SG: WCD 45 Desperado Kick Part Two of Three

[Lawrence Brown]

Doctor Dick van Sloan looked up from his computer as the door slid open. 

"Mister British. So good of you to finally join us."

 

"Ta, doctor. Though my friends call me Airwave. Or, if you prefer, 

Randall. Either will do."

 

"I'm glad that I'm considered in the canon of your friends. I'll admit, 

I thought that maybe you had a grudge against me and I've been trying to 

remember what I might've done to engender it. Why, I haven't even shown 

you my corpse yet."

 

"I say. Corpse?"

 

"It's a very long story. Hm, actually it's a very short and stupid 

story, but it's not relevant to this discussion so let's skip it for 

now. Randall, I've been trying to run a physical on each and every one 

of you. It's regulations that I do so and it's also a just a darned good 

idea."

 

"So I've noticed, yes."

 

"When I started this regimen, I was expecting to get some resistance. 

Heroes are notorious for being independent and for proudly living 

outside the rules. I was almost positive that Trap-Door Spider Man was 

going to be the one who resisted this tooth and claw... or is that 

mandible and web? I was expecting Spectrum to give me some high and 

mighty speech about how he was in top physical health and that he 

resented my prying into details better kept personal. I was expecting 

the Nikon Ninja to hide from me, blending into the walls with 

supernatural skill until we reached our destination. And I expected Foxy 

to, well... likely drop an anvil on me or something." Dr. Sloan stood 

and then moved in front of his desk, and leaned back on a corner. 

"However, despite all of those doomsday scenarios that I had running 

through my head, absolutely everyone on the team was a trooper about the 

exams - pardon the turn of phrase - with one exception. That exception 

being the one person for whom I'd never bothered to concoct a story 

about how he was going to avoid getting his checkup."

 

"I believe I see where this is going."

 

"I expect you did about the moment you walked in. You strike me as one 

of the brightest members of the Defenders. Which is why it's absolutely 

astounding to me that you're behaving in the most mind-numbingly stupid 

way possible."

 

British Airwave stiffened, grasping his custom cane. "You know, I'm 

beginning to consider withdrawing that offer to let you call me Randall. 

I'm beginning to feel that this relationship has iced over, if you take 

my meaning."

 

"I do, and I apologize for that. However I'd also think that a man who's 

not only suffering from a heart condition but is also seeking treatment 

for it -- -and- who's about to undertake a highly dangerous, not to 

mention stressful mission -- would want to make his primary care 

physician for the duration aware of that fact."

 

Several moments of silence followed Sloan's accusation. British Airwave 

finally broke it with a light tap of his cane on the floor.

 

"Well. If you don't mind my asking, how exactly did you know?"

 

"Oh, it's been observation, mostly. I've seen how bright lights on this 

ship bother you, which suggested photosensitivity. That and the rash 

you've developed make me think that you've been popping digitalis. 

Traditionally, that's either used to treat heart patients or to kill 

people. Since I don't think anyone hereabout is doctoring your food, I'm 

running with the notion that you're taking pills to deal with a medical 

problem."

 

"Doctor Sloan," British Airwave began, his voice slow as he considered 

each word carefully. "You have to understand something. Please listen to 

me and believe when I say that I have to go on this mission."

 

"Randall, maybe you should be the one listening to me. I can't stress 

this enough: you're not a well man. I can't in good conscience approve 

you fighting a punk with a gun, let alone flying off into space to do 

battle with Elvis only knows what! For the sake of your own health, this 

is one fight that you need to sit out."

 

Randall stood and squared his shoulders.

 

"Doctor Sloan. Please. Listen to me. These chaps alongside whom I intend 

to fight are not just my teammates. The bond that we share goes far 

beyond that. They're my friends, my family and my life. We've shared 

common cause for so long that I could sooner cut off my own arm than 

part ways with them."

 

"Randall--"

 

"Please. Hear me out. You owe an old duffer that much, at least."

 

"Fine. I'm not sure what you can say that'll change my mind, but you 

have the talking stick. Go ahead."

 

Randall gestured with his cane, pointing in the direction of earth.

 

"This isn't just an ordinary mission, should the word 'ordinary' ever 

really apply to any of the fights that we have. This one is for all the 

marbles as it were. While sometimes it seems like the whole blooming 

planet is at risk on a yearly basis, the fact remains that it -is- at 

risk and frequency doesn't make a dratted bit of difference to the peril 

that it faces. Aurora and the West Coast Defenders are uniquely 

positioned to head off this threat, and so we answer the clarion call 

that we hear, heedless of the dangers."

 

He sat down again, tiredly.

