The Hunted (nBSG)

[masterarminas]

Their hosts ushered the Colonials out of the frigid conditions and into a nearby cave mouth; an airlock was installed within, Mathias noted. Someone had done some planning. Large enough to accommodate all five of the Colonials and their dozen or so ‘escorts’ and ‘guides’, the Colonial Commander felt warmth as the inner door completed its cycle and opened. He uttered a low whistle in respect for the scale of the work here.

What had once been a natural cave had been shaped and reinforced, stone floor replaced with level deck plating, the walls planed down and smoothed, and air exchangers drawing in the cold air, heating it, and circulating it within. It was the size of a small city.

“Your weapons,” the voice of their escort echoed harshly and Mathias turned to face him—the . . . once-and-perhaps-future terrorists had removed their bulky outer garments, scarves, thick hats, and snow goggles, but each held a weapon of some sort; a weapon leveled at the Colonial officers.

“Hand them over,” Mathias ordered as he held up his hands, unsealed his own parka and removed his pistol carefully. And the satchel containing the photos from the recon flights. The guard took both—along with the parka—and he was roughly searched, followed by Sidewinder, Kaboose, Lieutenant Shiro Gian, and Doctor Sarris. Sarris was unarmed, and of the rest Sidewinder and Kaboose only carried their issue sidearm. Gian carried his sidearm, a second smaller pistol, a even smaller snub-nosed revolver, two fixed-blade knives, an expandable baton, a wicked folding knife, and a set of brass knuckles.

The escorts just stared at the shorter, slender man and then at Mathias who shrugged. “He doesn’t like not having a weapon—I’m sure you can relate.”

“Marine?”

“Frack no,” answered Gian. “Do I look like I have a mental deficiency? I’m the ship’s Supply Officer.”

“Supply Officer? With that arsenal?”

Gian shrugged. “You ever dealt with a bunch of arrogant pilots and deck bosses and engineers that are absolutely convinced they need new equipment just because their theirs got dinged? Believe me, I need every bit of that just to get through the day.”

“Gentlemen,” Mathias said as the silence hung on for several moments. “Time is a finite resource; I would suggest that you take us to your leaders.”

“Payne,” the leader growled and one of them moved forward. “Follow that man,” the man ordered, he and the rest keeping their guns trained on the Colonials.

The cave wound deep within the shoulder of the mountain and with every step Mathias took note of the cramped conditions, the stacks of broken parts, the group of children huddled around a pot of boiling water with a few scraps of meat and moldy vegetables as a woman spooned the thin broth into shallow bowls. But there were plenty of weapons—older weapons, worn, but loving maintained.

Finally, they arrived at another hatch with two guards standing beside it; the guards nodded and they opened the door; Mathias and his officers were herded inside—and the Commander came to an abrupt halt.

“Sam?” he whispered to the woman whose long brown hair was bound behind her head in a braid and looped over one shoulder. She sighed. “I held out hope that there was another Mathias Lorne in the Fleet, Mat,” she said. “Welcome to Charon. All of you.”

“You know this woman, Commander?” asked Doctor Sarris.

“Doctor Neil Sarris, Captain Stefan Greene, Lieutenant Shiro Gian, and Lieutenant Michael Jamussa, meet Major Samantha Caldwell, formerly of the Colonial Fleet.”

“Fleet!” blurted Kaboose. “What in the Hells is a Fleet officer doing working for the SFM?”

“That would be telling, Lieutenant,” another voice rumbled from a dark passage. “Let us just say for the moment that Miss Caldwell is one of many that became disillusioned with the tyranny of President Adar. Anton Laveride, at your service, Commander. What can my little colony do for you?” Said the pale skinned Leonian who walked in and sat down in a comfortable chair behind his desk.

This just gets better and better, Mathias thought. Anton Laveride was well-known in the Colonies—many thought he was highly connected to organized crime. But nothing had ever been proven against him . . . and somehow every witness who had come forward had suffered an accident before appearing to testify.

“You are not part of the Saggitaron Freedom Movement; who is charge here?” Mathias asked.

“I am in charge of this colony, Commander,” said Anton with a smile. “If you mean the leader of the freedom fighters of Saggitaron, then that is this man here,” he said pointing towards the last person in the spacious office . . . besides the guards, of course.

“Jon Namer,” he said simply. “You’ve come a long way, Commander—say your say so I can turn you down and then leave.”

“Your guard has a case containing photographs you might want to take a look at,” Mathias delayed, as he looked pointedly at Sam—but she avoided his eyes.

The guard handed over the case and all three of them—Anton, Jon, and Sam—looked at the photos once after the other. Jon and Sam had the decency to wince, but Anton was unmoved.

“Tragic, Commander. But not our concern. The Cylons will move on eventually; until then we will remain hidden.”

“There are survivors, Mister Laveride; survivors that I intend to rescue.”

Anton did not react, but both Sam and Jon jerked. “Survivors?” Sam asked. “They toasters plastered all twelve Colonies.”

“We have confirmed that there are survivors fighting the Cylons on at least Caprica, Tauron, and Virgon.”

“Lords of Kobol, hear my prayer,” Sam muttered. But Jon just stared at the Commander. “What of Saggitaron?”

Mathias paused. “I will make available to you the raw data of our recon pass over that Colony, Mister Namer. There may be survivors down there—but we detected no signs of their presence if there are.”

“What is the point? You have one Battlestar—a small Battlestar—Commander. And you are half a year late to the party; did it take you this long to muster the courage to try and save some of them after you ran away?”

Sidewinder grabbed the arm of Lieutenant Gian as he started to surge forward—even as the guards lifted their weapons. “Steady, Shiro,” he whispered.

“We only just returned to the Colonies, Mister Laveride. Scorpia was on a long-duration scientific mission; hence the presence of Doctor Sarris onboard—we only returned today.”

“And no doubt prodded the hornet’s nest?” the syndicate leader said sourly. “Well, there will be no help for you here.”

“Let’s not be hasty, Anton,” said Jon. “I want to hear what he wants from us.”

“Don’t be a fool, Namer. Even if you went along with him, you would die—that relic in orbit of yours cannot face off against a Battlestar . . . even if she were at 100%, and she’s not. And you don’t have the room or the supplies for those people. You don’t even have the fuel—since you cannot pay me for what I have stockpiled.”

“Payment,” Mathias said in a flat voice. “We are talking about the survival of humanity and you are concerned with payment.”

“Everything and everyone has a price, Commander. That is how the universe works. To make this work you would need my freighter—but, you are liable to get her destroyed. And she is my means to leave Charon behind if I must. So, I am afraid you have nothing that I desire.”

“Mister Laveride, you seem to think that I cannot just seize that ship—I can. But let’s not get nasty, shall we? As you said, I kicked over the hornet’s nest—the Cylons are scouring the systems around us in search of Scorpia. They will be here soon. Your people don’t have the firepower or the parts to survive for long—I know it and you know it. Scorpia does has enough parts and provisions to make sure that everyone here lives. I need your help to save what is left of the Colonies, and then find a safe place to settle again.”

“Settle? You aren’t planning on going out in a blaze of glory like that idiot Cain?” asked Anton with a slight smile.

“Admiral Cain?” Mathias jerked. “She survived?”

Sam sighed. “She and Pegasus jumped out of the Scorpia Fleet Yards as the attack began, Mat. For a couple of months she raised holy hell among the toasters, but then her raids ended. She’s probably dead and gone.”

“Any others?”

Jon and Sam exchanged a glance and the two nodded. Anton scowled. “I do not like giving up free information, but Galactica survived as well. We heard that on the wireless from some listening posts I have in the Cyrannus system.”

“Galactica? She was being converted into a fracking museum!”

“She was, but she met up with a fleet of civilian ships—rag-tag ships half in repair that were in transit at the time of the attack. Laura Roslin was sworn in as President and called for every survivor to join her. They left the system with the Cylons in hot pursuit,” Sam answered in a weary voice.

“In the name of the Gods, Sam, why didn’t you join them?” Mathias barked.

“I’m not a Fleet officer anymore, Mat. You think Bill Adama and Laura Roslin would just appreciate me showing with an armed ship full of SFM freedom fighters?”

