The Death of a Starfleet Officer

Posted on Mar 14, 2016 @ 1:25am by Lieutenant James Barton
Edited on on Mar 14, 2016 @ 1:26am

Mission: Promethean

“The Death of a Starfleet Officer”

(Continued from 'Fulcrum')


=[/\]=


“A good name is better than fine perfume,

And the day of death better than the day of birth.”


-Ecclesiastes 7:1


=[/\]=


LOCATION: Lavenza II

SCENE: The Surface

TIME: Now


God in Heaven, had he ever been so cold?


This frozen planet under a weakened and distant sun must have been what Dante had envisioned for his ninth circle. Even encased as he was, he felt no protection from the damnable winds or from the cruelty of the cold. How? Deep in his body, in his bones because his mind was too frozen to form the thought, he wondered how he had come here. What could lead someone to choose death amidst this poison snow?


Stiffly, almost frozen in their sockets, his eyes drifted without pause to the obvious answer. The thing was still sitting there in front of him, watching him. This close up, the long-lost humanity of the creature was so apparent as to be striking. Whatever it was now, it was once a man. Now, grown grotesquely and with infinitely cruel eyes, it sat before him, watching him as he watched it. There was something familiar about the thing. Some faint twinge in its posture or in its hateful stare sung to him the maddening song of deja vu and he found himself inescapably entranced by it. What was it thinking of, sitting there silently? Was it reliving the nightmares of the dread facility below, or was he burdened with its full attention? Burned by the frost, feeling the harsh ache of the freeze in his extremities, he wanted to shout at the thing, to demand answers, but he knew none would be forthcoming. Besides, some instinct within demanded that he conserve his breath, so he sat without so much as muttering to himself.


But he thought. And he remembered. It was as if there was a part of his mind that had mutinied against the idea of the cold and the agony it brought. His memory, grown immediately weary of the shivering and the miserable depression of the chill, had packed a bag and hopped a jet to the warmer climates of long ago. If he was a man more prone to flights of fancy, he might have wondered if it was his life passing by his eyes, the way the old stories and vids said happened to some people. But he wasn't that kind of man, maybe once before but not now, so he didn't wonder. Instead he just remembered.


Remembering was nice...


=[/\]=


LOCATION: A Space Freighter

SCENE: Observation Port

TIME: Long ago...


It was dumb. This whole trip was dumb. The ship was dumb. It smelled bad and there wasn't anything fun to do, or even any other kids to play with. It was just loaded with old people and not even nice old people like Grandpa and Grandma. Everyone wore their nice clothes everywhere and his parents had insisted he do the same. They kept saying it was important to make a good impression when you met new people, and they'd all be meeting a lot of people in their new home.


Who cared? He didn't want to meet new people, and he didn't want to make new friends. He had friends back on Earth! It was so...dumb! He felt the unfairness – the INJUSTICE of it – boil up again inside his chest, and he was terrified that he would cry again. He was a big boy now, not some dumb baby, and he hated crying, but it was just that the unfairness was too BIG. Sometimes he felt it bloom in his chest and it seemed to crowd out his heart and his bones and everything, and when that happened, his eyes would start to sting. He'd blink his eyes hard – so hard that he was sure he'd crush his whole entire face – and that could sometimes keep the tears from coming, but if even one got loose he was lost. Before he knew it he'd be snotting all over his face and sobbing so hard he couldn't even breathe. Well, he wouldn't cry now, not while Daddy was holding him. He wouldn't let himself show Daddy how mad and how sad he was. It was Daddy's fault they were here in the first place! Who moved to a whole other planet just for some dumb job?! Like they didn't have jobs on Earth? Earth is where people came from, so it's where jobs came from, so OF COURSE there were other jobs there. His parents just wanted to move him across the galaxy because they were mean.


“What do you think, Little Man,” Daddy asked, bouncing him against his hip. “Pretty cool, huh?” Outside the window, surrounded by stars was a giant planet with a huge golden ring around it. “The ring there is made up of miiiiilllllliiiions of pieces of ice.”


He knew that. He'd learned all about it in his science book. And, maybe, if they weren't blasting on their way to some new planet where they were going to have to live and probably never even see Earth again, it WOULD have been cool, but there was no way he'd ever admit that to Daddy. Daddy was his enemy now. “No,” he said flatly, thrusting his bottom lip out as far as it would go. “It's dumb.”


Daddy sighed. “Look, buddy, I know you're mad at me. And that's okay. Moving away from your friends and your school and from Grandpa and Grandma...that's not an easy thing to have to do, but I promise I wouldn't make you do it without a good reason. I really wouldn't. And I know the trip hasn't been a lot of fun so far, and we still have quite a ways to go, but I promise when we get to our new home, things'll get better so fast it'll make your head spin.”


He could only imagine one thing that would make things better. “Can we get a dog?”


Daddy frowned. “'Umm...Fraid not. Dogs aren't native to the planet, and we can't take anything-”


“THEY DON'T EVEN HAVE DOGS,” he screeched in stunned disbelief.


Suddenly he was on the ground, and Daddy was on his knees, looking him right in the eye. He looked like he was getting angry. Good. Let him. But then Daddy closed his eyes and dipped his head, and when he spoke, it wasn't the usual angry whisper promising that he'd regret his actions once they got back to their quarters. Instead, Daddy took him by the shoulders and turned him so that they were both staring out the window.


