Firing Range
by elfin


"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 deserved, in Michael's opinion.  "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 at his friend, tearing his eyes from the gap through which their captain was holed up and trying to kill them.  Or not them.  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; his 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 their own side.

"What do we do?"

"I was thinking about waiting until he lost consciousness."  From his tone of voice there was definitely a 'but' missing from the end of that sentence.  Michael added it, encouragingly.  "If he loses consciousness, I think he'll die."

Michael felt the blood draining from various parts of his digestive system which had decided they could do without it right there and then.  "What?"

"He's being poisoned; by the drugs, by failing organs, by toxins they've fed him.  The only thing keeping him alive is him.  If he stops fighting, I think he'd... stop."

Without really considering his next move, Michael tensed, held his own PPG up at an angle that would send the shot - it he fired it - several safe feet over John's head, and rolled bodily 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, 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 devastated body wasn't in any fit state to cope with a single new injury.

He waited, and a minute later he 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 almost the opposite.  And this time it's for his own good."

Michael thought he might actually cry and it raised his voice.  "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 entrance door hissed open and a second shot was aimed to take the head off whoever was standing on the other side.

The captain of the ship dropped unceremoniously at 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 to the Agamemnon and for now Michael's recent good work was enough for him to be saved from execution for his past crimes.  For now.

"Where's John?"

Stephen pointed at the gap where the shots had been fired from.  "That is John.  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 Jack brought back with horribly sharp clarity the reality of the situation.  There was a war, paused just beyond the hull of the ship, waiting, waiting for a man who could barely walk to take control of a massive fleet against a merciless enemy.  A man who, long ago, Michael had fallen desperately in love with.

"What's that?"

Michael and Stephen followed Jack's pointed gaze to the pad in the doctor's hand.

"It's a tranq."  Michael said flatly.

"It's not a tranq.  It's a chemical patch.  It drip feeds a mix of chemicals into the blood stream - specifically in this case penicillin, anti-toxins and adrenaline."

"Adrenaline?  Don't ya think he's got enough of that in his system right now?"

Stephen glanced up at him.  "Like I said, 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."  At least neither of them was in denial about what was to come.

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.  'This is your fault.'  Michael forced himself not too 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.  At least John hadn't shot Jack - that was a good sign.

They waited.  And without warning a PPG came skidding out through the gap at the same time as a terrible sound - somewhere between a yell and a scream - rose from behind them.

"Primal therapy," Stephen muttered, and Michael turned to see him swiping tears from his eyes.  This was all his fault, but sucking vacuum was the cowards 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 leaned over his legs to peer around the blast door, watched the man's shoulders drop, and he looked around too.

Jack and John were sitting with their backs against the hull, John's disfigured hands were limp in his lap, his head was turned to Jack but lowered, abject misery obvious in his expression.  Another crack zigzagged through Michael's heart.

Jack was talking to him quietly, words 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.