Teach Me How To Say Goodbye, Part Two

Posted on Jun 27, 2016 @ 1:36pm by Lieutenant James Barton
Edited on on Jun 27, 2016 @ 1:36pm

Mission: Fortress: Earth

"Teach Me How To Say Goodbye, Part Two"

(Continued from "Teach Me How To Say Goodbye, Part One")

*************************************

LOCATION: USS PHOENIX
SCENE: Captain's Ready Room
TIME INDEX:


Jim paused a moment to take a breath. These meetings didn't always go well, and he'd hoped to have at least a moment to prepare himself before stepping through the door, but the door chime had been answered immediately, as if the man inside had been awaiting him.

Steeled as he was going to be, Barton stepped into Kane's ready room. The Captain was sitting at his desk, behind the typical stack of PADDs. With the Federation brass so close at hand, with being put at the head of the vanguard, and not being a scientist or an engineer, Kane was left with nothing to focus on but the bureaucracy. It was almost enough to make you feel for the guy.

*Almost.*

Kane looked up at him, and the captain's jaw set. He didn't frown or scowl at his Security Chief, but he clearly wasn't overjoyed to see him, either. Jim didn't take offense, the Captain may have been a lot of things, but 'stupid' or 'blind to patterns' wasn't among them. He couldn't blame the Irishman for being as wary as he was of these little tete-a-tetes.

Things had been icy from them from the beginning. Within thirty seconds of looking into each other's eyes, Kane had ordered Barton, then Jacen Barnes, into quarantine with the other refugees of LIMBO, Barton had told the captain, in no uncertain terms, that he was making a bad call...and the pattern of their relationship going forward had been set. When they spoke, every word they said tended to be Starfleet textbook but their conversations were never pleasant ones. Kane was unapologetically demanding, not hesitant to offer criticism, reticent when it came to offering praise, and sometimes quick to jettison the notion of explaining an order once it had been given. Barton, for his part, had a reputation for questioning the captain's orders, both in private and in the view of other officers, and sometimes seemed to intentionally test the boundaries of professionalism in his objections.

So he was neither surprised nor upset to hear the caution, and undercurrent of warning, in the captain's greeting. “Lieutenant Barton.”

He took his place in front of the desk, and offered the PADD he carried to Kane. “Captain. I have the adjustments to the duty shifts due to the jump...and some recommendations for what you might want to do...after. If.”

Kane raised an eyebrow at that, took the PADD and thumbed to the bottom. “You're leaving Silsby as acting aSec,” it wasn't a question, but a statement, and not one overloaded with approval.

“I am, for the time being. People know him, people like him. He's earned a lot of goodwill, and you're gonna need that to keep people at their best the next few days.

Kane nodded, but only in understanding and not in agreement. “But you have the other one, Procter, flagged as your permanent replacement?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?”

Barton shrugged. “Look, Silsby's great at what he does. I couldn't have gotten this far without him, but...he's a deputy, not the sheriff. Some days, he's even kind of a reluctant deputy. I can leave him with orders – I have left him with orders – and, over the next few days, he's obviously gonna be getting a lot of direction from you. Long term, though? He's not that invested. He's not the guy to look for new ways, better ways. He doesn't want it. Procter does.”

“So, why not slot her in now and be done with it?”

Barton sighed, feeling like he'd just explained that, but managed to stop his eye roll before he'd gone halfway. “Because you don't switch horses midstream, Captain. Silsby's the right choice for now, Mack is the right choice for later.” His frustration was beginning to mount. “But they're just recommendations, so do what you think is best.”

“Thank you for your permission, Lieutenant.” The captain's tone made it unmistakable that he'd caught Barton's meaning clearly. Before Barton could respond, Kane continued. “You'll be making your jump soon?”

“A little over an hour and a half.”

“The dropsuit fabrication is proceeding without complication?”

“I assume so. Crichton's handling it.”

“Well, then, Lieutenant. I wish you the best of luck. Report in as soon as you're able.” Just in case Barton missed the dismissal, the Irish officer put down the PADD Barton had brought him, and resumed reading the one he'd held previously. Barton's jaw worked behind his lips for about half a second before he turned on his heel and marched towards the door. He'd made it about three-quarters of the way to the door before he had a crazy thought.

*What the hell? I'm gonna die anyway, right?*

He turned back around, “Permission to speak freely, Captain?”

If it was possible, there was even less warmth on Kane's face when he looked up again. “Does this have any relevance to your assignment?”

Barton frowned, considering, then shook his head. “No. Can't say that it does. But since, I'm about to die, I hoped you might indulge me.”

Now it was Kane's turn to avoid rolling his eyes, though Barton had to admit, he made it look easier. Jim assumed the cybernetic eye helped with that. But, after a long moment's consideration, Kane placed the PADD deliberately once again on his desk. “So long as you recognize that this is an indulgence, and be brief. Permission granted.”

“Thank you, sir. I will.” Barton paused for just a moment. “You know, you really don't have to be such an asshole.”

Kane glowered. Once again, he'd given Barton an inch...

“On your best days, you're looking down your nose at everyone around here, and on the other days you either treat your own crew like they're the enemy, which is bad, or like children, which is worse. You're never satisfied and when you are, everyone knows that you'll never say it unless you're alone in a darkened room, like you're somehow afraid that people would find out.”

Long years of command experience told Kane, with no uncertainty, that there was nothing to be gained by arguing with his officers point for point, that the best course of action to end this nonsense quickly was to let Barton finish venting his spleen and be done with it. But it was hard.