“Someday,” Daddy whispered, “someday you'll understand. I know you don't believe me now, but I promise you will. You'll see. Being so far from Earth, you can't even imagine the things you'll see, or how they might change you.”


“What do you mean change me,” he asked, half intrigued and half horrified at the notion.


“You'll see, son. I promise you'll see. You can't even imagine what you'll become.”


=[/\]=


LOCATION: Earth, Starfleet Academy

SCENE: Dorm Room

TIME: Years Later...


“Hey Chuckles,” his roommate shouted from the hallway. “You in there?”


“Nope,” he called back, knowing it couldn't matter less what he said or didn't say. Moretti did what Moretti did, and would do whatever he was going to do. The other young man was like a hurricane, a primal force of nature that came on his own schedule, causing untold distraction and more than a little destruction along his path. Living with him made it nearly impossible to maintain a GPA, but Moretti made up for it with an unending string of dirty jokes and a knack for being able to find a party on any given night of the week.


Hurricane Moretti blew through the door of their dorm room, a submarine sandwich in either hand, both dropping steaming gobs of marinara sauce across the carpet. As ever, his cadet's uniform was half-undone and looking like he'd stored it in a duffel bag for at least a week. His dark beard was so perfectly balanced between long and patchy that it was impossible to be sure if he'd decided to grow it out and failed to get the job more than half done or if he'd simply avoided a razor since the last holiday break. He had bags under his eyes and his chubby face was split with a wide, mischievous grin. “What are you doing in here, butthole?”


He pushed his slender frame away from his desk and spread his hands towards the pile of PADDs collected there. “Are you playing dumb or has it been so long that you actually don't recognize books when you see them?”


“Heh, you read *books?*” He chuckled as Moretti moved to his bunk. For an instant, the disheveled young man frowned at the pile of laundry collected there, pensively glancing at the sandwiches in his hands. Then he lifted his left foot and, balancing on his other leg, used it to sweep the laundry from his bunk. If he knew, or cared, whether it was clean or dirty, he gave no sign. Finally, satisfied with his work, he heaved a heavy sigh and collapsed onto the bed. There was an audible creak from somewhere within the frame.


“Sometimes. I also pass my classes. Think there's a correlation?”


“I don't see any logical connection.”


“You bring me a sandwich?”


Moretti had the good grace to at least feign embarrassment, though not believably. “Ohhh...no. Why? Did you want one?”


He shrugged. “Nah, not really. But if you're gonna be dick enough to not bring me one, then at least clean up the damn sauce.”


“I'm sorry. Does marinara sauce on the floor make your labia hurt? I certainly didn't mean to offend you, ma'am.”


“You're doing it again. Mistaking being a woman for keeping the place clean enough that one might willingly walk through the door.”


“Am I doing that again?”


“You are, indeed.” His attention was drifting back to Principles of Multi-Cultural Command (27th edition).


“I do admit that sounds a little like me.”


“Mmmm,” he said absent-mindedly. For several long minutes there was no sound except for the sound of crinkling paper and Moretti's open-mouthed chewing. The oregano in the air told him the subs were from the Italian deli three blocks from campus and, while he hadn't been hungry when the hurricane blew in, the smell was getting to him. Now his mouth was beginning to water. He ignored it as best he could until his stomach let loose a long, plaintive groan.


“Shit,” he groused.


“Sounds like you do want a sandwich,” Moretti said with a smile that wasn't, in the strictest terms, friendly.


“You win,” he said, pushing himself away from the stack of study materials. “I'm going to get something to eat.”


“Good, I'll come with you,” his roommate said hastily, wrapping up his remaining half-eaten sandwich and jamming it into his nightstand drawer.


He paused, watching the other young man with suspicion. “Why?”


“No reason. I'm just bored,” said Moretti, trying his best to look innocent. “Where are you going anyway?”


“Down to the Thai place around the corner.”


Moretti drew up short. “No, I don't think you want Thai. You look like you're in a mood for a burger.”


“Not really. Honestly, I've been thinking about pho all week, so-”


“Nope. Burgers, m'man. Trust me on this one.” The instigator's grin was returning to his face.


“Why am I trusting you, exactly?”


“No reason.”


He paused, letting the wheels in his head turn. “What's going on at the burger joint, Calvin?”


“Nothing's going on at the burger joint, Sherlock.”


After another moment, he asked, “Who's at the burger joint, Calvin?”


Moretti waved his hands in the air. “Who cares? Let's just-”


“Who. Is at. The burger joint? Calvin.”


Moretti sighed and actually seemed to slump. “Gwen Kirkpatrick.”


Now it was his own turn to smile, just for a moment, before he took the expression off of his face and locked it away. “Jesus, Moretti. When are you going to give it a rest?”


“When you finally do the gentlemanly thing and fill that nice girl out like a job application.”


“I told you before, several times if I recall correctly, that I'm not getting involved with anyone until I'm out of the Academy.”


“Yes, I remember. What I don't remember is ever seeing any sense in that decision.”


“It's just- You don't-” He was torn between trying to make Moretti understand and not being entirely sure of the answer himself. He knew it had something to do with the early years he spent bouncing around the galaxy. He also knew it had something to do with the things he'd seen, and things he'd only heard about and hoped to see. He knew it had something to do with the deep-seated understanding he had that he wasn't the smartest or most naturally capable cadet in the Academy. And, also, it had something to do with the way that being around a pretty girl made him forget all those things. He didn't want to forget. He wanted to remember and to become something. “I can't explain it.”


