Rogues' Gallery, Star Wars/nBSG Updated 8/23/2011

[DrMckay]

Yeah. Like they're gonna fly Raptors. Did you not notice the evil smiley and the wink?

Eh, there's angst, and there's people with real issues. Kell Tainer, Face Loran and Ton Phanan et al all came off as genuine people with issues, not angsty cut-outs like later Kara. As I said, despite her not being a favorite character, I'm gonna try to do her justice.

Another factor will be the Rogues' treatment of Tyrol and the Deck Gang, (Coming from a military with a need to scrounge everything, they'll be a damn sight more appreciative of the knuckledraggers than the Viper Jocks.)

Any other issues/questions?

[Mr Bean]

I can see it now

The Captain's briefing was quick and to the point, first picture slides were passed out of the Standard Colonial Viper MK II. Then a brief run down of the Vipers main weapon systems, across the table Wedge could see Hobbie mouthing "Kinetics?" at him as Captain Lee described the Viper's twin 30mm mass drivers with eight hundred round clip at twenty round a second firing rate. Doing the light math in his head that came to forty seconds of sustained fire and he had to suppress a wince. An X-Wing quad Lasers could fire only once a second at full power. But single fire could up that to close to the Vipers firing rate. Except even those under powered shots would be packing much more destructive force than what the Viper's guns could do. Never mind the fact the X-wing could keep firing for minutes and the guns would melt from over-use before the power ran out. Ammo constraints were not something he was used to work under except for Torpedo's which as the Captain explained the Viper MK II had those as well in an eight round magazine.

That's really rough but you get the idea.

Basic rundown FYI for you on the Viper MK II VS your Average X-Wing.

X-Wing
Length:12.5 Meters
Max Acceleration:3,700 G
Top Atmospheric Speed, 1,050 kph(Unless you have shields which enables much faster speeds)
Range:At combat speeds between eight to ten hours in normal space. Standard cruising is up to a week with hyperdrive jumps thrown in. Atmospheric fighting drops that way down
Armaments: Four KX9 Laser Cannons plus twin MG7 Torpedo launchers with a clip of three per launcher for a total of six Torps. Various sized torpedo's can be carried including "Cap-ship killers" which are in the multi-Gigaton range. Powerful enough to snap a BaseStar in half and have enough left over for everyone.

Viper MK II
Length 8.4 Meters
Max Acceleration:7 G
Top Atmospheric Speed: 1,400 kph
Range:Thirty minutes at top speed(7G) or 32 hours at standard acceleration (1G). Unknown how bad atmospheric "fighting" reduces that because we've never seen them fight in an atmosphere.
Armaments: Twin 30mm Mass Drivers 800 round clip with 20 rpm firing rate. Plus a single missile launcher with eight round clip with HD-70 Lightning Javelin missiles.

Note there's some issues there as the Lightning Javelin's supposdly have 50 megaton nose-cone capers but they are not really used against fighters and seem to be anti-BaseStar only.

To note at the low speeds a Viper fights at the Reactionary drive might be more agile than an X-wing at that speed. But then an X-Wing is designed to fly at ludicrous speeds. A viper for example can go one to 75 Mph in under a second. That's fast. In the same time poking along at just 500 G the X-wing can be doing 5,485 Mph in under a second. X-wings have crazy acceleration figures. Something I've said to you before is that Internal Compensator in Star Wars are a level of technology onto themselves they can be small enough to be fighter sized yet strong enough to shed the X-wing's top speed of 3,700 G (Or 40,598 Mph) and keep on going.

The simple fact the Shuttle did not high step it away from the Cylon's can be explained (If anyone asks) as Wedge not wanting to stress the Internal Compensator until he was sure the ship was secure. Doing 100 G acceleration would paste everyone inside the shuttle if the Internal Compensator failed. And even running at say five G's(The max the average human can take) would do bad things to the human body if they just broke bones.

Let me repeat this from a previous mention. Even a lightly armed SW Shuttle like the Phanan's Intellect will be able outrun any Cylon fighter or Cap-ship in normal space until you hit the acceleration wall when you start getting into the .X Light speed since you keep on speed up sooner or later you hit the "big L" and by then the Basestar or Cylon fighter chasing you will be long light hours behind you because of you speed advantage. You've hit .1 or .5 or .8 or however fast your ships shields can stand.

And also, let me point out again how damn useful the shuttles sensors will be to them. And the fun of trying to convice Odama to let Gate tie in their sensors to the Galatica.

[DrMckay]

As promised, you guys get it first:

********

Author’s Note: Much credit for this chapter goes to MrBean of SD.net who provided me with some great technical details, and some interesting ideas for character interaction. At this point, the challenge is integrating the dark and dramatic aspects of BSG with the (slightly lighter) X-Wing books. Both sets of characters will undergo significant changes in the days to come.

Music: If you like to listen to music while you read, (as I sometimes do,) I would recommend the tracks “Pegasus” and “Lords of Kobol” from Battlestar Galactica’s Season 2 Soundtrack, played sequentially.

If you don’t have the soundtrack, (which I highly recommend, as Bear McCreary is an excellent composer, “Pegasus” can be found here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JculidrJ ... re=related

and Lords of Kobol here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eON5O5MRz5M

Disclaimer: As always, Mr. Lucas and Mr. Moore own their respective properties. Mr. McCreary owns the music.

Please enjoy:


Chapter Three: Prelude to Diplomacy


“Presumably an escort,” Wedge said. “Stay loose, Red Flight. Diplomacy first.”

Leader, Three. Diplomacy means saying something soothing as you squeeze the trigger, right?”

“Quiet, Three.”

- Starfighters of Adumar,
By Aaron Allston

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


SHUTTLE PHANAN’S INTELLECT
COCKPIT

Wedge listened to Adama’s voice, noticing the strange accent in Basic, and hearing the calm, steady tones. In his gut, he knew the man was a seasoned combat leader. That was a good thing. Seasoned combat leaders didn’t usually shoot first, and the fact that they spoke a dialect of Basic, as well as referring to themselves as ‘The Colonies’ with a protocol for a First Contact Situation gave the indication that they may be a lost human colony from the bygone Republic days.

A brief message from Adama requested that they hold position while he talked to the President. The four pilots, (Hobbie having returned to consciousness,) Iella, and Winter crowded the cockpit to discuss options and get a better look at the three fighters that had formed up on them. As they got closer, Wedge noticed something-

They looked like-“X-Wings,” muttered Janson, “Emperor’s fluffy pink bathrobe-they look like X-Wings.”

“Yeah.” Hobbie drawled, rubbing his injured head, “If you hacked off the nosecone, s-foils and an engine, and added a couple of smaller wings and a stabilizer, they would kinda look like X-Wings.”

“There’s the paint job too,” said Iella, “White and red stripes-classic Rouge Squadron.”

Wedge keyed his comm, “Starbuck, what do you call those ships of yours? I’m curious, because we’ve got something similar.”

“I don’t know what those are,” said Janson, “but I want one…”

Tycho chuckled. “It doesn’t matter what they’re called, I think Incom’s got a major patent infringement suit on its hands if they find out about these.”

The response came almost immediately, **They’re called the Viper, General. I am not currently at liberty to divulge additional technical data because-**

“You don’t trust us.” He said, evenly.

**Yes, Sir. You’ll have to persuade Commander Adama and President Roslin that your intentions are benign.** A teasing note entered her voice, **Are you a fighter pilot, Sir? You pulled some nice maneuvers, and sound a bit young to be flying a desk.**

Wedge snorted, amused, “Finally someone who agrees with me. Yeah, you’re talking to a snub jockey. There’s four of us and a couple of analysts on what was supposed to be a vacation.”

**Some vacation. **

“You said it. Is your President here yet? I don’t know how long my systems will hold out.”

**I’ll check-just a minute, General. In the meantime, the Commander has cleared you to approach the Port Flight Pod of Galactica-The largest ship in the fleet.**

“Acknowledged, Starbuck, See you on the deck

Wedge looked at the other occupants of the Shuttle, and throttled up slowly, engines juddering in protest.

“Alright people, I’ve got no choice, We’ve gotta put this thing down before we lose engines altogether-opinions?”

“They don’t like droids, they’re twitchy and very good at shooting things they don’t like?” suggested Hobbie, as the Intellect moved through the fleet, towards the indicated vessel.

Wedge nodded, “All right, Gate stays on board, then, and we make no sudden moves. Tycho, passive scan. What kind of armament are we looking at?”

As Tycho bent to work, Wedge took a glance at the Battlestar, By looks alone, it was impressive, a kilometer long, divided into three distinct sections, a central core with engines, resembling a misshapen Dreadnaught, and two outriggers, which he assumed were the Flight Pods. As he lined up on the port one, proceeding at a crawl so as to not antagonize the Commander and to give his people more time to prepare, he saw a battery of eight immense, double turreted guns on the ship’s spine.
“Mass Drivers,” muttered Tycho, giving a running commentary, “Thick armor, unknown composition, and I think the doors on the hangar bay are either missile tubes or a launch mechanism of some sort.”

“The shape,” said Iella, knowledgeable about many ship classes due to her service in Corellian Security Force, “The symmetrical layout-it looks nearly Corellian,”

Wedge didn’t miss it either as he compared it to the other warships of similar size he was farmiliar with. It lacked the organic, alien randomness of the Mon Calamari Cruisers and Battleships, and did not inspire the stomach-clenching terror of the daggerlike Imperial warships, a shape for rending and tearing. Instead, Galactica’s construction evoked feelings of a home he hadn’t been inside of yet-The design had many similarities to the ships he grew up with, yet its differences, blunt bow, heavy armor, and slight curves suggested a reassuring solidity, and the heavy guns gave it more punch than just a simple Carrier or Missile Ship. It was a juggernaut built to protect and defend, to strike and stand, while taking one hell of a pounding in the process.

Wedge had just decided he liked it, when Winter dragged him back to reality with a voice so soft it was barely heard-

“It’s worse than that.”

“Hey!” exclaimed Janson, “That’s my forecast of impending doom!”

“Pipe down Wes, you can come up with another one if we survive this.” He gestured to the white-haired spy, “You were saying, Winter?”

She pointed out the window,

“The ships, Wedge, look at the ships. Widely varying size and shape, few to no weapons mounts, and makeshift repairs on some-This is no fleet group, these are refugees. I’d wager that aside from the Galactica, there aren’t any purpose-built warships in the fleet. Those droids, the ‘Cylons’ they’re fighting, I think they lost to them-badly.”

Wedge nodded.

“Here’s the plan. We board. We do not antagonize them. We offer an alliance and complete honesty if they can get us back to the Republic. Dress Uniforms. Change quickly.”
Wedge ignored the groans of Hobbie and Janson, suppressed his own, and pressed on.
“We had them for the Vanda, and we’re going to use them to make an impression as Soldiers on the Colonials-I think they’ll need them.”

He stared at the two women, who were in upscale dresses, and frantically thought about how to survive the next few seconds without a smack to the head. Figuring that they wouldn’t do it while he was flying the ship, he went ahead.