The Security Chief continued. “And, frankly, Kane, you don't have much of a leg to stand on as far as coming down on people, because I've seen more screw-ups out of you than anyone else on this crew.”

“Indeed,” Kane asked, immediately chiding himself for even nibbling at Barton's bait.

“Absolutely,” Jim continued. He wasn't ranting, or shouting. In fact, much of the low-level contempt that often colored his conversations with the captain was gone, as if being allowed to express himself directly relieved him of a need to be snotty. “Bringing 7,000 refugees aboard when you've barely got a hundred of your own men to police them. You very nearly turned over a prototype Federation warship to a mob of cutthroats. Even if they didn't go full-on pirate, who do you think they would have sold her to? Then you exacerbated tensions with Embry to the point that felt like he had to provoke a riot just to get your attention and make you understand that he could. Yes, he was a crazy man, but at the beginning he could have been YOUR crazy man. Now you've got this Varn-clone working on our networked computers and with access to everything we know about those things out there? The same people that built those satellites built whatever that thing was he crawled out of...why would you let him get anywhere NEAR the data on those?”

Kane waited a moment to see if Barton expected an answer, or if the question was rhetorical.

It was rhetorical. “You're reckless, Kane. You're aloof. And I think you should recognize that you're dangerous.”

Kane had been called worse, but seldom at his invitation, and not in his own office. His fury was a palpable thing, but he knew the tricks to keep it down in his gut, where it burned like hot coals, and not to let it rise to his heart or to his mouth. “Are you nearing an end, Lieutenant? Because we both have work to do and, frankly, you are nearly reaching the end of my indulgence.”

“Yes, sir. Just one more thing.”

“And what is that, Mr. Barton?”

Barton seemed, all at once, hesitant. It was as if he wasn't sure he could bring himself to make his next point. Considering what he'd already thrown at Kane's feet without pause, the Captain braced himself for deluge of vitriol. “I guess I should also point out that what you've accomplished is beyond impressive. Despite all the rest of it, which I don't take back, you've kept this bird in space and these people on track for the past two years against odds that are beyond scary. Everything I know about about warfare says that Edgerton should have squashed you like a roach before you even knew he was gunning for you, but you kept it from happening. Well, *they* kept it from happening, but they did it under your guidance, at your command. That shouldn't be possible, and yet here we are...and if our luck holds, we may even figure out a way to win this. Even if I don't like you much, even if I'm dead in a few hours...I think someone should say thank you for that. A lot of people should. So I will. Thank you.”

Kane was taken aback. The Security Chief had managed to surprise him. He looked for the proper response.

“You're going to be in the history books, Michael Kane. That much is already assured. You've done more than anyone else to keep the Federation alive in an age that wants to believe we don't need it anymore, that it's time is passed. You're proving them all wrong, and your name's gonna be right there beside Cochrane and James Kirk. But you need to remember one thing.”

“What's that?”

“As great as he was, as much as he did, Jim Kirk got a lot of good people killed along the way.”

Kane nodded, waiting until he was certain that Barton was finished. When he spoke, he was clearly not overcome with emotion, but neither was he as brusque. “Well. Thank you, Mr. Barton. I appreciate that...and I'll give what you say some thought.”

Barton searched the captain's face, trying to tell if that was the truth, but Kane's cards were, as ever, held close to his chest. “Yes, sir. Well...thank you, sir. For everything...or...for most of it. I should probably get going.”

“Of course,” Kane agreed, and that was that. Barton nodded, once again turned around and made for the door.

Except...

“Mr. Barton,” Kane said suddenly. The Security Chief glanced back to see the other man rise and move to the wall behind his desk.

“Sir?”

Kane was now poking at one of the wall panels. “Stay a moment longer.” He activated some kind of pressure-release catch, and the panel popped away from the wall. “Have a drink with me.”

He removed a large green bottle with a crimson cap, and a single highball glass with delicate etching.

“They put a secret liquor cabinet in your ready room,” Barton asked incredulously. That seemed a much less confusing notion than being invited to share a drink in the captain's ready room, so he focused on that one first.

Kane frowned. “What? Oh, no...of course not. I think I'm supposed to keep a holdout firearm in there.” He glanced up at Barton half-apologetically, “I apologize, but you'll need to replicate a glass. I only have the one.”

For a moment, Barton didn't move, all of his mental powers trying to determine if he was correct and Michael Kane HAD just made...a joke... Then, he processed the captain's request, and moved to the replicator.

“Computer. Cocktail glass. Highball. Heavy.” The replicator chirped and, in a haze of blue sparkles, a stout glass appeared, much simpler than the one Kane held. He removed it from the machine and handed it to the captain.

“Do you like whiskey,” Kane asked, placing the glasses on his desk and pouring two fingers in each.

“Bourbon, mainly.”

Kane clicked his tongue behind his teeth. “Well, I am sorry to disappoint you, but this is *real* whiskey. Think you can manage it?”

He couldn't tell if that was another joke, or if Kane was just the kind of person who took their liquor selections seriously. Barton had never been the type. He preferred bourbon, sure, but he'd made due with some exotic drain cleaners and rust removers in his darker days on LIMBO. “Only one way to find out, I guess. What is it?”

Kane held the ornate glass up to the light, admiring the amber liquid within. “Jameson's Crested Ten. Finest whiskey made in Ireland, and by extension, the finest whiskey made anywhere. A sherried version of their original, with 60% pot still, 40% grain, and most of it aged between seven and eight years.”

