The Hunted (nBSG)

[masterarminas]

Jenna Hayes glanced at her two counter-parts—and she was somewhat relieved that the shock on their faces mirrored her own. Zheng Bao just shook his head and Sir Edward whistled as the three ranking officers in Beowulf space gazed out of the portholes of the shuttlecraft.

These . . . Colonials, as they called themselves, clearly they had developed a strike fighter doctrine much like the UAA and the FEU—and the TWE to a lesser extent. But, the size of the five warships! And the sheer number of what had to be rail-gun turrets which they mounted! The smallest warship—the one that Sulaco had encountered at Acheron—was larger than any destroyer or frigate in service. The next matched Bao’s Changzheng in length (if not mass) and the other three were even larger. The truly massive one was a monster of a ship—she dwarfed all but the largest and most fragile of bulk carriers.

And while there was no sign of lasers or particle beam cannons, Jenna could see the grim twin barrels of heavy rail-cannon on turrets—in unbelievable numbers. And hundreds of smaller clusters of what had to be kinetic point defense. And if those weren’t heavy missile silos on the dorsal surface, Jenna would eat her hat.

“Big bastards, aren’t they?” asked Sir Edward quietly. “At least they come in peace.”

“We have only their word for that,” snapped Bao. “And it was your marines, Admiral Hayes, who informed these people of the location of Beowulf. My government will be most displeased if those who are in pursuit of these refugees find their way here—we must consider how much culpability your government bears if one of our people is harmed.”

“Save the threats, Admiral Bao,” Jenna said softly. “It could just as easily been your marines—not mine. And you are well aware of that.”

“Of course he is, my dear,” drawled Sir Edward. “He’s just staking out his position ahead of time—never waste a crisis, eh, Bao?”

The CAC Fleet officer didn’t answer; he just looked at the other group of men and women in the spacious passenger compartment—the civilians in exquisite business suits.

“What are they doing here?”

Jenna grimaced. “They are doing the same as your own watchdogs from Kurisaka Dynatronics and Hainan Heavy Engineering Corporation,” and Bao bristled at the term watchdog, but he didn’t correct her. All three of the officers knew who the true powers that be on Earth were. They didn’t like it—but they were well aware. “They are jackals, savoring over the chance to walk away with signed contracts that will leave these people paupers.”

“A pack of jackals, yes, Admiral Hayes—but one lion there in the midst that the jackals fear,” Sir Edward said quietly, nodding at the isolated man standing alone. James Alistair Sinclair, the head of the Interstellar Commerce Commission. It was the influence of the corporations that ignited brush wars—but it was the authority of the ICC that kept those conflicts from expanding. No mere CEO dared to openly challenge the Board of the ICC—on which Sinclair had a seat.

Jenna snorted. A century ago, the ICC had been nothing but an advisory board—the sole remaining international entity that mediated between corporations and national state governments. But slowly, inexorably, the ICC had become something more than the corporations had ever intended. Concerned only with the protection of humanity, the ICC had recruited . . . fanatics. True believers. And with each successful arbitration, with every regulation that prevented a new plague, with every circumvention of their rules by the corporations highlighted for the teaming masses of mother Earth, the ICC gained more and more power unto itself.

Today, it was the ultimate authority whose anger no one, corporation or national state, wanted to awaken. That had been shown forty-three years ago when the ICC had black-listed General Atomics after the CEO had violated ICC quarantine. No ICC bonded freighter loaded any of GAs products, their raw materials inbound to the Earth factories were seized, their assets were assaulted by cyber-attacks and drained. Two weeks after the ICC ruling, the entire company went bankrupt—leading to a major global recession until the components of GA were auctioned off.

No mere CEO wanted to provoke the ICC into repeating that with their corporations.

Jenna smiled. Yes, Sinclair’s presence made the jackals nervous. After all, they never knew if the lion would simply accept their feeding at his table—or if he would eviscerate and consume them instead.

The shuttle banked, and Jenna blinked as she got a good look at the escorting fighter.

“Damn,” muttered Sir Edward, his upper-class pretentions forgotten for the moment. That fighter was far smaller than Earth’s strike vessels—and her own sensor readings on board Constellation had shown that the lithe little craft’s performance envelope exceeded that of Earth-build strike vessels. It exceeded them by a large margin. Of course, the tiny fighter could not carry the ordnance that UAA Hammerheads carried—or the Cheyennes.

Then the pilot nodded and rendered a hand-salute, and the fighter veered sharply away as the shuttle passed through the massive bulk of the twin landing decks three of these warships carried. It was different from any Earth design—but Jenna could see the utility of such an expanse of deck to launch and recover strike vessels from. The shuttle set down gently and an expanding gangway emerged from the bulkhead and clamped against the airlock.

She drew in a deep breath, and with her two companions, fell in line behind the corporate liaisons as the airlock opened—with James Sinclair of the ICC walking behind, and watching, all of them.

[MondoMage]

Interesting, very interesting. So the Corporations don't have as free a hand as Burke leads people to believe. That alters the dynamics of the situation greatly. Should be interesting.

And how dare you let real life interfere with your good work here! What are you thinking?

Seriously, tho, good luck with the interview. While longer waits between updates will drive me crazy (I've gotten entirely too used to multiple updates per day), I can hack it, if only because your work is so damned good.

