The Ascent

Posted on Feb 28, 2016 @ 12:37pm by Lieutenant James Barton
Edited on on Feb 28, 2016 @ 12:37pm

Mission: Promethean

“The Ascent”

(Continued from 'Dear John')


=[/\]=


“All my life the only thing I've been good at has been climbing and throwing myself off big things.”

- Bear Grylls


=[/\]=


LOCATION: Lavenza II Facility

SCENE: Turbolift Shaft


The trick to the whole thing, he reminded himself again, was to just not think about it.


At first the notion was appealing, even a little enchanting. He couldn't envision the circumstances that would entice him to express it aloud, but James Barton could occasionally admit to himself that he had a knack for getting trapped between his own ears. For years on LIMBO, there had only been the guilt and The Whisper to brood on, but they had proved more than enough, dozens of times, to drive him to desperate means of escape. The benders would be enough to kill most men, and he'd pushed even his considerable thresholds of durability. In the last year, things hadn't gotten easier. His failure to protect the people of Shantytown and his manipulation at Embry's hands, the exposure of his adopted identity and the subsequent resurrection – or at least reemergence – of a person he'd shed long ago, returning to the service of a crippled and outmaneuvered Starfleet, the overwhelming, nearly suffocating pressure of crafting a security team to shield the crew of the PHOENIX, his sense of powerlessness each time he failed to do so, the woman who'd become his closest friend with whom he couldn't seem to get along for five consecutive minutes, the Captain he questioned both personally and professionally, the rest of the crew who still seemed to regard him as a stranger and his certainty that the blame for that lied solely on himself, the awkward and violent reunions with the ghosts-made-flesh he'd once served with, the heady uncertainty of what would come in the wake of the Neo-Essentialist revelations, his upcoming appointment with the Federation legal system, finally facing justice for what he'd done on Vulcan so many years ago...all this and more had joined the demons he'd brought with him until his unease became a full-blown, five-alarm panic party that raged covertly inside his head without intermission every waking moment. His only respite were the punishing workouts and drills he subjected himself to – workouts and drills which had grown more and more infrequent as the backlog of work in the Security Office compounded.


It wasn't the Moq' Bara, but a crushing climb to the surface of a frozen hellscape of toxic gases seemed like it could be enough to, at least briefly, force the noise from his mind and give him a few blessed moments of mental silence. The first five floors had passed by almost without notice. He was practically flying up the ladder and he reminded himself to slow down; it would get harder and he would be well-served by pacing himself. Still, he couldn't deny, as the first rivulets of effort-sweat slalomed down his back, it felt good.


He'd started to feel a burning in his thighs at around ten levels, though he hadn't yet begun to lose his wind. He knew that he would, though. His workout regiment alone would be enough to leave him in fantastic shape, and that wasn't even factoring in the altered genes and the cybernetic pulmonary system. Taken altogether, the cocktail had turned him into a machine of muscle and blood, one that could accomplish things and make demands of his body that most men could never hope to equal. However, he wasn't superhuman, as his growing collection of ass-kickings had established beyond question, and there was a marked difference between incredible and invincible. He knew that well before he reached the top of this ladder, he'd be cramped and quivering. He took a slow breath and battled down his enthusiasm for the thought: the silence wouldn't come until the pain forced away the noise, but that pain would leave him vulnerable if he ran into trouble on the surface. He exhaled slowly and forced his hands and feet to move at a deliberate – but quick – pace.


Passing the fifteenth floor, he had the briefest moment of disappointment, calculating that at his current pace, he wouldn't have long to climb once he was feeling the exhaustion. Once on the surface, the responsibility of getting to the Lena and contacting the ship would wash away any serenity he'd be able to achieve. His respite would be a short one. Then, as his foot landed heavily against the next rung, he felt a tremor in the ladder that lasted just an instant too long. It wasn't much, and in other circumstances he was certain he wouldn't have even noticed, but in the still darkness of the tube, all of his senses were overclocked. He paused for a moment, and allowed himself a moment to glance behind him. Below him was only yawning darkness. He tried to chide himself for having an overactive imagination – it seemed like what people were supposed to do in these situations – but he couldn't work up the sincerity. He wasn't imagining a damn thing.