“Terrorists,” mumbled Kaboose before Sidewinder could slam his elbow into the EWO’s side.

“See,” she said, pointing at the junior officer as proof. “Anubis doesn’t have any Vipers, Mat. And she carried ten at full load even if she did. TEN. She’s barely a fifth the size of Galactica, with popguns for weapons—and not a lot of those. Adama would remove me from command, he would try to lock up half of my crew and the other half are on the shoot-on-sight list! No, we hoped to outlast the Cylons but now that you are here, they aren’t going away soon.” And she looked at Jon and shook her head.

“Which means we are going to need more supplies of food, and parts,” he said in a quiet voice.

“Not fuel? I didn’t see any tanks outside—and keeping refined tylium in here is a recipe for disaster.”

“Oh, we’ve got our source of tylium in a safe pl-. . .,” one of the guards chimed in, and Anton slammed his hand down on the desk.

“Frasier, shut that mouth before I remove your tongue!” He glared at the guard and then he nodded. “We have a source of fuel, yes. Plenty of it. For our needs. And if you try to take my ship, I’ll blow her myself.”

“My ship can hold maybe three thousand refugees—at most. That old Orion up there might get five hundred on board. Your Hekla can hold . . .,” but Sam cut him off.

“Seven hundred full load, Mat. We need transport and,” she glanced down at Anton, and then drew in a deep breath and looked back up at the Commander. “If you’ve got spare parts for FTLs, I know where we can find them.”

“Stupid girl. You aren’t taking my fuel,” Anton snarled as he drew a pistol. He stood. “I’ve put up with the two of you long enough—talking about going back there is suicide. And you gits are not taking my ships and my fuel.”

“Mister Laveride,” Mathias said calmly. “I have a Battlestar in orbit with an entire Marine Company—kill us and they will kill you.”

“Oh, not after I tell Jon’s people how you shot their precious leader and his ship captain, Commander. My guards had to kill you to keep you from killing the rest of us—his men will be furious—and we have SAMs, remember.”

“We have nukes, remember,” Mathias snapped right back. “Kill us and every in this cavern dies—including you.”

“I have an escape route. You think I’m stupid? And I have another way off this rock.”

“Yeah, with the good stuff onboard,” Frasier chuckled.

Mathias sighed. “Seems that you thought of everything,” he said. “No wonder you always stayed one step ahead of the law enforcers. Tell me, did you really have all of those people who came forward to testify against you killed?”

“Why not, Commander? Yes, I did. And no one ever found the bodies—I am smarter than you and my plans always have a fall-back.”

Mathias nodded. “Good, I’d hate to sentence the wrong man to a summary execution.”

Anton just looked at the Commander for a moment, and then he barked out a snort of laughter. “Have you lost your mind, Commander? You are no position to do any such thing?”

“Gian, now would be good,” Mathias said with a smile; Anton and the guards switched their attention to the officer . . . leaving Sidewinder free to pull the tab on the one of the rings on his flight suit.

The flash-bang hidden in the connector detonated—but Mathias and his men had closed their eyes in anticipation. The thunder echoed from wall to wall and the dazzling flash of a fast-burning magnesium flare was so bright that Mathias saw the glow even through his eyelids. But he and his men were ready and prepared for that; he dove into the stunned crime lord, even though his ears were ringing—and bleeding. At the same time, Gian and Sidewinder tackled two of the guards, taking their guns and turning them on the blinded, deafened, stunned remnants of Anton’s chosen few, while Kaboose pulled a shocked and terrified Dr. Sarris to the floor. Sam and Jon—with a bare second’s warning had ducked and covered their faces.

Mathias wrestled the sidearm away from the criminal and without his expression changing he placed the barrel against the man’s chest and pulled the trigger twice. Anton Laveride jerked and fountains of blood exploded out; he collapsed lifelessly unto the ground.

The ringing was still overriding all sound when the hatch opened, but Mathias could see the terrorist leader Jon Namer on his feet, waving his hands and shouting at him men—but none of what he said Mathias heard, and the after-images still danced across his vision; still the terrorists reluctantly lowered their weapons and Mathias stood, dropping Anton’s gun in the process.

[MondoMage]

So, Sidewinder is essentially wearing the flashbang? Unless Colonial flashbangs operate far differently than those we here on Earth use, he just blew a rather significant piece of himself off, as well as lighting himself on fire.

Oh, and closing your eyes only partially negates the effects (temporary blindness). The bang would have royally screwed up the equilibrium of everyone in range. Including Mathias.

Might not be too bad, tho - you also called it a magnesium flare... if you weren't expecting it, that would cause the flash blindness and disorientation, but not the tricky bits involved in a banger.


Those nits aside, a rather inventive - if risky - move. Fortune favors the bold, or however that goes. Can't wait to see what the "good stuff" that was hinted at turns out to be.

[masterarminas]

“You know,” Jon Namer loudly, his hearing (everyone’s hearing!) still not quite back to normal from the explosion, “if I don’t wind up having to kill you, Commander, I think I might come to like you.”

Mathias snorted. “Does that mean you are in?”

“I want to see your plan first,” said the terrorist. “Anton was an ass, but if you are just looking for a way to suicide, my boys and girls will stay home.”

“Fair enough. Sam, you folks don’t have any Vipers you said. How many Raptors and Shuttles do you have on-hand?”

Jon nodded and Sam sighed. “I’ve got ten Raptors and one Shuttle on Anubis, Mat. Anton’s ship—the Leonis Pryde—has another shuttle. My Raptors are old—only two are the Mk IVs that the Fleet is using; the rest date back to the Cylon War—but they work.”

“That gives us eighteen Raptors and six Shuttles,” Matt said as he considered. “Around a thirteen hundred in total lift capacity all together, right Sidewinder?”

“Give or take, Commander,” the Raptor squadron commander said as one of the medics of the SMF terror cell dabbed burn cream on the pilot’s chest where the heat of the flare had bled through his flight suit. “But we will be packing people into the shuttles like sardines—at two hundred each, they will have standing room only.”

“Better to live standing than to be dead and buried,” Mathias answered. “Okay. You want the plan, Jon?”

“I need the plan if you want my people, Commander.”

“How much do you know about the Cylons? The first war?”

“Not a lot,” he said.

“No, most people want to forget it—and so did a good portion of the Fleet. But there was always a program researching Cylon weaknesses. Towards the end of the war, when we began rolling them back from their occupation of the various colonies, the Fleet noted that once a certain number of causalities had been sustained by the Cylons, their effectiveness and coordination decreased.”

“Yes, I remember reading about that research back in college when I was given access to the secure stacks,” said Doctor Sarris. “It was an interesting proposal that a sudden massive loss of tremendous numbers of Cylons might send them into a sort of ‘psychic shock’ that might momentarily immobilize them. But nothing ever came of it,” he frowned. “At least nothing that has been published in the past thirty years,” he added.

“The problem was that in order to trigger such a cascade overload of their networks, a tremendous number of Centurions had to be destroyed in a very short time-frame. Far more than the complement aboard a single Basestar. But, Fleet research believed that such a cascade could be triggered.”

Sarris shook his head. “On Cylons from the first War, certainly. They have made improvements, Commander—this research might well not function against current models.”

“True. But it is our best hope of incapacitating them long enough to allow Anubis and Leonis Pryde to jump into orbit and evacuate the survivors, while Scorpia holds the Cylons at bay.”

Jon shook his head. “How do you intend to even trigger this cascade, Commander? You said yourself, it requires more of the toasters be toasted than are carried by any single Basestar.”

Mathias shuffled through the recon images and he withdrew one specific one, laying it on the table. “What do you see?” he asked.

“The city of Delphi—almost completely intact,” Jon said in an exasperated voice.

“Look at the attached sensor data, Mister Namer,” Mathias ordered. Jon shrugged and he did, and then he sat back, stared at the Commander, and leaned over the data with a magnifier once again.

He put down the image and the magnifier and sat back, lighting a cigarette; then he offered the Commander one. Mathias took it and a light before he sat back as well. “You’ve got balls, I’ll grant you that,” Jon said. “Are there enough of them down there?”