*So, not a joke,* Barton decided.

Kane reached out and offered the ornate glass to Barton, who looked at it, then at the newly replicated glass on the desk. Kane moved the glass once, and then held it still, unmistakably signaling that Barton should take the nicer glass.

He did so, and Kane took the other drink. “To the revolution you're bringing with you down there,” he toasted.

“To the revolution,” Barton assented and touched his drink to Kane's. He took a sip. The captain wasn't wrong about one thing, at least – the whiskey was good.

Kane took a drink as well, and smiled at the glass in his hand. Barton may have been wrong, but he looked almost wistful. “Been carrying that around for a couple years now. Almost forgot about it.”

“You don't sneak in for a quick nip during your shift,” Barton asked, not seriously.

“No,” Kane said. “No, I don't.”

“So, why haven't you had any for so long.”

Kane took another sip. “Because, usually, I reserve it for celebrations. And we haven't had many of those for quite awhile, have we?”

“No, sir. I guess we haven't.”

“So, why now,” Barton asked.

“I guess it's because you're right. You could be dead in a couple hours.”

“Lots of people have died before now.”

Kane shook his head sadly. “If I'd have known beforehand, I'd have shared a drink with any of them, too.”

“You ever think about letting anyone know that? You know, maybe before an impending date with the reaper?”

Kane sighed, frustrated. “It's not something I can expect you to understand, Mr. Barton. Not unless you've held command. The things you have to ask people to do – the things you have to order them to do – it's much harder when you're too wrapped up in their kid's names and their proud parents, and their trained goldfish. It's too easy to freeze, to not be able to make the call you have to make.”

Barton couldn't help himself. He began to chuckle, though there was no scorn in his laughter.

Kane frowned, and it seemed the tenuous moment of fellowship was drawing to a rapid end. “Something funny, Lieutenant?”

Barton shrugged, a guilty look on his face. “Honestly, yeah. A little. You're worried about how hard it is to order someone into an irradiated jeffries tube, or to EVA onto a hostile planet, but have you stopped to think what it's like to *get* those orders? Maybe it's easier for you to not know about the kids or the parents or the goldfish, but that doesn't make it any easier for them to do their duty, knowing they're going to have to leave those things behind. You don't realize that when you keep everyone at arm's length, when you make people feel like their lives – goldfish and all – have no value beyond the sacrificing of them, you make it so much harder to follow you.”

“I'd like to think I can expect my crew to do their duty.”

“They will. They have. But have you thought about what else you could get out of them if they weren't just marching behind Starfleet's banner, but if you could get to march behind *you?* If you could get them to believe that you cared about their sacrifice as much as you cared about yours?”

Kane flinched, as if slapped. “I do.”

“They don't believe that. You can hate me for telling you, you can call me a liar, but it's the truth.”

Instead of a slap, that was a blow to the Irish captain's stomach, one that threatened to drive the air out of him. “I see. Well... I'll have to give that some consideration.”

Barton finished his drink. “You should.”

Kane did likewise. “And what about you, Lieutenant?”

“What about me?”

“Have you given any thought to what you might need to stop and consider?” Kane's tone wasn't hostile, exactly, but there was a menace there. Barton's eyes narrowed. “Are you willing to give me *your* permission to speak freely?”

Inside him, Jim began to feel walls restore themselves. “By all means.”

“You haven't given us your best.”

Barton's jaw dropped. “Are you out of your... I've been working 'round the clock!”

Kane held up a cautioning hand. “I didn't say you haven't been working hard. I said I haven't gotten your best.”

“I don't know what you-”

“Would you like me to pull up your service record? Again? The evaluations, the commendations? I can, but honestly, Lieutenant, I don't need to, because I've read them so often I can basically quote them to you. They're chock full of words like 'leader,' 'example,' 'inspiration.' That Cadet Star they pinned on you? They don't hand those out for 'working hard.' I wanted the guy in those reports and I haven't seen him yet, Barton. Instead of 'leader,' I'd have to go with 'Competent administrator. Depends on assistant to maintain rapport in his department.' 'Example?' More like, 'openly insubordinate.' I could replace 'inspiration' with 'brooding, and antagonistic to fellow officers.'”

Barton desperately wished that he could feel like Kane was wrong, but there were no shooting stars to wish on, and he knew the captain wasn't. “I've done the best I can do.” He knew it sounded like an admission, and he knew that was because it was one.

“Maybe that's true,” Kane conceded. “But, bluntly, I needed more. And when you get to that planet, I expect you to turn it around. When, not 'if,' Barton...make no mistake, I am not granting you my permission to die.”

“That's not entirely up to me.”

“That,” Kane said, thrusting a finger at him. “That's the problem right there. It *is* up to you. Your life, your legacy, is a result of your actions, your own and no one else's. You say that history has its eyes on me, well, you're on this ship with me, Mr. Barton. With all of us, but you're so fixated on your past mistakes, and so dead-set on making sure you're always punishing yourself for them, that you are squandering your opportunity. If you could forgive yourself – just a little – and trust in your own aptitude, you'll blow us all away.”

And suddenly, there was just nothing more to say. They both knew it. Kane collected Barton's glass, and returned it, along with the bottle, to its hiding place. Then he placed the other glass into the replicator and keyed the 'recycle' command. Barton watched him orbit the office, his mind focused on trying to find holes in the captain's assessment and utterly failing.