He took another step, then another. On the third step, he felt the vibration again and froze. His own breath screamed in his ears as he strained to listen for further sign of his companion on the ladder. He hissed in a breath and held it, willing his hearing to stretch farther and to be sharper. It was entirely ineffectual. He could hear nothing further, and the ladder was still but for his own trembling. Again he went through the motions of shrugging off his imagination, and again he was entirely unconvinced. Something WAS on the ladder, and if it was moving when he moved and staying still when he stopped, the only conclusion was that it was stalking him.


Thinking that he'd be no less helpless in motion than he was hanging inert on the ladder, he moved his hand to grab a higher rung and unbidden, a thought came to his mind which almost unmanned him. *The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the waterspout...* He felt terrified surrender and a maniacal, hopeless giggle build up within him at the sudden certainty that the once-Klingon monstrosity was hovering below, just out of sight, but he angrily forced it down. He expected no less of his mind than constant efforts to undo him, but drawing up snatches of nursery rhymes was a new level of unfair tactic and one that struck him as almost ungraceful, as too on the nose. As efforts at self-sabotage went, this one was pretty indelicate and ham-handed; it seemed like nothing more or less than a a bad pun. He all but snorted; frankly he expected better of his own neuroses. Plus, whatever that thing had been, it was at least a few different kinds of dead now.


It was dead, and he was alive, because he had survived...again. It was the one skill he hadn't lost. He just had to keep doing it a little longer. Feeling something that was as much like real boldness as pyrite was like gold, he resolved to move. He didn't bother to expect the vibration at first. Whatever it was on the ladder with him – hunting him – had already shown that it liked to wait until he was moving. Sure enough, the first step was unaccompanied by the hum in the rungs.


He took another step. Nothing.


A third step.


A fourth.


A fifth. He was nearing the sixteenth floor of his climb, and the ladder was still.


A sixth.


A seventh. Stillness.


An eighth step.


On the ninth rung above where he'd paused, he felt the vibration again. He told himself that he needed to be calm, to remain under his own control. He didn't know if he was moving toward the thing, or away from it, though his gut told him it was coming up from below. Still, if he was wrong, racing up the ladder would be throwing himself into its clutches, and even if was right, letting panic drive him up would almost certainly result in a missed grab or a faulty step and that could be enough to end him regardless. So he tried to move slowly and carefully.


He failed.


All at once, his legs began to buck like pistons, planting his feet on each rung with a pounding force that almost propelled him upwards. His arms were suddenly struggling to keep up and his fingers were darting uncertainly toward each blurry handhold. He felt his tricorder and phaser bouncing against his hips in their holsters and fervently hoped they wouldn't fall out – especially the phaser – but he couldn't convince his limbs to listen to reason and slow his pace.


He was practically flying up the ladder now, leaping two rungs at a time. At the rate he was moving and with the noise he was making, whatever was on him would have to be pretty big and moving pretty fast to make itself felt on the ladder. Almost in answer to the notion, an audible CLANG came from below him – though not too far, it seemed – and the ladder *trembled.* There was no doubt now; it was below him and it was coming for him. Reassurance that the way above him was clear only hastened his pace, and he began to race even faster up the ladder.


He couldn't be sure where he was anymore. He was moving too fast and his attention was too focused on ensuring his forward momentum to spare a thought for discerning where he was now. He thought that he was nearing the twentieth floor, though he knew that was likely to be wishful thinking. His thighs and chest were on fire now, but the burning offered him no solace or peace. Instead, it only whispered promises of frailty and helplessness when he would need his body most, when whatever the thing below him was inevitably caught up to him.


The ladder, secured tightly to the turbolift shaft, bucked beneath him. He felt his fingers fumble for a rung, felt it slip between them, and then his other hand and found purchase two steps higher and his ascent continued. Against every screaming imperative of his intellect, fully aware of the risk of looking behind when the path ahead was so treacherous, he was unable to stop himself from sparing a glance below him.


Only darkness, darkness which hid all sign of his pursuer, but which did nothing to deny the fact of it.


Ten more floors, and change. Then he'd be at the surface and he would face whatever was on his heels, weak and spent and unsteady.