“So, maybe you can figure it out while you share some cheese fries with Gwen.”


“Why do you even care so much?”


“I could tell you it's because you're my friend, and that even though you're a huge stick-in-the-mud pain in my ass, I'd like to see you enjoy your youth a little bit. But I respect you too much to lie to you, so I'm going to tell you the truth.”


“Which is?”


“I need to know...I mean, I *need* to know how many nipples she has.”


“I'm sure it's just the two.”


“A) I'm in the Science track. Scientists don't make assumptions like that. We collect data. And B) She just kind of...looks like she'd have a third nipple. You don't see it?”


“What do you mean, 'she looks like she has a third nipple?'”


Moretti shrugged and offered a half-bemused smirk, as if he was explaining the simplest of matters to the simplest of minds. “It's in her body language.”


“Her body language?”


“Her posture. Are we going?”


He'd almost said no. He'd been so close, and even years later, he couldn't exactly explain why he'd abandoned his plans for pho, but he had. He'd gone to the burger joint, had a bacon cheeseburger, a milkshake, and for desert, several helpings of Gwen Kirkpatrick. Over the next few years she would grow to become his best friend, closest confidante, and the first real lover he'd ever known. Instead of allowing him to forget his dreams of becoming something more, becoming no less than an officer of Starfleet, being around her seemed to focus his goals until they crystallized to hard things within him – things that poked him in the night when he tried to forego assignments and that prevented him from enjoying time spent playing hooky from class. She didn't demand that he be better than he was, she simply made it impossible to not be.


Remembering Gwen was nice. He wondered for a moment in the freezing cold a galaxy away from that burger joint what had become of her...


=[/\]=


LOCATION: USS CALCUTTA, Deep Space

SCENE: Bridge

TIME: A Few Years Later


From her station at the conn, his ops officer read dispassionately from her display. “The freighter has lost primary power. Auxiliary power is at 17% and failing rapidly. Her warp field is critically unstable. The ship has clearly been struck by several micrometeorites; she is leaking atmosphere from no less than a dozen hull breaches.”


From his chair in the center of the bridge, he absorbed the news. “Hailing frequencies.”


The Deltan at communication shook his head. “I am receiving no response.”


“Estimated time to rendezvous?”


“Thirty-eight minutes at our current speed,” responded the navigator.


He paused, weighing his options, and finding none. There were people, Federation citizens, in danger and he'd sworn an oath. “Increase to full impulse. Inform sickbay to prepare for casualties.”


“Captain,” his Klingon ExO grumbled. “It is imperative that-”


“I've made my decision, Mr. Hardek.” he said flatly, cutting the older officer off. For all the time he'd spent under the Klingon's learning tree, mostly against his own inclinations, it was something of a treat to allow himself to cut his ExO off. It would be even more of a treat if there weren't lives at stake...but then again, if there weren't, he probably wouldn't have gotten the opportunity.


For his part, the older Klingon didn't look happy at being interrupted, but he swallowed whatever his first response would have been and instead merely replied, “Aye, sir.”


Appeased, he called out to navigation again. “Time to intercept at current speed?”


The Bajoran FCO checked his instruments. “Two minutes.”


He activated his ship's comm. “Transporter rooms one, two, and three. In a few moments we'll be approaching a damaged freighter with an unstable warp field. I want that crew beamed off as soon as possible. Casualties to sickbay. The rest are to be made comfortable until they can be debriefed.”


“Aye, sir,” came the reply from his transporter chief. His tone was flat and even, utterly devoid of the nervous tremble the Captain felt in his own voice.


Now there was nothing to do but let the seconds tick by. It was the hardest part of command. He'd given good orders, he had good crew to execute them, but now there was nothing left for him to do but wait. He was envious of the FCO and the transporter chiefs – they would be DOING something – but he'd chosen command, or been chosen for command, and that meant that he was left with no choice but to envision nightmare scenarios and hope that they didn't claw their way from his imagination into the galaxy proper. He tried to clear his mind, to engage in the breathing techniques Gwen had said would calm him, but he just couldn't. He couldn't stop imagining the brilliant flash of the freighter exploding on the viewscreen, or the call coming from Sickbay that they were all already dead. Worst of all, of course, was the cry he could already imagine coming from Tactical behind him. Try as he might to abandon the thought, it was like he could already hear the panic in the Tellarite's voice as he said...

“Captain, I have multiple ships decloaking!”


*Shit!* “What are they, Steev?”


“Klingons, sir. D7 warbirds.”


At least they were older models. The CALCUTTA was far from a warship, but she was outfitted with this era's weapons and shields. They'd have a fighting chance at least. “How many?”


There was the slightest of pauses, but brief though it was, he already knew that it meant everything. “Eight, sir.” The Tellarite sounded as defeated as anyone he'd ever heard before.


“Eight,” he repeated incredulously. “They're not even supposed to BE here...”


“Neither are we,” Hardek grumbled.


If looks could kill, the venomous glare he gave his ExO would have landed him in the stockade. Or, it would if they weren't staring down a firing squad. “Hailing frequencies! Tell them we're on a relief mission!”


“I'm...I'm not getting any response,” the Deltan stammered.


If they weren't responding to hails, that meant... “Shields up,” he roared. “Now!”