“I should go,” he finally announced

“Probably.” Kane stepped towards him, his hand extended. “Best of luck, Lieutenant Barton.”

For the first time, James Barton shook Michael Kane's hand. It wasn't the warmest, or friendliest, of handshakes, but it was genuine, and that would have to be enough. Barton turned and walked, yet again, towards the door. This time he moved far enough for it to hiss open before he turned back around, “Kane?”

“Yes, Mr. Barton.”

He was about to tell him about the Person of Suspicion report on Varn, to advise him not to simply override it, lest he be called in front of the Higher Ups. But then he realized there was something more important that he needed to say, and he decided to prioritize.

“You really need to get another glass. You shouldn't have to- you don't have to celebrate alone.”

And then, before the Captain could respond, the door whooshed shut behind him and he was gone.

“Maybe,” Kane muttered to himself as he took his seat at his desk and returned to his work.

=[/\]=

LOCATION: Earth, Skies over California
SCENE: Inside the Dropsuit

The words and numbers were red. Not green. Red. Red made him hurt worse.

Why were they red?

Why was there screaming inside of his head?

Precious seconds tumbled away as he tried to force himself to understand something beyond pain again. He had to understand. He didn't know why, but he knew that he had to understand.

The words were red. The numbers were red.

There was screaming.

*The alarm!*

Much like he had prepared the computer on the PHOENIX to set the alert status on Varn without his intervention, he had willed a part of his mind to handle this task without his direct attention. So he was mostly unaware as he brought his right hand down to the control casing on his left wrist. He released the catch for the safety covering, and the tiny plastisteel covering spun away into the distance. There were no computers inside the casing, this was purely a mechanical device. One with a large blue button, and a much smaller red one.

Every instinct screamed for him to jam the blue button and deploy his parachute, something that Crichton had explained to him in a follow up briefing would result in the parachute immediately disintegrating due to the heat caused by drag friction, the same thing that had torn away so many inches of his thermal padding already.

He needed to slow down first. Just a little. Crichton had told him just a 10% speed in reduction would allow the specially designed parachute to function. The engineer had assured him it wouldn't take more than ten seconds of dropping into uncontrolled freefall to sap enough momentum.

The trouble was, he had no memory at this moment of Crichton, percentages, or seconds. There wasn't enough of his conscious self left to hope, but even if he was unaware, his only chance of survival was that his will had been strong enough to shield off enough of his mind to remember what he could not remember.

An impossible task...but one he had to achieve...

He forced his limbs to relax. He spun and tumbled and waited inside himself.

1...2...3...4...5...6...7...

*Tragic errors with bloody consequences! Jim Barton's your man!*

Driven by terror, he jammed the blue button with an animalistic fervor. Suddenly, there was a vicious yank backwards that set his limbs flopping like a ragdoll, and a terrible roar as he dropped out of supersonic speed. All at once, he was moving slowly enough to think again, to understand in his mind what his body was feeling.

He screamed and bawled in agony inside of his helmet.

And then the parachute started to glow, and flaming embers began to trail away.

An instant later, it disintegrated entirely, and he was in uncontrolled freefall again.

Returned to a state of consciousness, his first coherent thought after the first wave of agony subsided was, *Well, that certainly didn't work...*

=[/\]=

LOCATION: USS PHOENIX
SCENE: Corridor -> Kassandra Thytos' Quarters
TIME INDEX:


He didn't want to ask himself why he'd put off coming to Kass for last.

But it was either that, or actually ring the door buzzer, so he pondered.

What had he come to say to her? Was he going to browbeat her about not getting in his team's way while he was gone? Was he going to let her know about the Varn protocol he'd put in place, and that she should prepare herself to hear Kane's complaints on that. Was he going to ask her for advice on what to do if he managed to survive and found himself alone, planetside? Was he going to thank her for everything she'd done for him? He just didn't know, and until he did, he'd resolved, by way of cowardice and process of elimination, to stand right where he was.

That would have been a completely workable plan, if the woman he'd come to see wasn't outfitted with sensor nets that extended well past the closed door to her quarters. While he was fidgeting, the door hissed open and she was there, glaring at him in her way that was more like glaring through him.

“What,” she barked.

“What do you mean,” he asked, surprised at her question.

“You been standin' outside my door for nearly ten minutes, Jebediah Chastity. So either you got yourself something to say, or you got a bag you're working up the courage to light on fire, so I figured I may as well come out see which it is. So?”

He held up his hands. “No bag.”

She crossed her arms. “So you ain't loaded down with dog shit. Good fer you. Don't mean you ain't come packin' a load of bullshit, though, does it?”

He shook his head. What Kass lacked in tact, she more than made up for in perception. “No, I guess it doesn't.”

“Okay. So whatdoya want?”

“I think I want to talk to you.”

“You think? I take that to mean you ain't sure if you wanna talk to me? I reading you?”

“Okay, I don't know what I want, okay? I guess I'm here because I don't want us to be like this anymore, Kass. You're my best friend on this tub, or you were, and I don't know if we need to talk or we need to scream at each other or we just need to give up on fixing it, but I'm leaving in a couple of hours and I'm not coming back and I don't want to leave it like it's been.”

She frowned at him, and chewed her tongue for a moment. “You ready to say it's all yer fault,” she finally asked.

He shook his head. “No.”