From inside, a voice chuckled at him with open malice. *You'll never make it.*


=[/\]=



SCENE: Corridor near Ventilation Shaft



“But we need to make it out of here, first, right?”


“Preferably intact and breathin',” Kass assented, before glancing at Conniston. “Mostly, anyways.”


“Indeed,” agreed Aerdan Jos. “So we should return our attention to that goal.”


“Hopefully Barton can get to the Lena, and Kane'll send a battery of my Marines down here to sterilize this place with Hellfire.” Kass was gratified to see the look of hateful shock on Conniston's face on hearing her plans for his 'babies.'


“Certainly an attractive notion, but we need to prepare for the possibility that Lt. Barton is unable to establish communications with the PHOENIX,” Jos countered.


Thomas sidled a step closer to Eve Dalziel. “Barton,” he asked, almost under his breath. “I don't know a 'Barton.' Has he come aboard since...” he trailed off, clearly approaching the words, “I died” and unwilling or unable to voice them.


“Barton. James Barton. You don't remember him? The overgrown pile of muscles and hair we brought back with us from LIMBO?”


Varn's eyes narrowed in confusion. “Brought back with us? I don't remember a... Do you mean Jacen Barnes?”


Eve's eyes widened. “Oh, shit. That's right! I'd forgotten. Yes, him. Alias. His real name's 'Barton' and he's the chief of security now.”


Thomas frowned, thinking of the beastly creature he'd met in the unregulated space station and trying to figure out how or why a man such as that would be placed at the head of the PHOENIX's security detail. He was about to ask how such a thing was possible, when Conniston spoke up.


The doctor wore a strange facial expression, something that was a curious mix of surprise, intrigue, concern, and disbelief. “Pardon me...did you say, 'Jacen Barnes?'”


All eyes turned towards the mad scientist.


=[/\]=



SCENE: Turbolift Shaft



It felt like the air he was sucking in in large mouthfuls had replaced its oxygen content with evaporated fire. His thighs were screaming and quivering now, cramped from an abundance of lactic acid. His fingers tingled, betraying a dearth of oxygen circulating to them. There were a handful of floors left, he could actually see the top of the shaft now, but all at once he remembered something that he'd forgotten, something that was going to make this entire exercise useless.


The power was out. When he reached the top of the shaft, there would be no way to open the turbolift doors beyond forcing them open on his own, and he would have neither the strength to do so, nor the time before whatever was below him overtook him.


Despair surged into his throat from his weary torso, but he couldn't spare the breath to vocalize his agony. For a half an instant, he considered simply giving up. He could release his hold on the ladder, lean back just slightly, and abandon both fool-hearty ventures: both the flight up the ladder and his misspent life. For a blissful second or two, caught in the soothing embrace of weightlessness, he could relax his arms and legs, perhaps even allow his soul to relax as well. He would careen gracelessly past his pursuer on the ladder, and he was darkly amused at the notion of making the creature have done all that climbing for nothing. There were worse ways to shuffle off the mortal coil than giving the finger to an adversary. Maybe he would literally do so as he hurtled past the thing.


But, even if he took a certain bitter amusement in the thought, he knew that he'd never do so. It wasn't that he was too noble, or too enamored of living to do so, but he was beyond any shadow of a doubt, much too stubborn. He'd climb to the exit doors of the turbolift shaft, then he'd turn and hook his arms into the ladder behind him and prepare to kick at his pursuer until the thing fell back into the shaft or until it ripped one of his legs off, at which point he'd figure a way to continue the fight one-legged. His spite would allow nothing less.


Without slowing, though he desperately wanted to, he continued his climb. There came a bellowing roar from below. He glanced backwards and finally he saw the other visitor to the ladder. He was somehow entirely unsurprised to recognize the hulking abomination that had freed the Klingon from the arachnid monstrosity he had been consumed by. It was charging up the ladder, moving a little slower than he himself was, due to the way the creature's claws had difficulty finding purchase on the rungs. If it had frustration at its progress, it was impossible to tell. Instead, it seemed to come on steadily and without emotion, like watching a hurricane approach a shoreline.