“Iella, Winter, you ladies already look lovely, check the survival kit, get me an inventory, then stow it. It’s a Wraith special, so there should be plenty of weapons and other exciting things that go ‘boom.’ Draw holdouts, and hide them. We need to lay out all our cards on the table, but in case something goes wrong, you’re our skifters in the deck. Janson, draw blasters and vibroblades, hand ‘em out-Rogues, arm yourselves and make it obvious.”

His voice shifted to a lower register, “Surrender your weapons if, and only if I tell you to. They are going to treat us as equals, not potential hostages, and I’m going to make that very clear to them.”

The comm. system crackled as the primitive wireless broadcast was transmitted to the shuttle.
**Phanan’s Intellect, Phannan’s Intellect, this is Captain Kelly, Landing Signals Officer of Galactica, I am directing you to approach with constant velocity, your designated landing area is marked with blue checkers. A soft seal airlock hose will be extended after touchdown. Please acknowledge.**

“Antilles here,” Wedge replied, “Instructions received and acknowledged. Request a private channel with Commander Adama.”

**This is Galactica Actual,** said the gravelly voice, **Proceed.**

“Commander, allow me to be blunt. My men and I are uniformed military officers, We will be boarding your ship as an envoy of military officers of an independent government, with our sidearms, We will leave the ship the same way. While we very much hope to make a peaceful contact, I must warn you, any attempt to take us prisoner or coerce us in any way will be interpreted as an act of war, and be treated accordingly. My people will make no aggressive moves. Is this acceptable to you?”

Wedge sat back to await the reply. He was not kept waiting long.

**It is acceptable under our current Rules Of Engagement. Be advised that armed Marines will be-escorting you for the protection of my crew and the President.**

Wedge nodded, aware of the necessity, “Understood Commander, I look forward to meeting you in person.”

**Likewise, General, likewise.**

He heard someone clearing their throat, and glanced behind him. It was Tycho, clad in the loathed white v-neck jacket and black bodystocking of the New Republic Dress Uniform. The left hem of the jacket was red, holding his rank insignia, and displaying numerous awards and battle tabs, just like the one in his luggage. Wedge made a go-ahead gesture to Tycho who then slipped into the co-pilot’s seat and took up the controls.

By the numbers, thought Wedge.

“Switching over, do you have the stick?”

“I have the stick. Taking us in, blue checkers.” Tycho’s lips quirked into a smile, “Best dress to impress, Boss.”

“And Wes said you couldn’t rhyme.” Wedge groaned, “See you in five.” He unsnapped form the seat, stretched, and headed into the main cabin to the refresher alcove, passed Winter on her way to the cockpit. As he saw Iella and going through the luggage, his heart skipped a beat- In the short time since the plan was decided, she had done her hair onto an elegant but serviceable bun, with a few strands left free to frame her face. If possible, she looked more beautiful than ever, and nothing like a trained Intelligence operative. As he moved toward her, Iella gave Wedge a wink, and tossed a small duffel at him. Unlike the pillow earlier in the day, and what felt like years ago-

He caught it, opened it, and confirmed the contents: Dress Uniform, datapad, comlink, belt and holster with a ‘Solo Special’ DL-44 and power packs, Wedge then sealed and slung it over his shoulder, looking again at his wife.

“You look great-are you all set?” he asked.

She tossed him a mocking salute. “Yes sir, General Antilles, Sir!”

Wedge grabbed her around the shoulders and pulled her closer.

“Hey, no salutes until they need to know what you do for a living.” She raised an eyebrow, and he continued, “Besides, you’re not in my chain of command anyway. Got the blaster? I didn’t see it.”

Iella took a quick glance around the cabin area, and made sure they were alone. Her brown eyes took on a seductive gaze, and her voice dropped an octave.

“Wanna?” She asked, reaching for the hem of her dress.

“Force yes,” he replied enthusiastically-until he took a glance at his chrono. “But later,” he said, as they kissed passionately, “Later.”

He entered the ‘fresher, and four minutes, several splashes of cold water, and a change of clothes later, emerged into the cabin in time for landing, and a spectacle.

With Tycho and Winter in the cockpit landing the ship, the occupants of the cabin were limited to Wedge, an uncomfortable-looking Hobbie in his Dress Uniform slouched against the bulkhead, and Iella, looking lovely in a simple blue dress with flared sleeves, while currently attempting to attack the third occupant of the cabin- Major Wes Janson standing at an absurdly preening position of attention while trying to fend off Iella, wearing his Dress Uniform-with a few additions.

As Wedge stepped closer, he took it all in. white naval officer’s hat with a gleaming black brim? Check. Holo-Vid star eyeshades? Check. Absurdly tiny and pointed mustachios obtained from one of Face’s little disguise kits? Check. Hand-tooled blaster belt with massive, Shreen-Pearl handled blaster? Check. All of it, down to the massive, unlit cigarillo clamped firmly between his teeth lent him the air of a self-satisfied prima-donna commander right out of a war-drama holo.

“Hey,” said Wes a dung-eating grin on his face, while somehow managing to keep the cigarillo in his mouth, “One of us has gotta look good.”

As Wedge attempted to suppress his laughter, and Janson stared at him expectantly waiting for him to fail, Iella took the opportunity to rip off his offending facial adornments and ‘shades in one fell swoop. As Wes yelped in pain, and backed up, Wedge lost his control, and Hobbie stole the hat, beginning a spirited game of “Keep Away.”

Wedge shook his head. “Nine year-olds,” He commented ruefully, “I’m going on a diplomatic mission with nine year-olds.”

“Yet you still want kids someday,” Iella, a smile on her face, triumphantly brandishing Janson’s shades and mustache, “You must have the patience of a Jedi.”

“Not as much as Luke, actually. Poor guy has to sign autographs everywhere he goes, even on a dinner date.”

“No.” said Iella.

“Yes,” replied Wes, looking morose and rubbing the raw skin where the mustache had been, “It got so bad he had to get Face to disguise him if we wanted to hit a Cantina or tapcaf together. What with all the senators wanting a piece of him, the poor soul only has us to keep him honest.”

During the performance, the shuttle set down to a smooth landing, Wes abandoned his battle with the cigarillo, placing it in his pocket, and Iella raised an eyebrow.

“By ‘Keeping him honest,’ you of course mean insulting and pranking him mercilessly?”

Wes grinned, “Something like that.”

They heard the gentle ‘thud’ of a universal coupling settled over their airlock.

Wedge. “All right, I’ll get Tycho and Winter, you assemble and prepare for introductions.”

He and Iella headed forward to the cockpit, and opened the hatch, just in time to see Tycho and Winter step away from each other and the console they were both leaning into.

Wedge cleared his throat to get their attention,


“Did we miss anything?” Iella asked impishly.

“Nope,” said Tycho, slightly red-faced, “we’re checking the guidance leads. Controls went sticky just before landing.”

“Riiiiiight.” Wedge drawled, as Winter gave him an appraising stare, which on her was more intimidating than your average ‘death glare,’ “Guidance leads. Uh Huh, I’ll remember that one. C’mon, it’s showtime.”

They left the cockpit, moved through the cabin, and stepped into the large airlock, initially designed to debark large numbers of troops. The sensors registered positive atmosphere mix and pressure, so Wedge opened the hatch, coming face to face with another, this one sealed with a manual valve, only accessible from the opposite side, and was consequently equipped with an intercom set into the door. Wedge hit what he hoped was the Transmit button.

“This is General Antilles and party. Do we have permission to come aboard?”

The Commander’s voice came through the intercom,

**Adama here-permission granted.**

Various clanking resounded through the hatch, and as it finally swung wide, Wedge caught sight of several human soldiers with unfamiliar weapons clad in black uniforms and helmets. One was holding the hatch open, while seven others were keeping guard on the hallway’s other occupants.
No one spoke for a few seconds as the two groups evaluated each other. Wedge took the time to examine the people before him

The first of these occupants was an attractive young woman with short blond hair, wearing a tank top drenched in sweat, a chain around her neck with what were probably ID markers, and some sort of flight suit tied off around her waist. Her face, which looked shaped for a devilish grin, was surprisingly somber. This was probably the Lieutenant Thrace he spoken with over the comm.

He glanced at three other men, clad in gray uniforms with a leather sash over the shoulder, obviously their version of a Dress Uniform. It didn’t look much more comfortable than theirs.

One was tall, and with his height, suspicious glower, and fringe of white hair, bore more than a passing resemblance to Booster Terrik-the only thing missing was the fact that this man had two eyes to Booster’s one.
The other two had some sort of family resemblance. The younger man was taller than his-his Father? Wedge guessed, and had a determined look in his blue eyes, yet his face was smooth and unlined, lending him the earnest look of a young man determined to make his mark on the universe.
The earnesty and determination of the younger man were nothing compared to the elder.
Steel-haired and stocky, his craggy features spoke of decades of experience and leadership-the man exuded a quiet strength and competence that Wedge could not hope to imitate.

This, concluded Wedge after a second’s observation, was Adama. He stepped forward and saluted.
“Commander Adama.”

“General Antilles.”-A statement, not a question-The older man took a similar pace forward, returned the salute and, as Wedge dropped his own, looked him in the eyes, seeming to measure him in an instant, with the look one warrior, one commander gave another.

Adama walked up to Wedge, and shook his hand.

“Welcome to Galactica, General.” The soldiers seemed to relax a bit, and Adama released his hand, stepping closer, speaking more quietly.

“Forgive me,” He rasped. “Kara said you would be young, but I didn’t know how young. Doesn’t matter though-you’ve obviously seen your share of action.”

Wedge gave a wry grin. “You as well, Commander, unless I miss my guess. But we can share war stories later. Let’s make the introductions, you and I, and find somewhere to sit and compare notes.”

Adama nodded. “My thoughts exactly.”


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

[Crazedwraith]

I'm still liking your Rogues and have they nicked the Wraith's shuttle for their jaunt? I thought the name was strange for a shuttle attached to a pleasure cruiser.

Though to nitpick: I'm pretty sure Alston says that Luke and Face first meet in the NJO. And I'm not sure their first though would run to X-Wing. Maybe to Z95 Headhunter since they only have one wing, but vipers are quite a bit smaller than either.

And I worked it out Wedge should be mid thirties. he was twenty-nine in Wraith Squadron iirc and Adumar is about five and half years later. Which I suppose is a bit young for Generalship. Although I'm not sure BSG has that rank; They get Commander instead after Colonel.

[Mr Bean]

And I worked it out Wedge should be mid thirties. he was twenty-nine in Wraith Squadron iirc and Adumar is about five and half years later. Which I suppose is a bit young for Generalship. Although I'm not sure BSG has that rank; They get Commander instead after Colonel.

Wedge at this point is roughly fourteen years into his military service. Of which he spent roughly one year as a independent freight hauler then moved onto snubfigters and had been a pilot ever since. Most of his initial promotions were a mix of skill and battlefield promotions. Remember Red squadron left the Death Star with less than four X-wing's and Hoth not much better. Add in Death Star 2 and he sat at Commander's rank for a good four years before being promoted to General in the forming of the NR.

[JME2]

“Yes,” replied Wes, looking morose and rubbing the raw skin where the mustache had been, “It got so bad he had to get Face to disguise him if we wanted to hit a Cantina or tapcaf together. What with all the senators wanting a piece of him, the poor soul only has us to keep him honest.”

...

I'm sorry, I can't stop laughing.

