The Prodigal, Part Two

Posted on Oct 26, 2015 @ 12:24pm by Lieutenant James Barton
Edited on on Oct 26, 2015 @ 12:25pm

Mission: Civil War

"THE PRODIGAL, PART TWO"

(Continued from "The Prodigal, Part One")


=[/\]=

LOCATION: USS PHOENIX
SCENE: Barton's Quarters


Procter and Rhodes were standing outside, waiting for him. They would escort him to Kane and Barton would give his answer and that would be the end of his freedom. He'd told them he wanted to visit the refresher, and though Procter had scowled, it wasn't nearly as bad as dragging them down to the planet, so she allowed it.


The room had been reset. The broken furniture had been swept away, along with the glass remnants. Even the bourbon stink was gone. It was dark, and it was quiet.


It was time. He'd been carrying it around for years.


He opened the flap of the leather knapsack and drew out the cloth bundle inside of it. He unrolled and unfolded it the garment, then lay it out on the floor in front of him and stared at it. The black had faded to a dark grey, and the blue at the shoulders was no longer nearly as deep. The olive tunic underneath had fared better against fading, but had been attacked at the seams by some insect or another along the way. He'd left the communicator on Gateway when he'd taken his leave of absence, but the rank pips were still there, two golden and one onyx.


It had been years since he'd been able to fit into the uniform, and it was years before that that he'd had the slightest inclination to, but for all of that, he'd carried it with him all of this time. This uniform, the photograph of his family in the tarnished silver frame, and the script given to him by his first Captain, a Trill named Dominique Vega, from the training vessel Discovery. Something between a grin and a grimace touched his face as he remembered that Kane was not the first Captain he'd argued with.


Their training cruise had been interrupted by an urgent summons to...he couldn't remember. It was a cousin race of the Vulcans, one he'd never heard of before, and they were living under the yoke of religious terrorism. The Discovery had sailed in and, unknown to any of the senior staff but Vega, beamed the terrorist leadership into the Discovery's holodecks. The Discovery crew, thinking they were beaming onto the planet, were also placed inside the holodeck, which had its safeties turned off to further the ruse. The mission was, from Starfleet's view, a success. The religious terrorists..."The Allonex," he remembered...inadvertently gave up intelligence on their benefactors and clients within the sector. Unfortunately, a member of the crew, Chase Schraeder, had been injured. When the ruse had been exposed, Barton had been furious. He blamed Vega for the injury, stating that sending officers into situations blind and under false pretenses was a betrayal. Vega had seemed saddened, but stood by his guns, stating that the good of the mission was of paramount importance. Their argument had neither been quiet, nor particularly civil. Yet Vega had given him this hand bound manuscript of a play the Trill had written years earlier by way of a conciliatory gesture. He'd also nominated Barton for the Cadet Star.


The photograph was of he and his brother alongside their parents on a family vacation. Jim was maybe 12 or 13, Daniel was 16 or 17. It was a year, or maybe two, before he'd go off to the Academy and have his accident. It would be a handful of years after that before the cancer would take his Mom. And then, later, his Dad would... Well, his Dad would die on Vulcan, where he'd always taught and where Jim had grown up. But Jim had kept this photo. To him it was undeniable evidence, unshakable proof that once, for at least as long as it took to expose film, his family had been whole and unwrent.


A threadbare uniform, a beaten manuscript, and an old photograph. Not much to show for the decades he'd lived, he supposed, and now he needed to figure out where he'd carry them next.

=[/\]=


LOCATION: USS PHOENIX
SCENE: Captain's Ready Room


The door chirped. "Come in," Kane barked, sitting at his desk. He wasn't surprised to see the hulking shape standing at his door, but he found his pulse quickening anyway. He'd returned, which Kane had never doubted, but as to what he'd decide, the Irish captain had not a clue.

Barton stepped in and stood before. "Captain,"

"Mr. Barton." The pause stretched just long enough to be uncomfortable. "Would you to like to sit down?"

"No. No, thank you."

"Have a seat," the Captain gestured to one of the available chairs.

"No thank you."

"Suit yourself, then," the Captain shrugged. "I assume you've come to a decision."

Barton opened his mouth to speak, closed it, grabbed one of the chairs and pulled it up to the desk. He sat. He began to speak again, and then finally the words came. "I...have conditions."

Kane scowled deeply. "That's not the way it works, Mr. Barton. I told you that being brought to trial is not-"

"I'm not looking to get out of a trial. Or my sentence. That's not what I need."

"Well, whatever else you want, the answer is no. I've made my offer."

"I know you have. And I'll take it. But-"

"But what?"

"If I'm going to do the job, I'm going to do the job. All of it. All in. That means a seat at the table. It means full say so regarding scheduling and shift assignments. It means I get to design and oversee training, and I get to tell my men and women what their standards are."

Kane shrugged. "Of course."

"I report to you, Commander Jos, or whoever the duty officer left aboard is. I'm not going in front of a committee to explain every decision I make and I'm not asking for permission to do what I need to do to keep the ship safe."