“Signal intercepts during the recon passes show a high concentration of Centurions and Raiders in Delphi—perhaps numbering in the millions of the bastards. Maybe they find it ironic to make our former capital their capital. But whatever the reason, they are there, and the survivors aren’t—not from the intercepts we made.”

Mathias looked at each of his officers, at Doctor Sarris, and at Sam and Jon. “Scorpia will jump in and engage their guardships; at the same time, we will open our silos and fire two Hades-IV space-to-surface missiles each loaded with eight independently targeted nuclear warheads—annihilating every last Cylon bastard in and around Delphi simultaneously.”

Everyone—even Jon Namer the hard-bitten terrorist—blinked.

“Commander, you are going to use nuclear weapons on Delphi?” Sidewinder asked in an incredulous voice.

“I am,” Mathias answered. “And if our researchers were correct about the cascade effect, Sam—you and Jon will have the window to get the survivors free and clear.”

“I’m in,” laughed Jon as he shook his head. “Blowing the hell out of Delphi, to save the colonies; Lords of Kobol, I’m in,” he laughed.

Sidewinder shook his head, but it wasn’t in negation, it was just clearing away the shock. “We still might not have enough transport—not for Caprica, Tauron, and Virgon; or the other colonies if there are survivors.”

Sam nodded. “As I said earlier, if you’ve got spares for the FTL, we might have some functional ships—enough to lift two or three or maybe even four thousand people, in addition to what our own can carry.”

“Lieutenant?”

“We’ve got . . . a few FTL spare components, Commander,” said Gian. “Depends on what the ships in question need.”

“And where they are, Sam. How far away they are and how quickly can our engineers get them on-line.”

“Not far, Mat. But you won’t like what you find there; trust me, you won’t like it one fracking bit more than I did. And if you have parts, getting the ships back on-line will take just a couple of hours—at most. They are missing the FTL initializors and power regulators. Rest of their systems are good.”

The Commander looked at Gian and he nodded. “Those two are the most likely to go bad—I’ve got spares on hand; enough for two, maybe three, ships at least while retaining a reserve for our own drives.”

“All right, then, people. Sounds like we have a plan—an outline, at least. I want a full list of what your people need—especially what you need to get Anubis in full working order, Major Caldwell.”

“I resigned my commission, Mat,” she said.

“I’m recalling you to service and placing you in command of Anubis—Major. Don’t argue with me on this. Mister Namer, I’ll make sure that Scorpia sends down food for these people—some of them look mighty hungry.”

“That would be appreciated; in the mean-time, my boys will find out just where Anton’s escape ship was—and the good stuff he hid.”

“Let’s get moving, people,” Mathias said as he stood up. “Time is not on our side here.”

[FaxModem1]

How far into the series is this? Is Helo still on Caprica? What about Anders and his resistance movement?

[masterarminas]

How far into the series is this? Is Helo still on Caprica? What about Anders and his resistance movement?

About day 221-222. That puts us squarely in the last days of Season 2, just before Lay Down Your Burdens, Part I (day 256). Kara, Helo, and Sharon are back with the Fleet, but Ander's Resistance Group is on Caprica (SAR rescue wasn't launched until day 270, the day that Hera is born, and Roslin lies to Helo and Sharon, stealing the child).

MA

[Eternal_Freedom]

That is one hell of a daring plan.

I have a suspicion that the extra ships Caldwell has tucked away are either Fleet ships the SFM acquired somehow or left over Cylon ships from the first war.

[masterarminas]

Episode 3: Angel of Death

Scorpia emerged at the coordinates given to Mathias by Sam and Jon. He had left an engineering party at Charon to make certain that both Leonis Pryde and Anubis were ready for the upcoming operation, along with a team of volunteers to load the supplies of the Charonites (as his crew had dubbed them), onboard the freighter. They had located Anton’s ship—a small Auroch-class transport barely larger than one of the Mk II Shuttles carried in Scorpia’s flight pods; and with it his cache of “the good stuff”. Rechristened as the Bounty, the ship’s holds had been packed with luxury goods—Ambrosia, dozens of different brands of beer and wine, hard liquors, cigars, cigarettes, and loose tobacco, pharmaceuticals of both legal and illegal varieties, and tons upon tons of canned provisions.

Not standard Colonial rations or tins of beef or sausage, but extremely expensive and uncommon food items that the wealthy who had acquired a taste would pay dearly for.

Mathias had ordered that the contents of the hold aboard Bounty be transferred aboard Scorpia, and under the watchful eye of Lieutenant Gian, they had been inventoried and stowed away in several of the secure lockers. And then, he had departed to retrieve the ships that Sam and Jon had told him of. Both had declined to go; neither had been willing to tell him why. Just that they didn’t want to visit that place again—and that afterwards, neither would he.

“Multiple contacts,” sang out Danis from her station. “No transponders, reading no power—they are adrift.”

“Scorpia, Arclight,” the wireless broadcast. “I have a visual. Reading six, no seven, civilian vessels—all are cold and dead; zero emissions.”

“Copy, Arclight,” Mathias said into the phone. “We want the Cybele-class freighter and the Kimba Huta-class transport. See if you can get power restored aboard those two.”

“Copy, Scorpia, we are go for docking with the freighter—Pancake and his team have the transport.”

Mathias racked the phone, and he turned to face Denise Church. “How long?”

“If what Major Caldwell says is right, that the only thing wrong is they are missing the listed parts, thirty minutes to install our spares and thirty more to confirm all systems are good. She did say that the other ships held a fair amount of other supplies, though.”

“Yes, she did,” Mathias muttered. “Colonel Jayne, I want a team of engineers aboard Shuttles One and Two; search the remaining ships, take whatever we can use and fit aboard. Including their tylium—drain the tanks to squeeze aboard every drop we can fit. And let’s get Green Squadron on patrol—I want a solid CAP in case we have company.”

“Scorpia, Arclight,” came a voice that even through the static Mathias could tell was taut with tension.

“Arclight, Scorpia Actual, go,” he said after picking up the phone.”

“Scorpia Actual, my team has boarded the freighter—identification Scylla. I think you need to see this for yourself.”

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

The knock on the hatch went unanswered. So did the second. Colonel Thomas “Torch” Jayne frowned and he opened the hatch anyway—the Marine standing guard said nothing. He too had heard the scuttlebutt.

Tom walked into the Commander’s quarters on Scorpia, and he nodded at Mathias who was seated behind his desk, watching a video recording play over-and-over again. The video that Arclight—Lieutenant Ian Herjavec—had discovered on Scylla after his arrival and before the Commander had boarded that ship. The log books of the seven derelict ships were stacked on his desk . . . beside a bottle. But the bottle hadn’t been opened, and the glass was dry.

“I understand it was pretty bad, Commander,” he said, and Mathias finally looked up.

“That doesn’t begin to describe it, Colonel,” Mathias sighed and he ran his fingers through his hair. “Want a drink?”

“Sure,” his XO answered and he picked up the bottle, uncorked it and poured two fingers into his friend’s glass and then another two for himself. “What happened, Mat?” he asked as he sat. “You haven’t said one word since you got back here.”

“They were survivors fleeing the attack, Tom. One thousand, six hundred and forty-four survivors aboard all eight ships; and then they were found; not by the Cylons but instead by the Colonial Fleet.”

Oh shit, Tom thought, the blood draining from his face. “Say again?” he croaked.

“Battlestar Pegasus, Rear Admiral Helena Cain, commanding,” Matt continued, and then he took a sip of the powerful liquor. “She sent over an engineering detail, performed a survey on the all the ships—and then she sent her Marines over to impress one hundred and seventeen of those survivors into her crew . . . and loot the ships for spare parts. She took their FTL components.”

“Gods,” whispered Tom, as he took a slug of the whiskey. “What the hells was she thinking?”

Mathias looked up and he shook his head. “Then she left them there. Her Marines had to gun down ten on Scylla—forty-one more on the other ships—before the civilians gave up those that were useful for her. And she left the rest of them in interstellar space, without FTLs—she left them adrift and derelict and she never came back.”