“Okay, well, good,” she said, back into the quarters. “Leastways I know you're not just kissing my ass, then. Well? Come in, if yer comin'!”

He followed her into her quarters, which were exactly as spartan as he'd imagined they would be. She moved to the center of the floor and resumed her pose, arms crossed over her chest. He stepped past the doorway, but not much farther, and for a long moment they only stared at each other.

“Well,” she demanded.

“I guess...I don't know what to say.”

“'Say,'” she laughed.

“Yeah,” he said, somewhat confused.

“Well, I mean, you don't really have to *say* anything, Jimmy.”

He glanced around in confusion. “I don't- What?”

She snorted. “Seriously. Seriously? Jee-sus H, Jebediah. You know what needs to happen. We don't need to talk. We don't need to argue.”

“Then what do you-”

“Would you just take your pants off already?”

Cognitive dissonance struck him like a hammer striking an anvil, and for a moment, he couldn't hear anything but a ringing in his ears. He was aware on enough to know how simple he sounded, but not enough to really care, when he said, “Huh?”

She waggled her head back and forth and let out a grunt of frustration. “Look, Jim. You didn't hurt my feelings and so we need to talk about it. You don't have some kind of point you're gonna argue that's gonna change anything with me. If bickerin' and jawin' at one another was gonna work this thing out, it'd have happened already, and clearly it ain't. You and me's in this situation because you are who you are, I am who I am, and we've got the jobs we got. I ain't sayin' sorry for nothin', and if you do, you're a liar. So, way's I see it, we really only got one option left to us if'n we don't wanna go on havin' our blood pressure spike every time th' other walks into a room.”

“You can't be serious.”

“Sure as hell am. 'The Pelvic Summit,' a diplomat I once knew called it. Been helpin' all kindsa ladies and gentlemen to get along, peaceful-like, for millennia. So stop bein' a little girl and drop 'em.”

He suddenly didn't know what to do with his hands. “Look, Cass, I can't-”

“You can't,” she repeated, stunned.

“Well, I *can,* but I don't think...I don't think we should. I haven't... It's been awhile.”

Kass smirked. “You thinkin' you forgot how it works?”

“No, it's just-”

“Look, Jebediah, I had a long shift, and I got two more scheduled tomorrow. I ain't interested in hashing over our differences. They don't matter that much. Do I think you're a pain in the ass? Sure do. But this ship's been a helluva lot more fun since you came aboard, and if you get yourself killed down there, I'm gonna miss the shit outta you. Now, all that being true, I don't have the energy or inclination' to fight with ya, so let's just say 'best of luck,' yeah?”

He stood still, a little chagrined at the sense she was making. As practical as he thought himself, she had a way of making him feel like an overemotional teenager. “Okay. Best of luck, Kass.”

She gave him a wan smile and a salute. “Best of luck, Jebediah Chastity.”

He returned the smile and took a step towards the door, then stopped. He paused there a moment, before turning back around slowly. “Jebediah Chastity,” he snorted.

He crossed the room in three large strides, and was bending down to her when she hiccuped a laugh and held up her hand. “Holy shit. Are you tryin' ta kiss me?”

He drew up short. “Well...yeah...”

She guffawed. “Hell's Bells, Jebediah. I'm blind and even I know how stupid you must look hunched over like that. Geez, you *ain't* done this in awhile, have ya?”

He felt the sting of wounded pride cross his neck and chest, for just a moment, and then he took a look at himself, and he began to laugh too. “No, I haven't. But, like you said, I think it'll come back to me.”

He dropped low, wrapped his arms around her waist, and hoisted her up, forcing her body against her own. He waited just long enough for her startled gasp to slip out, and then he kissed her hard. He felt her melt against him as she returned the kiss.

She broke away. “Not bad, I s'pose. Points for problem solving, if nothing else. But I'm hoping that's not the only trick you remember.”

“I remember one or two more,” he said as he carried her towards her bed.

=[/\]=

TIME INDEX: Later


“Hey,” he said, laying next to her.

“Hey, yourself,” she replied with a smile.

“If you strained my back, Crichton's gonna be pissed at me.”

“Yeah, well, that's your problem,” she said.

“Yeah, but I'll be dead, so you know he's gonna come looking for you.”

“Fair point. Your back okay?”

“It's fine.”

“Good, then.”

They each stretched languidly. He placed a hand on her thigh. “So, I assume we'll have to retire 'Jebediah Chastity,' he said.

“Your middle name still Prophecy,” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Then Jebediah Chastity sticks, I'm afraid. No sense getting hung up on accuracy.”

They enjoyed the moment, the quiet after, the sensation of not having anything to say, and not needing to say anything.

But the moment stayed, and stretched. Soon, they each felt that they should say something, that it may be important to say something, but still, neither of them had words. She began to fidget, and he took to looking around the room.

The moment stretched into minutes, and it was clear to both of them that something was terribly wrong.

“You okay,” he asked, knowing instantly that it was the exact wrong thing to say.

“Yeah,” she snapped. “Why, aren't you?” She heard the shrillness in her voice, and wasn't amused.

“I'm fine. I'm just fine.” He couldn't seem to recover.

Another long moment of silence.

Then, “So, this didn't work, did it,” he asked.

She didn't hesitate. “No. Not at all.”

He pushed himself up onto an elbow. “I mean, it was fun-”

“It was definitely fun, yeah.”

“But it's like-”

“I still want to punch you in the face,” she said, summarizing what they were both thinking.

“Yeah,” he said, “so what do we do about that?”