He couldn't tell by the way the bridge lurched and rocked if the CALCUTTA's shields had been raised when the first phaser strikes landed or not. “Evasive action! Steev, return fire!”


In the depths of space, the gleaming alabaster CALCUTTA began to roll gracefully, spitting fire at the emerald cruisers that swarmed it. Two torpedoes slammed into one of the Klingon Birds of Prey, which exploded gratifyingly. In response, seemingly almost casually, three of the Klingon vessels released torpedoes of their own.


The communications panel exploded and the Deltan ragdolled to the floor. He didn't move again.


“Damage report!”


The Vulcan at the Conn didn't sound nearly as reserved now. “We- We've lost power to decks eight through fifteen. Engines at 82%. We've lost communications.”


*Tell me about it,* he thought, glancing at the Deltan with his stomach sinking. “What about the freighter? Did we get them?”


“Transporters are reporting that only 12% of the crew has been beamed aboard. The others are still aboard the freighter.”


“Captain,” interjected the Tellarite. “If one of those torpedoes hits the freighter, that warp field is going to go. Our shield's can't-”


“I know that, Steev,” he snapped. “I'd like you to focus your attention on your weapons systems, if you please.”


He couldn't see the Tactical officer's response, but he could almost picture the furious flush on his face. “Aye, sir.” He set his jaw and turned his attention back to his screens.


A moment later, two more of the Klingon ships exploded. He made a mental note that if he survived this, it would be worth remembering that there were worse things than having a pissed off Tellarite manning your ship's guns.


Just five more, now. They could survive this. It was doable... They just needed a little bit of luck.


In response to his optimism, the universe blew up his conn and the Vulcan Operations Officer who'd been sitting at it.


[Captain, this is Engineering. That last shot has impacted our warp containment field. We've recalibrated, but it was close. We can't take too many more of those.]


“Noted,” he barked. “Be ready.” He turned to his ExO. “I'm willing to hear suggestions, now.”


Hardek sneered in bitter satisfaction. “Too late now, Captain. Suggestions? We die with honor. It is a good day-”


“You finish that sentence and I'll space you myself,” he snapped, leaping to his feet. He moved to the Bajoran's shoulder. It didn't actually strike him as that great a day to die, and he'd just had an idea. “Mr. Dengar, lay in a course.” He rattled off a heading and a bearing, one that would take them back to Federation space at the fastest possible click.


The navigator did as he was ordered, but he shook his head. “We're moving, sir. But our engines are only at 52%. We're not going to get away.


*The Hell we aren't,* he thought. He returned to his chair, and began tapping data onto his screen. “Mister Steev, lock torpedoes on these coordinates and prepare to fire on my mark.”


The Tellarite scanned the data appearing on his readouts. When he spoke, his voice sounded hollow and far away. “Sir?”


“You have your orders, Mr. Steev!” It'd be hard enough to live with this decision as it was; it would be impossible to live with it if they all died here.


“What are you doing,” Hardek demanded.


“Staying alive,” he responded. Outside, on the viewscreen, he watched as the remaining Birds of Prey moved into formation to pursue them. Maybe it was just his imagination, but he could have sworn that he could see the fiery red of their disruptors preparing to fire again. Their formation swept past the battered freighter, forgotten now in the face of more glorious spoils.


But he hadn't forgotten it. “Fire,” he demanded, sharply feeling a piece of his soul die, rot, and fall away.


A single torpedo darted from the CALCUTTA, tracing a path backwards along the opposite vector she was running on. Beside him, he heard Hardek mutter, “Oh Gods, boy...” Then the torpedo smacked the freighter, which shuddered once and blossomed into a blinding nova as her warp containment field collapsed. The resulting antimatter explosion bloomed far too quickly for the Klingons to escape, and moments later there own warp cores contributed to horrendous fireworks show.


He ignored the horrified stare from his ExO and the water in his bowels. “Navigation! Get us out of here and back to-”


From behind him, Steev interrupted. “Sir...”


“What?!”


“Four more...”


*That's not FAIR!* There wasn't time to say anymore. The bridge lurched, almost throwing him from his chair. He fought to keep his breakfast down; he didn't want to die with vomit on his jacket. The navigation station exploded in sparks. The bridge went dark.


A long moment later, the lights reasserted themselves. The bridge was still. Hardek was standing in the center of the bridge, hands on his hips as he surveyed the carnage around him. When he spoke, his voice was hard. “Cadets, return to your department heads for evaluation.”


The Deltan, the Vulcan, and the Bajoran all pushed themselves off of the deck. The FCO and the Communications officer were both trying to stifle a grin. The Bajoran smirked. “I lasted the longest.”


“But you died the worst,” the Deltan countered.


“You were clearly breathing,” the Vulcan insisted. “Your simulation of death was barely adequate.”


“Enough, Cadets,” Hardek barked, the ice in his voice freezing away any good humor in their own. Without another word, they filed out of the simulator.


From Tactical, Steev spoke up. “Instructor Hardek, I didn't-”


Hardek fixed him with a hard stare. “You followed your orders, Cadet. That is all you will be graded on for this exercise.” The Tellarite's relief was palpable. He almost grinned, which only served to cause Hardek's anger to flare. “I'll leave it to you to wonder what it says about you that you took the order to fire on innocents without question. But do it somewhere else.”


Tellarites don't have tails, but if they did, Steev would have slunk out of the simulator with his between his legs.