He took another sip. “The captains spoke about their situation—but no one had the supplies to replace the components, not even for one ship, let alone seven. They and their survivors—the fourteen hundred and seventy-six men, women, and children, did I tell you that three hundred and eighty-two of the survivors were children, Tom?—knew they didn’t have the provisions, water, or fuel to make to the nearest system. Not under sub-light. Hell, they didn’t have the atmosphere to make it to the nearest system. So they made the only decision that they could.”

“What little medical supplies Cain left them with, they used to give the children an overdose of narcotics, letting them drift off to a painless sleep and then death. And after that, since Helena fracking Cain,” and his voice got even colder and angrier than Tom had ever heard, “had taken all of their weapons, the seven skippers each took a scalpel from those same medical supplies and cut the throats of each and every one of the adults and teenagers that were left. When they had finished, they shut down all their systems, turned off the power, and took their own lives. Most of them by taking a walk out the airlock.”

The Commander took another sip. Tom took another swallow. “Maybe she had a reason, Mat,” he began.

“A reason? Tom, I thought she was a fine officer before I left, but the woman that did this—I don’t care if she had a gods-damned reason! I don’t care if she is finest tactician and strategist in the Fleet or if she pisses pure tylium and shits fissile material! She murdered these civilians as certain as if she pulled the trigger on each and every one of them herself. She and her crew left them behind to die. She broke faith with everyone who has worn this uniform the moment she did this—it was her duty to keep those civilians safe, regardless of what she might have wanted. Not to strand them light-years from nowhere. Not to leave them with no hope. Not to force parents to watch their children die before their own lives were taken. She had no right to do that, Tom. And no reason, no excuse, will ever justify it.”

He took another sip.

“Do you have an update from Major Church for me, Colonel?” he asked.

“We will be ready in fifteen minutes,” Tom answered as he sat down the glass and stood.

“Good. The salvage teams for the other ships?”

Tom swallowed heavily. “We’ve recovered all the pressurized tanks of atmosphere, all of their water stocks, their food stores, and what other supplies they had left. We transferred as much tylium as possible aboard Scorpia, and topped off both Scylla and Umino Hana.”

“Good. I’ll be in CIC in ten minutes, Tom,” he said as he took another sip. Tom Jayne nodded and he turned to go, but then his friend’s voice stopped him. “Just so you know, Tom, if we find her I intend to relieve her, try her, and jettison her fracking ass out a launch tube—and to do the same to every last crewman who carried out her orders.”

“Pegasus outguns us, Mat,” Tom whispered. “And Admiral Cain won’t let an officer subordinate to her relieve her without a fight.”

“I’m willing to give her that fight, Tom. What she did was criminal, it was evil, and I will not stand by and let someone like that wear the same uniform as you and I. Have plotting set a course back for Charon as soon as you arrive—I want to leave this . . . graveyard . . . far behind us.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” Tom answered and then he stepped through the hatch.

[LadyTevar]

I'm glad someone else found out about Cain's Madness. I believe at this point she was already dead?

[masterarminas]

I'm glad someone else found out about Cain's Madness. I believe at this point she was already dead?

Yep. But while you and I know that, no one on Scorpia does. I hope I managed to capture the right degree of Mathias' anger in that passage.

MA

[masterarminas]

Sidewinder just shook his head. “I never thought I would see these outside a museum,” he muttered as he examined the ten Raptors housed in the old-style hanger bays aboard Anubis. “These relics can fly?”

Eight of the small vessels were antiques from the Cylon War—the First Cylon War, Sidewinder thought to himself bitterly. Complete with the rear mounted cannon and gunner’s station. “I thought all of these were scrapped ages ago—they lack the EW capabilities of the Mk IV and their sensors are shorter ranged.” And the pilot from Scorpia frowned. “And what is up with the decorations?” he asked. Because instead of the brownish-green coloration of Fleet Raptors, these Raptors had been painted in garish multi-colored murals of slathering jaws and burning eyes and flames and scantily-clad angels fighting hordes of demonic creatures, half organic and half machine. It was . . . awe-inspiring, the detail and the imagination involved, the skill and passion that motivated the painters, but it had definitely not been what Sidewinder had expected.

Sam Caldwell chuckled. “They fly, Captain—they fly and they can jump, and if their ECM and sensors aren’t as good as Mk IVs, they are good enough for our movement. As for the art, well, that’s a long story.”

Sidewinder leaned back against the wing of the one of the flamboyant vessels and he crossed his arm. “Well, since Major Church’s teams are getting this old girl back into shape—we’ve got a few minutes.”

Sam nodded, and she sighed. She motioned with her head and walked Sidewinder back through the port hanger to where his Raptor had been parked; unlike modern ships, this vessel lacked elevators; after landing the hanger doors had closed and the ship had flooded the compartment with atmosphere—that would make it difficult on the pilots when the small fleet jumped back into Cyrannus, he thought. But then he spotted something, and he sucked in a deep breath. “What the . . .,” but he felt Sam’s hand on his arm and he cut off the expletive he had been about to shout.

“That’s our artist, Captain Greene,” she said pointing out the young man—maybe twenty-four or twenty-five—crouched down beside Sidewinder’s Raptor. Cans of paint and brushes at his feet; and one in his hand. He was busy bending over, wetting a brush that he held, and then quickly drawing on the hull.

“He’s painting my Raptor, Major,” Sidewinder said through clenched teeth, and she nodded.

“He does that,” she answered and then she frowned. “Daniel,” she called out, and the man looked up. “Don’t paint over the sensor heads—understand?”

The artist nodded and he went back to work. “He doesn’t talk,” she informed the pilot from Scorpia. "He hasn’t said a word in the past two years that I’ve been part of Jon’s organization. He isn’t mute, he just doesn’t talk,” and Sam turned to face the pilot, a stern look on her face. “And he isn’t ‘special’ either, the way people talk about the mentally underdeveloped. I’ve got the feeling he’s probably smarter than the rest of us—he’s just . . .,” she sighed. “He’s been hurt. And he only communicates now through his art.”

Sidewinder nodded; it didn’t take a genius to see that she liked the kid. And that calling him slow or dumb or dimwit would be a remarkably bad idea. “If he doesn’t talk, then how did you know his name?”

She smiled. “He was wearing a set of tags on a chain around his neck when he wandered into one of our safe-houses on Tauron—one step ahead of a very irate civilian upset at him for painting his wall. Well, hitting Daniel was the last mistake that ass ever made—and Jon had a soft-spot for the kid. He pitches right in and helps on whatever we need, but he won’t pick up a weapon—he doesn’t like it when we carry weapons.” She shrugged. “And if he isn’t helping us or sleeping, he’s painting. He paints everything—wait until you see the internal corridors.”

Sidewinder couldn’t help himself; he began to laugh, despite the sudden glare from the Major.

“What is so funny?”

The pilot tried to catch his breath, but he was laughing so hard that tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. At last, he held up one hand, and he nodded. “You’ve served with the Commander, apparently. I was just thinking of what HIS reaction would be if your Daniel started painting the halls on Scorpia.”

“Oh, Lords,” Sam chuckled with a grin. “I’ve got to make certain that Daniel doesn’t find his way over there—especially not with a can of paint. Mat would go completely off his rocker.”

“So what’s the story between you two?” Sidewinder asked—but the stern and cold stare of the Major made him raise his hands in surrender. “Okay, don’t want to talk about it; I’m good with that, Major. So, the kid have a last name?”

“Nope. Only thing on the tags was an engraving of the name Daniel; no last name, no address, no social identification number, nothing but his first name,” Sam said after a moment.

The ship’s PA system sounded, and a voice echoed in the hanger bay. “Skipper, the Colonials are back—two ships in tow,” and Sidewinder winced.

“Not exactly following form, are they?”

Sam shrugged. “You take what you can get—beggars can’t be choosers, Mister Greene. Join me in CIC for when the Commander calls?”

“Well, that depends on what kind of a mood he’s in; and since all of your people dance around why none of you want to go back there, I think I’ll make certain your Raptors are good to go, while YOU go talk to the Commander.”

Sam snorted. “I’ll be damned. A pilot that knows better than to charge blindly where the angels fear to tread.”

[masterarminas]

CIC was tense as Commander Lorne entered the compartment.