[masterarminas]

Adama exchanged a glance with Ripley as the delegation from Beowulf filed into the conference room. He noted that only three of the eleven wore military uniforms—the rest, as she predicted, wore expensive suits. He kept any expression from his face as he, Commanders Lorne and Jayne, Colonels Tigh, Thorean, and Foeswan, High Justice Lampkin, and the newly sworn in President and Vice-President of the Colonies stood.

He caught Lee’s eye and the President nodded—as did Tom Zarek. And Caprica as well, who was here representing the Cylons that had joined the Fleet. Adama scowled at her presence—but Lee had insisted. After all, this meeting would affect them just as it would the human refugees.

Lieutenant Gorman was the twenty-third man at the table, sitting between the two sides . . . and for such a junior officer he was remarkably composed. Which is too say, he looked nervous and out of place. Bishop, sitting at his side, on the other hand, was stoic and at ease.

Adama waited until the guests had all taken their place and he nodded at them.

“Welcome aboard Galactica,” he said. “I am Admiral Adama—may I introduce you to the President of the Twelve Colonies, Lee Adama?”

Polite nods were exchanged—but the Admiral (and Lee and the rest) caught the slight smirks on the faces of most of the civilians. Just as Ripley had said, they automatically assumed nepotism was at play.

The uniformed woman nodded her head. “I am Admiral Hayes of the United America Alliance; this is Admiral Bao of the China-Asian Congress and Commodore Sir Edward Morton of the Three Worlds Empire,” she paused. “And this is Director James Sinclair of the Interstellar Commerce Commission.”

Adama smiled politely and nodded his head at each of them in turn—and just as Ripley had said they would, they had brought the ICC with them, he thought.

“Please, be seated,” Adama said and everyone sat. “Are these gentlemen and ladies representatives of your government?”

“No,” spoke one of the civilians. “We represent a number of corporate interests here in Beowulf—all major players in interstellar markets.”

“Such as Weyland-Yutani,” Adama growled. “We have already met an executive of that corporation.”

Several of the executives bristled, but one smiled broadly. “Yes . . . where is Carter Burke? He should be here for this meeting to . . . assist us in processing this event.”

“He is sleeping off an alcohol-fueled bender,” Adama answered in a sour voice. “We are quite . . . displeased with Mister Burke.”

“Oh?” asked the same executive—his face now set and emotionless.

“Yes. Are we not going to wait on diplomatic officers from your governments?” Adama asked.

The same executive just smiled. “Why don’t we get started—these officers will confirm that any arrangements made here today will be binding on the national governments.”

“I see,” Adama answered. “We had not planned to begin negotiations today—I was going to take you on a tour of my ships and give you a short briefing on the Cylon threat. Mister President—if the government is prepared to proceed, we can adjust our schedule.”

Lee waved one hand. “Certainly, Admiral,” and he leaned forward with a smile on his face. “We are seeking a home—a place where we may rebuild our civilization. We had hoped to avoid leading the Cylons to you, but we have been unable to slow their relentless pursuit. Before we discuss that, however, I would like to file, formally and on the record, a complaint about your Carter J. Burke.”

“A complaint, Mister President?” the Weyland-Yutani rep said with a slight smile. “I am certain that . . . given the difference in language and culture, any misstep by Mister Burke was unintentional.”

“One would hope so,” Lee answered. “But I am afraid that is not the case here. Mister Burke has been trying to divide this Fleet in the hopes of gaining exclusive access to our technology—we will not permit such an action.”

All of the CEOs smirked momentarily before their faces blanked. The Weyland-Yutani rep just smiled. “A misunderstanding, I am sure.”

“As the President says,” growled Adama, “we hope it was merely a junior executive pushing his authority too far. I mean, I doubt that he had the authorization to promise this Fleet that he would settle them on Earth.”

“Excuse me?” asked Sinclair—and the corporate execs got rather quiet.

“He assured me,” Tom Zarek said with a smile, “that his corporation could arrange for the ICC quarantine of Earth to be waived—and promised nothing less than the title to a place known as . . .,” Tom paused.

“Tierra del Fuego, wasn’t it, Mister Vice-President?” asked Lee with a smile.

“Thank you, Mister President,” Tom smiled back. “That was it, Director Sinclair. In fact, he promised the entire Fleet a new home on Earth if we wanted it—but only in exchange for exclusive rights to all of our technology for Weyland-Yutani.”

“No one breaches ICC quarantine protocols,” Sinclair growled, casting at glance down the table at the Weyland exec.

“That wasn’t the first time he said he could . . . circumvent the ICC,” Admiral Adama added with a smile. “From the reports I have read on the . . . incident on Acheron, Mister Burke attempted to convey two specimens of the alien species encountered there back to one of my ships for shipment to Earth.”

A deathly silence fell over the table, and the blood drained from the Weyland exec’s face.

Ripley sat forward. “I was there, Director Sinclair,” she said, “along with Lieutenant Gorman and Bishop and the single survivor of the colony and the four Marines from Sulaco who managed to escape with their lives. When we protested and told him that he would never get those specimens through ICC quarantine, he brushed aside our concerns and said there were ways. And since they were worth millions to the Bio-Weapons Division, he ordered us to load them. We didn’t. He was rather upset over the entire matter.”

Sinclair glared at the Weyland exec, who swallowed. “None of this was sanctioned by the company, Director—it was one junior executive exceeding the boundaries of his authority.”