The Klingon instructor turned to him. He could see the anger, the disappointment there, and it frightened him. Hardek had a rough reputation and he'd earned every bit of it. But in this moment, his fear of the older officer seemed a far away thing, like a problem for tomorrow. Much more immediate was his own terror with himself.


“What were you thinking?” He opened his mouth to answer, and the larger Klingon shoved him backwards. Hard. He reeled, trying to keep his feet, but ultimately he collapsed in the chair he'd sat in for the majority of the exercise. He didn't want to sit in this chair anymore, and he suspected that's why Hardek had put him here. “What could you have possibly been THINKING?!”


His response came harder and louder than he would have liked. He didn't want to give Hardek the satisfaction of seeing him rattled under the instructor's onslaught. “I was trying to get us out of there!”


“At the expense of the colonists on the freighter?! What the seven hells was that?”


Merciful God...he could feel a tear forming in his eye. He begged it not to fall. “They were dead, already! They'd have died if we didn't come for them, and I did! I tried to help! It's not my fault!”


“You USED them... You SACRIFICED them.”


“To stay alive!”


“You just...you don't get it, do you? There's more to all this than just staying alive. There's...” his voice trailed off as he tried to find the right word.


“There's what?”


“There's...times.” The anger seemed to drop from the older Klingon, and he stared at the cadet with sad eyes. “You'll learn, son. You'll learn that there's times when there's nothing you can do. Sometimes, not everyone comes back. Sometimes no one comes back. Sometimes the choice isn't living or dying. Sometimes...it's living or dying like an officer of Starfleet.”


He eventually learned that lesson, but it wasn't in the Kobiyashi Maru testing chamber. He suspected that Hardek knew he'd learn it eventually...but in choosing to learn it later, he learned it much more painfully, in places where the dead didn't get up and compare notes on their performances.


=[/\]=


LOCATION: IRIS 347-A

SCENE: Blind Tom's Watering Hole

TIME: Years Later...


“Mr. Anderson,” queried the bulky, suspicious-looking gentleman standing at his table. He was dressed in the same fashion as the rest of Blind Tom's customers, obviously in an effort to not draw attention. However the clothes were too new, too well made, and too clean. His posture screamed that this wasn't his first time in a situation that might go rough, but the man at the table could see immediately that his visitor typically traveled in more well-heeled circles


“Maybe,” he answered. “Who's asking?”


“I think you know who I am, Mr. Anderson. You are, I believe, expecting me. Do you mind?” The seated man put his boot on the chair opposite him at the table, then pushed it backwards, inviting the tall man to sit. He was careful not to relax his grip on the disruptor he held under the table, fixed on his new companion. “Many thanks.”


Blind Tom's was utterly indistinguishable from a thousand identical bars that had sprung up on a thousand identical mining asteroids. The bar top was the same scratched and warped wood, the chairs were adorned with the same stained, ripped upholstery, the jukebox in the corner played the same tunes, all of which were out of date decades earlier. He'd seen enough of these places in the last handful of years that sometimes he wondered if there was an outlet store somewhere that supplied them all. “Dives R' Us” or that sort of thing.


The similarities didn't stop at the furnishings. The clientele were the same as well – hard men and women who'd tried and failed repeatedly to build lives for themselves among civilization. Some of them were those too lazy or shiftless to apply themselves at anything, and so drifted from one new opportunity to the next, each with fewer prospects than the one before it. Others were those who couldn't be taught to take orders or respect authority, and their career tracks mirrored the same path. Still others were those whose inability to live within the laws saw them chased away time and again from planets and settlements where good, honest people made their way. Folks like that might sign on for a brief stint in the mines while they hid away from searching authorities or while they briefly considered plans they would never fulfill to live a more straight and narrow life. In the end, they would inevitably fall to their own baser needs or desires. It was part of the reason he frequented places like this; he understood the criminals. They were just like him, more or less.


“What are the odds that anything here is worth drinking,” his new companion asked.


“How long's it been since you had a drink anywhere else?”


“Yesterday.”


The man called Anderson shrugged his left shoulder noncommittally, his right arm – the one holding the disruptor – didn't move. “Then I wouldn't recommend it. Tom's stuff demands a certain nostalgia that only comes with time away from real booze.”




The newcomer arched his eyebrows. “I appreciate the heads up.”


“So, are you the man,” he asked flatly.


“I'm not sure I take your meaning.”


“It's just that, and no offense intended here, but you don't look much like a scientist to me.”


The larger man let a smile touch his lips and spread his hands, as if to demonstrate his sincerity. “You got me. Though, truth be told, I could have gone into science. I did very well in school in science. But no, I'm not 'the man' that you're referring to. That's my employer.”


“Conniston,” he said through dry lips.


“The same. Though I don't expect there's anything to be gained by throwing names around, so let's not use his again, okay? Maybe we stick with 'my employer.'”


“So who are you then? The hired goon?”


The newcomer stopped short of rolling his eyes, but just barely. “I've been called worse, though in truth I'm simply an intermediary. For our purposes here today, you may call me Johnson.”


“But that's not your real name,” he said.


“Of course not. Not anymore than yours is Anderson. But a little fiction greases the wheels, so let's not get hung up on the details.”


“What's your end,” he demanded, tightening his grip on the disruptor. This wasn't his first time in a tense negotiation either, but he could hear the nervousness in his own voice. He'd made a living wage in the past couple of years working as a Mercenary, since he'd left the fleet, but he never really felt secure. It had felt like two years staring down a torpedo tube and it had made him ragged.