“ATTENTION ON DECK!” barked the executive officer, and every man and woman present snapped to attention as Mathias stopped in his tracks. He nodded, and his lips quivered. And without another word he walked over the central console and lifted the phone.

“General broadcast, all ships, and 1MC, if you please, Colonel Jayne,” he said.

The XO flipped a switch and nodded.

“This is the Commander. You have all been briefed on our objectives—by your division commanders, your deck commanders, your immediate supervisors. You know what is at stake here today, for all of us—for all of humanity. Look to your comrades in the coming minutes, my ship-mates, look to the men and women beside you with whom you have toiled, sweated, and bled for the past two years time. They depend today on you. Their lives depend on your actions—and more than their lives, the lives of those who have survived on the Colonies and who fight against the Cylon occupation.”

“You know why we are going back—you know the reasons we are undertaking this operation. It is not for vengeance, or retribution, or to wrack red ruin upon the Cylons who have despoiled our worlds and murdered billions in their cold mechanical way. We are going into harm’s way, not to extract our revenge, but to save the lives of those civilian we have sworn to protect. That does not mean we are not going to take our revenge on the toasters, comrades!” Mathias said with a chuckle. “We are going to teach these monsters what it means to pick a fight with the human race—we are going to show them the error of their ways, and we are going to succeed,” the levity faded from his voice. “Failure is NOT an option!” he thundered, his voice echoing across every deck of the ship, and aboard the civilian ships waiting alongside.

“Know this—that we will defend the civilians. We will stand between them and death, and we will pour our fire into any Cylon vessels that dare to challenge us. Some of us will not live through this fight,” and his voice lowered to almost a whisper. “There will be empty racks come the ‘morrow, comrades. Empty places at our mess, and in our hearts. But as a wise man once told our fathers in the days after the Twelve Tribes left behind Kobol, ‘It matters little how we die, so long as we die better men than we imagined we could be—and no worse men than we feared we would become.’ Aboard this ship, aboard the Battlestar Scorpia, each and every one of you have shown me that you are the better man. Shown that you are able to set aside your base desires to offer yourself as a living sacrifice, a sacrifice that shields our people from harm.”

“We will mourn those who are lost in this fight—but we will never say their loss was in vain. Never, comrades. For today, TODAY! We go into battle not for the cause of loot; not out of anger and hatred, not out of fear of punishment; TODAY, we will battle to save those who cannot fight for themselves. TODAY, we strike hard and we strike fast, and we will snatch away from the Cylons those who have all but lost hope. TODAY, ship-mates, we will restore unto them that hope.”

Mathias paused and he looked into the eyes of every man and woman present in the CIC. He nodded and raised the phone again.

“This is your Commander speaking. Sound General Quarters throughout the ship. Set Condition One in all compartments.”

Tom picked up his own phone. “This is the XO. Sound General Quarters throughout the ship. Set Condition One in all compartments.”

Mathias nodded. “Spin up FTL drives One and Two for faster-than-light jump; exit coordinates Caprica orbit.”

“This is the XO. Spin up FTL drives One and Two for faster-than-light jump; exit coordinates Caprica orbit,” the XO repeated.

“Weapons. Open outer doors on missile silos One and Six. Program MIRVs for saturation bombardment—target Delphi. Set nuclear warheads for maximum yield. Release of nuclear weapons has been authorized.”

And once again, Tom repeated the orders. “Weapons, this the XO. Open outer doors on missile silos One and Six. Program MIRVs for saturation bombardment—target Delphi. Set nuclear warheads for maximum yield. Release of nuclear weapons has been authorized and confirmed.”

Throughout the ship, men and women raced to make their final preparations as the klaxons sounded and the alert lights flashed. Major Jon Banacek, call-sign Rambler, sat in the cockpit of his Viper, already ensconced in the launch tube. “I want the rest of the Reds out as quickly as you can load them, Chief,” he said.

Chief Sinclair nodded and gave a thumbs up—he already had the rest of Red Squadron in line behind the tubes, the blast deflectors raised.

On the deck of each flight pod, twenty more Vipers, four Raptors, and two Shuttles were spotted for a full-deck launch. Captain Hope Fairchild, call-sign Digger, tightened the glove on her right hand and then laid it back on the stick. “Let’s get this right, Blues. Keep your intervals until we clear Scorpia completely. The whole Air Group is going to be out there; watch yourselves and check your fire.”

The massive twin kinetic energy weapons on the back and flanks of the Battlestar unlocked and swiveled as the gunners made certain that their mounts were in the green. Keys were turned and live munitions loaded, the hoppers full and waiting for a target.

Deep within the armored bow, a team of men manhandled a massive anti-ship missile, sliding it deep within one of the six launchers fixed forward. As the tail fins entered the tube, the Chief stepped forward and removed the safety, before shutting the inner hatch and locking it down—the lights on the fire control platform went green.

And on every deck, in every compartment, men and women stood by, ready to respond to the first cries for help from the damage that was sure to soon be inflicted upon them.

“FTL Drives One and Two are now charged, coordinates set,” reported Major Marius Tyche.

“Anubis Actual, Scorpia Actual,” Mathias said into the phone.

“Go Scorpia Actual,” her voice came over the wireless.

Mathias took a breath. “Stand by to jump upon receiving our Raptor with the orders to proceed. Scorpia will clear you a path.”

“Copy, Scorpia Actual; good hunting.”

“This is the Commander. I have no doubts about whether or not this ship and this crew can accomplish this mission. None. Because I know, that no matter how you have done in the past, that right now, at this moment, TODAY. Today, comrades, THIS shall be your finest hour. JUMP!” he barked.

[masterarminas]

One minor (well, pretty fracking major) alteration in canon, folks. I got to looking at those images of the Valkyrie-class again. And folks are right; well she has a LOT of guns, they are pretty much smaller than those on Galactica and Pegasus. But then I saw this image:

Valkyrie image bow

See those six black dots, three each to the right and left of her nose? I said to myself, Arminas, damn, if those don't look like old fashioned torpedo tubes. So, that's what they are. Not wet-navy torps, of course, but horizontal missile launchers for anti-ship missiles. Her dorsal silos carry the big MIRV ground attack missiles, but those front tubes can be reloaded.

Ah, I can feel the smiles already. Yep, that gives her one great big fracking punch to forward . . . enough to rival a Mercury-class and that is if she doesn't launch nuclear-tipped missiles from those tubes.

Anyway, that is why the story had that brief scene in the missile loading bay; it was for those tubes.

MA

[masterarminas]

Although many of the Colonials believed that the Cylons were cold and logical, without emotion, they were mistaken. It was a perception which the scientists had tried to correct time and again, but thinking of the toasters as unfeeling, uncaring machines was easier than to accept the truth that by creating the Cylons, humanity had indeed given their creation emotion. All of the rage and the anger and the hate that humanity itself passed, they gave to their children—trapped inside bodies of metal far more powerful and robust than flesh and bone and blood.

So the Cylons were surprised when Scorpia emerged from FTL in the face of no fewer than three Basestars that orbited Caprica. Surprised . . . and gleeful. From the Raiders hungry to prove their abilities, to the artificially limited Centurions, to the humanoid models upon the bridge, there was both surprise and glee. Scores, hundreds, of Raiders undocked and set course for the hapless Battlestar so alone and outgunned.

They did not fear for their lives—they were immortal, after all. Kill this body and the Cylon would reawaken in a new body; their memories, their personalities untouched, unaltered, unchanging by the experience. Fear was an emotion that the Cylons did not, as a species, know. Yet.

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

“Multiple contacts—three Basestars, six hundred plus Raiders, inbound,” sang out Danis from the DRADIS console.

“Scramble the launch,” Mathias ordered. "When the fighters are away, roll ship five-zero degrees port and turn into them, Major Tyche.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” the operations officer answered. “Five-zero degrees roll to port, turning into the hostiles.”

“Flight Operations reports all fighters away, Commander,” Tom added.

“Very good. Mister Cook, launch Hades missiles One and Six for airburst detonation—maximum saturation of the target.”

“Missiles away,” the tactical officer answered.

“Bow on, our defenses are weakest,” Tom whispered.