“This matter will be investigated—thoroughly,” Sinclair said, turning his attention back to the Colonials. “Settlement on Earth is out of the question.”

“We understand,” Lee said with a smile. “And we are open to trading some of our technology with you in exchange for a world to call our own,” and his voice hardened as he looked at the corporate execs. “But we are not naïve, nor are we innocent children to be taken advantage of. Accordingly, to protect our own interests, we have formed our own corporation—Twelve Colonies Limited—with one voting share held by each and every member of this Fleet. Twelve Colonies Limited owns outright all technology possessed by this Fleet, and only the board of Twelve Colonies Limited, of which I as President am the chief executive officer thereof, may negotiate for any licenses to our intellectual properties.”

“Well, I am certain that this is all quite legal in your home civilization, Mister Adama,” said one of the execs, “our laws only recognize corporations properly filed with the ICC.”

“That was a fact which Madame Ripley and Bishop brought to my attention,” said High Justice Lampkin. “I have prepared the documents required under your laws, and since you are present here and now, Director Sinclair, as the direct representative of the Interstellar Commerce Commission, I would like to file these documents with you . . . to ensure that Twelve Colonies Limited has all of the rights and responsibilities entitled under the law,” the lawyer smiled and he slid a thick document across the table.

James Sinclair returned that smile and he tapped his fingers on the document. “There is a . . . significant filing fee, you realize.”

Lampkin nodded. “We understand that it has been delayed in the past—although the ICC will be owed interest on any delay. We would be willing to offer to the ICC a royalty on all technology licenses until the fee—and a reasonable rate of interest—is paid in full.”

“I will have my staff look over this document,” Sinclair said, “but as of now, I officially confirm receipt of your filing. Should there be no errors within the document that would cause it to be voided, we will consider Twelve Colonies Limited a registered corporation under the auspices of the ICC Board.”

And the blood drained from the face of every corporate exec in the room. In contrast, the three Terran military officers were fighting to keep smiles off their own faces.

“Now, until my staff determines whether or not this document is indeed legal and in the proper format, I believe that we should suspend further negotiations,” Sinclair stood. “For myself, I would love to take that tour you spoke of, Admiral Adama.”

“Mister President?” the elder Adama asked of the younger.

“By all means, Admiral. But I do believe that Lieutenant Gorman and Madame Ripley also have a document—a report on the events that occurred on Acheron; with copies for Admiral Hayes and Director Sinclair both.”

Sinclair’s eyes twinkled as he was handed two more bound reports, and he passed a copy down to Jenna Hayes. “And Mister Burke’s report?” he asked.

“He hasn’t assembled one, Director,” Ripley said sweetly.

“Ah,” replied Sinclair. “Shall we begin the tour, Admiral?”

“After you, Director,” Adama answered.

[Borgholio]

Burke...is screwed.

[Skywalker_T-65]

So very...very screwed. I like it

[Diverball]

Very satisfying. Though it's a tiny bit implausible that Sulacco would have proformas of ICC documents in its database, or that Ripley and company would have had the presence of mind to bring them along. And no matter how good a lawyer Lampkin is, he can't know the minutia of Earth commercial law.

The again, I suppose it doesn't matter. If the ICC is run by people of integrity and vision, they'll find a way to help the Colonials, if only to avoid the destabilising effects of only one alliance or corporation controlling the tech.

[masterarminas]

“So, the Thirteenth Tribe sees our oppressed brothers as property,” muttered Cavil after Caprica had returned to her Basestar. “And will they treat us the same?”

“So far, Adama—both Adamas—have not informed the Thirteenth Tribe of our existence. I believe that the good Admiral will be speaking with their military leaders and this Sinclair later today on that subject,” Caprica said quietly. “And speaking with this Bishop,” she shuddered. “He looks human—but he is very, very different. Both in temperament and physiology,” she whispered as she remembered the demonstration with the knife that Bishop had made to her. She shuddered again.

But then she smiled. “Apparently though, the Thirteenth were just as shocked at our mechanical brethren as I was at their . . . synthetics,” she enunciated the unfamiliar word carefully. “They seem to accept human-form creations, but not mechanical.”

Cavil snorted. “Creations? Try slaves.”

Boomer sighed. “Look, we are not going to have this argument again—what was their decision?”

“It was as President Adama said,” replied Caprica, “they have given each of us human replicant Cylons one equal share in this Twelve Colonies Limited scheme they have dreamed up to stave off the scavenger corporations. However,” she said, “two-thirds of any profits generated by our shares are going to . . . be withheld are a token of reparations for our actions against the colonies.”

“Two-thirds?” snarled Cavil. “What next? They are going to settle us on this Acheron?”

Caprica shook her head. “No. Their offer is fair—and they released the Cavil and D’Anna who they were holding. As a sign of good faith,” she nodded to two replicants who stepped forward. “They have gained much information on the Thirteenth Tribe from Bishop, and I believe that you should all pay attention to their words.”

“What of Gina?” asked Boomer.

Caprica sighed. “I was permitted to see her—she suffers. As a result of the abuse done to her on Pegasus,” the woman swallowed a lump in her throat. “She wants to die—to not resurrect. And I have agreed,” she said to the horrified shock on the faces of her fellow Cylons, “to instruct the Resurrection Hybrid to purge her from the system when her time comes. She will not be uploaded into a new body.”

