XOVER: Changing of the Guard 4: The Road To Hammelcar [PG13] 6/19
ecolea (ecolea@WT.NET)
Mon, 24 Dec 2001 08:51:09 -0600
Notes and disclaimers in part 0/19
Chapter 6
"Proximity warning! Proximity warning! Proximity..."
Methos dragged moist foul air into his lungs, choking as the metallic =
taste
of blood filled his throat. He coughed hard, holding his chest, which =
felt
like someone had taken a jagged saw to his heart.
"Proximity warning! Proximity warning!"
Squinting, Methos peered through the red mist clouding his eyes. What?
Where?
"Oh my god!"
Methos looked wildly around the cockpit then down at himself, foolishly
flinching away from the horror. There was blood everywhere. On every
surface, covering the floor, even the air was filled with the sticky =
fluid.
It looked like a slaughter house!
"Jack?" he whispered, turning in his seat which squished as he moved.
"Jack!"
Oh, fuck.
He reached out a hand and took the dagger away from the unconscious man.
O'Neill was soaked in blood and Methos didn't doubt he looked just as =
bad.
Reaching out tentatively, he checked the colonel's pulse and what he =
found
shocked him thoroughly. The man's wrist was far too thin, the skin too =
cool,
and with all the blood he couldn't tell whether or not he was clammy. =
But
O'Neill's pulse was weak and thready which was a good enough indicator =
that
he was very close to dying.
"Proximity warning! Proximity warning!"
Methos growled and kicked the panel until it stopped beeping at him.
"Jack?" he called. "Come on, Jack!" He shook the other man gently, then
harder when he didn't respond, finally slapping his face. "Wake up!"
O'Neill's eyes fluttered open as they tried to focus on him.
"Hey!" Jack croaked. "Did I wake you? Or do I have to kill you?" His =
hand
swung weakly toward Methos. "Sorry. Too tired," he whispered as he =
started
to pass out again. "Can't..."
"God," Methos whispered, appalled. He'd driven the man half mad. But I =
never
thought...
He swung around in his seat, hurriedly checking the instrument panel. =
There
was no time to worry about that now, he realized. He had to get Jack to =
the
medical facility inside.
Inside where? Methos thought wryly. He couldn't see a damn thing through =
all
this blood. He reached forward, trying to clear the window and succeeded
only in smudging it further. He looked around for something even =
slightly
clean and found the blood soaked chair padding Jack had used on the =
floor.
It gave him a moment's pause as he realized O'Neill had cut up his own =
seat
instead of the dead man's.
He shook his head. Well, now was as good a time as any to use his own. =
The
seat was soaked, but the back rest around his shoulders was fairly dry.
Methos cut out the padding, using it to wipe down the instrument panel =
and
the window in front of him.
A few hundred kilometers ahead he saw what looked like an asteroid. =
Frowning
slightly, he shrugged. Guess Tok'ra was in one of his creative moods, he
thought as he sent the proper signal to open the landing bay doors and =
turn
on the station's environmental systems.
Several agonizing minutes later Methos finally landed the craft, shaking
with relief after only two of the fighter's landing systems failed. =
Still,
he thought, looking around as the asteroid's gravity caused the blood to
rain down on both of them, the little ship would never fly again. Not if =
he
could help it anyway. First chance he got he'd blow the damn thing out =
into
space.
"Come on, Jack," he murmured as he opened the canopy and wiped the =
falling
blood from his eyes. "Let's get you inside and cleaned up."
Methos climbed out, slipping on the blood slicked floor and cursing his =
own
lack of foresight. Sticking a knife in his chest had seemed like a
reasonable, logical solution to the problem at the time. He'd never even
considered how it would affect Jack.
No, that wasn't entirely true, he admitted as he finally lifted his
companion from the hideous cockpit. What he hadn't considered was how =
his
blood would react in a weightless environment. Nor, he realized, had he
considered just how much of it his body would produce in six days. Good =
God,
he thought as he hefted O'Neill onto his shoulder and had a last look at =
the
horrific interior, there has to be at least a couple of gallons. It =
looks
like something Caspian might have dreamed up!
The nauseating stench of the stuff clung to them as he carried O'Neill
toward the lift. Squishing boots and itching body aside, Methos could =
barely
imagine the nightmare Jack had lived in. Guilt assailed him. Not regret, =
or
remorse, but guilt--plain and simple. He should have thought of =
something
else. He should have found another way. Even telling Jack about Tok'ra's
gift of Immortality would have been better than this.
Selfish bastard, you can feel rotten about it later, he chided himself
angrily as he slapped the call button. You knew he'd hate it. Why moan =
about
how badly you feel now? Especially now!
Methos grunted as he hefted Jack higher, getting them into the elevator =
and
hitting the panel when he recognized the symbol that would take them to =
the
medical bay. These stations, as he recalled, were generally unmanned, =
though
they held everything one might need in an emergency. Occasionally, =
Tok'ra
had launched an attack from one or two. But until the final battle, when
he'd used them to launch all his forces against the Goa'uld, they'd =
acted as
way stations and repair platforms for ships in trouble. Of course, that
meant they weren't very big. And doubtless, since all his forces were
destroyed, had never been restocked. Still, this was their best hope for
getting home, even if Jack wouldn't like hearing the rest of his ill =
advised
plan.