=[/\]=

SCENE: Marines Training Gym
TIME INDEX: 10 Minutes Later


The gymnasium was dark, empty, and waiting. She led the way inside, him following closely behind. Wordlessly, they each moved to opposite corners of the sparring pad and began to prepare. He grabbed tape off of a shelf and began taping up his hands, she alternated between stretches and shadow-boxing.

“Ground rules,” he called out to her.

She continued throwing jabs at nothing. “Rules? Pssh. Pussy.”

“So, you got none?”

“None. I'm good. What do you got?”

“No dumbbells,” he growled flatly at her.

The lights beneath her skin seemed to flash with her indignation. “Hey! Then how about not going psycho-kill-monster on me?”

“Too late, you already passed,” he winked at her.

“Asshole,” she muttered. “Should hit you with it...”

“You ready,” he asked moving to the center of the pad.

“Waiting, actually,” she replied moving to join him.

“Then let's-wait. One more. No sickbay.”

Her hands dropped to her side and her face dropped into a pout. “Then what's the fuckin' POINT?!”

He shrugged, conceding. “Fine, but I have this jump in less than an hour. Nothing Cade can't fix in twenty minutes, deal?”

She wiggled her jaw and rolled her eyes upward, calculating. “Nothing Cade can't fix in thirty.”

He nodded. “Deal. You want to start?”

“No,” she huffed, “I don't! Fer pete's sake, it's like I have to do every-”

She didn't see it coming at all. She didn't even see him move. But the slap started from somewhere behind him and it caught her, full-force, on an upward trajectory. Suddenly the world was spinning wildly, and then she was rolling along the pad, ass over teakettle. She pushed herself to her feet and stared incredulously at him. Her jaw hung open, not from shock, but from the swelling that had immediately set in. “Cheap-shottin' son of a bitch,” she said, not without a hint of admiration. “I'm taking a tooth for that.”

“Can Cade-” he started.

“Ten minutes, tops,” she answered.

“Then I guess it's just a question of how you get all the way up here to get it.”

“I guess it is,” she said with a feral grin, and charged towards him. He watched her come, and moved to hammer down an overhead blow as she got close. Suddenly, she rotated around him. Before he even realized she was behind him, she put the point of her toe against the back of his knee and thrust her foot forward. He staggered forward onto his knees, his arm still extended upwards, so she grabbed a hold of it and twisted it around, using leverage to drive his head and neck towards the ground and snapping two of his fingers in the process. She paused for just a moment to smile down at him before swinging her boot backwards, then driving it forward into his bottom row of teeth. Blood filled his mouth, and when he spit it out, there was a small piece of white bone in the center. He held it up for her inspection.

“Not bad, I s'pose. Points for problem solving if nothing else. Any more tricks to share,” he said with a wide, bloody smile.

“One or two,” she said smiling back at him.

=[/\]=

TIME INDEX: 15 Minutes Later


They lay together in the center of the sparring mats. He was on his back, frowning at the way he could only seem to move four of his toes inside his left boot. She was reclined against him, one side of her face puffy and purple.

“Hey,” he said through his busted mouth.

“Hey yourself,” she she said, though she couldn't quite close her mouth enough to make the 'f' sound in 'yourself.'

“If you broke my back, Crichton's gonna be so pissed at you.”

“Your back broke?”

“I honestly don't know. I hope not. My hand most certainly is.”

“Hmm? Oh. Sorry,” she said in a dreamy, casual way that suggested she wasn't actually feeling much remorse.

They laid that way for another few minutes, enjoying the feeling of not having to say anything. “You okay,” he finally asked.

“Yeah,” she said with a smile. “I am. I will be. You?”

“I'm doing just fine,” he said with a sleepy smile. She made a note that she'd have to tell Cade that Jim definitely had a concussion.

“Does the thirty minutes include how long it's gonna take us to get to sickbay? Cause if it doesn't, you're not gonna make it.”

“Nah, we'll be fine,” Barton said. “I've got it covered.” He pushed himself up onto one elbow. “Transporter room! I need emergency transport for two from the Marine training facility to sickbay. Authorization Barton-Omicron-Apollo-Omicron. Engage when ready.”

[[Aye sir.]]

“Emergency transport? Kane's gonna be pissed.”

“Yeah,” he grinned, “but I'll be dead so that's your problem.”

They vanished together in a snowstorm of blue lights.

=[/\]=

LOCATION: Earth, Over California
SCENE: Inside the Dropsuit


He was in freefall now, without a parachute, and his body had all but mutinied against him. Above the burns and the aching in every muscle, he tried to think back to what Crichton had told him about the backup parachute, and was getting nothing. They'd spent all of their time going over the thruster boots, the heat shielding, the core chute, and the transporter system that somehow, impossible as it seemed, he couldn't remember anything being said about the backup parachute other than, “you'll have a backup parachute.”

He listed for himself the things he wished he knew. How big was it? How fast could he be moving when he deployed it? Would it handle or steer differently than the primary chute? Each of those seemed like a real dumb thing to have overlooked in that moment, and he promised himself again that, if he died, he was going to have Crichton put on report.

Since he didn't have instruction to draw on, he'd have to make some conclusions off of what data he had and wild assumption. The chute wouldn't be as big as the primary because Crichton wouldn't have wanted to waste the space and weight on something that he wasn't supposed to need anyway. But it also wouldn't be dramatically smaller than the primary, as Crichton knew how many variables were in play and would make the backup didn't merely exist as way to put some perfunctory checkmark in a box. He began to sweep his eyes over the HUD displays, which were now a variety of different colors. His temperature was green, his velocity meter was a furious red, the chute status window had grayed itself out.