“They broke her,” whispered Cavil. “And you two want us to cooperate with them?”

“What we want no longer matters, John!” snapped Boomer, her scar tissue twisting with her emotion. “Now, we do what we must to survive.”

“For how long? We cannot procreate! Only one of us has managed to conceive or impregnate even a human being—much less ourselves!” Cavil thundered.

And Caprica smiled. “Actually, the synthetic Bishop believes with the Thirteenth Tribes medical technology, he can correct that . . . defect in our genetic code. If he can, then we will be able to continue our race—even without Resurrection.”

All nine Cylons in the command center stared at her without a word.

Cavil was the first to regain his composure. “Do the humans know?”

“Not yet, John. It might be . . . awkward. This revelation can wait until after we forge an agreement to fight the Guardians.”

And one by one the human replicants began to smile and nod their agreement.

[masterarminas]

Very satisfying. Though it's a tiny bit implausible that Sulacco would have proformas of ICC documents in its database, or that Ripley and company would have had the presence of mind to bring them along. And no matter how good a lawyer Lampkin is, he can't know the minutia of Earth commercial law.

The again, I suppose it doesn't matter. If the ICC is run by people of integrity and vision, they'll find a way to help the Colonials, if only to avoid the destabilising effects of only one alliance or corporation controlling the tech.

They probably didn't . . . but Bishop did, at least in his own memory. In fact, I would imagine that instead of paralegals handling such, W-Y would instead have synthetics working on preparing such documents, signed off by a real attorney, of course.

MA

[Diverball]

They probably didn't . . . but Bishop did, at least in his own memory. In fact, I would imagine that instead of paralegals handling such, W-Y would instead have synthetics working on preparing such documents, signed off by a real attorney, of course.

MA

Nicely done. Though I would think that if synthetics are as expensive as Burke seems to suggest, using them as paralegals wouldn't exactly be cost effective. And even if they do, Bishop has no reason to be programmed that way.

[Torben]

It really depends on the cost of memory. If memory space is freely available and cheap enough, building one install image for every WY synthetic is a lot easier than multiples. Then it also makes it negligible to move synthetics from one job to another as needed. Of course, that assumes their operating systems are even installed like current day computers. Of course, if they are, it would be trivial to make multiple images for each job type and just image as needed. I can see it working either way.

MA - awesome story! And let me second that real life takes precedence over internet presence - though I as well will sadly miss the speedy update cycle . Good luck on the interview, hope it goes well for you.

[FaxModem1]

I wonder if Bishop is playing some sort long game with the Cylons or is merely being his charming self.

[masterarminas]

Burke awoke with a pounding headache—and he couldn’t remember a thing. Nothing since he left Joe’s Bar on the museum pod. And then he caught a whiff of the odor emanating from his body—a mixture of stale alcohol, sweat, and urine.

“Well, the sleeper awakes,” said a voice—a voice that Burke suddenly recognized. He sat bolt upright—and slammed his head into the metal upper bunk above him. When the stars quit flashing in his eyes, he sat up slower, swinging his legs out.

“Mister Danes . . . I-I wasn’t aware . . . how long have I been out?” Burke stuttered and stammered.

“Three days, Mister Burke,” the head of Weyland-Yutani Beowulf Operations said with a fixed expression on his face. “You have put the Company in a very difficult position, Mister Burke. In addition, your criminal negligence and sheer incompetence has cost the Company quite an investment—of personnel and finances—into Acheron.”

Burke tried to swallow, but his dry throat made that difficult. His heart was pounding, his head was pounding, and he shook his head. “I was on the verge of getting them to sign! Exclusive rights for Weyland-Yutani, Mister Danes!”

“Really? Mister Burke, these people have given us a complete briefing on your activities here. Your drunken state is not representative of our executives—and your actions on Acheron and prior to that Earth require an immediate response.”

“Carter J. Burke—you are fired,” Danes said bluntly. “Pursuant to your employment contract, we are seizing all of your financials and assets to off-set in part the monetary loss that your actions have caused Weyland-Yutani to suffer. In addition, the ICC wishes to have you appear before them to answer charges for the criminally negligent deaths of one hundred and fifty-seven colonists and eight Marines on Acheron.”

Burke blinked as Danes stood up. “I believe, Mister Burke, you had best pray for a sympathetic defense attorney—you cannot afford one yourself, not anymore.”

“Look, I did what you people wanted! I came out here to get those creatures for Weyland-Yutani!”

Danes shook his head. “All of your personal files and communications are being forwarded to the ICC—they confirm that you were acting on your own. You were operating as a rogue agent, perhaps mistakenly believing that Weyland-Yutani would whitewash your crimes in exchange for the fruits of your criminal dealings. The truth of the matter, Mister Burke, is that if you testify before the ICC, you will be found guilty and sentenced to a penal colony for the remainder of your natural life. Accusations against the Company require evidentiary proof, Mister Burke—there will be no such evidence.”

“You cannot do this to me! I have been loyal! I have paid my dues! I have . . .,” but Burke was cut off by the cold, condescending voice of Danes.

“You made the fatal mistake of being caught, Mister Burke. Caught in a nightmare that you organized, a web of lies wherein you misrepresented yourself to the Company in hopes of receiving a promotion. The felons on your penal colony—a male only colony, Mister Burke—will enjoy your company, I believe.”

