The view screen bearing his father's image blinked off, displaying darkness just as Gordon had reached for the switch that would rotate the camera. Loud static replaced the darkness, and he grabbed instead for the volume control, quickly cranking it down.
"What did you do?" Brad snarled, cuffing him back from the control panel.
Gordon ducked, but not quickly enough, and the blow caught him across the face. "Nothing!" he protested.
"Don't get cute," Rob warned. He stood behind John, the barrel of his gun resting casually on John's shoulder.
"We told you we had a computer glitch," John said. Ashen–except for the darkening bruise on his cheek–he leaned back into the chair, as if in need of the support. "It's nothing we're doing."
Gordon looked from Brad to Rob. "I'm going to shut it off," he said carefully, indicating the view screen. Brad grunted his assent, and Gordon turned the communications system off.
He hesitated. They might not know what else I shut down. He glanced over at John, then made a decision. The sensors for Thunderbird Three's approach also went off. As did a few nonessential but potentially annoying procedures which were normally managed by Five.
He stepped back from the console, and turned to his brother. Even to his inexperienced eye, John didn't look good. Gordon glanced from Brad to Rob, then stated, "I'm gonna take him in the personnel quarters, where there's a bunk." He looked back at Brad defiantly. "Okay?"
Brad eyed him suspiciously. Exasperated, Gordon waved at the corridor leading to the area. "Go check it out yourself," he challenged.
"You'd better hope," Brad retorted. He walked back to the sleeping area, disappearing into it momentarily. He reappeared, holding two boxes of ammunition that had been in the case. "You weren't gonna tell me about these?" he asked.
Gordon shrugged. "You've got the gun," he pointed out, feeling much as he did when cornered by Scott and Virgil. "What was I gonna do, throw 'em at you?"
There was a snort of laughter behind him, followed by a sharp intake of breath. Gordon felt a stab of guilt. Don't make me laugh, John had said
Even Brad's lips twitched. "Okay, Junior," he said, the amusement evident in his voice, "You can move him." On noting his companion's objection, he added, "It's clear."
Relived, Gordon reached for his brother. He slung one of John's arms around his own shoulder, grabbed his brother around the waist with the other, and pulled John to his feet.
"Whoa," John said, his face turning whiter than Gordon would have believed possible. "Hold on, Splash." Futilely resisting his brother's grip, he staggered against Gordon. Then his eyes closed against the sudden dizziness that swept over him.
Oh, crap, thought Gordon, not good! Belatedly, he realized that he had grabbed John on his bad side. Well, if you'd remembered the damn sling in the first place, he scolded The full brunt of John's weight fell against him, causing him to stagger, and he knew John had passed out again. Struggling to hold his brother upright, he looked desperately at Rob, the nearest to him. "Please?"
The man glanced at his partner, who straightened, watching them carefully. Only then did Rob move to the opposite side, settling John's good arm around his shoulder.
They got John into the sleeping quarters and onto a bunk. Rob stepped away, as if embarrassed by the momentary lapse into helpfulness, and headed back into the control room. Brad remained in the doorway, alert and watching.
Gordon peeled back John's uniform, unconsciously biting his own lip as he did so. The jumpsuit didn't look any different, and the shirt underneath was a mess of stains–from both blood and the spilled disinfectant–that had worked their way along the fibers. Hopefully, it looked worse than it was.
The dressing, however, was saturated, and some of the tape had peeled back. Gordon retrieved the medical kit from the control room, brushing his way past Brad, and hauled it back in the room with him. He pulled out more gauze pads from the dwindling supply, and piled them on top of the dressing. Fumbling with the tape, he glanced up at the doorway, intending to ask for help from Brad, but the man had returned to the control room. Swearing to himself, Gordon managed to secure the fresh dressing.
A dull stab from his pocket reminded him of the container hidden there. He checked his watch, but it was too early for another dose of antibiotic. Ditto for the codeine. Stalling for time, he grabbed the wrist monitor, a temperature strip, and a pad of paper, busying himself with taking vital signs.
Blood pressure readings were his weak point, but at least the monitor worked automatically. Gordon jotted down the numbers, wishing he'd paid better attention during the first aid "classes." Whether this was good or not, he wasn't sure.
Pulse–that he was better at, having had to monitor his own during training. John's seemed a little high. Gordon frowned, and rechecked it, but the difference was insignificant. Respirations, too, were faster than normal.
He held the temperature strip against John's forehead, purposely not watching it as he counted the seconds. The three-digit-plus-decimal-point reading was not encouraging.
Gordon crumpled the strip in his hand, fighting back his fear and guilt. He forced himself to write down the numbers. Rechecking his watch, he noted the time and wrote it beside the vitals, along with an approximate time for the antibiotic and painkiller.
He sat back, resting against the other bunk, at a loss for what to do next. Not that there was much else he could do, he realized ruefully, fiddling with the pencil. Except maybe negotiate some kind of deal to get John off Five. He turned the basic idea over in his mind, looking at options and possibilities. It boiled down to two scenarios.
They could abandon Five, if he could convince their captors to release both of them. He didn't think that they'd go for the loss of two bargaining chips. One was iffy enough. But leaving Five in the hands of strangers didn't sit too well either, and he could imagine what John would say about that.
The other option was for him to stay behind, once John was transferred off the station. And–John's opinion aside–that idea didn't appeal to him.
The pencil was well-chewed by the time he made up his mind. Gordon tossed it into the medical kit. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the tetracycline bottle. He turned it over several times, watching the solitary pill rattle, before replacing it in his pocket. You're stalling, he told himself.
He knelt by John, once again checking his pulse. No change. Gordon closed his eyes briefly, then opened them. He stood, and headed for the control room.
Both men looked at him, and Brad moved smoothly alongside, as if to prevent him from making any sudden moves.
"Let John go," Gordon said abruptly, not knowing any other way to broach the subject.
Brad smiled patiently, amused. "You're kidding, right?"
"I think he's getting an infection from the. . ." Gordon faltered. "Without antibiotics, that might . . . " he swallowed hard, forcing himself to continue, " . . . might kill him. And there isn't any left on board." Well, not enough worth counting, anyway.
The two men regarded each other in mutual animosity. Brad pulled the bottle of amoxycillin from his pocket, handing it back to Gordon. "What's wrong with using that?" he asked.
"He can't," said Gordon, "he's allergic to it." He stuffed that bottle in his pocket, and pulled out the tetracycline bottle, reluctantly handing it over. "This is the only stuff he can have, and there isn't enough of it."
Brad looked at the bottle, noting the names on it. "You, too, Junior?" he said, regarding Gordon thoughtfully. The silence stretched, painfully, as he continued to study the bottle. Then he looked back at Gordon and asked. "You guys brothers or what?"
Gordon didn't respond, as itdidn't seem worth hiding anymore. And at least he hadn't noticed the names on the other container.
His silence was apparently answer enough. Brad tossed the bottle back to Gordon. "It's up to Vicky," he said, a peculiar smile on his face.