He was nearing the doors now, and his heart leaped to see a faint green light in the wall next to them. It was the release, and that green light meant that some kind of power was being routed here. If he could just reach the doors in time, he might be able to open them, get through, and get them closed before the monstrosity behind him caught up. The ladder was constantly trembling now, protesting the frenzied hurried climb of both its passengers, and he felt almost in danger of being shaken off. Three handholds left now, and then he'd be at the door.


Behind him, the creature Conniston called Bronski screamed. Two handholds.


Sweat was in his eyes now, burning and stinging. His limbs were beginning to slow, cramping and refusing to follow his instructions. One more handhold.


The creature was almost on him now, reaching upwards to grasp at Barton's ankle as he stopped and forced his thumb into the door release command. The doors flew open with a hiss and Barton began to heave himself through, when he caught the slightest glimpse of something dropping from the shadows above, and the world screamed and heaved.


No, not the world...something else. The scream was a new sound, clearly animal and enraged, and the sense of the world rolling underneath him came from being struck in the back and pushed forward into an ungainly roll. Whatever had been lurking up near the shadows at the very top of the turbolift shaft had obviously seen the doors open and had the same idea Barton was operating under: escape. Without regard to the human, it had thrown itself towards the doors and had practically gone through the Starfleet officer on the way.


Now he was sprawled on the floor of a short hallway leading from the turbolift entrance to a door which would take him outside and into the frozen badlands of the Lavenza II surface. He began to push himself to his knees, and found himself face-to-face with a brand new nightmare.


It was the size of a large child, or a very small adult. It was generally shaped like a humanoid – two arms, two legs – but was covered in coarse, black fur. It's head was more square than a typical humanoid's, with an extended nose and triangular ears atop the skull. Its eyes were gold, with an elliptical vertical pupil, and long, thick whiskers burst from its snout. The fur, which was a uniform black across the body, was striped with a dull brown across the head. The only thing which kept it from looking thoroughly feline, were the fleshy sacs which hung from either side of its jaw.


It opened its mouth and he saw a number of horribly sharp fangs gleaming in the low-light of the entryway tunnel. Then, he saw the tongue drop, and not knowing what exactly the thing was doing, he knew that it was about to do SOMETHING that was likely to kill him. Without a second thought, he dropped onto his left shoulder and rolled, barely avoiding a stream of thick fluid erupting from the creature's mouth. The stream flew past where he'd been a heartbeat earlier, and continued forward until it splashed against the emerging face of the monstrosity which had pursued him up the ladder. The monster screamed as an acrid smoke rose from his face. Barton could see that a number of drops had fell from the stream as it flew, as there were a half dozen smoking pinpoints on the deck floor.


He couldn't find the wherewithal to move his lips and speak aloud, but his mind found the words for him easily enough.


*Acid-spitting chimpanzee-tiger. Sure, why not?* It had been that kind of day, after all.


The face-full of biological acid didn't slow down the hulking gray creature, but from the agonized scream he loosed as he charged forward, Barton could tell that he hadn't simply brushed the attack off either. With a heave, the beast propelled itself out of the turbolift doors and towards the other biological chimera. For its part, the ape-cat's attentions had shifted at the larger nightmare's appearance. He spared a flash of a glance at the human, then loped forward, racing at Bronski in a posture that was neither entirely upright or on all-fours.


As Conniston's creations came together in a clash of combat, Barton rose and moved toward the exit at the far end of the short corridor. Or, at least, that's what he tried to do. Instead, he pushed himself shakily to his knees and then collapsed again, landing hard on his elbow. His limbs were leaden now, and felt like they were all very, very far away. It felt like his brain's control impulses were being sent by ancient pony express. What he could feel was brutally cramping and burning, but there was plenty of his body that he was receiving no data from at all, and those parts were either lifeless or trembling uncontrollably. Desperately, his mind screamed at him, demanding that he rise to his feet and move forward, but he had reached the end of his body's physical limits, prodigious as they might have been.