The doors opened on a clean, neat interior. It was slightly musty and a =
bit
chilly inside, but Methos didn't care as he found what seemed to be a
bathing area and lowered Jack into a wide basin, large enough for both =
of
them to lay down in if need be.
He found his dagger and cut away Jack's clothes first, then stripped off =
his
own. Above the basin several kinds of shower heads could be seen jutting
from a rack overhead. He found one with a retractable hose and pulled it
down. Removing it from its alcove turned the water on and simply moving =
his
thumb along the side made it hotter or colder as need be. Cool, he =
thought,
smiling as he gently sluiced the water over his friend, watching the =
blood
drain away through tiny holes in floor of the basin.
When Jack was clean, Methos hurriedly washed himself. The man was far =
too
pale for his liking. Definitely in need of fluids and nourishment. =
Probably
a good psychiatrist as well, but you worked with what you had was =
Methos'
motto. And as far as O'Neill's sanity went, it certainly wouldn't do to =
have
him wake up and see a speck of blood on either of them.
Which reminded Methos. He'd have to clean the floors and the lift, too. =
Ah
well, he thought, looking around for the soft, velvet-like towels he =
vaguely
remembered from his very brief youth, Adam Pierson couldn't afford a =
maid
anyway.
He found what he wanted on a nearby shelf and quickly got them both =
dried,
rousing Jack just a little to get him to the other room and into a bed. =
The
place had warmed up nicely and he located a robe for himself before
beginning his search for medical supplies.
A short while later Methos rubbed his damp hair, frustrated when he =
couldn't
find anything that resembled an IV drip. Finally, he started translating =
the
labels on some of the packaging he'd found. One was marked, For Pain.
Another, For Burns. And yet another, For Dehydration. "One-stop =
shopping, I
guess," he muttered.
He ripped open the last packet with his teeth and found a pair of =
tablets
inside. "Now for some water," he murmured, looking around. After opening
several sliding panels he finally found a small container that looked =
enough
like a cup to be useful. Across the room was another basin like the =
other,
but much smaller; set into a wall and enclosed by some translucent =
material.
Just above it jutted a pair of miniature nozzles and Methos ran his =
hands
beneath them until he found the one that held only water.
Returning to Jack, Methos made him wake up a little to take the pills =
and
drink the water, but the colonel became agitated, insisting he was =
trying to
give him blood.
"When I want you to drink my blood," Methos told him snippily. "I'll =
make
sure it's in a crystal goblet, fine vintage that it is."
Jack's eyes seemed to focus more clearly at the comment and he muttered =
the
words, "Smart ass," before finally accepting what Methos had to offer.
The Immortal grinned as Jack took the pills and slowly sipped the water.
Apparently, insults were the ticket to better mental health in this =
case.
Though he wouldn't normally recommend it for patients recovering from
traumatic shock. Of course, O'Neill thrived on insubordination, so why
should this situation be any different?
"More," Jack whispered when he'd finished all there was.
"Later," Methos told him gently, easing him back down. "I've given you
something that should help replace your fluids, but too much now would =
make
you sick."
Jack nodded, closing his eyes for a moment and Methos thought he'd =
drifted
back to sleep. He stood and began to move away when O'Neill suddenly =
clasped
his wrist.
"You're okay?" the colonel asked nervously.
"I'm fine, Jack. All better."
"Not dead?"
"Am I wearing my head?"
Jack grinned tiredly. "I was worried."
"Thank you," Methos smiled, honestly touched by the other man's concern.
"And now I get to worry about you. So, relax and rest. I'll stay =
nearby."
"Okay, Pierson. You're the doc."
Methos laughed softly. "Yes, I am," he murmured as Jack finally drifted =
into
real sleep, probably for the first time in days.
With a great sense of relief Methos found a chair, pulling it closer to =
the
bed and sat down. He too was exhausted, but pleased that Jack was still =
Jack
and not a raving lunatic. Or worse, totally withdrawn thanks to what =
he'd
put him through. Still, he could berate himself later. Jack needed him =
and
he, to a lesser degree, needed the same things as Jack. Food, water and
rest. Methos looked over at the bed across from where he sat and thought
briefly about climbing into it.
Maybe later, he thought as he leaned back to rest a bit. He'd wait and =
see
how O'Neill was doing first before availing himself of the comfort.
***
Jack woke with an anxious start, relieved to find Methos sitting in a =
chair
beside his bed, obviously asleep. Or was he? Nervously, he watched the
Immortal's chest rise and fall as he gently breathed. Slowly, one shaky =
hand
reached out, moving aside the thin cloth of the other man's robe.
"All healed," he heard the light, teasing tenor of Methos' voice.
"Sorry," Jack murmured, drawing back his hand.