Danes smiled slightly and he nodded to his guard. The burly man waited until Danes was at the hatch and then he drew out one gun—holding it pointed at Burke—and laid a second, smaller weapon on the table.

“It has one cartridge, Mister Burke. I would suggest that you do the honorable thing; I—and the Company—wash our hands of you regardless of your decision,” Danes said as he stepped through the hatch, followed by his guard, who closed the hatch behind him and then sheathed his weapon. Danes nodded and he followed by the bodyguard began to walk down the hallway. They did not stop when on the sixth step they heard a single shot echo within the closed compartment.

[MondoMage]

Wow. That was quite a bit more final than I was expecting. Bye bye, Mr. Burke. Although it does chafe a bit that W-Y most likely did order him to do what he did on Acheron, and won't be held responsible for it. Oh well... Karma gives, and karma takes away.

[masterarminas]

“Do me a favor,” Helo said out loud to the pilots in the ready room. “Clear the compartment—perhaps you can work on getting your berths strack for inspection.”

The astonished pilots stared at Helo and he nodded. “That is right—inspection at 1100 hours tomorrow. I’d get cracking on it, people,” the acting CAG said amiably, and slowly the pilots and ECOs stood up and made their way out of the compartment.

Except for one Kara Thrace. Who instead lifted a flask in a sardonic salute. “Well, I’m gonna flunk that inspection, Helo. When did you get such a stickler for the rules and regs?”

Karl Agathon sat down at the table and he flipped over a cup and held it out. Kara shrugged and she poured some of the potent liquid into it. And Karl took a sip. And coughed. “Needs to age a bit a more,” he gasped.

“It’s raw,” Kara agreed. “Raw just like the hand that life has dealt me,” she said in a bitter voice.

“So, are you going to become the drunk that you always detested in Tigh?” asked Helo. “Sitting here on your ass because your boyfriend turned out to be a Cylon?”

“You don’t know wh- . . . ,” Kara began, and then she winced at the look on Helo’s face.

“I don’t know about being in love with a fracking toaster? Is that what you were going to say, Starbuck?” He shook his head and took a sip.

“Leave me alone, Karl. You’re CAG, you can run things, and I’m on the inactive list. Just leave me the frack alone!”

“Not gonna happen, Captain Thrace. We’ve let things slide—maybe it’s time, past time, we started getting our own house in order.”

Kara snorted. “Well good luck with that, Captain Agathon, Sir,” she said in a bitter tone.

“You know, Starbuck, you are a right bitch when you drink.”

She glared at him and he just glared right back at her. “You, of all people. You know what I went through with Sharon—with Athena. And there on Caprica, you met Sam Anders. You fell in love with Sam Anders—with that man, Kara.”

“He’s not a MAN!” she bellowed. “He’s a fracking Cylon!”

“What a load of feldercarb,” Helo said with a snort.

Kara looked up in surprise. “Now that’s a word I haven’t heard in a while. Been slumming with the Taurons?”

“It fits. Your attitude smells to high heaven and sticks everywhere,” Helo answered. “He didn’t know he was a Cylon. He spent his entire life living as a human and never knew he was a Cylon. He fought the Cylons. He saved your ungrateful ass from the real Cylons at least twice.”

“Hey, I was grateful—he knew exactly how grateful I was,” she ground her teeth.

“That’s why this is tearing you up, Kara,” said Helo. “You won’t get past that he is a Cylon—you think I didn’t have the same reaction with Athena? But I came to realize that I loved her—that she was going to be the mother of my child. Kara, do you love Sam Anders?”

Starbuck opened her mouth and Karl shook his head and held up one hand. “Did you love Sam Anders on Caprica when we had to leave him behind, when you promised him that you would come back—not for the resistance, but for HIM? Is he still the man you fell in love with Kara, and if he is, why the frack are you here drinking alone instead of being in his bed?”

She glared daggers at Helo but Karl just smiled and shook his head. “That isn’t an answer, Kara. Let it go. So what if he is a Cylon? He’s the only Sam Anders in the universe and the only one that will ever be. The toaster’s Resurrection Ship doesn’t have another Sam on board so if he dies, he dies forever. Commander Jayne has sworn him in as an officer over on Scorpia—a Marine officer. He isn’t coming back if he buys the farm, Kara. I’d say that makes him about as human as you and me.” Helo stood.

“Lee’s not here to kick your ass, Starbuck. And none of these other pilots will take you to task—your job as CAG is here, I’m just filling in and you know it. Now quit moping, quit feeling sorry for yourself, put down the drink, and admit to yourself that you still love Sam Anders. And then get that knee rehabilitated and take back over the fighter jocks before they frag my toaster-fracking ass.”

Starbuck burst out in a fit of laughter, and it faded into her crying and Helo knelt down and he held his friend—he held her tight against his chest as she cried and cried and cried.

[Diverball]

Wow. That was quite a bit more final than I was expecting. Bye bye, Mr. Burke. Although it does chafe a bit that W-Y most likely did order him to do what he did on Acheron, and won't be held responsible for it. Oh well... Karma gives, and karma takes away.

Maybe they will, maybe they won't. The ICC has been given carte blanch to launch a very thorough investigation into Wayland-Yutani's affairs. Who knows what they'll find.