His companion seemed far more comfortable. His voice didn't raise as he leaned forward. “As I say, I am here as an intermediary. I have been commissioned to finalize your arrangements with my employer, arrangements that you initiated, if I may remind you. That means I'm here to see to your own best interests.”


“Meaning? Specifically?”


The man who wasn't actually named Johnson sighed. “I'm here to finalize negotiation for payment and then to take delivery of the merchandise and ensure that it is transported, discretely and safely, to its final destination.”


“Take delivery,” he snorted. “Of the merchandise.”


The larger man spread his hands again. “I mean no offense. I find it's best not to romanticize my endeavors.”


He nodded. “So, you're here to finalize negotiations. Start negotiating.”


“Of course, I'm happy to do so. There is one minor issue to deal with first, however. I'd really appreciate it if you put the disruptor away.”


He put on his best 'innocent' face, but didn't pull his hand from under the table. “Sorry, I don't know-”


“It's a rule of mine. Don't negotiate while there are weapons pointed at you. Just holster it and we can get started.”


“You know, I don't think I will. I don't know what you've got up your sleeve and I don't exactly trust you one-hundred about that whole 'my best interests' part.”


“That is understandable, if not exactly rational, but I won't hold it against you.”


“Much obliged,” he sneered.


“If it helps, I'll let you know exactly what I have up my sleeve. There are two Terran gentleman sitting at the bar. They are under my employ. There is a woman chatting up one of the miners at a table behind me and to my left. She is under my employ. Outside, a Klingon who is very, very big – even for a Klingon – is hovering near the door. He is under my employ. All of these people are armed, all of them have seen your face, and should you decide, for whatever fool reason, to actually fire your disruptor, they will come crashing down on you and this weak-ass excuse for a bar like a tidal wave. They will kill you. They will kill everyone here. If you manage to escape, your information will be disseminated to their associates and you will be hunted like a dog wherever you limp off to. So, seeing as the weapon won't do you any good, why don't you make a good faith gesture and put it on the table?”


“Or I could just tell you to piss off. Call the whole thing off and walk out of here.”


“You could do that. I promise you I won't stop you. But you'd be leaving a lot of latinum on the table. And I think we both know you're in some need of latinum right now.”


“You don't know anything about me,” he said, but the words felt hollow as they left his lips.


His companion gave him a pitying smile. “Mr. Anderson, please. I know everything about you. I know about your childhood. I know about your time in Starfleet. Hell, I have your transcripts from the Academy. I know what ships you've served on, what captains you've served under. I know about you shuffling yourself out. I know where you've been and who you've worked for since you went,” here he whistled and waggled his hands like a bird's wings in flight. “My employer has looked over your medical records and he knows you even better. The way I hear it, he can tell you what kind of cancer is going to kill you and when. He even knows that this won't be your first time inside a tube. Now, please, put the weapon away.”


After another long moment, he withdrew the disruptor and laid it on the table, though still in a place where he thought he'd be able to grab for it if he needed to.


“Thank you. Now to business.”


They had talked for the better part of an hour, though he didn't learn much by way of information from Conniston's messenger. The scientist was willing to provide a sum of latinum, in addition to augmenting his strength and reflexes, in exchange for his willingness to undergo a number of further, experimental, augmentations as well. The offered sum of latinum was significant, but he learned quickly that though his companion had spoke of negotiating, he was completely resistant to offering even a strip more than had previously been discussed. He was also completely unwilling to go into details about the intended effects of the additional therapies, only remarking that their ultimate purpose was about gathering data that would be used to design future regiments. It was a frustrating experience, repeatedly having his questions stonewalled. In fact, there was only one noteworthy piece of information given to him that he hadn't had prior to landing on IRIS 347-A.


“What about after?”


“After your treatment is over? What about it?”


“What if there are...” he trailed off, unable to name the terrors in his imagination.


“Complications,” Johnson offered coolly.


“Exactly. What if there are complications? What if I get sick or if I-”


“Mr. Anderson, you are being paid a not-inconsiderable sum of money, in addition to being provided gratis some highly sought-after and, frankly, very expensive augmentations. My employer is not providing you those things out of a sense of charity. You are being compensated for the very real risk you are taking. You ask what if there are complications? I would suggest that you get used to two ideas very quickly. First, that there is no question of 'if.' You will, almost undoubtedly, experience effects from the treatments that will be unexpected, quite likely detrimental. I cannot tell you what those effects might be because, as you say, I am not a scientist, and my employer cannot tell you because he does not know. That is the purpose, of course, for any experiment. Second, you will face those effects without the benefit of further support or compensation from my employer and your benefactor.”


“So, I'm on my own.”


It was his companion's turn to shrug. “It's a big boy's game you're playing, Mr. Anderson.”


It wasn't a 'big boy's game.' It was a fool's nightmare is what it was. Sitting there, light years away from the life he'd wanted to live – the life he SHOULD have lived – he experienced a sudden, blinding moment of clarity. What was he DOING? Handing over his health and well-being to a stranger, no less a stranger who hid behind proxies and who promised dire consequences for his attentions...how stupid was he?! It was clear what he needed to do. He needed to snatch up the disruptor, keep it leveled at the larger man while he very quickly and politely excused himself. Hop the first transport off of this asteroid and head back to Federation space...