 

"You're right in that this has us called off into the unknown, and the 

unknown is precisely where my teammates, my friends and my family are 

going to need me the most. If I stay behind, they -will- ask why and 

I'll have little choice but to tell them. And if I tell them, then 

they'll spend the rest of the jaunt wondering about me, worrying when 

they should be focused on doing their jobs. Wondering if I'm all right 

may well lead to them becoming not so."

 

He rapped his cane on the floor to emphasize his point.

 

"But even more than that, we are - to belabor a cliché - greater than 

the sum of our parts. When all is said and done, together we can move 

the firmament itself if we put our minds to it. Thus, the decision that 

I'm making isn't just for me, Doctor Sloan. This isn't an old soldier 

demanding the chance to go down covered in glory. This is the moment 

when I am called to make a choice, and I choose to stand with those I'm 

-proud- to call my family in the time of their greatest need."

 

There was another moment of silence as the doctor digested those words, 

weighing professional opinion against the case that British Airwave had 

raised. Finally, Dr. Sloan nodded to himself.

 

"If the stresses of this mission are too much for you, your teammates 

might just have to lower their guard to get you to medical assistance. 

You do realize that, right?"

 

"So it seems we're faced with two equally unpalatable decisions. I 

choose the one that carries with it the best chances of continued life 

for the most."

 

Dr. Sloan sighed. He turned around and sat back down behind his desk and 

drummed his fingers in thought. "Randall, I'm not in the habit of 

bargaining with my patients, but today's not your ordinary day. I'll 

make you a deal."

 

"I'm listening. Do say?"

 

"I won't ground you for this mission, on two conditions."

 

"State them."

 

"First, we're going to do everything that Auroran shipboard medicine can 

do to treat your condition, and you'll follow my every instruction to 

the letter. Agreed?"

 

"Insofar as it doesn't interfere with the mission... agreed."

 

"Good. Second, once we reach the Nintan home-world, you'll stay on the 

ship."

 

"What? But that's ridiculous!"

 

"I said I didn't bargain with my patients, so I'm not very good at it. 

If you think I'm bad at -that-, you should see just how terrible my 

negotiation skills are. That's my deal, take it or leave it and the 

banker won't be calling back. If you leave it, then there's no way short 

of an act of God that will get you onboard this ship when it launches. 

This way, at least you go along and can offer your insight as the 

mission progresses."

 

"Well," replied British Airwave, after a moment of silent thought. "It 

seems you have me over something of a barrel, doesn't it?"

 

"I'm proud of it. It's a well-made barrel. It's the one I use to hold a 

compromise in."

 

"As you say. I don't seem to have a choice. All right, I accept the deal 

despite my misgivings. You'll keep mum about my condition for the time 

being, I assume?"

 

"Doctor-patient confidentiality, Randall. Since you're accepting my help 

I don't see any reason to even consider breaching it."

 

"Thank you doctor. Shall we proceed with this physical, then?"

 

"I think it's about that time, don't you?"

 

"Agreed. Oh, and Doctor Sloan?"

 

"MMmm?"

 

"You may not be in the habit of bargaining with your patients, but come 

the crisis, you certainly can do what you must."

 

"Thank you, Randall. Now, there's some body I'd like you to meet..."

 

***

 

Trooper John Clark had seen many wonders in his life. He'd fought tooth 

and nail with aliens from another world; battled against 

extra-dimensional duplicates of his friends and comrades; and struggled 

against a giant cat who threatened to cough up a hair-ball so large that 

it would threaten life as he knew it. It was certainly safe to say that 

while Clark hadn't necessarily seen it all, he had seen more than his 

fair share of the wonders that the world had to offer.

 

But it seemed that no matter how much Clark saw or how jaded these 

sights might make him, the majesty of space travel would never lose its 

luster. Clark stared out one of the Lenny Bruce's rear 'portholes', 

watching the naked stars beyond in fascination. Something about the 

sight of the cosmos unhindered by an atmosphere never failed to 

fascinate Clark. Maybe it was due to the fact that for once, Clark was 

looking at a wonder that he didn't have to fight.

 

The trooper shifted his gaze a few degrees, gazing at an Earth that was 

rapidly vanishing behind them. He felt a mild nostalgia for the 

retreating planet and it helped him remember why he liked to watch these 

launches from such a vantage point. If he didn't, Clark ran the risk of 

starting to treat these excursions as routine; and as long as he lived, 

Clark hoped to never lose the awe that he felt at this moment as he 

watched the planet of his birth vanish from view.

 

Soon enough, the Lenny Bruce would shift into Glid space and then all 

such sights would be left behind for the dull grey of a ludicrously 

improbable reality in which the normal laws of physics and dress sense 

were suspended; so Clark intended to enjoy the few moments he had left 

to the full. The only regret that marred this moment was a wish that 

Karen could be here to watch this sight with him.