Seriously, very, very well done. You've got the Rogues down perfectly and it's an interesting set-up you've established. I'm very curious to see where this goes.

[DrMckay]

As promised, you guys get it first:

********

Author’s Note: Much credit for this chapter goes to MrBean of SD.net who provided me with some great technical details, and some interesting ideas for character interaction. At this point, the challenge is integrating the dark and dramatic aspects of BSG with the (slightly lighter) X-Wing books. Both sets of characters will undergo significant changes in the days to come.

Music: If you like to listen to music while you read, (as I sometimes do,) I would recommend the tracks “Pegasus” and “Lords of Kobol” from Battlestar Galactica’s Season 2 Soundtrack, played sequentially.

If you don’t have the soundtrack, (which I highly recommend, as Bear McCreary is an excellent composer, “Pegasus” can be found here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JculidrJ ... re=related

and Lords of Kobol here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eON5O5MRz5M

Disclaimer: As always, Mr. Lucas and Mr. Moore own their respective properties. Mr. McCreary owns the music.

Please enjoy:


Chapter Three: Prelude to Diplomacy


“Presumably an escort,” Wedge said. “Stay loose, Red Flight. Diplomacy first.”

Leader, Three. Diplomacy means saying something soothing as you squeeze the trigger, right?”

“Quiet, Three.”

- Starfighters of Adumar,
By Aaron Allston

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


SHUTTLE PHANAN’S INTELLECT
COCKPIT

Wedge listened to Adama’s voice, noticing the strange accent in Basic, and hearing the calm, steady tones. In his gut, he knew the man was a seasoned combat leader. That was a good thing. Seasoned combat leaders didn’t usually shoot first, and the fact that they spoke a dialect of Basic, as well as referring to themselves as ‘The Colonies’ with a protocol for a First Contact Situation gave the indication that they may be a lost human colony from the bygone Republic days.

A brief message from Adama requested that they hold position while he talked to the President. The four pilots, (Hobbie having returned to consciousness,) Iella, and Winter crowded the cockpit to discuss options and get a better look at the three fighters that had formed up on them. As they got closer, Wedge noticed something-

They looked like-“X-Wings,” muttered Janson, “Emperor’s fluffy pink bathrobe-they look like X-Wings.”

“Yeah.” Hobbie drawled, rubbing his injured head, “If you hacked off the nosecone, s-foils and an engine, and added a couple of smaller wings and a stabilizer, they would kinda look like X-Wings.”

“There’s the paint job too,” said Iella, “White and red stripes-classic Rouge Squadron.”

Wedge keyed his comm, “Starbuck, what do you call those ships of yours? I’m curious, because we’ve got something similar.”

“I don’t know what those are,” said Janson, “but I want one…”

Tycho chuckled. “It doesn’t matter what they’re called, I think Incom’s got a major patent infringement suit on its hands if they find out about these.”

The response came almost immediately, **They’re called the Viper, General. I am not currently at liberty to divulge additional technical data because-**

“You don’t trust us.” He said, evenly.

**Yes, Sir. You’ll have to persuade Commander Adama and President Roslin that your intentions are benign.** A teasing note entered her voice, **Are you a fighter pilot, Sir? You pulled some nice maneuvers, and sound a bit young to be flying a desk.**

Wedge snorted, amused, “Finally someone who agrees with me. Yeah, you’re talking to a snub jockey. There’s four of us and a couple of analysts on what was supposed to be a vacation.”

**Some vacation. **

“You said it. Is your President here yet? I don’t know how long my systems will hold out.”

**I’ll check-just a minute, General. In the meantime, the Commander has cleared you to approach the Port Flight Pod of Galactica-The largest ship in the fleet.**

“Acknowledged, Starbuck, See you on the deck

Wedge looked at the other occupants of the Shuttle, and throttled up slowly, engines juddering in protest.

“Alright people, I’ve got no choice, We’ve gotta put this thing down before we lose engines altogether-opinions?”

“They don’t like droids, they’re twitchy and very good at shooting things they don’t like?” suggested Hobbie, as the Intellect moved through the fleet, towards the indicated vessel.

Wedge nodded, “All right, Gate stays on board, then, and we make no sudden moves. Tycho, passive scan. What kind of armament are we looking at?”

As Tycho bent to work, Wedge took a glance at the Battlestar, By looks alone, it was impressive, a kilometer long, divided into three distinct sections, a central core with engines, resembling a misshapen Dreadnaught, and two outriggers, which he assumed were the Flight Pods. As he lined up on the port one, proceeding at a crawl so as to not antagonize the Commander and to give his people more time to prepare, he saw a battery of eight immense, double turreted guns on the ship’s spine.
“Mass Drivers,” muttered Tycho, giving a running commentary, “Thick armor, unknown composition, and I think the doors on the hangar bay are either missile tubes or a launch mechanism of some sort.”

“The shape,” said Iella, knowledgeable about many ship classes due to her service in Corellian Security Force, “The symmetrical layout-it looks nearly Corellian,”

Wedge didn’t miss it either as he compared it to the other warships of similar size he was farmiliar with. It lacked the organic, alien randomness of the Mon Calamari Cruisers and Battleships, and did not inspire the stomach-clenching terror of the daggerlike Imperial warships, a shape for rending and tearing. Instead, Galactica’s construction evoked feelings of a home he hadn’t been inside of yet-The design had many similarities to the ships he grew up with, yet its differences, blunt bow, heavy armor, and slight curves suggested a reassuring solidity, and the heavy guns gave it more punch than just a simple Carrier or Missile Ship. It was a juggernaut built to protect and defend, to strike and stand, while taking one hell of a pounding in the process.

Wedge had just decided he liked it, when Winter dragged him back to reality with a voice so soft it was barely heard-

“It’s worse than that.”

“Hey!” exclaimed Janson, “That’s my forecast of impending doom!”

“Pipe down Wes, you can come up with another one if we survive this.” He gestured to the white-haired spy, “You were saying, Winter?”

She pointed out the window,

“The ships, Wedge, look at the ships. Widely varying size and shape, few to no weapons mounts, and makeshift repairs on some-This is no fleet group, these are refugees. I’d wager that aside from the Galactica, there aren’t any purpose-built warships in the fleet. Those droids, the ‘Cylons’ they’re fighting, I think they lost to them-badly.”

Wedge nodded.

“Here’s the plan. We board. We do not antagonize them. We offer an alliance and complete honesty if they can get us back to the Republic. Dress Uniforms. Change quickly.”
Wedge ignored the groans of Hobbie and Janson, suppressed his own, and pressed on.
“We had them for the Vanda, and we’re going to use them to make an impression as Soldiers on the Colonials-I think they’ll need them.”

He stared at the two women, who were in upscale dresses, and frantically thought about how to survive the next few seconds without a smack to the head. Figuring that they wouldn’t do it while he was flying the ship, he went ahead.

“Iella, Winter, you ladies already look lovely, check the survival kit, get me an inventory, then stow it. It’s a Wraith special, so there should be plenty of weapons and other exciting things that go ‘boom.’ Draw holdouts, and hide them. We need to lay out all our cards on the table, but in case something goes wrong, you’re our skifters in the deck. Janson, draw blasters and vibroblades, hand ‘em out-Rogues, arm yourselves and make it obvious.”

His voice shifted to a lower register, “Surrender your weapons if, and only if I tell you to. They are going to treat us as equals, not potential hostages, and I’m going to make that very clear to them.”

The comm. system crackled as the primitive wireless broadcast was transmitted to the shuttle.
**Phanan’s Intellect, Phannan’s Intellect, this is Captain Kelly, Landing Signals Officer of Galactica, I am directing you to approach with constant velocity, your designated landing area is marked with blue checkers. A soft seal airlock hose will be extended after touchdown. Please acknowledge.**

“Antilles here,” Wedge replied, “Instructions received and acknowledged. Request a private channel with Commander Adama.”

**This is Galactica Actual,** said the gravelly voice, **Proceed.**

“Commander, allow me to be blunt. My men and I are uniformed military officers, We will be boarding your ship as an envoy of military officers of an independent government, with our sidearms, We will leave the ship the same way. While we very much hope to make a peaceful contact, I must warn you, any attempt to take us prisoner or coerce us in any way will be interpreted as an act of war, and be treated accordingly. My people will make no aggressive moves. Is this acceptable to you?”

Wedge sat back to await the reply. He was not kept waiting long.

**It is acceptable under our current Rules Of Engagement. Be advised that armed Marines will be-escorting you for the protection of my crew and the President.**

Wedge nodded, aware of the necessity, “Understood Commander, I look forward to meeting you in person.”

**Likewise, General, likewise.**

He heard someone clearing their throat, and glanced behind him. It was Tycho, clad in the loathed white v-neck jacket and black bodystocking of the New Republic Dress Uniform. The left hem of the jacket was red, holding his rank insignia, and displaying numerous awards and battle tabs, just like the one in his luggage. Wedge made a go-ahead gesture to Tycho who then slipped into the co-pilot’s seat and took up the controls.

By the numbers, thought Wedge.

“Switching over, do you have the stick?”

“I have the stick. Taking us in, blue checkers.” Tycho’s lips quirked into a smile, “Best dress to impress, Boss.”

“And Wes said you couldn’t rhyme.” Wedge groaned, “See you in five.” He unsnapped form the seat, stretched, and headed into the main cabin to the refresher alcove, passed Winter on her way to the cockpit. As he saw Iella and going through the luggage, his heart skipped a beat- In the short time since the plan was decided, she had done her hair onto an elegant but serviceable bun, with a few strands left free to frame her face. If possible, she looked more beautiful than ever, and nothing like a trained Intelligence operative. As he moved toward her, Iella gave Wedge a wink, and tossed a small duffel at him. Unlike the pillow earlier in the day, and what felt like years ago-

He caught it, opened it, and confirmed the contents: Dress Uniform, datapad, comlink, belt and holster with a ‘Solo Special’ DL-44 and power packs, Wedge then sealed and slung it over his shoulder, looking again at his wife.

“You look great-are you all set?” he asked.

She tossed him a mocking salute. “Yes sir, General Antilles, Sir!”

Wedge grabbed her around the shoulders and pulled her closer.

“Hey, no salutes until they need to know what you do for a living.” She raised an eyebrow, and he continued, “Besides, you’re not in my chain of command anyway. Got the blaster? I didn’t see it.”

Iella took a quick glance around the cabin area, and made sure they were alone. Her brown eyes took on a seductive gaze, and her voice dropped an octave.

“Wanna?” She asked, reaching for the hem of her dress.

“Force yes,” he replied enthusiastically-until he took a glance at his chrono. “But later,” he said, as they kissed passionately, “Later.”

He entered the ‘fresher, and four minutes, several splashes of cold water, and a change of clothes later, emerged into the cabin in time for landing, and a spectacle.

With Tycho and Winter in the cockpit landing the ship, the occupants of the cabin were limited to Wedge, an uncomfortable-looking Hobbie in his Dress Uniform slouched against the bulkhead, and Iella, looking lovely in a simple blue dress with flared sleeves, while currently attempting to attack the third occupant of the cabin- Major Wes Janson standing at an absurdly preening position of attention while trying to fend off Iella, wearing his Dress Uniform-with a few additions.