But, though standing and walking was impossible, lying here and dying was impossible to accept. He found the notion of being betrayed by his body, this pathetic meat shell he'd both cared for and tortured, as nothing less than a betrayal. He was *offended* by the weakness of his physical self, and he resolved to continue forward on nothing but disgust, if necessary. He sucked in a breath and forced one arm into the air, thrust it forward and let it fall to the floor with a THUD. On his third attempt, he managed to lift one foot and slide it about a foot forward. Agonizingly slowly, he pushed himself forward on his toe, balancing his weight as best he could on the elbow. Then he lifted his other arm and repeated the process. The lift, the THUD, the ungainly attempt to move his foot, and then progress. Foot-by-foot, he pushed himself forward. The corridor, only a handful of yards long, seemed to stretch on forever, the door to the exterior a world or more away.


Once, he spared a glance backwards, and he saw the two creatures tearing and biting at each other. The larger beast was no match for the tiger-chimp's speed, but the smaller creature had no answer for the devastating blows that Bronski rained upon it. He watched the smaller creature fire another jet of its biological acid into Bronski's chest. With a move that was quick, but seemed almost casually effortless, Bronski reached out and ripped away one of the poison sacs on the other monster's face. The ape-cat screamed in pain and threw a series of lighting fast leaping strikes at the larger's head. He chided himself as he, too slowly, turned back forward and started to crawl again. In a handful of moments, one of those things would kill the other and then he would be the belle of the ball again. He needed to focus on getting away before that happened.


=[/\]=



SCENE: Corridor near Ventilation Shaft



In the long moments of silence, the Starfleet crew was glaring at Conniston, and he was facing their contempt with a curious, if cautious, gleam in his eye. Kass was the first to speak, “So what if she did?”


Conniston didn't turn his attention to Kass, and directed his question to Dalziel. “You did, didn't you? Well, that is...something,” he turned, muttering to himself.


“Why should you care,” Dalziel demanded. “What's it to you?”


He only half turned back to her. “Hmm?”


“What do you mean 'that's something?' What connection do you have with Barton...with Barnes,” she corrected herself.


“Connection? Why, none at all, really. ”


“Bullshit,” Kass spat. “Yer jes' yankin' our chain, now. You want I should figure a way to loosen that tongue,” the last was said with a not-insignificant gesture with her pulse rifle.


“Major,” Jos said, a warning tone in his level voice.


“I'm not 'yanking' anything, madam, I assure you. The truth is, I never met the man. At least...”


“At least, what,” Kass demanded.


“At least, face-to-face,” Conniston conceded.


“So, you know OF him, then,” Jos ventured.


Conniston's eyes flashed. “Oh. Oh, yes.”


“How?”


“Well,” the monstrous scientist began, “I haven't always worked HERE...”



=[/\]=



He was starting to feel a little better, and was nearing the door. Behind him, the sounds of the combat between the genetic nightmares continued unabated. He had pushed himself up onto his hands and knees and was crawling now. As he reached the door, he braced his weight against the wall and forced himself up on to shaking legs. He forced his protesting hands to buckle and fasten his thermal jacket.


As he reached for the door control, he heard a high-pitched yowl and a loud wet SNAP behind him. Thumbing the control, he rolled against the wall and looked behind him, just in time to see the hulking beast drop the still, bloody remains of the ape-tiger beside him. The beast looked a little worse for wear; some of it's scales had been torn away and one of its eyes was milky. It fixed its remaining good eye on Barton and howled.


“Oh, good. I'd hate for you to forget abou-” In the time it took to speak, the beast took a handful of loping steps and crashed headlong into Barton, driving the both of them outside the door into the snow. The human found himself rolling ass-over-teakettle, feeling the bitter cold of the snow against his face.

Pushing himself up, wiping powder from his eyes, he looked at the creature.


The great gray beast was standing in the snow, whipping his head around and sniffing at the air. Barton could see its one remaining eye lolling wildly around, trying to take in the wide-open emptiness of the sky and landscape around him. Slowly, hoping to not catch the thing's attention again, he slid the phaser from his belt. In a moment, doubtless, the creature would turn back to him and he'd have to test the phaser's efficacy. Considering how the beast had worn the acid projected by the tiger-chimp, and how the metallic floor of the facility had done the same, he didn't really expect it to be all that useful, but it would make a better showing than he would empty-handed. Already he could feel his limbs, still trying to overcome their exertion, beginning to stiffen in the cold, and though he knew it was his imagination, he felt like he could taste the argon in the air.