 

Clark frowned as he spotted a gleam of light out of the corner of his 

eye. He focused on whatever it was that had caught his attention, trying 

to make it out. There was something there, something that was presumably 

moving quickly, as Clark didn't have any reference points against which 

to actually judge the object's speed. A moment later he spotted 

something about the unidentified gleam that didn't require a reference 

point to give him good reason to worry: the object had shifted 

direction. That set off alarm bells in Clark's head: changing direction 

without being obviously acted upon by an outside force suggested that 

this bogey was artificial and under someone's control.

 

Just then, alarm bells were set off outside Clark's head. With a sigh, 

he began to run for the armory. Break time was over and even worse, 

space had just become yet another wonder that he had to fight.

 

Suddenly the floor dropped out under Clark's feet. He and a handful of 

crew-members were tossed unceremoniously about the deck. The trooper 

heard several squawks of protest and demands for an explanation; Clark 

sympathized, as he wanted one himself. But sometimes prayers are 

answered: the ship's comm net sounded as Sparks addressed the roughly 

abused crew.

 

"Attention crew and passengers of the Lenny Bruce. This ship has just 

been fired upon by a hostile craft, which we have tentatively IDed as 

Nintan. Our Glid drive has sustained a disabling hit and we're still 

trying to disentangle the damage its power back-flow caused to our 

engines. We are coming about to offer combat. Escape is currently not an 

option. I repeat, crew and passengers of the Lenny Bruce, this ship has 

just been fired upon by a hostile craft..."

 

That was then. At the time, it hadn't seemed possible to get any worse.

 

***

 

It got much worse.

 

The security camera recording displayed a very short looping clip. 

British Airwave leaned over Sparks shoulder, regarding the video with a 

critical eye. "That's odd. The Nintan Spectrum and Foxy had encountered 

were bipeds, and disguised as Arab terrorists. Perhaps another disguise? 

Mayhap they are the shock troopers. Or this is their battle armor they 

use..."

 

"Ugh." Another bridge crew-member muttered, "They look like big grey 

metal snakes." He pulled a weather-beaten leather hat and a bullwhip 

from under his chair. "Snakes. It had to be snakes."

 

One of the first Nintan turned toward the camera, and fired. Static.

 

Then the video clip looped again.

 

"Attention, crew and passengers of the Lenny Bruce. The ship has been 

boarded by hostile Nintan, thought to be serpentine in nature. Numbers 

are unknown. Our sensors can't count them. Particle detection can't 

accurately pinpoint them. And our infra-red traces aren't locking on 

because the farking bastards are cold-blooded! If you are 

combat-capable, get to your station and prepare to resist. If you're a 

non-com, get to a secure area immediately! Everybody listen, you -must- 

put up a barrier between yourselves and the snakes!"

 

Sparks sighed, putting up his intercom link, hoping that his message had 

gotten through. The Lenny Bruce had suffered enough damage in the recent 

battle that there were some serious gaps in the ship's communications 

interlinks. Well, it would have to be enough.

 

"Sparks,"

 

Commander Tonk said, startling the navigator out of a reverie.

 

"You keep up C&C best that you can. We're gonna need coordination to 

pull our collective fat out of this great big horking fire we've got 

burning here. Everyone else, hit the weapons locker, arm up and lock 

down! The bridge is where they're gonna try to hit if they can, so we've 

gotta make sure whatever they buy, they buy -dear-. Got it?"

 

"Captain?"

 

"Yeah, Johanson? What is it?"

 

"Well, I've been thinking... we do have an available source of 

supplementary weapons."

 

"Good. What've we got? We need every asset we can get, no matter the price."

 

"It's... well, captain? We could make Molotov cocktails."

 

"Great idea, I'm parched. But what's the weapon?"

 

"No... no. Molotov cocktails are a weapon. You don't drink them..."

 

"You do when -I- make them."

 

"It's just... we'd need to use..."

 

"Yeah?"

 

"...your booze supply, ma'am."

 

Tonk stared at Johanson for a long, long moment. The bridge crew fell 

utterly, deathly silent. Even a mouse that had managed to stow away 

onboard the ship went perfectly still, sensing that the saying 'quiet as 

a churchmouse' had suddenly become the only viable survival strategy 

available. Johanson glanced down, waiting for death and his captain's 

reply. In that order.

 

"That's... the price we gotta pay," said Tonk, quietly. "Break it out."

 

"I'm going to need the mini-forklift!" shouted Johanson to the rest of 

the bridge crew, feeling that juddery, nerve-tingling feeling one gets 

when one has stared down Death... and then French-kissed it... and 

somehow returned from the experience alive. "Six trips should do it..."

 

"Props to the fallen," whispered Tonk, tipping her can of Sterno to pour 

a few drops onto the deck-plate, mingling a tear into them. She then 

paused and poured the rest of the contents directly into her mouth. 

"Mustn't waste in times of need."

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