IMHO, while I can see the senior management being willing to sacrifice a few lives in order to study the xenomorphs, I can't see them being willing to deliberately sacrifice an entire colony. Nor can I see them being willing to involve the colonial marines unless they had no other choice; after all, you can't necessarily control how the marines will react, as Burke's dismay over the suggestion that Acheron be nuked attests. Nor can you control what information will leak out afterwards.

The whole situation was far too sloppy for an organised high-level conspiracy. Senior management may be just as venal and amoral as junior executives like Burke, but they tend to be rather more cautious - they have more to lose, after all. Even if Burke had succeeded in bringing samples back, it's likely that the corporation would have quietly liquidated him afterwards, as a punishment for his recklessness.

[MondoMage]

The whole situation was far too sloppy for an organised high-level conspiracy. Senior management may be just as venal and amoral as junior executives like Burke, but they tend to be rather more cautious - they have more to lose, after all. Even if Burke had succeeded in bringing samples back, it's likely that the corporation would have quietly liquidated him afterwards, as a punishment for his recklessness.

Oh, I disagree. History is rife with organized high-level antics that, when exposed to the light of day, are unbelievably sloppy. The Fast and Furious operation, and Wide Receiver (its predecessor) for example. Operation Eagle Claw is another. Deepwater Horizon, Exxon Valdez, Union Carbide Bhopal, and both Challenger and Columbia being a couple more. Just because someone is in a position of authority doesn't mean they have any idea what the heck they are doing.

Look at the Corporations' initial reaction to the arrival of the Colonials - as the one military officer put it, like jackals, expecting to be able to negotiate the Colonials into poverty and strip them of the rights to their own technology. And they acted surprised when the Colonials didn't play ball! That indicates to me that the entire corporate culture is flawed. There's only one avenue of oversight (the ICC), and they tend to get involved only if someone gets caught. That type of thing breeds a culture of greed and risk-taking that leads right into the sort of disaster like Acheron. Note that it wasn't the loss of the colonists that caused Burke heartburn - it was when the suggested nuking the very expensive atmosphere processor. The same with the hearing over what happened to the Nostromo - they didn't really care what happened to the crew, they wanted someone to explain why Ripley blew up their expensive ship.

Corporations survive by squeezing every penny they can out of their investments. This is not necessarily a bad thing. But if you remove most of the checks and balances keeping them "honest" and add to that the fact that people are comparatively cheap and easy to replace, then you find yourself in a place where "misunderstandings" like LV-426 are not at all uncommon. Not widely reported, I'm sure, but not uncommon.

[Vianca]

They have the blueprints for the first gen. Basestar, they also have a ship in their Rag-Tag-Fleet with a gigantic dome.
Remove the top disk of a first gen. Basestar and mount a gigantic dome on the remaining lower disk, that way you get both a production center and a place to live.
Heck you could possibly build a high-rise city serounded(?) by farms.

The hanger-bays their entrance strips could possibly be covered from above with a roof, that also acts as a floor for the inside of the dome.
There are different ways to go about it, but that lower disk is needed for it.
Think a bit like Atlantis from Stargate, not qua form or shape, but as function and ways it can land on a planet.

Something like that is what they need, just incase they have to move again, the plus is that the power is already on.
They can start building the frame if they can get raw material resources.
Then after their corperation(?) is legal and their stuff officialy belonging to them accourding to Earht laws (kinda weird, that, better to say so against that ICC guy), they can start selling things like jump-drives.
This would give them the money to buy stuff like the Earth factions their energy weapons, seeds and general food stuff.

[Diverball]

Oh, I disagree. History is rife with organized high-level antics that, when exposed to the light of day, are unbelievably sloppy. The Fast and Furious operation, and Wide Receiver (its predecessor) for example. Operation Eagle Claw is another. Deepwater Horizon, Exxon Valdez, Union Carbide Bhopal, and both Challenger and Columbia being a couple more. Just because someone is in a position of authority doesn't mean they have any idea what the heck they are doing.

While I am sympathetic with your general point, I'd observe that most of those were either simple negligence or incompetent execution. It's the total lack of any apparent planning that bothers me about Acheron. Send a mom-and-pop survey team to investigate the ship and....what? Get infected, then infect the entire colony, forcing you to send the marines along? Successfully extract samples and take them back to the colony? Then what? Hang on to them until the next supply ship turns up?

It just seems that would have been simpler and safer for W-Y to just send a properly-equipped retrieval team out there on a company ship. I mean, xenomorphs aside, the Promethean starship would be worth examining in detail.

Edit:

In fact, thinking about it for just a second, why the hell are W-Y more interested in the ship's cargo than the ship itself anyway?

[FaxModem1]

Maybe they had surpassed the space jockeys in technology? Or they just really needed an edge in bio-warfare?

[Themightytom]

They have the blueprints for the first gen. Basestar, they also have a ship in their Rag-Tag-Fleet with a gigantic dome.
Remove the top disk of a first gen. Basestar and mount a gigantic dome on the remaining lower disk, that way you get both a production center and a place to live.
Heck you could possibly build a high-rise city serounded(?) by farms.

The hanger-bays their entrance strips could possibly be covered from above with a roof, that also acts as a floor for the inside of the dome.
There are different ways to go about it, but that lower disk is needed for it.
Think a bit like Atlantis from Stargate, not qua form or shape, but as function and ways it can land on a planet.