But it would take his last strip of latinum to cover the cost of transport, and even that would only be enough if he got lucky. Then he'd be penniless and at the mercy of whatever crew he found himself traveling with, and there were very good reasons why every traveler in these far-flung reaches of space had heard stories of shanghaied or marooned wanderers. And even if he wasn't sold into slavery, or parceled out to one of the enemies he'd made working as a soldier of fortune, or simply tossed out the nearest airlock after they finished counting his money, then he'd be back in the core worlds, and he'd have to answer for the things he'd done...and the things he hadn't done.


Sure, it was what he should do. There was no question about that within him. But it wasn't something he was able to do, and that's all there was to it.


“So...how does this work?”


Mr. Johnson smiled. In the low-light of Blind Tom's, it was a hungry, wolfish expression...


=[/\]=


LOCATION: Undisclosed Location

SCENE: Genetic Therapy Laboratory

TIME: A Month Later


It had all gone so terribly wrong.


He'd been a man with goals, with dreams. He'd loved and had been loved. Once, he had been certain that he had a destiny, that he had a part to play in God's plans for the universe. Grandpa and Grandma had promised him that he did. Now he knew that he'd traded away his destiny and his place in his Creator's plans for a place in the machinations of his recreator. When had he stepped from the path he had been on and onto this twisted road? Or had there ever been a choice? It all...all of it...just seemed to happen too fast.


Like the way the Klingon had cornered him as he left Blind Tom's. Johnson had assured him that he'd have at least a week to make his arrangements, but that had been proven a lie not fifteen steps outside the front door. The sedative hypo was obviously to make him more docile and compliant; the blows to his face seemed to only be for the alien's amusement.


He awoke with one eye swollen shut in a repurposed cargo hold aboard a tiny cargo hauler, barely larger than a Federation runabout. He was strapped to an anti-grav sled with heavy leather ties that allowed him no movement at all. He couldn't begin to envision how he might slip his bonds, but even if he could, one of Johnson's crew watched him at all hours with a drawn weapon. They refused him food and water, instead forcing nutrients into him intravenously. When his cries or screams became irksome, they would dose him again with sedatives. Eventually, he learned to keep quiet, as the sedatives left him nauseous and with a pounding headache.


They'd kept him that way for weeks, leaving him lying cold and in his own filth for days, while they made their way to wherever he was now. He'd been sedated again and either beamed or carried into this room, where he'd now spent at least the past several days. He was still strapped in place, but now it was within one of the genetic augmentation tubes. As Johnson had said, he'd been in one before, but the effects of the augmentation were negligible, and had worn off in less than a month. This tube was different, more modular in its construction.


The sedatives were provided constantly in the lab, and he couldn't tell if he'd lost hours, days, or longer in his twilight. Sometimes the room was full of fresh-faced young lab techs who had clearly been instructed not to speak to him, or even to look him directly in the eye. Once, he'd managed to slur out the word, “Plllleeeaaase,” as a dark-haired young woman hovered over a readout on the exterior of the tank. He saw her flinch, and he saw the color drain from her face, but still she would not meet his eye.


Now, he could feel his stomach roiling and feel the jackhammer inside his skull that told him the sedatives were wearing off. He swung his eyes across the room. It was empty now, and dark. The only illumination came from the series of workstations that ringed the walls.


Suddenly, from just behind his head, inside the tube, he heard a voice. [Are you ready?]


“Wh-what?” His face was numb, and it was hard to think. “Who'zat?”


The voice responded testily. [Are you ready, Mr. Anderson?]


“Tha's not me. I'm not An-urson.”


[Of course not. Are you ready?]


“For what?”


[To begin your new life, of course! This is all very exciting, don't you think? The intersection of the great frontiers of what a man can DO and what a man can BE. You're a pioneer, sir.]


“Please... Let me go.”


[Tsk. Tsk. Hardly the Warrior Spirit I was hoping for. Disappointing. Besides, it's far too late for that now. All the arrangements are made, and you have given us your word.]


Maybe it was the remaining sedative in his system. Maybe it was just the fact that he'd been pushed to a place of terror that most men would never experience. Whatever the reason, he found himself unable to make a reasoned point, or a counterargument. All he could do was state the simplest, most honest truth in his soul. “I just want to go home.” And he did. He could face the consequences of his actions. He could face the people he'd hurt. Not everyone would forgive him, understandably, but some would... And he could pay the price to make it up to the others. It would be hard, but doable. This...this place...this was just what came from running away. But he saw that now. He'd learned his lesson. It wasn't too late.


Except, of course, it was.


[You are home. Let's get started.]


All at once, the transparent shield that covered the front of the tube began to slide into place. With a hiss, it sealed him inside the glass coffin. Along the backs of his arms and legs, he felt a prodding that turned into a poke, then the poking became sharper. Finally, he felt his skin break and a series of needles thrust into his limbs. A clear, viscous fluid began pumping into the tube at the bottom, slowly puddling around his feet and beginning to climb.


“Please...”


[Now, you should be prepared. This next part is going to be exceedingly painful. Try not to scream.]


Cold fire poured into his veins. The voice didn't lie; it did hurt. But he wouldn't scream. He wouldn't give these monsters the satisfaction. He thought of Gwen, of that first day at the burger joint. If he could just think of Gwen, it wouldn't hurt all that much. Gwen had taken the pain away before, she could do it now.