"It's okay," Methos smiled, understanding that O'Neill would probably be
checking on him for a while. He'd need to reassure himself from time to =
time
that he wasn't hallucinating or dreaming. And making an issue of it =
would
only make Jack even more uncomfortable.
"More water?" Methos asked as he checked O'Neill's pulse, noting with =
relief
that it was strong and steady.
"Please," he nodded.
Methos rose stiffly and refilled the makeshift cup. "You're looking a =
lot
better," he remarked as Jack carefully tasted then slowly drank the =
water.
"Just tired," O'Neill muttered between sips.
"Think you could try a little soup in a bit?" If I can find any, Methos
thought worriedly. There must be something resembling a kitchen around =
here.
Jack gave him a thumbs up. "As long as it's not tomato anything, I'll =
give
it a shot."
Methos chuckled. "I don't think we ever had tomato. I seem to recall
something that tasted a little like beef and barley. That do?" O'Neill
nodded and Methos bit his lip worriedly. "I may have to leave this level =
for
a bit. That okay with you?"
"Sure," he murmured sleepily as Methos took the empty container from his
hand the helped the colonel settle against the pillows. "Just be back =
soon.
I'm starving."
"I'll be quick," Methos reassured him. "Rest now."
A minute later O'Neill was out and Methos hurriedly went to find some
clothes. There'd been more sliding storage cabinets between here and the
bathing room, he recalled. Hopefully, they'd hold something more =
substantial
than a thin velvety robe. He found them easily enough, suddenly looking =
with
stunned amazement at the floor of the bathing room across the hall.
"I'll be damned," he grinned. The place was spotless. "Self-cleaning =
floors
and walls!"
Methos suddenly caught sight of his dagger lying near the basin, though
their blood stained clothes were missing. Perfectly sanitized, he nodded
thoughtfully as he fetched it. Too bad whatever cleaned the floors took =
the
finish off. At the thought, he realized their uniforms must have =
dissolved.
Oh, well, he shrugged. Pity about the dagger though, he sighed softly. =
He'd
have to dispose of it or Jack might pitch a fit when he saw the thing. =
No
great loss really. He had dozens more back home.
With a shrug, Methos went back to the storage closet and dressed himself =
in
a pair of gray coveralls that seemed to fit. He checked on Jack and =
found
him resting easily, then headed for the lift. He sighed with relief as =
he
stepped inside. It too was shipshape and tidy, though he'd go down to =
the
hanger bay later just make certain that area had also cleansed itself.
Methos sighed as he examined the symbols on the panel again. There were =
six
levels and none of the glyphs showed anything that looked remotely =
edible.
His stomach rumbled noisily. To hell with it, he thought. Just go to the =
top
and work your way down!
When the doors opened on the uppermost level he found what appeared to =
be an
operations center. No food, but he'd definitely be back to explore =
later.
Next down was an open area, which seemed to be for recreation, exercise =
and
storage. The third level held the officers quarters and mess. Eureka! he
thought, grinning cheerily as he strode into a large central room filled
with couches, tables and chairs. To one side of the hall, a series of =
rooms
lined the wall. At the far end of the central corridor, behind a pair of
tall doors, was a more private lounging area with a fairly large dining
room. And beyond that was the kitchen. Or what Methos supposed was the
kitchen.
"Damn it!" he muttered. "What I wouldn't give for just one knowledgeable
servant!"
"May I take your order?" a voice asked in a language familiar from his
childhood.
Startled, Methos looked around, smiling as he realized what Tok'ra must =
have
done. The place was fully automated. With thousands of soldiers coming =
from
hundreds of different worlds it would have to be. Of course, the =
computer
wouldn't understand English. It had merely responded to a voice command =
with
a language default.
"One beef steak, mashed potatoes, mixed vegetables and a bowl of beef =
with
barley soup," he responded in Ishri.
"Define beef. Define potato. Define barley," the computer requested in a
dialect of the same language.
Methos sighed. "Beef. Meat from a domesticated bovine. Potato. =
Tuber-like
fruit. Barley. Grain related to wheat."
"Our apologies, ally. We do not have the requested comestibles at this =
time.
May we offer an appropriate substitute?"
"Certainly," he smiled. He hadn't thought they'd have anything he really
wanted, but one worked with what one had. It would probably be close =
enough
to suit.
"May we offer you a beverage with your order?" the computer asked as a
covered tray slid out of the wall.
"Beer?" he asked hopefully.
"Define beer."
"An alcoholic beverage made from barley, water and hops, another member =
of
the wheat family."
"Our apologies, ally. Alcoholic beverages are not permitted at this =
time.
May we offer you an appropriate substitute?"
"Damn you, Tok'ra!" Methos hissed. "No wonder you lost the fucking war!"
"Define fucking."
Methos laughed and shook his head. "Never mind, darling. A carafe of =
fruit
juice will do just fine."
A moment later it appeared beside his tray and he left the room =
chuckling
softly, heading back toward the elevator. As soon as he was able he was
definitely moving Jack up here. He'd have a blast defining things like =
pizza
and tacos then bitching about whatever bizarre substitutes the computers
were providing.
Sanity through sadism, he grinned widely. What a life!