The beast took several shambling steps away from Barton, then screamed, turned and took several steps in the opposite direction. Watching the genetic nightmare, it seemed to the Security Chief that the creature was overwhelmed by the expanse around it. It howled in anger every few steps, challenging the sky and receiving no answer, which seemed only to enrage it more. If it felt or cared about the cold, it gave not the slightest indication.


Barton looked around, and a good distance away, he thought he could make out the outline of the Lena. It would be a trek to get there, but he felt a little better at the sight. The issue would be getting there without being torn apart by Conniston's creation.


Except...


After pursuing him up the ladder, and charging him in its escape, the creature now seemed to be paying him very little attention. He hadn't so much as moved towards the Starfleet officer in anything other than an incidental fashion as it lumbered in the snow. For a long moment, Barton waited, phaser in hand, for the thing to charge him again, but the charge never came. He thumbed the phaser's control to its highest setting and thought of firing, but didn't. There was something in the way the thing moved, something that spoke to Barton of both elation and grief, exhilaration and terror. Not exactly sure why, and knowing he'd be unable to defend the decision if asked about it, Barton returned the phaser to its holster and turned towards the Lena.


His boot crunched in the snow, and suddenly there was a howl behind him. He turned back just in time to see the creature bounding through the snow towards him. His hand darted back to the phaser, but he couldn't clear the holster before the thing was upon him. However, unexpectedly, the thing drew up just short of charging into him again.


They were face to face now in the bright illumination of the Lavenza sun, and Barton got his first good look at the thing. The humanity in the thing's face, or what was left of that humanity, was unmistakable. One eye was opaque and white, and there was the barest trickle of orange blood seeping from beneath it. The other eye was staring directly at Barton with a shine and a knowing that he wouldn't have expected from the creature. The thing was standing before him, not moving. Barton pulled the phaser and slowly leveled it at it. It watched his move intently, and regarded the phaser with suspicion, but it didn't move itself – either towards Barton or away. When he finally had a bead drawn on the thing's face, Barton's thumb hovered over the firing control, but something he couldn't name stopped him from pressing it.


“Well, hell,” he muttered into the freezing air, watching his breath evaporate. “What do we do with this?”


In a thousand lifetimes, he wouldn't have expected what happened next.


“Fffffffrrreeeeeeee,” said the thing.


Barton blinked.



=[/\]=



Conniston had laid out the details fairly succinctly, but judging by the astonishment on the faces around him, one would have guessed that he'd just tried to explain warp theory to a toddler. He sighed, “Too difficult to follow?”


“So, you were the one to do...whatever happened to Barton,” Jos offered


“Barton,” Conniston asked.


“Barnes,” Jos conceded.


The mad scientist nodded in understanding. “Oh. Of course. No.”


“No,” the Andorian pushed, his antennae flexing in frustration.


“I wasn't 'the one.' There was no 'one.' Your friend Barnes, or Barton or whatever he's calling himself now, built himself a reputation among a very specialized circle of people – those who who found themselves and their genetic studies on the wrong side of Federation law, or Romulan, or whoever. They even had a nickname for him. 'The Easy Lay.' Didn't ask questions, didn't say 'no.'”


“So you were one of those who...treated him,” Jos offered.


“Treated him? Gods, no. I didn't 'treat' him for anything. I used him to test a retrovirus to rewrite genetic coding, make it easier to introduce more extreme manipulation without causing his DNA to fall apart like wet tissue paper. And it worked, too. Like a charm.”


“You said you ain't never met him,” Kass stated, challenging Conniston.


“Well, I didn't. I only dictated the regiment and oversaw the data. All of the injections and measurements were handled by interns and lower functionaries. What kind of operation did you think I was running?”


“So, you just stuffed him full of a load of biological who-the-hell-knows-what and left him to his own,” Thytos demanded, feeling angry for the treatment her friend had received years before she'd ever set eyes on him. Inside, she chided herself – she knew it was pointless to get mad about something so long ago and something Barton had apparently agreed to – but it didn't make a difference. Jim Barton wasn't the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, and had gone from a size eight to a size eighteen pain-in-her-ass since he'd taken over the Sec/Tac position, but he was her friend and she felt defensive of him.