*There's a chute status.* If there was one for the primary, somewhere, buried in all the junk data he hadn't planned on needing to pay attention to...

There it was. “BUp Prcht Sts.” Backup Parachute Status. Had to be.

Right?

The window was yellow, which he took as a good sign – it could have been red – and in the corner, he saw a blinking line of text: Maximum Deployment Velocity Exceeded.

*Okay,* he breathed. *Okay...* That was problematic. He was moving too fast to deploy the chute, and it was all downward momentum now, he'd lost most of his forward velocity in the seconds that the other chute had been deployed, so he wasn't going to slow himself down by generating drag anymore. Crichton's brilliant solution to the velocity problem – beaming himself higher – would only give him more room to gain momentum and generate speed.

The dour voice inside of him suggested looking around to see if he could see Edgerton's roof.

Near as he could tell, he had one shot: he had to deploy the chute. The status said he was over the maximum velocity, but the window was yellow and not red...so maybe that meant he was just past the recommended velocity, and not past the your-parachute-is-definitely-going-to-evaporate velocity.

Outside of the suit, he could hear the roar of the wind around him. He knew that roar was as loud as it was, so loud as to seep into the suit, only because of how fast he was moving, and he was gaining speed. He'd whittled himself down to one item on his list of options.

He depressed the button for the backup chute. Again there came a violent yank, though not as bad as the last one. He glanced at his altimeter, which was falling much less rapidly now, and his velocity meter, which had stopped increasing and was now beginning to crawl back down. Then he looked at the Backup Chute Status.

It was red. “Parachute Temperature Exceeding Maximum Thresholds”

*No! No! No!*

There wasn't time to think, there was just time to do. He had to beam himself upwards, high enough that the lower temperature might cool the chute before it ignited, but not so high as to have the chute (or himself) freeze, now that he had less protection. The controls he had weren't designed for precision, and he had only a general idea of how much range the transporter was even capable of. It was the wildest stab in the dark he could imagine, and yet he was eerily calm; it would either work or it wouldn't. He wasn't the first person in history to notice that actually staring death in the face was less terrifying than imagining it. He twisted the transporter range on his right glove about a third as high as it would go, and keyed in vector pointing straight up. Then he activated the energizer.

For a moment, the blue sky around him was replaced by a much brighter blue starfield. His ears popped so violently he wondered if he'd ruptured his eardrums. Then the starfield was gone, and he was falling again. He was gratified to see the line about maximum temperature thresholds wink obligingly out of existence.

Then it was replaced. “Parachute Temperature Exceeding Minimum Thresholds. Freeze imminent.”

*Well, damn it...*

The only way he'd be able to generate heat would be the same way he'd been doing for the better part of an hour: drag friction. He reached up and grabbed the loops used to steer the chute and pulled both of them down as hard as he could, trimming the chute and increasing his rate of descent.

*Come on, come on...*

He glanced at his velocity meter. He was half-damned now: moving too fast to land safely, but not fast enough to generate the heat he needed to avoid having his parachute fall apart. He pulled harder on the loops. The cold was closer to killing him than the ground was, at least at this moment.

*Come on...Come on...*

His arms, already devastated by his nightmare descent through the thermosphere, howled in protest as he wrenched violently on the cords. He ignored it. His facemask was beginning to frost over. He ignored it. Higher now, he was buffeted by winds that wrenched him violently in the parachute's harness. He ignored that, too. His attention was fixated only on the line of warning text in Backup Chute Status window. There was nothing in the universe but he and that line of text and the universe wasn't wide enough for both of them. He glared at it with a hatred and contempt unlike anything he'd ever leveled at anything but his own reflection and he DEMANDED that it die.

Parachute Temperature Exceeding Minimum Thresholds. Freeze imminent.

He DEMANDED it.

Parachute Temperature Exceeding Minimum Thresholds. Freeze imminent.

*Please*

Parachute Temperature Exceeding Minimum Thresholds. Freeze imminent.

*If I die here, I'm coming after you next.* He couldn't have said who this message was for, but he knew that he believed it, and that he'd keep his word. *I will.*

The Backup Chute Status window turned green.

Inside the dropsuit, he whooped in triumph. Then swore repeatedly. Then he whooped again.

Now, all he needed to do was to slow down and land. That was it. He was overwhelmed with a heady certainty that he was going to survive. Even being dimly aware of the trials that would mean he would have to face, it was a glorious feeling. He looked at his altimeter, and velocity meter; both were falling – one too fast and the other too slow, but both were moving in the right direction. He glanced at the transporter control on his right arm. It showed approximately 63% power remaining, so he figured that only meant one more jump upwards. He would need to wait as long as possible, and then beam as high as he was able, if he was going to give himself enough room to decelerate.

The next several minutes were relatively quiet, but for the howl of the wind outside the suit, and even that had abated greatly. He watched the HUD windows tick down his progress, and turned up the range control on the transporter. The altimeter blinked from green to yellow, and below him he could see the buildings of San Francisco. He'd only been back once since graduation, but he figured this entrance would be enough to make him a local celebrity...if Starfleet didn't classify it, which they were almost certain to do.

Just another moment or two...