As Wedge stepped closer, he took it all in. white naval officer’s hat with a gleaming black brim? Check. Holo-Vid star eyeshades? Check. Absurdly tiny and pointed mustachios obtained from one of Face’s little disguise kits? Check. Hand-tooled blaster belt with massive, Shreen-Pearl handled blaster? Check. All of it, down to the massive, unlit cigarillo clamped firmly between his teeth lent him the air of a self-satisfied prima-donna commander right out of a war-drama holo.

“Hey,” said Wes a dung-eating grin on his face, while somehow managing to keep the cigarillo in his mouth, “One of us has gotta look good.”

As Wedge attempted to suppress his laughter, and Janson stared at him expectantly waiting for him to fail, Iella took the opportunity to rip off his offending facial adornments and ‘shades in one fell swoop. As Wes yelped in pain, and backed up, Wedge lost his control, and Hobbie stole the hat, beginning a spirited game of “Keep Away.”

Wedge shook his head. “Nine year-olds,” He commented ruefully, “I’m going on a diplomatic mission with nine year-olds.”

“Yet you still want kids someday,” Iella, a smile on her face, triumphantly brandishing Janson’s shades and mustache, “You must have the patience of a Jedi.”

“Not as much as Luke, actually. Poor guy has to sign autographs everywhere he goes, even on a dinner date.”

“No.” said Iella.

“Yes,” replied Wes, looking morose and rubbing the raw skin where the mustache had been, “It got so bad he had to get Face to disguise him if we wanted to hit a Cantina or tapcaf together. What with all the senators wanting a piece of him, the poor soul only has us to keep him honest.”

During the performance, the shuttle set down to a smooth landing, Wes abandoned his battle with the cigarillo, placing it in his pocket, and Iella raised an eyebrow.

“By ‘Keeping him honest,’ you of course mean insulting and pranking him mercilessly?”

Wes grinned, “Something like that.”

They heard the gentle ‘thud’ of a universal coupling settled over their airlock.

Wedge. “All right, I’ll get Tycho and Winter, you assemble and prepare for introductions.”

He and Iella headed forward to the cockpit, and opened the hatch, just in time to see Tycho and Winter step away from each other and the console they were both leaning into.

Wedge cleared his throat to get their attention,


“Did we miss anything?” Iella asked impishly.

“Nope,” said Tycho, slightly red-faced, “we’re checking the guidance leads. Controls went sticky just before landing.”

“Riiiiiight.” Wedge drawled, as Winter gave him an appraising stare, which on her was more intimidating than your average ‘death glare,’ “Guidance leads. Uh Huh, I’ll remember that one. C’mon, it’s showtime.”

They left the cockpit, moved through the cabin, and stepped into the large airlock, initially designed to debark large numbers of troops. The sensors registered positive atmosphere mix and pressure, so Wedge opened the hatch, coming face to face with another, this one sealed with a manual valve, only accessible from the opposite side, and was consequently equipped with an intercom set into the door. Wedge hit what he hoped was the Transmit button.

“This is General Antilles and party. Do we have permission to come aboard?”

The Commander’s voice came through the intercom,

**Adama here-permission granted.**

Various clanking resounded through the hatch, and as it finally swung wide, Wedge caught sight of several human soldiers with unfamiliar weapons clad in black uniforms and helmets. One was holding the hatch open, while seven others were keeping guard on the hallway’s other occupants.
No one spoke for a few seconds as the two groups evaluated each other. Wedge took the time to examine the people before him

The first of these occupants was an attractive young woman with short blond hair, wearing a tank top drenched in sweat, a chain around her neck with what were probably ID markers, and some sort of flight suit tied off around her waist. Her face, which looked shaped for a devilish grin, was surprisingly somber. This was probably the Lieutenant Thrace he spoken with over the comm.

He glanced at three other men, clad in gray uniforms with a leather sash over the shoulder, obviously their version of a Dress Uniform. It didn’t look much more comfortable than theirs.

One was tall, and with his height, suspicious glower, and fringe of white hair, bore more than a passing resemblance to Booster Terrik-the only thing missing was the fact that this man had two eyes to Booster’s one.
The other two had some sort of family resemblance. The younger man was taller than his-his Father? Wedge guessed, and had a determined look in his blue eyes, yet his face was smooth and unlined, lending him the earnest look of a young man determined to make his mark on the universe.
The earnesty and determination of the younger man were nothing compared to the elder.
Steel-haired and stocky, his craggy features spoke of decades of experience and leadership-the man exuded a quiet strength and competence that Wedge could not hope to imitate.

This, concluded Wedge after a second’s observation, was Adama. He stepped forward and saluted.
“Commander Adama.”

“General Antilles.”-A statement, not a question-The older man took a similar pace forward, returned the salute and, as Wedge dropped his own, looked him in the eyes, seeming to measure him in an instant, with the look one warrior, one commander gave another.

Adama walked up to Wedge, and shook his hand.

“Welcome to Galactica, General.” The soldiers seemed to relax a bit, and Adama released his hand, stepping closer, speaking more quietly.

“Forgive me,” He rasped. “Kara said you would be young, but I didn’t know how young. Doesn’t matter though-you’ve obviously seen your share of action.”

Wedge gave a wry grin. “You as well, Commander, unless I miss my guess. But we can share war stories later. Let’s make the introductions, you and I, and find somewhere to sit and compare notes.”

Adama nodded. “My thoughts exactly.”


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

Edited to put in Winter's left out line.

[DrMckay]

I'm still liking your Rogues and have they nicked the Wraith's shuttle for their jaunt? I thought the name was strange for a shuttle attached to a pleasure cruiser.

Though to nitpick: I'm pretty sure Alston says that Luke and Face first meet in the NJO. And I'm not sure their first though would run to X-Wing. Maybe to Z95 Headhunter since they only have one wing, but vipers are quite a bit smaller than either.

And I worked it out Wedge should be mid thirties. he was twenty-nine in Wraith Squadron iirc and Adumar is about five and half years later. Which I suppose is a bit young for Generalship. Although I'm not sure BSG has that rank; They get Commander instead after Colonel.

The Phanan's Intellect is an Alliance military shuttle, attached to Rogue Squadron, (As the Wraiths are now part of NRI) Named, as with the Narra, in honor of a pilot lost in combat. Actually, in the NJO book Rebel Stand, Face claims he has met Luke before, but that he was in disguise. I for one find it hard to believe that Luke wouldn't spend at least some time with his friends from the service. They are the few people he can still be himself with, and not a Jedi master Paladin hero or somesuch.

In addition to to eventually exploring Luke from a human angle, as the former soldier who still goes out for lum with his buddies, I also want to touch on his interactions with "regular people."

One of the reasons Starfighters of Adumar is my favorite EU book is that, in addition to the humor, wonderful characters, and setting, it features as its main characters Normal people, not force sensitives or Ranking government officials.

Also, the Wedge-Iella romance was a long time in development, and was addressed fairly realistically, as compared to other relationships in the EU (This is one of Allston's strengths.)

I enjoy reading stories about regular, non-force sensitive people who make a difference, and in my opinion, those are precisely what the prequels lacked.


As for the Viper/X-wing comparison, John Dystraka, a former employee of ILM also designed the Vipers and was subsequently sued by Lucas.

How could I not throw in that little tidbit? And it gave Hobbie the opportunity to use a line similar to the one from Band of Brothers.

Also, when one thinks about star wars, X-Wings come to mind. Not E-wings, and not Z-95's. This is how it is.

Age: Yes, Wedge is young for a general. Certainly younger than Admiral "Kill more of my own people than the enemy" Cain. Here's the difference. He got up there on his own merits and ability, and against his will, she played the career game.

(Ah well, she's still smarter than Dalaa-which ain't saying much.)

and yes. Wedge and Cain will meet at some point.

[Crazedwraith]

The Phanan's Intellect is an Alliance military shuttle, attached to Rogue Squadron, (As the Wraiths are now part of NRI) Named, as with the Narra, in honor of a pilot lost in combat. Actually, in the NJO book Rebel Stand, Face claims he has met Luke before, but that he was in disguise.

Face was actually lying about that, there's a section missing from the book that is available on Aaron Allston's website.

I for one find it hard to believe that Luke wouldn't spend at least some time with his friends from the service. They are the few people he can still be himself with, and not a Jedi master Paladin hero or somesuch.

Sure, but Face isn't one of those friends. He's never met or served with Face.

edit: *rereads* Is it Wedge who uses makes up to go out clubbing or Luke? I may have misread that there.

[DrMckay]

Authors Note: I have no beta and am in a busy section in the school year. Please pardon any lapses in grammar, spelling or flow.

Thanks again to Mr. Bean for some references and suggestions.




Chapter 4: Getting to Know You




"Your ability to talk people into wanting to kill you borders on some kind of Jedi thing, you know that?"


- Derek Klivian on Wes Janson
Star Wars Sourcebook




BATTLESTAR GALACTICA
PORT LANDING BAY
AIRLOCK 2


After confirming that the area was secure, Commander Adama nodded to a soldier in black, who spoke into an intercom in a low voice and opened the room’s other hatch.
Four people stepped through, three men and a woman. The two who entered first were clearly trained bodyguards stuffed into identical black suits, the third was an awkward young man with messy brown hair, definitely too young to be a president, and probably an aide.
That left the woman.

Wedge was honestly surprised as the President entered the room. The most powerful person in the fleet looked like a schoolteacher.

She doesn’t have any of the confidence of Leia, or even the unerring calm of Mon Mothma. I wonder how she governs effectively?


He was not kept waiting long, as the Commander quickly made the introductions, using, to his chagrin, formal diplomatic phrasing.

“Madam President, I present General Wedge Antilles, of the New Republic Starfighter Command, and his party. General Antilles, President of the Colonies Laura Roslin.”

Wedge, Iella and their friends inclined their heads and gave a brief bow, a New Republic gesture of respect towards a state official

“General.” The President extended a delicate hand.

“Madam President.”

Wedge shoved away the similarity to Ysanne Isard’s preferred form of address and shook hands, looking her in the eye to gain a better measure of the woman.
While she lacked the poise and ease of many career politicians, a “good thing” to Wedge’s mind, her warm brown eyes showed a hint of buried tragedy and enough pure determination to burn through the Durasteel plating on a Star Destroyer.

She’s another Bel Iblis- the eyes tell it all. This is definitely a leader who can make the tough calls to keep her people safe.


Now it was up to him to introduce his people.


And hopefully manage to avoid another interstellar incident when we present Janson.

¬**********************************

BATTLESTAR GALACTICA
PORT LANDING BAY
AIRLOCK 2



Bill Adama considered his guests evenly as the young General smiled at both of them. “As the guests on your ship, I think we should go first.”

He nodded, and watched as Antilles motioned the rest of his people forward. That he had stepped first into an unknown situation, so his people wouldn’t be at risk gave Bill an indication as to what kind of man he was.
The look in his eyes as they had shaken hands was another. Unlike some of the careerists in Fleet- before the Fleet had been wiped out-this was an experienced military professional, a man who had seen his fair share of the action in even in his early thirties.
He had earned his rank. Though the General’s hair had not yet begun to gray, experience was evident in the small, premature lines on his face, the weariness in his eyes, and in every breath he took.