As tears began to flow down his face, he whispered, then he sobbed. “Oh Gwennie... Gwennie... Please. Please help me. Please help, Plea-”


It was too much. He screamed then, and he didn't stop.


=[/\]=


LOCATION: LAVENZA II

SCENE: The Surface

TIME: Now


That had been the end of him. He knew that now. Whatever he was when he'd been put in that tank, he was a man, and now he was just the broken remainder, just like the beast hunched in front of him. They were the same.


He'd dreamed of being more. Even after all the torture, there had been dreams. Dreams of good people. Dreams of noble purpose. Dreams of a return to Starfleet and beginning to make right his mountains of mistakes. But the cold revealed the truth to him now, here at the end. Those had all just been dreams, and he was nothing more than the monster that dreamed them.


A monster that would die here. Today. In the next handful of minutes. He could feel the poisoned air burning his lungs, he could feel his muscles shutting down in the inexorable assault of the chill.


*No!*


It was unacceptable! He'd gone through so much...suffered so much...all in the name of survival! Maybe he was just a monster, just a beast, but he was also alive and he was owed at least that much. To be allowed to live. And he could live, he just needed to figure out a way.


In the freezing, his mind couldn't make complex reasoning, but he saw, all at once, that was to his benefit. The cold – the icy touch of death on his soul – made things clear, so that there was no need for reasoning.


He was about to die, and the only other thing here was the monster, so if he killed the monster, he could live.


One life for another. Simple. Fair.


Hadn't he earned his existence? Even if you ignored every other day of his life, hadn't the nightmare in those tunnels bought and paid for his right to be? For God's sake...that Klingon Spider-monstrosity alone! What was that?! What sick mind could even conceive of it? But he hadn't let his fear stop him, right? He'd done what he had to do to survive!


Just like he would now. The monster before him was fierce, no doubt. But he was a monster himself. He could beat, and rip, and bite, and tear. He could show this nightmare that he was the greater nightmare. It was a pleasant idea. It was in line with the whisper he'd heard ever since the cold fire had started in the tube: crush, kill, survive...


He stood, and the monster looked at him in astonishment. It tried to push itself upwards to meet him, but it collapsed and fell into the snow. It was too frozen, too exposed. It's body had betrayed it, and now he would kill it. It lay before him, defenseless and shivering in the snow, meekly holding up its arms to protect itself. But it couldn't. He would show it. He would show it that if he was a monster, he was the king of monsters. He would...


*No.*


He would do something else. If he could become a monster, he could become a man again, too. Right? Maybe he couldn't live as a man, but he could die as a man. He could even be more than a man. He could remember what he'd learned about peace, and nonviolence, and sacrifice. He could, for once, not give in to his fear and his overwhelming hatred, both for himself and everything else. He couldn't live that way, not anymore, but he could die that way.


He could choose to die as something better.


No sooner had he made the decision, then it began to happen. Maybe it was only his own fierce contempt and stubbornness that had kept him going this long, because as soon as he released it from his heart, his vision began to darken. The muscles in his legs gave out and he crashed to the ground beside the other monster. Inside his chest, he felt his heartbeat slow.


He was dying now. And it wasn't as terrifying as he'd always thought. What had he been so scared of?


The other monster looked at him, and made a plaintive sound, but he was too far away now to understand it. He wished it well. Maybe it could learn to be something more than a monster in the moments left to it, too.


There was a light now. It didn't seem to appear, so much as he finally noticed it was there. Had it always been there? He moved towards it, but he knew that he wasn't moving. As he got closer, he heard his Daddy's voice, and Gwen's, and Hardek's. They were calling him now, and he couldn't ever remember being more excited. He'd move toward the light.


He'd become something new.


He died only a few moments later, and the whipping snow began to cover his body immediately. There would be no cairn raised for him, no memorial on this frozen hellscape, but in his final moments, he remembered himself, and he was pleased. They were good last thoughts to have.


“I am Lieutenant Arthur Ronald Bronski. And though I die without a uniform, I die a Starfleet officer...”


=[/\]=


It had been nearly forty minutes, and Barton had begun to despair. The cold was crushing, blinding, and unrelenting. He'd stared at Conniston's monster, and watched the thing stare back, constantly wondering when the thing would make its next move. When it did – when it leaped to its feet and moved towards him – he'd thought himself ended. But the creature had stopped. For a moment, it stood over him, one of its fearsome claws raised to split his skull open, but then it had relaxed. Then fell.


He'd outlived it. He'd won.


Except, looking at the thing, he suddenly wasn't sure. It looked so peaceful, like it had found a serenity in death unlike anything Barton could imagine. For just a moment, he was envious, and he wanted to know what the monster had learned.


But then he realized that he wasn't ready to learn it today. There was still too much work to be done before he could find his own peace. So he pushed himself on shaking hands and knees through the snows of Lavenza II, towards the Lena. He thumbed open the hatch and dragged himself inside. He lifted a numb, dead hand, black with frostbite and let it fall heavily on the communications activator.


Through chattering teeth, he said the only thing he could.


“Please. Please help me. Please...”


=[/\]=


NRPG: A little late, but I'm always a little late. You really should expect that by now.

So anyway, Bronski is now former, and Barton is incapacitated on the Lena. You ready to wrap up this mission, Shawn?


Dale I. Rasmussen

~writing for~

Lt. James Prophecy Barton

Sec/Tac USS PHOENIX


but really, at least this time, for


Arthur Ronald Bronski

Poor Bastard