Both the altimeter and velocity meter reader turned red, and he keyed the energizer. Again, he was surrounded by blue stars, and again his ears popped horrendously. Both the altimeter and velocity meter winked back to green, and he began to think about how he would go about finding Selyara Chen when he landed.

Then he began to spin.

He wasn't rotating in place, it was more like he'd been placed into a sling and spun in circles. For the second time, motion sickness crawled up the inside of his stomach, and he gave a despairing glance upwards, though he knew what he would see.

Sure enough, the parachute was twisted now, tangled. Half of its wide, rectangular shape was full of wind, but the other was twisted and crumpled. He yanked violently on the steering loops but to no avail, the chute would not right itself.

*Started congratulating yourself a little early, didn't you,* came a voice from inside him, and he grimaced when he realized that it wasn't the dour naysayer, or even The Whisper...it was his own voice chiding him.

He looked at the velocity meter, nauseatingly still against the swinging, whirling clouds outside his faceplate. He was still slowing, but nowhere near enough. He pulled grabbed hold of his right arm with his left, and held it steady enough to – just barely – make out the numbers on its face. 22% power. Even if he decided to go for it, there was no guarantee that his chute would right itself – in fact that was pretty damned unlikely. Much more likely was that the device would have the power to dematerialize him, but not enough to reconstitute him, and he would be spread in an atom-thin layer around the planet, becoming nothing but an insubstantial part of the atmosphere he'd just traversed.

*I tried,* he thought as hard as he could, squeezing his eyes shut and sending the message to everyone he could. To the crew of the Phoenix, to the rest of Starfleet, to the people of Earth, to the ghosts who traveled with him in the dropsuit. *I tried...*

Then he looked below him and saw...something.

A chance. Maybe.

Probably not. But...maybe...

Water.

Jake had made it very clear that he was to avoid a water landing at all costs, but that was only because it would be very difficult to survive.

...and at this point, “very difficult” seemed downright easy compared to what he'd just gone through.

It wasn't below him, it was further west. He yanked on the loop that still gave him some control, but it only sent him shooting off to the east, away from his chance. But he had to get there. He was only a few hundred meters off course!

All at once, he knew what he had to do. He pulled his right arm toward him, and dialed down the range control on the transporter as far as it would go, then set it to shoot him directly west. The transporter meant death every time it was used – Hell, he'd technically been killed twice on this jump already – but this was likely to be of a more permanent variety.

“To the revolution,” he whispered, and keyed the energizer.

Then there came the stars. An eternity of the stars wouldn't be so bad, after all...

Then the stars were gone.

*What? Did I-*

CRASH!

And the dropsuit began to sink.

=[/\]=

LOCATION: Earth, San Francisco
SCENE: Aquatic Park


The first thing he did when he broke the surface was to scream. It wasn't a scream of triumph, it was the scream of a man who was first receiving oxygen after having a body full of first and second degree burns coated in saltwater. He screamed, then screamed again, screamed again, and then he began to swim.

He'd landed several hundred meters out, and his body was exhausted beyond imagining before he'd even landed. For most of the swim, his mind shut down entirely, and only his genetic enhancements, augmented pulmonary system and willpower kept him moving forward.

Suddenly, he was against a concrete barrier. Land. San Francisco. Earth.

He put his palms against the top of the barrier, and cried out in agony as he pushed himself upwards, out of the water. He collapsed onto the grass, rolled over onto his back, and began to scream again. This time, it was a scream of triumph. As he howled victoriously, he stared up at the sky above him and the dreaded Aegis Shield – a nemesis he'd already beaten once – and he thought of the fleet and friends up there waiting for him.

*They were never going to believe this.*

He pushed himself up onto shaky limbs, first onto his hands and knees, then into a shaky squat, until he finally reached his unsteady feet. A few feet away, a plaque caught his attention.

“San Francisco Aquatic Park Historical Marker. On November 6, 1915, World-famous illusionist Harry Houdini performs his “Escape from Manacled Box” illusion as part of the Panama-Pacific Exposition.”

He looked back at the water, where somewhere far below was both his dropsuit and Houdini's manacled box. Then he looked back across the sky above him.

“Heh,” he snorted. “Eat your fuckin' heart out, Houdini.”

Now, he just had to find Selyara, and he had an unfair advantage.

“Selyara...San Francisco...” he muttered to himself, drawing on the part of her that she'd left inside his mind. If he tried, he could remember everything about her, though not easily.

And as he thought about Selyara and San Francisco, a powerful...thought wasn't the right word, nor was sensation...a powerful understanding settled on him, an old understanding, even when it had been shared with him, but still true.

*Home. Home is on Alameida de las Pulgas.*

Now he just needed to find where *that* was.

And then it would be time to start a revolution...

*******************************************

=[/\]=

NRPG: With sincere apologies to Isaac Newton and anyone else even remotely associated with, or with a rudimentary understanding of, Physics.

TO YOU ALL: To me, this post represents the next big step forward for Jim Barton, and I just want to thank each of you for letting me explore this character with you all. He means a lot to me, and I'm looking forward to continuing his journeys with each of you. Thank you, to each of you individually, for letting me play with you and for helping me shape this beautifully broken man's story.

JEROME: If I haven't gone to sleep, it's till Sunday night, and that means it's still the weekend. So...like I promised...

=[/\]=

Dale I. Rasmussen

~writing for~

Lt. James Prophecy Barton
Sec/Tac USS PHOENIX
The Man Who Fell to Earth