“And our offense the strongest,” Mathias replied. “Target nearest Basestar and flush the forward tubes.”

“Aye, aye, Sir; target Basestar Alpha is locked . . . torpedoes away,” Paul Cook answered as the Battlestar shuddered, “running hot, straight, and true.”

“Colonel Jayne, hold us at this position; let the enemy come to us. All batteries prepare for defensive fire.”

“Weapons, XO. You are free for defensive fire. Conn, hold the ship at these coordinates.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” the petty officer manning the conn answered. “Station-keeping at these coordinates.”

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

The six very large, very powerful anti-ship missiles (what the Battlestar crew called torpedoes) streaked towards the Cylons, even as their crews struggled to reload the now empty tubes behind their exhaust gasses. Of course, it had been expected; the Cylons knew what the Colonial weapons were capable of—what this class of ship was capable of. But knowing and experiencing were two very different things. So far in this war, the Cylons had not fought a fully-crewed modern Battlestar with her systems completely intact, free from any Cylon software tampering. And they expected the Colonial to use live warheads on all six warshots.

But Mathias didn’t. The lead four torpedoes, echeloned in waves of two each slightly in advance of the next, carried no warheads. Instead of the massive explosive charge—or the nuclear munitions available—the first four carried nothing other than powerful DRADIS jammers and autonomous decoys and electronic warfare systems designed to blind their opponents and degrade their counter-missile fire.

Not even when facing Galactica and Pegasus had the Cylons experienced this—since those two designs didn’t rely on expensive and very bulky torpedoes (and their shallow magazines), but instead on their heavy caliber gun turrets.

The Cylon point defense went wide, the four lead torpedoes diverting fire from the actual warshots behind them, generating misses and—at the end—absorbing impacts meant for the others with their own metal bodies. The two surviving torpedoes slashed untouched through the majority of the Basestars defensive fire—one, however, was shot down just a few kilometers short of the target. The other went home and it struck true. And the nuclear warhead it packed tore the leading Basestar apart.

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

“He’s on my six! I can’t shake him!” came the panicked cry from Sweets as the Viper pilot jinked and jerked—but the Raider behind him stayed glued to his target, his guns spitting fire.

“BREAK RIGHT, SWEETS!” Digger shouted as she swooped down on the two from the side, her guns catching the raider with impacts from wing-tip to wing-tip and it exploded. “Fall in with me and Firefly"—Sweets own wingman had been shot down earlier in the tremendous furball.

“Roger that, Dig-GEEERRRR!” the Viper pilot screamed as yet another Raider tore past, his guns ripping through the cockpit—shattering it and the pilot inside.

“Frack,” whispered Digger. “Ten to one odds are bit much,” she whispered, the sweat rolling off her face as her cannons shook the Viper again and another explosion momentarily illuminated space. “Scorpia, Digger—four toasters inbound on the starboard engines—intercepting.”

“Roger, Digger. Watch the cross-fire.”

“Along with everything else, Scorpia,” she snarled.

“Damn it,” her wingman said. “Two more behind us, Digger.”

“Frack me,” she whispered. “Split-S and try to get them off my tail—I’m staying on the attack run, Firefly.”

“Target-rich environment, my ass,” Firefly said in a sour voice, “targets don’t fracking shoot back,” she broadcast as her Viper peeled up, reversed thrust, and dropped in behind the two Raiders. “EAT THIS!” she snarled as her guns hammered one, snapping off one of the long thin wings and holing the head of the Cylon war-machine. “Almost there,” she chanted, “damn this one is slippery, Digger.”

“Tell me about it,” the commander of the Blues answered as she first short controlled bursts into the first, second, and then third of the Cylons bearing down on the engines. But the fourth evaded her fire and instead of firing his own weapons he kamikazed directly into the Number Three engine housing. Digger cursed and she pulled up in a steep climb and her threat receiver began beeping.

“Oh,” Firefly said as the raider exploded and the beeping stopped, “they stop evading when they get a lock—how about we do that again?”

“Sure thing Firefly—you get to be the target this time,” Digger snapped.

“On second thought, we are doing just fine like we are.”

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

Unnoticed in the chaos of the fight, two Hades missiles sped downward into the atmosphere—at a pre-calculated altitude, the casings surrounding the individual warheads were jettisoned with small explosive charges and eight 50-megaton warheads twisted their fins to home in on their own individual targets. Then, as one, they detonated.

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

Scorpia lurched to one side as something heavy struck her astern. “Direct hit on Engine Three—armor held, drive still operational!”

Mathias nodded, but before he could answer, Captain Cook shouted from tactical.

“MULTIPLE NUCLEAR DETONATIONS OVER DELPHI!”

The Commander locked his eyes on the DRADIS and he prayed—he prayed like he had never prayed before. Be right, he asked the Gods. Be right.

And the serried ranks of the Cylons suddenly broke apart, their movement erratic and uncontrolled—the Basestars tumbed off-course and then jumped away just ahead of the second volley of incoming torpedoes. Even as cheers erupted on the bridge, Mathias slammed down his fist on the console. “Dispatch the Raptor to the rendezvous!” he barked. “Colonel Jayne, Scorpia will advance—maximum fire rate on all batteries. Let’s relieve the pressure on our pilots.”

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

“What the frack happened?” bellowed One as he ran into the control room of the command Basestar—and then he stopped as he heard the god-awful wail coming from the Hybrid, and saw his fellow Cylons that had been directing the ship sitting on the floor holding their heads in agony. He turned to the Centurion, but it was curled up in a ball on the ground emitting high-pitched screams of its own.

More Cylons rushed onto the command deck and a Five pushed his hands into the interface—and immediately jerked them out. “Pain—the ship is in horrible pain.”

“You’re a machine,” One shouted. “Ignore the pain and destroy that Battlestar,” and that is when the Hybrid triggered an FTL jump.

“Fear, terror, burning, light bright beyond the sun, winged angel in the sky, strikes us down with sword of fire, angel of death has come, has come, angel of death end of line,” the Hybrid babbled incoherently.

“What the frack?” One whispered. “WHAT HAPPENED!” he bellowed at his counter-part.

“Don’t shout, Brother,” the other One said as he tried to stand and was caught by his fellows when his legs failed him. “It was as if every neuron in my head fired at once—and that was only because I was in the interface. The Centurions and Raiders and the Hybrids—they are networked—they all felt it.”

“Felt what?” the One asked again.

“Death. True death,” One answered.

“You are making no sense, Brother.”

One looked up at himself and scowled. “Stick your hands in there yourself and see what I mean. That Battlestar, oh that damned Battlestar—she just nuked Delphi and our capital that our Brothers and Sisters insisted we set up down there.”

“We can rebuild, Brother, if we deem it necessary.”

“Of course we can brother, but the death of so many of us at the same moment has jammed the thoughts of our mechanical and half-mechanical brethren. They are in shock—and they need time to recover.”

One turned to Eight. “Take a Raptor and bring in other Basestars—we must destroy the Colonial ship.”

“Not that simple, Brother,” said One. “All of the Hybrids are linked—no matter how far away they are. Until we calm them down, we are going nowhere. At least the idiot-savant jumped us out before she really began losing it.” And the maddening drone of her voice and cries still filled the compartment of the Basestar that the Cylons used as a command center.

“Then we will do it manually,” One answered.

“God, no,” whispered a Six as she observed the instruments.

“What NOW?” snarled One.

“The Resurrection Ship—it cannot process this load, not all at once.”

One looked truly concerned now, and alarm appeared on his face. “That’s impossible, that ship can store up to ten thousand of us every second in her memory banks until a body becomes available!”

“One point three million of us just died, One! At the same exact fracking instant!” Six snapped back. “Oh no, no, she can't; she’s dumping the Resurrection Buffer emptying her memory.”

“WHAT!”

“End of line, true death, darkness unending, God cries as his angel seeks vengeance and salvation. Death. Death. Death. Death. Death. Death,” the Hybrid just kept repeating that word as she felt the last seconds of each and every one of the Cylons who had just perished.

“For frack’s sake shut her off, already!” One barked. “The Hybrid aboard the Resurrection Ship cannot dump the Buffer—she can’t, she’s not programmed for that! And it is a different system!”