“Oh, of course not,” Conniston contradicted her.


“But you just said-”


“I also took plenty OUT of him,” the twisted scientist said with an ugly grin.


“And did WHAT with it,” Kass demanded angrily.


“I put it somewhere else. Somewhere much more...impressive.”


=[/\]=



Barton lowered the phaser, but was unable to raise his jaw. “W-What?!”


For its part, the thing just lowered its head and began snuffling around. After a long moment passed of Barton watching it explore, he shook his head and grimaced. Whatever was going with this thing, and whatever this thing was, he still had a job to do. The creature hadn't yet made a hostile move since they'd stepped onto the surface, and while Jim Barton wasn't sure exactly why, he figured he should probably look away from the gift horse's mouth and get back to his business. Again, he turned in the direction of the Lena and began to walk.


At his first step, the creature's head whipped up and towards him, and at his second step the thing howled. Racing forward, kicking up snow high into the air, the thing ran in a circle around Barton and wound up in front of him, blocking his way.


Jim drew up, watching the creature. When it didn't move closer, he risked another step. The thing took a hulking step towards him, and placed the flat of his mammoth claw against Barton's chest. With a forceful heave that it seemed to perform without effort, it pushed the PHOENIX officer backwards onto his ass in the snow. He sat there just a moment, staring up at the thing, wondering why the beast was herding him, and why it was using decidedly non-lethal methods of doing so. He'd seen how this thing operated, and he had no doubts that 'Kill' was at least the first three entries on the creature's list of preferred problem solving methods.


He lumbered back to his feet, and the creature watched with interest, but made no move. “I've got work I've got to get done, Big Guy. So, much as I appreciate you not takin' my head off, I'm gonna have to-” He took another step, and again the thing shoved him onto his ass.


“So, you don't want me going anywhere,” Barton asked for no reason he could identify. The creature didn't answer – of course – instead it merely huffed, and dropped to squat on its haunches in front of Barton. Suddenly the creature whipped its head to one side, looking at something behind Barton. Twisting around, Barton tried to see whatever the other thing saw. He saw nothing but blinding snow, though for an instant his brain played tricks on him, and he could've sworn he saw the sparkling blue shimmering wake of a transporter beam, but it was gone so quickly that he was sure he must have imagined it.


The security chief weighed his options. Trying to bolt for the runabout was pointless; this thing was obviously stronger and more durable than he, even if he hadn't annihilated himself on the climb, which he had. He could try to kill the beast with his phaser, but he still doubted it would be enough to injure the monster, let alone kill it. It would, most likely, be more than enough to piss the thing off and end whatever kind of detente they had, however. Trying to get back into the facility was likely to provoke the same herding response from the thing, which wasn't too big a deal because there was nothing for him in there anyway.


That left him one option, to sit waiting, biding his time in the sub-zero badlands of Lavenza II. He thought of the Argon in the atmosphere, slowly building up in his own lungs and, ostensibly, in the lungs of the creature as well. He knew his cybernetic lungs were designed to filter noxious gases and to optimize oxygen ratios in his blood, but while they were advanced, they were still machines and not magic. Eventually, they would be overloaded and he would suffocate. His best hope was that the creature's airways would fail first, leaving him to then make the trek to the Lena. It would be a great plan, providing that whatever extensive genetic mutations this thing had been forced into hadn't given it a pulmonary system that ran on Argon.


However he tried to approach the problem, it was the best solution he could find. Cybernetic vs. Genetic in a waiting game of Russian Roulette, all while icy winds through frigid daggers through him.


“Why don't we just...” he said over chattering teeth, “wait here for a little while...see what happens?”


=[/\]=


NRPG: Better late than never, right? Right, guys? … Guys?


Anyway, a little backstory for Bronski and our favorite Security Chief. And was Barton really mistaken about seeing those transporter leavings? If not, who could THAT have been?


=[/\]=


Dale I. Rasmussen

~writing for~

Lt. James Prophecy Barton

Sec/Tac USS PHOENIX