Something like that is what they need, just incase they have to move again, the plus is that the power is already on.
They can start building the frame if they can get raw material resources.
Then after their corperation(?) is legal and their stuff officialy belonging to them accourding to Earht laws (kinda weird, that, better to say so against that ICC guy), they can start selling things like jump-drives.
This would give them the money to buy stuff like the Earth factions their energy weapons, seeds and general food stuff.

Could you seriously stop with ridiculous suggestions to build Atlantis? you're the nerd who makes other nerds feel awkward about being nerds.

[Vianca]

They have the blueprints for the first gen. Basestar, they also have a ship in their Rag-Tag-Fleet with a gigantic dome.
Remove the top disk of a first gen. Basestar and mount a gigantic dome on the remaining lower disk, that way you get both a production center and a place to live.
Heck you could possibly build a high-rise city serounded(?) by farms.

The hanger-bays their entrance strips could possibly be covered from above with a roof, that also acts as a floor for the inside of the dome.
There are different ways to go about it, but that lower disk is needed for it.
Think a bit like Atlantis from Stargate, not qua form or shape, but as function and ways it can land on a planet.

Something like that is what they need, just incase they have to move again, the plus is that the power is already on.
They can start building the frame if they can get raw material resources.
Then after their corperation(?) is legal and their stuff officialy belonging to them accourding to Earht laws (kinda weird, that, better to say so against that ICC guy), they can start selling things like jump-drives.
This would give them the money to buy stuff like the Earth factions their energy weapons, seeds and general food stuff.

Could you seriously stop with ridiculous suggestions to build Atlantis? you're the nerd who makes other nerds feel awkward about being nerds.

Who says they have to build Atlantis?
But the concept of a cityship is quite sound for people on the run or not sure they can stay on their new planet for any long periods.
It´s especialy sound for the parianoid people that own said tech, if they were in the situation that BSG´s RTF is.
It´s the ultimate camper.

Since the lower lvl´s would be industrial in nature and the top lvl a city, several farms and such things, vacuum rated to booth.
At in that they can start building it the moment they can get the raw materials for it and.....
Thus no need to wait for them to be assigned a planet and/or solar system, which means earning big bucks way earlier, since they would have a base to start from.
Finaly, they can get most of the materials by salvaging the wreck of a Guardian Basestar.

The domes are just because neither the Colonials or BioCylons have any (energy based) force-shield technology.
As for why I brought up the concept of a cityship, they need a base to work from, spacestation or city, it doesn´t realy mather besides the possibility of having to run again.
I also don´t get why you quote part of my post as a earlier post inside the same quote.

Are you trying to imply something here, Themightytom?

[Themightytom]

Who says they have to build Atlantis?
But the concept of a cityship is quite sound for people on the run or not sure they can stay on their new planet for any long periods.
It´s especialy sound for the parianoid people that own said tech, if they were in the situation that BSG´s RTF is.
It´s the ultimate camper.

Why would they want to centralize all their remaining people on one city ship, as opposed to finding a planet to settle down on and putting their effort into defending it again?

Since the lower lvl´s would be industrial in nature and the top lvl a city, several farms and such things, vacuum rated to booth.

So it can all be blown up at once, you're suggesting the equivalent of a blanket fort in your living room. Sure it looks like a good idea, but it's silly.

At in that they can start building it the moment they can get the raw materials for it and.....
Thus no need to wait for them to be assigned a planet and/or solar system, which means earning big bucks way earlier, since they would have a base to start from.
Finaly, they can get most of the materials by salvaging the wreck of a Guardian Basestar.

...all they have to do is risk their tiny population of soldiers, use up some of their remaining ammunition and manage to disable a base star full of cylons with no reason to hold back now that they know there are billions of humans scattered all over Earth colonies. Once they manage to stop a base star from trying to kill them, they have to board it, and go through it hallway by hallway deck by deck to sweep it clear of all Cylons. They have to move the base star before it's friends arrive, sweep it for any automated beacons or anything that could be tracked and then... already at this point it's just easier to deal with Earth. There are no riches to be had in doing it this way.

If they DO manage to get their hands on a big giant chunk of metal designed to be a base star, not an industrial section of a city ship, they have to renovate it with... what again, since the base star they just captured is supposed to BECOME the factory. After a structural asessment to confirm that they can in fact cut a base star in half without rendering it completely useless, they can spend weeks, I don't know, un screwing, cutting through bulkheads, unbolting... then they can start taking the dome off of the ship in the fleet that has it, find out it's MUCH too small to actually cover the area involved, make due with what they ahve, start planting seeds and maybe in a few months assuming they have rapid grow techniques, they'll have a farm under a dome, and an industrial complex underneath, and everyone else will have been busy paying Earth to kill all the Cylons on the 12 colonies and setting up terraforming shake and bake's to make the atmosphere liveable again.

Whoever's living on space dome will have just enough time to regret the whole thing, and ask themselves why they did all of this for a flimsy fake planet, when they could have had a real one, and spent their time and effort building a cloud of vipers and Thunders, before whatever raiders survived Earth's attack to drop by and kill them all.

As for why I brought up the concept of a cityship, they need a base to work from, spacestation or city, it doesn´t realy mather besides the possibility of having to run again.
I also don´t get why you quote part of my post as a earlier post inside the same quote.

Are you trying to imply something here, Themightytom?