“She just did it,” said Three in a bleak and shocked voice. “Their downloads are . . . gone. All of them except . . . wait, she still has the first ten thousand received she received in memory and is starting to download their memories into blank shells. The rest of the Raiders, the Centurions, our brothers and sisters; their uniqueness has been lost,” she finished with a tear.

“There has to be a way to get this ship back into the fight,” whispered One.

“Without Resurrection, One?” asked Two. "A single nuclear missile slipping through our defenses and you are forever dead—we must first restore the Resurrection Ship—then we can return to the fight.”

“How long?”

Four and Six glanced at each other, and then both sighed. “Three hours,” they said in union.

“THEY WILL BE GONE BY THEN!”

“Would you rather be gone yourself—forever, Brother?” asked the injured One in a groan of pain. And fear. Actual, primal, fear had entered the Cylon race for the first time.

[Eternal_Freedom]

Well fuck. That was effective.

[masterarminas]

“The Hybrids and Centurions have calmed back down,” reported the Two, after more than two and a half hours had passed. “The Resurrection Ship should be back on-line within the next five minutes.”

“Finally,” said One as he threw his hands up into the air. “What triggered this?” he asked.

Three and Five exchanged a look and then Five bowed slightly. Three turned to One, “The details are technical in nature and will take too long to explain. However, there is good news—we have run simulations and do not believe that this can be duplicated. The key to the Colonials managing to overload our networks was in the massive number of simultaneous casualties—we have found references to some studies on the possibility of such by the Fleet after the First War,” she said.

“How massive? We know that the destruction of a single Basestar is not enough? Two? Three?” asked the One.

“No. A truly massive number of Cylons must be affected—and at the virtually the same moment. Our simulation seems to indicate the lower range where this neural cascade can be triggered is around a quarter of a million Cylons—fifty Basestars with normal complements. Even better, for our purposes, the only human-form Cylons affected directly by this were those interfaced with the ship itself. We, of course, are still vulnerable if the Resurrection Ship is overloaded again—and that problem is not one we anticipated. Ten thousand is the largest number of simultaneous downloads that the Buffer can handle at this point in time.”

One breathed a sigh of relief, along with the other models. “That has already been corrected—I have added coding to ensure that human-form Cylons such as ourselves have priority if this happens again,” he paused. “And this time, we will take no chances. All Basestars are to load nuclear ordnance to ensure that this Battlestar is eliminated.”

“We have enough for only four or five full salvoes, One,” cautioned Four. “Our stockpiles were depleted in the attack, and production has not been a priority.”

“Change the priorities—I want every Basestar armed with nuclear munitions from now on,” One answered. Although several of the Cylons looked away, none disagreed. “Did our dear sisters Boomer and Caprica Six survive the download?” he asked.

“No,” said Two. “They were both lost to us.”

“Well, that is a pity,” One said in a voice that bordered on sarcastic—but since that was his normal voice none questioned it. “I want three Basestars at every world in the Colonies—perhaps we did not take too long after all,” One mused as the red lights on the streaming fountain of the control system shifted to green. “Ah, we are good. JUMP!” he commanded the Hybrid—and the Hybrid complied.

It turned out, however, that they were indeed too late to catch the Colonials.

[masterarminas]

The moss-covered log next to Samuel T. Anders literally exploded as it absorbed the fire coming from the Centurion further down the slope. He hunched up behind the section that was left, trying to keep out of the line of fire . . . come on guys, he thought to himself. A different tone of gunfire—Sam had learned during the occupation that different weapons make very different sounds — barked off to his right and he clenched his fist.

The Centurion twisted his torso, just as a three-round burst struck him; unfortunately, the light bullets did little to penetrate his armor. Leaving his first target behind, the Cylon took one step, firing both arm-mounted weapons as he advanced. He took a second step. And on the third step he triggered the IED that Sam had planted. A shower of soil and parts of the Centurion came raining down around Sam. He waited until all the debris quit falling and he carefully looked up—the Centurion was in many small pieces; no way he was still operational. But if Sam had learned one thing over the past seven months, it was that if there was one Centurion, there were others.

Still, the woods were still so he took his chance and sprinted up the hill towards his fellow members of the Resistance. And sure enough, a line of bullets gouged divots out of the hillside right behind his steps. Of course, that was what his anti-Centurion team had been waiting for—from a hide further up the slope, the gunner with the long hollow tube over his shoulder laid the sights on the Cylon and elevated the weapon adjusting for range. Over eighty years old, this weapon was an antique from a military museum dating back before the first Cylon was even a dream. But it still worked, and the museum had a box of rockets—live rockets designed just for it.

He pulled the trigger, and the rocket streaked away with a WHOOSH, leaving behind a thick smoke trail. He missed the Centurion of course—but the Gods were with him because he hit a tree and the falling tree then crashed atop of the Cylon.

Sam paused at the top of the slope after he got behind the cover of a rock—a BIG rock. And he caught his breath. “Nice of you to wait so long,” he said finally.

“Come on, pyramid-man; you must be smoking too much. Back in the day, you could have made it to real cover before that chrome-dome had you pinned in his sights—maybe we need to start you on an exercise regime,” his second-in-command said with a smile.

Sam’s only answer was a very vulgar hand gesture, but he nodded his head. “Time to go,” he said—and then a tremendous flash of light the south erupted in the corner of Sam’s vision. He hit the ground—Caprica, occupied Caprica—had been a survival of the fittest training ground for the Resistance. The dumb ones and slow ones were already dead.

The ground beneath them literally HEAVED as waves—actual waves—rolled through the forest. The CRACK of the explosions—even miles away—was deafening, and Sam’s jaws dropped as he saw eight mushroom clouds rise through the tree tops.

Delphi! That was Delphi! Those damn Cylons—but then he stopped. Why would the Cylons nuke their own city?

And then another point of light erupted—far far away—and this one was high in the sky. Sam grinned, he grinned and he jumped and he shouted. “I’ll be damned! She came back! She came back!”

He stopped—their temporary camp was three kilometers away. “Let’s go. We need to get them ready to move!” he shouted. Throwing caution to the wind, they ran through the woods, and the base camp was already celebrating, as the wireless broadcast.

“This is the Colonial Fleet. We have engaged the Cylons and driven off their ships—we have also disrupted their command and control in the city of Delphi,” Sam shook his head. Disrupted, yeah, that was one word for it. “Shuttles and Raptors are en route to take the survivors to safety. Set up a homing beacon on any radio transmitter—frequency 222.”

Then the message repeated. “Sam,” one of the fighters said. “I’ve got ours broadcasting, already.”

The former pyramid player frowned—could it all be a Cylon trick? And then two Vipers streaked by low overhead. Wagging their wings in passing.

“Attention survivors,” the wireless broadcast. “Transport is on the way—request your number.”

“Damn glad to see you, Galactica!” Sam shouted into the transmitter. “Tell Starbuck, I never doubted her.”

“Negative on Galactica, survivors—this operation is being handled by Battlestar Scorpia. Repeat, we need to know how many of you are down there.”

“About a hundred,” Sam said woodenly as the Vipers circled—close enough that he could make out the pilots. Human pilots, not Centurions and not any of the skin-jobs he had ever laid eyes upon.

“Copy that survivors—one zero zero passengers for transport. Shuttle will land in three minutes. Be ready to move, we don’t have all day.”

Sam just stood there, holding the wireless as the men and women he had led quickly gathered their things. Then he felt a hand on his arm. “Are you well, Sam?” Brother Cavil asked. “This is a good day, son. A good day.”

“I’m fine, Brother. Thank you for asking—can you help with the wounded,” Sam said as he snapped back to the present.

“Certainly. For it is written that we get by with the help of our friends. So say we all,” said Cavil with a sardonic smile on his face.

“So say we all,” Sam laughed. “And wasn’t that a song?”

“I didn’t say where it was written, Sam,” Brother Cavil said with a wink. “Come, we must prepare to go to our new home—the Battlestar Scorpia.”

[Themightytom]

“I didn’t say where it was written, Sam,” Brother Cavil said with a wink. “Come, we must prepare to go to our new home—the Battlestar Scorpia.”

