of whom the gun was pointed at, Gordon remained where he was, his gaze fixed on his opponent's face. His fingers curled around the pills, rolling them as he waited.
"Brad, for cryin' out loud," said Rob. He gestured at John. "Vicky's pissed already that this happened." Scowling at his partner, he added, "Word gets out, somebody will figure that they can risk a rescue."
The two men held their locked gaze a moment longer. "You're pushin' my buttons, Junior," Brad warned. "Keep it up, and. . . ." He paused, his gaze flicking over to John. It returned to Gordon, and he smiled humorlessly. "I'll put your buddy out of my misery."
Gordon didn't respond. The knife dropped away, and Brad stepped back, leaving room for him to pass. He did so, hastily grabbing a bottled something from the small refrigerator in the galley, before returning to John.
"Here," he said, handing him the pills. He settled down next to his brother, and wrestled with the bottle cap. Once the seal was broken, he passed the bottle to John.
His brother took it, inspected it briefly and sniffed at it, before washing the pills down. Gordon reddened, but it had been an unopened bottle, and he was probably safe. It was easier to find the bottles Scott used, anyway.
He watched John recap the bottle, and tuck it between them. "What d'ya think they want?" Gordon asked.
John shrugged, and immediately regretted the movement. "Ransom, maybe," he said. The cumulative effects of choking, beating, and gunshot wound were making themselves felt, and he shifted, seeking a more comfortable position. It didn't help. "If they've got control of ASP and IWN, they've probably got ISS as well." He shivered, and closed his eyes, curling in on himself.
Gordon whistled silently. The concept, at least, was impressive. They've got the world in a choke hold, especially with ASP. Like Thunderbird Five, the Armed Services Platform had what were defined as "defensive" weapons, intended for deflecting rogue asteroids and such. Unlike Five's though, ASP's were probably much more obvious and accessible. The threat of turning them on Earth had been the strongest argument for the station's international, rotating staff.
The threat of those weapons would also make it difficult to launch any Earth-based rescue to the involved stations. Between ASP and Thunderbird Five, their sensors would detect any attempt, and ASP could easily blast it from the atmosphere. So could Five, if they found her weapons.
Gordon glanced at their "guests." The one, Brad, stood a casual watch over them, toying with the knife. The other was at the control console, poking about the systems, and muttering curses as he worked.
His attention wandered back to John. Normally the fairest of the five of them, he seemed paler, at least to Gordon. Or was it my imagination? He hoped John wasn't losing too much blood, although it was hard to tell. And he had this nagging feeling, as if he'd forgotten something. First aid was not his strong point; on missions, Dad and Virgil–or John, when he was down from Five–usually took care of that.
He shuddered, causing John to glance at him. Gordon shook his head, and looked away, still struggling with his guilt. If I hadn't tried to play hero, John wouldn't've gotten hurt. Shot, he corrected himself. Whatever else happens, that was my fault.
And there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.
Author's notes:
Rating addendum–Ah, whump. grin Did I mention that there was whump?
For those who are interested, "Orion Armed: behind the scenes" has started posting at Fictionpress' site. Same author name, under "Essays."