The Irishman frowned. "You're being redundant, Mr. Barton. You'll have full run of your division, just like all department heads. You will report to Commander Jos, as does everyone else, but, of course you'll have my complete attention whenever and wherever the safety of my ship and crew are threatened." He shook his head. "What are we talking about here?"

Barton pressed on. "I need say so over my personnel."

"Of course."

"Then I'm going to be bringing up several of the former refugees from Elandipole. They'll need quarters-"

"No."

"They'll need quarters," Barton continued without pause, "And they'll need commissions."

"No."

"I need them."

"There are dozens of trained Security personnel being transferred over from the other ships. You can draw whomever you like from-"

"That's why I need my deputies from LIMBO," Barton cut him off. Kane didn't look at all pleased with the interruption, but he allowed Barton to continue. "You're bringing in an entire security staff where nobody really knows anybody. Sure, you might get some small groups from each ship that know one another, but overall, there's too much anonymity. Frankly, I don't trust it."

"Don't trust it?"

"I don't trust that the Neo-Essentialists don't have people buried in there. There are thousands upon thousands of people out there. You really think there aren't any plants?"

"No, I-"

"Come on!"

"No," Kane began again. "I don't." His tone was firm, but his eyes were uncertain.

"I think there probably are. And I think that getting people aboard security of the Phoenix would be a pretty high priority if you were looking to jam us up. So I need to make sure I've got people around me that I don't have to question. That I don't have to wonder about."

"That's just paranoid."

"That's me, Captain. That's what I need to keep your ship safe. So give it to me or let me beam over to the Gandhi, because I'm not joining your crew without mine."

For a moment, Kane glowered at him. Then the Captain reached into his desk and removed a small black case, trimmed with gold. He began to move it towards Barton, then stopped. "I would hope it goes without saying, Mr. Barton, that when you join my crew, you will carry yourself with decorum. You will follow your orders. I've got nothing against differing opinions, and I want passion in my officers, but time and place, yes?"

Half a smile touched Jim's face. "I remember how to be a Starfleet officer, I think."

Kane noticed that Barton hadn't exactly answered his question. "See that you do," he said, his words heavy enough with import that the "or else" didn't need to be spoken aloud.

Barton took a deep breath, released it, and said, "Okay."

"Then, James Prophecy Barton, I am officially reactivating your commission with Starfleet, as per my privileges as captain of the USS Phoenix. Furthermore, in accordance with your renewed status as a Starfleet officer, I am ordering you to assume the post of Chief Security and Tactical officer of the USS Phoenix, effective immediately. I will notify fleet command, post haste." He handed the case over to Barton. His next words were of a softer tone than he'd ever spoken to Barton in before. "Welcome home."

Barton opened the case, watching the light dance off the golden communicator within. He traced the outer edge of the curve with his fingertip, and his eyes dropped to rank pips mounted below. His brow furrowed. "There's only two-"

Kane cut him off, and this time his tone was the much harsher one Barton had encountered most often. "For your dereliction of duty you will have an official letter of reprimand entered into your record, and, effective immediately, will be reduced to the rank of Lieutenant." Barton's eyes cut up at him, and Kane met them. His voice was soothing, if not apologetic. "I have no choice, Lieutenant. I think if you give it some thought, you'll see that."

Jim wanted to scream at the Irish bastard, or at least he thought he did. But when he did as Kane suggested for just a moment he was stunned to realize that he *did* understand. Of course, Kane had to bust him. He'd run away. He'd sat out the Second Dominion war entirely. Now he was coming back and leapfrogging who knew how many career officers into a senior staff role on the fleet's new flagship on the eve of the first major civil war in Federation history. "Yes, sir."

"Furthermore," Kane continued. "I take Starfleet regulations seriously, including those regarding grooming and appearance. I expect you in uniform for your first shift tomorrow and I expect your hair and beard will have been considerably clipped as well.

He could feel his eyes desperately trying to roll, but he managed to keep hold of them. He'd have to get better at that. "Yes, sir. Is that all? I have a lot of work to get to."

"Of course, Lieutenant." The captain said. Barton turned away, but had taken only a step when Kane spoke again. "Actually, Lieutenant. There is one more thing."

Barton turned. He'd definitely been wrong about Kane's knife-twisting skills. "Yes, sir?"

Kane stood and walked around his desk to stand in front of Barton. He fixed the newly recommissioned officer in the eye, and allowed his face to split into a smile. "Welcome aboard."

Barton smiled as well. The expression – not a smirk or grimace or even a half-grin– seemed alien to him, but perfectly right as well. "Thank you, sir."

"Thank you, Mr. Barton. Dismissed."


=[/\]=

NRPG: And there it is. It's official. I expected it to happen about four months ago, but I'm glad that didn't.

Thanks to Shawn for contributing the Sickbay scene and Jerome for notes on writing Kane.

I'll have a short post soon regarding bringing in the former Limboners and beginning to build the Security Team.


Say hello to Mackenzie Procter. You'll be seeing more of her. Bio forthcoming.

And now I finally get to sign off as...

Dale I. Rasmussen
~writing for~
Lt. James Prophecy Barton
Sec/Tac of the USS PHOENIX