Adama knew that look. He knew it because he’d seen it in the mirror every day since the attacks. It was a look of a man who wanted so desperately to pack it in, but a feeling of duty, coupled with his own demons would drive him forward unflinchingly. Then Antilles’ expression softened as he gestured towards a beautiful woman in a flattering blue dress, who came up beside him and took his hand.

“My wife Iella.” he said simply.

Bill heard Saul’s sharp intake of breath, and knew the reason. She had dark blond hair and a similar name.
The similarities to the Colonel’s estranged wife ended there. Where Ellen Tigh had been a fading beauty far younger than Saul with an angular face and cold, calculating eyes, Antilles’ wife Iella had a more rounded face and was of an age with him. Her gaze was guarded but warm, leading Bill to suspect she was not at ease in a room with so many armed people that they had never met. As they shook hands, he felt a strong grip with light calluses.

This suggested…something he couldn’t quite put his finger on yet…

“My Second-in-Command, Colonel Tycho Celchu…

“Commander. Madam President.” A lean man with aristocratic features and blond hair just starting to gray stepped forward and gave a perfect salute. He would have appeared arrogant but for the distant pain in his eyes, and a posture that showed hard-won humility.

A woman with long white hair and a regal bearing stepped forward and joined him, performing an elaborate curtsey.

She spoke in pleasing resonant tones, “Winter, Diplomatic Aide to Chief of State Organa Solo. I’ll be your Civilian Liason.”

She and Col. Celchu were clearly an item and had been for some time now if Adama was any judge of body language.
He was. He had to be to order thousands of men and women into battle on a daily basis.

Adama also observed that neither of the women was visibly armed, and wondered if Republic society was more stratified than that of the Colonies, which might preclude women from serving in the Armed Forces, or that some women served while the two he had met did not.

Bill Adama knew there was more to them than met the eye and was pondering that when the next member of Antilles’ party stepped forward.

“Major Derek Klivian.” Announced the General as a dark-haired man with pale skin, a mournful expression, and a small bandage on his forehead stepped forward and saluted, opening his mouth to speak- until Antilles cut in again…

“Everyone calls him Hobbie. It’s a long story.”

As Klivian closed his mouth, Adama saw his face shift into an expression of uneasy relief-Evidently he was a man of few words.
“Last, and certainly least,” said the General, with a wry smile and a familiar tone of resignation in his voice,

“I present Major Wes Janson.”

The fourth man stepped forward and saluted, the positively evil grin twisting his youthful features informing Adama why Antilles had sounded so resigned. He had used that tone of voice introducing Kara at a variety of Court-Martials and Disciplinary Hearings too numerous to mention.

“Oh Gods, no.” mumbled Tigh from behind him, “Not another one. One lunatic on this ship is enough.”

Somehow Janson’s positively evil grin got even more evil, and Adama saw Antilles’ features start to shift to something resembling Klivian’s default expression.

“Lunatic?” said Janson, “I resemble that remark! Hey, did you know we once built a ship called the Lunatic in a couple of hours? We even captured a Corvette with...”

“Major Janson!” barked the General Antilles, a nervous grin tugging at his face. Clearly, he hoped his man’s actions hadn’t damaged the promising introduction.

“ATTEN-Shun!”

He needn’t have worried. As the irrepressible officer snapped to attention, Bill took a quick glance around the room, he saw Iella and Winter glaring, that Kara was smiling for the first time in days, and Lee was coughing into his hand in an effort to hide his laughter.

He could have sworn he saw some of the Marines’ mouths twitch, and maybe a miniscule smile from Saul, but the unladylike snort from beside him let him see President Laura Roslin lose her composure and start chuckling.

They hadn’t had much to laugh about lately.

Bill needed a couple of seconds himself, and he made sure to wink at Antilles as he introduced his own crew.

“My Executive Officer, Colonel Saul Tigh.”

The balding X.O. stepped forward, saluted, and shook Antilles’ hand.

“Captain Lee Adama, Commander of the Air Group.” Lee saluted, and he shook hands with the General, who gave a noncommittal ‘huh’ when he heard his last name.

“Is it customary for children and parents to serve in the same chain of command?” asked Antilles, a faint note of disapproval in his voice.

“No sir.” Lee answered, “My –ah- posting occurred under special circumstances.”

“The rest of our fleet,” Bill said heavily, deciding to come clean about their martial capabilities-or lack thereof- “Was destroyed in a surprise attack by the Cylons. Captain Adama had been temporarily posted to Galactica to participate in her decommissioning ceremony.”

“Decommissioning Ceremony?” Antilles looked confused.

“Yes. On the eve of the Attacks, the Galactica was scheduled to be decommissioned and turned into a museum.”

“I see,” Said the General, “I assume your civilians are under occupation, and your ships were the only ones to escape?”

“You assume incorrectly, General.” Roslin said in a soft, pained voice,
“They refused to accept the unconditional surrender of our government and used nuclear weapons on our worlds from orbit. We had twelve planets, numerous orbital stations, and over twenty billion people. Now we-”

She paused, a catch in her voice, and Bill noticed the expressions on the faces of the humans from the Republic. They could have been set in stone, and Colonel Celchu in particular looked like he was recalling a past catastrophe of his own.

Adama would bet his last cubit that they had seen atrocity of this sort before. Probably on a larger scale, given the size of their civilization, the sheer magnitude of which promised to be mind-bending.

“Now,” the President continued, “We have less than fifty thousand, and we are running for our lives. You have met us at desperate time, General.”
As if she had tempted fate, an alarm began to blare throughout the ship, and the phone on the wall rang. Adama grabbed it.

“Airlock two, Galactica Actual speaking. Give me a sitrep.”

**Sir,** said Dualla, **Another forty Raiders just jumped in, as well as five larger craft. Size and thrust profiles are similar to Raptors. They are twelve minutes out.**

“Very well. Set condition one throughout the ship and order the Fleet to jump to the standby coordinates. Instruct the Gun Captains to open fire at maximum range. Try and break up their formation and give us more time to jump. I’ll be in the CIC directly.”

He turned to the newcomers. “Lieutenant Thrace-” Kara saluted, “please accompany these people to Briefing Room Three. We’ll get this sorted out on the other side. Please excuse me General, Madam President-”

Adama acknowledged each with a brief nod, rasped-

“I’ve got a battle to fight.”

Then spun on his heel and strode off, Saul following him closely.

As he exited the room, picking up the pace for the trip to the CIC, Bill was able to hear Kara directing the newcomers somewhere safe, and out of the way using uncharacteristic politeness.
“General Antilles, ladies, gentlemen, this way please.”

******

[JME2]

Authors Note: I have no beta and am in a busy section in the school year.

Hey, it's no problem. I know the feeling; similar circumstances are preventing any updates to Fearful Symmetry until June.

“Oh Gods, no.” mumbled Tigh from behind him, “Not another one. One lunatic on this ship is enough.”

Great meeting of the casts; your characterizations remain spot on as usual.

[DrMckay]

Author’s Note: Well, here it is, sorry about the wait; I haven’t had much time to write lately, but am getting back into it, as I love these stories. Do please let me know if I slipped up anywhere-I am posting without a beta.


******
Chapter Five: The Cost of Wearing the Uniform

“The cost of wearing the uniform can be high, but --

Sometimes it's too high.

You know, when we fought the Cylons, we did it to save ourselves from extinction. But we never answered the question, why? Why are we as a people worth saving? We still commit murder because of greed, spite, and jealousy. And we still visit all of our sins upon our children. We refuse to accept the responsibility for anything that we've done.”

-Commander William Adama, Battlestar Galactica Miniseries



BATTLESTAR GALACTICA
PORT HANGAR
THIRTY MINUTES PRIOR

As soon as Kara had landed her plane, and gotten out of the cockpit, he could tell she hadn’t wanted to come back. It was written all over her face, even as the knuckledraggers and pilots cheered the Indomitable Starbuck for coming back alive against impossible odds again.

She hadn’t wanted to come back because he now knew she failed him before they had even met.

She had almost married his son.

She had gotten Zak killed, and hadn’t had the decency to tell him about it.

She had finally told him, tearfully, and he had told her to leave the cabin while she still could.

She had almost died trying to save the nuggets.

She was family, and she was forgiven.

So, as she made her unsteady way down the stairs that had been wheeled up to her Viper’s cockpit…
William Adama, the Old Man, Commander of “The Bucket” had hugged her, told her they’d talk later, and to get her ass to the second Port Landing Bay Airlock now, because she had somehow struck up a rapport with these people.

Kara gave a tentative smile and followed.

She met Lee on the way, and he gave her a pained smile. Neither of them said anything, or needed to. They knew each other too well.

Over the wireless, Antilles and his bunch sounded like happy-go-lucky flyboys, and Kara had managed to engage them with “Starbuck,” the persona of a crazy yet professional ace pilot she wore perpetually in the cockpit, but infrequently on the ground. It wasn’t her. It was who she had to be, but she was slipping-and beginning to resent anyone who could keep it together under such circumstances.

Antilles had talked a good game, and knew a few maneuvers, but he was probably some ladder-climbing careerist with friends in high places like so many in Fleet had been before the Attacks. Kara doubted he had seen much combat.

She was in error. That became evident the instant the crew of the Phanan’s Intellect stepped into the meeting room, and any preconceptions about the General’s combat experience or lack thereof vanished as soon as she saw him take the first step forward to greet Adama.

As a woman who had been on constant alert for weeks, Kara Thrace knew tired when she saw it, and Antilles looked wary, but tired. The body was active and alert, but his sad brown eyes and the lines around them gave it away. They were all like that-even his wife assessed the room for possible threats just like Kara’s mother had made her do every time she entered an unfamiliar place.

Kara felt a bit better about the newcomers-especially after Janson’s introduction- if for no other reason that Col. Tigh would have yet another headache to deal with. Perhaps they could join forces…

…Then the alarm had sounded-The enemy had been sighted. The Old Man gave her instructions to get Antilles and company to a briefing room as there was no way she was getting to a Viper before they jumped.

After being proven wrong once without talking to the new arrivals face-to-face, Kara Thrace made a decision: She would hold her temper, her pithy comments, and her contempt, while keeping “Starbuck’s” viciousness confined to her cockpit. These people didn’t deserve her anger. They were tired like her, and had given her a chance at redemption. She would not fail a second time.

“General Antilles, ladies, gentlemen, this way please.”

Her ego and her anger temporarily in check, Lieutenant Kara Thrace led the group down the corridor.

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

As Wedge moved down the hallway following Starbuck, he noticed the hum of Galactica’s engines change, rising to a higher pitch which would move the great ship into position to protect the fleet. He heard the sound of boots tromping to the time of the alert klaxon wailing through the halls, signaling the crew’s rush to duty stations. It was the music of combat, a prelude to war, and a tune he had heard thousands of times before, over his years of service. As his pulse picked up in response, Wedge realized he had never quite grown accustomed to it, and he was glad of it.

The song always meant that people were about to start dying.

He felt oddly at home-observing his companions Wedge began to realize that he was not alone. They were all looking around, Iella and Winter scanning the room for possible threats while his pilots looked around, searching for the correct corridor to a nonexistent hangar bay which held their nonexistent X-wings.