They have a base to work on, they have a refinery ship, an electronics ship, a prison ship, a luxury liner, a Mercury class battlestar, a Columbia class battlestar, a Valkyrie class battlestar the Aurora and the Anubis. Why would they do any of what you suggest, when Pegasus has machine ships that can build ships that the Earth colonies would buy, Aurora is designed to support a fleet such as they are escorting, etc.

I wasn't "implying" anything, I stated outright you keep recycling the same ridiculous idea as though it wouldn't turn the entire fleet into a mary sue.

[Vianca]

Well, if your going to build a new city after the whole FALL thing, wouldn´t you want one that can run away from nukes?
Like it or not, a basestar has both the tech and the general shapes needed to make it work.
Don´t know if you realised it yet, but the (Bio)Cylons have FTL-com tech, it´s what they use to resurrect after they died many lightyears away from the resurrection point.
Their gravity manipulation is also quite good, as theoreticaly the Colonials (& BioCylons) can do this, besides, I can see them wanting to have a little more living space and if it can also handel some of their other needs.....
You could even see it as the starting point of a Anchorage complete with dockyards for ships up-to battlestar sizes.
Fact is, demand for their tech will be quite high, their current production abilities won´t be enough and they will need to expand shortly, the Guardians are gearing up, you know.

As for Mary Sue, ain´t most stories that?
I mean, the main characters usealy live to tell the tail.
Most likely, it will become quite hot in the near future, the Guardians are machines (wanting to have flesh, but still generaly made of metal) and thus un-relenthing, never sleeping, eating (HEY, what do those Guardians with a fleshy body eat anyway?) and other things their programming tells them to.

[masterarminas]

Episode 17: Something Wicked This Way Comes

Judith Kerns wiped away the sweat from her forehead as she leaned back on her ankles, her knees still buried in the rich thick soil of her home—so very far away from the overcrowded Earth of her birth. She gazed over the long rows of green sprouting plants and—despite her aches and pains—she smiled. The orange glow of the giant star at the heart of the system had finally dipped beneath the horizon of moon which orbited one of her gas giants.

Named Thedus, the colony of Epsilon Reticuli was one of the furthest outposts of Mankind—and had been for more than a century. Unlike most such far distant settlements along the frontier, Thedus had proven ripe for transplanted human life—currently the population had just crossed the five million mark, with immigration continuing every single month on the bulk-freighters that Weyland-Yutani dispatched here with the mission of loading the valuable mineral ores mined from the crust.

Although not as plentiful as in the early days, the mines remained profitable enough to ensure that the population of Thedus was well taken care of by the Corporation—and their associated government. Pretty much, though, the UAA left Weyland-Yutani alone, and the riches of Thedus had ensured that the Companies normal harsh operating procedures were not needed. Thedus had never rebelled, or stopped the ore shipments, or burnt the Company store—and because of that the managers here used a lighter hand than many. Judith sighed. She had certainly lucked out in the lottery for a spot on a colonization flight—with all of the hell-holes mankind had settled, here she air she could breath, water that she could drink, vegetables and tubers able to be digested by humans, and few hostile predators.

It was a paradise, compared to the dirt and grime of Old Earth, so crowded that one could not breath, nor ever see the sky through the clouds heavily laden with acidic rains and soot. Which didn’t mean she had it easy, Judith thought with a snort.

No, it was hard work here, building a home—but now she had the field laid in. Her field. Her land. Owned by her in full title, with no debt to the Company or any bank or a loan-shark. It was hers and hers alone.

And she smiled. At least until she found a husband and had some children. She brushed the dirt off of her hands and kept on smiling as she stood. There was a supper tonight at the pavilion in the center of the small community—a covered dish supper where the men and women and children building a new world gathered to give thanks for all that they had. And to find what they did not have.

She needed to get clean and finish her potato and sausage casserole—and if Edward Blake was there, maybe tonight was the night she could get the dullard to finally pop the question!

A deep whine in the air above her made her frown—no ships were expected today, she thought. She looked up and saw this unfamiliar shape streaking through the clear sky above—shapes, she realized. Three of those strange elliptical craft.

She heard a whine behind her and turned around—and gasped as three metallic . . . things . . . stood there holding weapons in their hands. They were humanoid, but far from human. And across a screen on their heads where a visor would be for a man or woman, a single red pulsing light slowly bounced from side to side.

She backed away, and then turned to run as one lifted a weapon—she managed to take three steps before something struck her in the back and an electrical shock sent her convulsing to the ground. But she could still hear, although the language was one that she did not understand.

“Imperious Leader,” one said in a hideous monotone that sounded utterly devoid of emotion. “We have made contact with the outlying villages. Shall we begin the Harvest?”

And through the radio that the creature carried, she heard a girlish laugh. “Yes, Centurion, by all means, Harvest for us their flesh. Preserve a breeding population for future use—have them transported to my command ship—the rest? Flay them.”

“By your command,” the Centurion answered and he turned to his companions. “Take her to the transport—she is of breeding age and will be useful.”

Judith was lifted and she tried to scream, but her muscles were still frozen—and then saw the thousands of these creatures cresting the ridge.

“Begin the Harvest,” the Centurion said and the Cylons advanced on the quiet village below, their metal feet trampling her young crop in their wake.

[MondoMage]

And thus does it begin. The colony sounded like an uncommonly hospitable one, in the interpersonal sense of the term. Unfortunate.