Then the higher pitch was overlaid by a rolling rumble, punctuated in turn with larger vibrations for what felt like hours, but was more probably minutes. A young woman’s voice came through the halls announcing that the fleet had made it to safety, the fighters were recovered, and that they were jumping in thirty seconds.

As the woman reached twenty, Lt. Thrace turned around with an evil grin,

“If this is your first FTL jump aboard a Battlestar, you may want to sit down and grab a hold of something.”
She stood in the hallway, hands riding her hips just above the tied-off flightsuit.

**Eleven…Ten…** Said the intercom

Wedge nodded a grateful thank you, and sat on one of the packing crates stacked in the passageway, Iella joining him soon after. Winter, Tycho, and Hobbie chose various crates and braced themselves, while Janson casually leaned up against a wall and winked at the Lieutenant.

**Six…Five… **

Thrace raised an eyebrow, “Good luck holding onto your breakfast…or whatever.”

**Two…One. Jump.**

The last word was said without emotion, as if it had become routine to leave an area under enemy fire, running again and again.
Wedge didn’t have much time to muse on that though, as the hall seemed to grow for a minute, walls distorting, and he felt odd, as if something was holding him in a massive fist. Nausea was building inside him, and as he shut his eyes, Wedge was suddenly glad he had Iella’s hand, which acquired a viselike grip as the milliseconds wore on.

Next came an unearthly –snap- and the fist stopped squeezing him. He opened his eyes to see the hall back to normal, the Lieutenant still standing in the hall, and Wes in the corner on his knees and doubled over and trying desperately to keep his last meal from redecorating the hallway.

“Get him on his feet,” Thrace said, “It’ll pass. Riding through a jump gets easier every time.”

Wedge helped Janson up, and Iella patted him on the back. The man’s normally healthy face ahd gone as pale as Hobbie’s

As Wedge moved past him, he clapped him on the shoulder, and murmured some words of comfort. “Whatever you do, Wes, don’t think about nerf and saileek stew, and the way it sits heavy in your stomach after you eat it…”

Wes went greener and offered a “-Mphlt,” but managed to straighten up, his eyes promising Wedge humiliation at a later date.


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


The party made its way to the briefing room, which looked like many rooms that Wedge had plotted and launched strikes from over the years. They sat and were joined shortly by Col. Tigh, President Roslin, and both the Adamas.

Wedge caught a problem immediately as he observed Tigh with a surly expression on his face

“Is something the matter, Colonel Tigh?” he asked politely.

It’s nothing, General.” Muttered the X.O. in a tone a hair from snide,

“I just don’t like the idea of the Old Man’s command decisions being second-guessed by a man barely half his age, who’s
probably been flying a desk. Lee Adama is a fine officer…”

“Saul!” Barked the elder Adama, trying to rein him in, and Wedge took a second to evaluate their relationship. On the surface, they were close friends who went back a ways, similar to him and Tycho, only some years down the line.

If they lived that long.

However, there was something more at work here. Tigh seemed to be defining himself solely as Adama’s number two man, backing him to the hilt, and trying to make him look good but playing the bully to the rest of the crew. He had Booster’s gift of intimidation without any of the man’s patience or guile.

Wedge stood, his eyes hardening into a glare directed at the balding X.O.

“Colonel Tigh, may I speak with you outside?”

“Anything you’ve got to say to me, you can say right here.”

Wedge nodded,

“Very well, Colonel, rather than responding by questioning your combat experience, expertise and professionalism which would evolve into a useless pissing match, I’ll do you one better. I’ll simply question your professionalism, show you my service record-then you can judge me as you see fit, and we can move on.”

Tigh had his feet as well, and tried using his superior height to loom over him, but Wedge was not so easily cowed. He channeled his inner Janson, and rolled his eyes.

“Like it or not, we’ve got to work together, and we need to deal with any preconceptions and unfounded animosity now, before they fester.

I had a legitimate question about the extent of nepotism in the Colonial Fleet. As time goes on, I’ll have more perfectly legitimate questions about your traditions and codes of conduct, which I will be asking out of respect for you and your people. All I ask is that you treat my people with the same respect and forbearance I’ll treat yours- Is that acceptable, Colonel Tigh.”

“Yes.” The older man grumbled, and Wedge raised a speculative eyebrow.

Let’s play nice, children.

“Sir.” He finished.

Wedge nodded, “Thank you Colonel.”

They sat back down, and Wedge pulled a datapad from a compartment on his belt, linking it with a miniaturized holoprojecter.

He sat and cleared his throat,
“Some decades ago, a man named Cos Palpatine overthrew the millennia-old democratic government of the Old Republic, and instituted an Empire. Many people opposed him, and this resulted in a Civil War, It was characterized by oppression, genocide and terror tactics.

Entire species were enslaved or made extinct, cities were bombed into rubble, and they even developed a space station the size of a small moon capable of destroying entire planets, called the Death Star.”

Wedge paused as the eyes of the Colonials expanded to dinner-dish size.

“My friends and I pledged to fight this evil with every breath we took. This is my service record.” He said simply, gesturing to the holoprojector “It should give you an idea of what we’ve been up to.”

He pressed a key, and the datapad began to play Wedge's full service record, in tri-dee;

Wedge Antilles:

Joined the Alliance to Restore the Republic during Standard Year 33 as an independent freight hauler and signed on for Fighter Training later that year following an open call for pilots.
Subsequently flew various missions for Alliance forces.

(See attached declassified files)

Made Ace on his third mission in SY 34, and was cited three times for bravery.
During SY 35, he was assigned to Red Squadron during the strike on the Death Star, scored two confirmed kills in the battle.
Participated in the third trench run with Flight Officer Luke Skywalker and Lt. Biggs Darklighter. Following the destruction of the Death Star, formed Rogue Squadron with Luke Skywalker and flew numerous missions from Yavin IV....


The list droned on and Wedge felt himself flashing back to bases long abandoned and battles long over-Hoth, Endor, Borealis, Coruscant, Thyferra, Selaggis, Ciutric, reminding him of his list.

The one he kept next to his heart and one he added to far too often.

They were squadmates, friends, and subordinates lost along the way. Biggs, Porkins, Lujayne,
Falynn, Grinder, Jesmin, there were so many names. Even the ship he had arrived on, the Phanan's Intellect, was named for a sarcastic cyborg doctor lost in the Zinsj campaign. So many friends, he suppressed an internal sigh and heard the recording end with his current name and rank:

General Wedge Antilles, Commissioned in New Republic Republic Starfighter Command, current Commander of the Republic Super Star Destroyer Lusankya and Leader of Rogue Squadron.
Total length of service in the Rebel Alliance and the New Republic Fleet: fourteen years, six months and twelve galactic standard days.

Wedge cleared his throat, startling some of the people seated at the table.

Captain Adama and Lt. Thrace had been practically salivating over the images of the X-wings, while Tigh was sitting with his mouth opening and closing rapidly, like some sort of aquatic animal expiring on the seashore at high tide.

But the big two, Adama and Roslin just sat there, faces unreadable, and brows furrowed.

“Anyway,” Wedge said,

“That’s basically what we’ve been doing up until now. Believe it or not, this was actually my honeymoon. We had a problem with the hyperdrive while under attack by rogue Imperials or pirates”

He glanced at Iella,
“Um, sorry about that again, love.”

His wife gave him a poke in the shoulder. “It’s not your fault Wedge, besides; I prefer meeting new people to becoming one with the universe any day.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Is it possible that you could tell us about how you came to be out here? I’m sorry, I know it’s painful to recount-”

President Roslin raised a delicate hand “But it is only fair…” she said, in a voice, which though soft, was full of pain,

“Where would you like to begin?”

Iella nodded to Wedge, who asked the question that had been on all of their minds since they had gotten on board.

“Thank you, Madam President. Firstly, I’d like to know more about the Cylons- what exactly are they, and how long have you been in contact with them?”

“Oh, no longer than fifty years,” She said quietly. Then she triggered the proverbial thermal detonator, with a voice growing softer by the moment, “We created them you see, to make life easier on the Colonies…"


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

[RecklessPrudence]

I've got to say that I love this story, you've captured the Rogues perfectly, and Janson is his usual irrepressible self. I also like the sad feeling you've got going as a counterpoint to the humour - with the Colonials most obviously, but the Rogues don't get away without some either, which all too many authors forget about - I mean, Wedge, for one, has been losing friends and pupils (in his trainees) all through his career, to say nothing about Tycho!

I'm glad you've gotten yourself a technical consultant, as that looks to be the one thing you needed to make a ferpect story. More please!

[Crazedwraith]

Good chapter, MacKay. This fic continues to bloom with awesome possibilities. Although I expect the next chapter to be quite solemn dealing with the destruction of the colonies and so forth but I hope the humour will make a return. For example; the Rogue's getting BSG style callsigns could be fun. I mean they'll probably stick with Reds 1 through 4 but that doesn't mean Janson can't come up with alternatives for the gang.

[Kartr_Kana]

Like others have said you've done a great job capturing the Rogues and also a very good job with the Colonials too. I was skeptical of this story at first but you've exceeded my wildest expectations, each chapter has gotten better written and more engaging. I eagerly anticipate the next installment!

[DrMckay]

IT LIIIIIIIIIVES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Constructive criticism absolutely encouraged.

Chapter Six: Resolutions

“Our ancestors created the Cylons to serve us” Said Roslin, as if she was lecturing students. “Historical records of the time are sketchy, but at some point just over forty years ago, they gained true sentience and began to resent their servitude. This led to a bloody and brutal uprising and culminated in a long and horrible war of annihilation.”
Her voice ran down, and Commander Adama had to continue, though he sounded sounding just as tired, as if all of the misery was balanced on his shoulders alone, while Col. Tigh passed around briefing packets with pictures of intimidating droids.

“It was war to the knife, but when the fighting was at its fiercest, the Cylons negotiated an Armistice and left to find a world of their own. Humanity was content to let things stand as they were. The Cylon's went their way to live as they chose and we went ours. We let them go and built a station, a neutral meeting ground in case they ever wanted contact with us again.”

He exhaled, and removed his glasses for a moment,

“Just before this ship was to be decommissioned, the officer from Armistice Station was overdue to report in. We didn’t think anything of it until shortly thereafter, when the Cylon ships began to fire on population centers on throughout the colonies. We lost fleet command at Picon first, then Tauron and Gemenon, along with a quarter of our fleet.”

“What about the rest of your defenses?” asked Wedge. It can’t have been completely one-sided

“What was left of the fleet regrouped around Admiral Nagala’s Atlantia for a counterstrike, Adama said.

“That was when we began getting error messages,” drawled Tigh, “Scads of ‘em- toasters would shut down life support, or engines, and flight control, just as our people engaged them. We lost a squadron of our newest birds, our best pilots…” he snapped his finger, “Like that, like the godsdammed toasters just threw a switch. Only reason Galactica survived is because the Commander refused to allow any computer networks on the ship. And with those bastards from the Admiralty were forcing…”

Forcing what? Wedge mused, Court Martial, Retirement? I’ll have to find out later.

““Thank you, Saul.” Adama cut him off, and continued, “Our armed forces had recently upgraded their computer systems to the Colonial Navigation Program, a piece of computer software designed by a brilliant scientist named Baltar.” Adama said. “We believe the Cylons exploited a backdoor in the program and used it to gain control of all of a ship’s functions.”

“Baltar made it back to the fleet due to one of my pilots giving up his seat during the evacuation of Caprica, and has been working to stop future Cylon incursions…” he turned to Tigh, “Speaking of Baltar, where is he?”

“On his way. Latest from Dee says he was fra-uh with Petty Officer Hall…”

“Well, I suppose there’s no accounting for taste-Thank you Colonel.”

“How’d they infiltrate in the first place?” Janson asked, “You’d think a tall, gleaming droi-er robot with an evil red eye would be easy to detect.”

Wedge almost slammed his head on the table. He settled for “Commander Adama, please excuse Major Janson’s tone-”
Roslin, Tigh, and Adama simply stared at Wes, and the Commander’s gaze made even more intense by the steel-framed spectacles he wore. Janson broke the stare first. Then Adama spoke;

“Major, your question was legitimate, if the tone was poorly considered. In the forty years since we saw the Cylons, they had managed to engineer models that looked like us. People. Flesh, blood, everything. Some of them are probably sleeper agents in the fleet. The only reason you haven’t been held under suspicion is that you people are too strange. We lost a lot of good people in the attacks. Around twenty billion, to be exact.”

As Janson swallowed and examined the tabletop, they heard it all; the sad tale of an entire human culture nearly destroyed once because of their own hubris and lack of foresight, and completely devastated a second time due to poor executive leadership and a misplaced belief that they were no longer in danger of repeating the past.

Wedge heard about the rally at Ragnar, the Galactica’s steadfast stand to protect the evacuation of the civilians as they jumped into uncharted space, of suicide bombings and fears of infiltration, and as he took it all in, his respect for the leadership of President Roslin and Commander Adama grew.

It’s like they’re trying to fight the rebellion using a tenth of the resources we had.

The technical description of the initial attacks held a macabre fascination for the veteran New Republic personnel; the yield of “primitive” weapons such as the nukes used by the Cylons would scarcely pose a threat to the shields of a strike cruiser, yet the renegade machines had managed to kill billions with them.

Palpatine and Isard would be impressed by the Colons’ brutality-I’m impressed by their resourcefulness and the careful planning that went into the attack. But where does that leave the survivors?

As if in answer, Roslin began to speak again, giving him a strange, earnest look; “Our people are searching for a colony settled by a Thirteenth tribe. Earth, the ancestral home of humanity. General, with all of your worlds and peoples, have you ever heard of such a world?”

A lot seemed to hang on the answer, so as Wedge turned to Winter, the intelligence agent with a holographic memory and raised a questioning eyebrow, he hoped the answer would be something they liked.

“You’re the expert on diplomacy, Winter, do you have anything on Earth?”

To conceal her talents, The intelligence agent pretended to consult her datapad, and after a tense minute, announced;

“As I am sure you are all aware, the most widely used definition in Basic, the predominant galactic language, for Earth is dirt, or more specifically, arable land, used to grow crops. I assume it means something similar in the Colonies as well?”
The New Republic personnel and the Colonials all nodded, and Wedge motioned for her to continue, but before she could, there was a knock at the door.

“Doctor Baltar to see you sir,” said the muffled voice of the sentry.

“Send him in,” said Roslin, and the hatch opened to reveal a short, slight man in what appeared to be a state of perpetual disarray.

Given all of the scientists he had dealt with in his years in the military, Wedge was not shocked by the unprofessional appearance of the man, who appeared; unshaven with his hair mussed, tunic rumpled, and jacket collar twisted. Given the nature of what Wedge assumed he had been called away from, it was a minor miracle that his trousers were sealed.

As he was nervously introduced around the room, the only things that stood out about Gaius Baltar was the gleam of -something- in his eyes as he examined the datapad and holoprojector, which was then paused on a flickering image of X-wings, and his relatively young age.

He was about Wedge’s age. The only young scientist he had seen in such a role of responsibility had been…Qwi…though it appeared that Baltar hadn’t designed any superweapons in his spare time, and in fact appeared to feel walk under a specter of immense guilt, probably because of the way his navigation program had been corrupted.


“I’m sorry,” the scientist sputtered after the introductions had been completed, “It’s all a bit much for me to take in at once, people from a galaxy-spanning civilization, alien species and all that-I’ll try to wrap my head around it though- Please continue, Lady Winter.”

Winter continued, as smoothly as if she had never been interrupted in the first place.

“This commonality of language suggests a similar point of origin. As does the fact that you speak a recognizable dialect of Basic. However, as to the ‘human homeworld’ you mention, all of our historical sources point to our capital world of Coruscant several hundred millennia ago.”

Roslin looked crushed, but the white-haired woman pressed on. “It gets more interesting Madam President. The etymology of the word “Earth” is ancient in origin, and can be found in surviving sources dating as far back as the Alderaan expeditions, and even Old Corellia during the age of Colonization.”
The silver-haired woman looked at Roslin and Adama.

“It is quite possible that your colonies originated from one of the early near-relativistic exploration efforts from one of the Ages of Exploration.”

She turned to Wedge,

“General, many of the destinations of the sleeper ships initially dispatched from Coruscant have been lost to history. Commonality in starship design philosophy, language, and appearance suggest that the Colonials are offshoots of our own culture.”

Most of the Colonials went pale, but for Doctor Baltar, whose eyebrows shot up in surprise as he considered the new information
“Genetic testing could prove it if we can find commonalities,” suggested Baltar, “But the facilities on Galactica are-no offence, Commander, the facilities are ill suited for that sort of experimentation, especially with that…”

He considered the Republic personnel for a moment and proceeded to be very vague indeed,

“That other project you had me working on.”

Adama looked slightly amused at the scientist’s attempt at obfuscation, but acknowledged the Doctor’s complaint “We’ll get you what we can.” Turning to the President, “It would be good to know, Madam President.”

She nodded, “I agree. I wonder if you could spare Doctor Cottle for a few hours…”

He considered for a moment.

“He’s still busy with the injured from the Hangar Deck explosion. We’ll discuss this later Doctor.” He turned to Wedge, “Are you and your people all right with this?”

“We don’t mind some basic medical tests,” Wedge said. “As long as they are relatively non-invasive.”

“You shouldn’t have to worry about much beyond a few milliliters of blood.” Said Baltar

“Excuse me,” Roslin said, “I’m sure that medical tests are important, as answers about our heritage are at stake, but it looks like that will take some time. Now we’re all tired, but there is some essential business we need to take care of before we can go any further.”

She turned to Wedge, “General Antilles, is your ship in any state to fly or get a message back to your government?”

“Not to my knowledge, Madam President.” He said “we had to nurse it all the way down to the landing pad. Tycho and Gate agree that the hyperdrive is out, and irreparable. So are long-range comms, and our sublight engines aren’t looking good either.”

“Please, General, call me Laura. That leaves you stranded here, correct?”

“Yes Madam President.”

“Where is here, according to your maps?” asked Commander Adama.

Wedge let Tycho field that one; “Difficulty with a stellar navigation fix puts us somewhere deep inside the Unknown Regions-which are largely unmapped-with the closest Republic world being Adumar.”
“How close?” Roslin asked.
“Not close.” Tycho said. “I’d be able to get a better fix if you let Gate get a look at the stars from somewhere open, an airlock perhaps.”

Colonel Tigh bristled, “That frakking toaster can-”

A look from Adama silenced him in mid-sentence and gave the Commander room to speak,

“That robot can stay aboard your shuttle and powered down- like you assured me it is-until I can be persuaded that he is not a danger to this ship and my crew.”

His gaze turned toward Tycho “Is that understood, Colonel Celchu?”

“Perfectly, sir.” Said Tycho in a tone that gave no hint of emotion.

Sithspit, the man’s got presence, he stopped Tigh in his tracks with a look, and Tych is falling back on his Prefsbelt IV training. Even Hobbie’s reacting to it. The man evokes professionalism-a useful trait to have.

Then, the President stood and proved that Commander Adama wasn’t the only Colonial with a commanding presence,

“Enough. We’re all tired and we need to get this situation resolved. Let’s cut through this.” She turned to Wedge, “General, I’m assuming the shuttle is not equipped for you and your people to sleep in?”

“That is correct.”

She shared a look with Adama and turned back to Wedge and his friends.

“General Antilles, under my authority as the duly appointed President of the Twelve Colonies, I would like to request asylum in Republic space and protection from the Cylons when we get there. In exchange we will provide you with accommodations and protection from the Cylons who are currently pursuing us.”

“All of us.” Roslin said, looking at him pointedly.

“We can do that, Wedge said, “The Chief of State is an old friend of mine. I imagine the two of you would get along rather well.”

“Madam President,” said Adama, “I’m fine with giving up some quarters for our guests-gods know we’re under-officered as it is, so accommodations won’t be a problem. To that end, General,” continued Adama, “Since you’re stuck here, I’d like extend an invitation to you and your people to join the Galactica’s crew as fellow soldiers and help us protect the civilians in the fleet-”

“Commander Adama!” Roslin interrupted, “I strongly object to you inviting our new guests-the only people who can vouch for us with their government, to place themselves into danger.”

For the first time, Adama looked exhausted.

“Madam President, General Antilles, I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate. But I just lost thirteen pilots. Even with the nuggets, I barely have enough to maintain the CAP. General Antilles and his friends are pilots, and judging by their previous experiences and the principles they exemplify, I’d suspect that they’d be willing to help. Is that so, General?”

Wedge pulled at his chin, and spoke, despising himself as he did so. This was so much worse than the Adumar fiasco; civilians were in direct danger from the get-go.

“Here’s where it gets tricky Commander, Mada-Er. Laura. We’re supposed to be on leave. That means we are not subject to a chain of command, nor am I in charge of the Lusankya Fleet Group, or a the head diplomatic mission. However…” Wedge trailed off,

Roslin nodded, “Continue.”

“as I said before, since I am a Republic Officer on detached service, I can present your request for asylum within our territory to the Senate when we arrive in Republic space, but I’m not sure how I feel about ordering my people into a new war within hours of our arrival in the battlezone. According to our own rules and regulations I cannot order my people to endanger themselves.”

“Understood, General” Adama said. His face gave nothing away,

He’ll make one hell of a Sabacc player… Wedge thought

“Sleep on it and inform me of your decision in the morning. For now, I’ll have Captain Adama and Lt. Thrace show you to your quarters.”

Wedge felt terribly guilty as he said goodnight and left the meeting room.

If I don’t help these people to the best of my ability, I’ll not sleep tonight. Or any night for a long while. But that’s a fair bargain for making sure Iella and the rest are safe.

As they walked, lost in thought, a flickering light down one of the hallways caught his eye. Being a pilot and a military officer taught him to recognize things out of the ordinary, and open flames on a spaceship were definitely out of the ordinary.

“What is that? Is something on fire?” he asked, and looked about for an extinguisher as he saw both Lt. Thrace and the younger Adama pale.

“No, it’s just the candles from the memorial.” Lee said.

“A memorial for your ship?” Winter asked. “May we see it?”

The Colonial officers nodded and led them down the hallway.

When he saw it, Wedge was dumbfounded.

“It started as a way for our crew to look for their families.” Lee said, “We started getting pictures from other ships a couple of weeks in. After we figured out who was still breathing, people started them putting up as a reminder.”
“I’m guessing you have something similar?” Thrace asked, a hint of challenge in her voice.

“Yes.” He replied, as Iella took his hand. “Yes we do.”

That was all he could say as he gazed at the shrine.

Unlike all those painfully thought-out memorials he had seen on too many worlds, the hallway was not artistically inspired and carefully designed.

It had been built rapidly and haphazardly, looking far less serene and peaceful than the Cemetery of Corellian Exiles on Coruscant where the dead were compressed into diamonds and imbedded in the ceiling in the shape of star constellations, and it lacked the terrible scale of the Alderaanian Graveyard, where chunks of the dead planet had collated into a spiral, but the Memorial Hallway on the Battlestar Galactica was no less powerful for it.

Wedge watched his wife’s brown eyes fill with sorrow as they took in a picture of a family with young children.

“So many.” She muttered.

Wedge was thinking the same thing. The hallway was a gaping wound, terrible with sundered love and unshed tears. It was not just a shrine to the dead; it was a cry for vengeance against the Cylons and their victims.

Squeezing Iella’s hand for reassurance, then releasing it, Wedge took a deep breath,

“Rogues!” The General barked, “Atten-HUT!”

The pilots formed a line, and four pairs of boots slammed together with precision gained from hundreds of prior repetitions.

“Left-FACE!”

They pivoted to face the wall, still at attention, and Wedge let the candles and keepsakes, letters and poems, names and faces burn their way into his brain.

“Hand-SALUTE.” He suited action to words, and took a peripheral glance. The other soldiers- His wife and friends, and the crewmen scattered throughout the hall, Thrace included were all saluting.

“Ready-TO” Hands snapped back to waists.

“At ease.” Their postures relaxed, but the stony look on their faces remained.


Then Janson stepped forward. Surprisingly, he said nothing, and walked up to one of the altars, unhooked the medal for the Kalidor Crescent, that rarely-given award Wedge knew meant the most to him from his dress jacket, and placed it on the altar. Then, his expression unchanged, Wes returned to the group.


Wedge had viewed this shrine to the dead, and he now felt obligated to not only protect the memory of those dead, but most especially to guard the very few people of this shattered society who had survived thus far.

And just like that, he was responsible again. So much for that extended leave.

The group continued down the hallway a few paces and stopped when they were out of sight of the memorial, and off of that hallowed ground.

Wedge motioned for them to gather around him and noticed Thrace watching intently as he considered the situation, trying not to picture the thousands of ways his people, his wife could all be killed or injured when he said what had to be said, and asked them to put their lives on the line for a cause which, up until a few short hours ago, they hadn’t even known existed.

“I can’t ask any of you to do this…” Wedge began to say.

“And you never had to” replied Tycho, continuing,

“I swore an oath to protect the citizens of the Republic. We all did. To me that means we guard any innocents in danger-Too, the fact that they originated on Coruscant means that they can be defined as Republic citizens. Clearly, the request for asylum gives us casus belli to help them.”

“Besides,” said Wes, “Chain of command or no, you’d have a hard time stopping us from getting between murderous droids and defenseless civilians. We’d just have to resign again and destroy these Cylons with a clever combination of devastatingly superior intellect, psychologically scarring insults, and dare I say, our Roguish charm?”

As they groaned, Kara broke in, “Wait, What do you mean resign again?”

Iella smiled, “Wedge resigned because the New Republic refused to liberate a planet that produced a medicine needed desperately by millions from a brutal dictator who engineered a disease and then cornered the market on the medicine to fight it with. She had four powerful battleships. Even though the rest of the squadron resigned as well, we only had one X-wing and a freighter at the start of the campaign.”

“Don’t forget the money Isard used to implicate Tycho as a double agent,” Winter said, with a significant glance to Iella, “That trial was how he became so knowledgeable about Republic Law.”

“Legality is nice, said Hobbie, “Legality means we can log all of our flight hours, and when we get back, present Fleet Command a bill for lots of combat pay.”

Both Thrace and the younger Adama were looking lost again.

“You actually expect to survive this to collect a paycheck?” asked Lee.

“Maybe not,” Hobbie acknowledged, “But if I die, then my hefty insurance policy and the accrued combat pay go to my family and the Raltiiran Orphans’ Fund.”

“I see.” His fatalism did not faze the Captain or Lieutenant Thrace, who was still looking at them quizzically, “Uh. If you don’t mind me asking, who or what is Isard?” she asked.

This time, the Colonials did not miss the series of looks that passed between the pilots and the two women.

“Ysanne Isard,” Wedge said carefully, “Was the head of Imperial Intelligence, and later the Empire itself, as well as being an enthusiastic and sadistic torturer. She is now dead.”

He noticed that while Iella’s face remained impassive, her eyes flashed briefly with a predatory expression. Her first husband, Diric had been one of Isard’s sleeper agents, and she had been forced to shoot him in self defense after he activated.

With the help of Booster and Mirax Terrik, Iella had hunted down Isard and killed her, but the anger and sadness at what had happened remained.

After what Wedge had done to the crew of the Buzzer after they killed his parents, he understood how she felt.

It’s a sad state of affairs when we have that much in common.

“How that happened is a story for another time. As of right now, we just finished discussing the possibility of joining your fleet.”

He glanced around the group, and saw each one nod.

It was enough. Through a decade and a half of war, they had seen enough, lost enough, and they weren’t willing to let anyone else die if they could stop it.

“Captain Adama,” said Wedge, in a tone that brooked no argument; “please inform Commander Adama and President Roslin that we’re in. To the last shot fired from the last surviving fighter, or arrival in Republic space. Hopefully the latter.”
Lieutenant Thrace, if you could show us to our quarters, We’ll discuss exactly how we can do that after we’ve gotten some rack time and can speak coherently.”

“Yessir.”

She saluted, and showed them to a nearly deserted section of the ship where the bulkheads gave way to several hatchways.

“These are the additional officer quarters- they’re probably a bit dusty…” Thrace showed them how to secure the hatchways and left, thanking them before she did so.

There were three cabins. Hobbie and Wes took one, Tycho and Winter the other, while Wedge and Iella retired to the cabin that had been set aside for their use, and sat on the lumpy, musty-smelling pallet.

At this point no words were needed Wedge and Iella held each other for the first time in what felt like days. Then they lay down, and more exhausted than he had been in some time, Wedge Antilles was able to drift off to sleep with a clear conscience.



Author’s Note: Sorry it’s been so long, real life intervened, and this chapter was tough to write. More to come soon.

[RecklessPrudence]

Apologies, I'm not a very "critical" reader at the best of times, and I was distracted in half-watching something with a friend - I only know if I like something or not, and, at best, can babble incoherently about how good it was, but I enjoyed that a lot.

It may have had something to do with the music that was playing in the background from the DVD, but that was quite moving, and I liked the characterisations. The reasoning for how the Twelve Colonies are related to the GFFA was believable and fit in to the story well, and I liked the mentions of some of the Rogues' earlier adventures.

Also, I'd really like to see the Rogues' reactions to a fighter with no inertial dampening and limited ammo - not in the abstract, but when they get in the Vipers for the first time, or in that gyro-thingie where you have to shoot the target after pulling, what, 6 G's? Who is the crack pistol shot again, Janson or Hobbie?

Do they have their sidearms with them? I'd imagine that those would blow straight through Centurion's armour, even the uparmoured ones, although I guess, with the inferior materials tech, they'd also be a horrible depressurisation risk if used aboard Galactica...

[Crazedwraith]

Janson's the crack pistol shot. Which is why he was a Wraith. Hobbie is renowned for crashing a lot.

This was a pretty good chapter, but more of the same. The Colonials and Rogues talking a bit and the colonials being over awed with the Rogue's leet stories.

[DrMckay]

oh the Rogues in fighters bit is definitely coming up, and rest assured I've thought a lot about things like damping and ammo constraints, and yes, they do have their sidearms with them, as well as a few Wraith-assembled "Goody bags"

[Kartr_Kana]

I liked the chapter especially the Rogues you have their characters spot on IMO. One thing though all commands have a prepatory phrase and an exection. For example at the memorial it should have been atten-HUT then left-FACE, hand-SALUTE, ready-TO, at ease.

Personnally I'm less interested in the space combat and more interested in how the Colonials deal with the droids and if the Rogues use them clandestinly to help maybe even subverte Cylon programming. Also how are you going to deal with the final five? And once the fleet gets to NR space how are they going to deal with a society that's used droids for millenia?

[DrMckay]

I liked the chapter especially the Rogues you have their characters spot on IMO. One thing though all commands have a prepatory phrase and an exection. For example at the memorial it should have been atten-HUT then left-FACE, hand-SALUTE, ready-TO, at ease.

aaand fixed. Thanks Katr.

“Rogues!” The General barked, “Atten-HUT!”

The pilots formed a line, and four pairs of boots slammed together with precision gained from hundreds of prior repetitions.

“Left-FACE!”

They pivoted to face the wall, still at attention, and Wedge let the candles and keepsakes, letters and poems, names and faces burn their way into his brain.

“Hand-SALUTE.” He suited action to words, and took a peripheral glance. The other soldiers- His wife and friends, and the crewmen scattered throughout the hall, Thrace included were all saluting.

“Ready-TO” Hands snapped back to waists.

“At ease.” Their postures relaxed, but the stony look on their faces remained.


Crazedwraith, as to the colonials being prepetually overawed, I direct your attention to Adama's reaction to Wedge's initial refusal, and Kara and Lee being "unfazed by Hobbie's fatalism"

Hoep that helps, and FYI the next chapter involves Vipers. Just sayin'.

[Kartr_Kana]

Glad to help.

Had a thought after I posted earlier. X-wing combat and Viper combat are completely different and that's not just because of no inertial dampners. X-wings have something called the 'etheric rudder' as I recall. It's what causes their flight and dogfighting to look like that of atmospheric craft. Long sweeping turns, barrel rolls, etc, essentially causing 'atmospheric friction'. Vipers on the other hand don't have that and tend to favor end for end flips and orientation changes independent of their course, followed by sudden acceleration along a new heading.

The difference could make the normally elite pilots into sitting ducks, at the very least it's going to take some getting used too.

[Burak Gazan]

Possibly, but I suspect starfighter pilots of the Alliance have a good grasp of pitch/yaw/roll and would adapt very quickly.

Although if Wes was complaining about driving TIE's while a Wraith, he aint seen nothing yet

Excellent stuff, loving this

[Kartr_Kana]

Its not the pitch/yaw/roll part Ii think they'll have trouble with it's the fact that when they haul back on the stick they aren't going to pull through a smooth turn. The nose is going to come up until the accelerate in the direction they're now oriented on and they're still going to be 'sliding' in their origional direction as well as the direction they're now thrusting in. Any momentum they've got built up in one direction will still be there untill they've completely negated it by thrusting with an equal ammount of force in the opposite direction. That's something that simply doesn't happen in an X-wing.

[JME2]

“Legality is nice, said Hobbie, “Legality means we can log all of our flight hours, and when we get back, present Fleet Command a bill for lots of combat pay.”

Your characterization is spot on, as always. Good installment.