Well that won't end well. Good thing they are picking up the resistance though, Scorpia has no idea at this point that Cylons look like humans, and now they know Galactica was at Kobol...
so now they know there IS a Kobol.

With Boomer and Caprica 6 ashes, there wouldn't be an occupation of New Kobol would there, the Cylons would be out for blood, on the other hand this kind of explains why the resurrection ship was chock full of bodies when Pegasus takes it down

[FaxModem1]

Nice touch on revealing the one cylon never shown in the series: Daniel.

[Eternal_Freedom]

With no Caprica and Boomer, that presumably means no cylon civil war. So this could actually work out worse for the Colonials. Also, this neatly explains why the Cylons used so few nukes in their persuit of the fleet. Again, now that all Basetars are being loaded for bear things are going to get worse.

Of course, no New Caprica occupation means no Pegasus being lost either. Hmmm.

[Themightytom]

With no Caprica and Boomer, that presumably means no cylon civil war. So this could actually work out worse for the Colonials. Also, this neatly explains why the Cylons used so few nukes in their persuit of the fleet. Again, now that all Basetars are being loaded for bear things are going to get worse.

Of course, no New Caprica occupation means no Pegasus being lost either. Hmmm.

It doesn't necessarily mean that... I mean it would be nice if they could manage not to squander their most powerful asset this time around but who knows.

It will definitely be awkward sauce when Starbuck shows up with a fleet of raptors and nobody's left on Caprica.

[Eternal_Freedom]

True. I suppose I should have said "no Pegasus being lost pointlessly."

[masterarminas]

Hamish squinted his eyes as the massive shuttle slowly lowered itself to the ground. It had the all the proper markings of a Fleet shuttle—but what did that mean these days? As the engines spooled down and the front ramp slowly cracked open and began to deploy, he thumbed the selector switch on his rifle from safe to burst and seated it tightly against his shoulder.

The unexpected message had come over the wireless to his Resistance group twenty minutes ago . . . causing confusion and havoc among the people he viewed as his personal responsibility to keep safe. Not an easy task on occupied Virgon, to be sure. Especially after the major cities have been leveled from space with nuclear strikes—just finding enough anti-radiation doses had been a major concern. And that supply was running low; when it finally ran out, all of his people would die. HIS people, not the Prime Ministers, not the Ministers of Parliament, not the Colonial Quorum. All of those were dead, leaving only Hamish and the handful of guards that had been detailed to ensure the safety of the youngest son of Her Majesty the Queen.

Mum was dead now—she had died when Petrus Palace took a direct hit from the Cylon bombardment that devastated the planetary capital Boskirk. Along with his two brothers and his sister, his nephews and nieces, his aunts, uncles, and cousins . . . his friends. All dead, all gone. The only thing that Hamish Sean Patrick Reynolds, Prince of Virgon, had that remained was his duty to his people—and from that perspective, the transmission on the wireless had been a godsend. If it wasn’t a Cylon trap.

His lips twisted slightly, with his teeth barely showing—if it was a trap, well, that played both ways. The Cylons had to know—if it was the Cylons—that letting him select their landing spot was a foolish idea. Fast work by his people had prepped this landing ground, but Hamish prayed to Hestia that those preps weren’t needed.

A whine overhead caught his attention as the ramp continued to lower, and his heart sank. If that was Raiders, then . . . well, all hope was gone. At least they could take a few more of the damned Cylons with them. But then he spotted the source of the whine—a flight of four Vipers—VIPERS—tore across the sky!

He turned his attention back to the shuttle as the ramp hit the soil and a group of black-clad armed men deployed. Not the metal Centurions, and his heart skipped a beat as he swallowed. But . . . he had to be sure.

“HALT!” he whispered into his boom microphone, and from the three hidden speakers, his amplified voice echoed across the ground. “Remove your helmets,” he ordered.

The man in advance of the others raised one hand and he looked at the thick woods—but Hamish and his people were well camouflaged. “Colonial Marines!” the man yelled back in a surprisingly high-pitched voice.

“Sure you are,” Hamish whispered, the speakers repeating his voice. “So take off the fracking helmets or this shit is going to get real,” he said, dropping into the vulgar patois common to the men and women of the lower classes who made up the majority of the survivors in his group.

The Marines below were on edge, now—caught in the open with only the open maw of the shuttle for cover, their potentially hostile opponents hidden in the woods. Still, they crouched down and kept their weapons at the ready. Their point man, though, he released his rifle, secured to his load-bearing gear by a clipped sling, and raised his hands. And then he, no SHE—damn, Hamish thought, with a sudden grin at the lovely sight of the woman’s face below. And it wasn’t the face of a skin-job he had ever before seen.

“Okay, my helmet is off,” she yelled. “Lieutenant Tamara Mayne, Colonial Marines! We’re here to rescue you!”

“And the rest of them!” Hamish just had to be sure.

“Oh, frack this,” muttered Tamara. “Helmets off, Marines,” she ordered loudly. “What next? You want us to strip?”

“That isn’t a bad idea, Your Majesty,” drawled Colour Sergeant Adrian Haast, formerly of the Royal Virgon Fusiliers—technically a Colonial Army Regiment, but staffed only with Virgon volunteers and charged with the defense of the Royal Family. “If the rest of her matches the face, might well be worth taking a look.”

Hamish chuckled. “No, just the helmets, Leftenant Mayne,” he answered, then covered the boom mike with one hand, “and you be quiet over there, Colour Sergeant.”

“Sir,” the body-guard answered briskly.

One by one, the Marines removed their helmets and Hamish nodded. “Ever seen any of them among the skin-jobs—or collaborators, Colour Sergeant?”

“No, sir—and they do like using multiple copies of the same skin-job; no two of those Marines are the same.”

“Quite right, Colour Sergeant,” Hamish answered. He safed the weapon and then stood, and he chuckled as the Colour Sergeant broke in a stream of cursing that would have scarred a street-walker in Hadrian.

“I do believe that you are indeed the Marines, Leftenant,” he said, while walking forward—his men and women slowly following behind him, but with their weapons still at the ready.

“Sir,” she said with a nod of her head. “I don’t see how you could mistake us for Cylons, but we don’t have a lot of time. How many people do you have needing transport?”

“Just forty-four here, but I have got ten times that back at my base camp. Colour Sergeant Haast!” he yelled. And the Virgon soldier/body-guard/batman of His Majesty the Prince stood, finally setting his own weapon to safe. “Get with the flight officer of this vessel and hand over the coordinates to Home Base—you and your lads took their own sweet time, lass. We were beginning to get a trifle concerned that you might be too late to the party,” Hamish said with a crooked smile.

Mayne nodded. “We were out-of-town on a special assignment—just returned today to find this,” she said, waving her hand around her. And that, along with what she had said earlier suddenly registered with Hamish, and he sucked in a deep breath.

“Leftenant, I think you need to let me use your wireless—it is imperative that I speak with your Commander immediately.”

“Can I tell him who is calling?”

The Virgon drew himself upright and patted his rifle. “Reserve Fleet Captain Hamish Sean Patrick Reynolds, Lord Malcolm the Fifteenth of that Name, Ninth Earl of Aragon, Prince of the House of Petrus, Fourth in Line of Ascension to the Throne of Virgon,” he recited with a bow as he held out one hand, which the shocked marine took; he then turned it to present the back of her hand and kissed it lightly, “at your service, madame," but then his smile faded. "And I regret to say, quite possibly King of Virgon, should none of those closer to the throne have survived the Cylon attack and occupation. Now about that wireless, Leftenant?"

[masterarminas]

Mathias frowned as he leaned over the center console and he looked back up at the clock. One hour and forty minutes since the Basestars had abruptly departed the system. The shock to the system of the Raiders had prevented them from leaving as well—at first. But after twenty-five minutes, all surviving Raiders had managed to jump away.

So far, they hadn’t come back—but there were reports that Centurions on the ground were becoming more active. They were holding back, avoiding contact, but they were no longer crippled by the Delphi Strike. He winced as he looked at the Flight Board over the shoulder of Colonel Jayne. Nine—NINE—of his pilots and their Vipers had been lost. And while he knew intellectually that was lower than he could have reasonably expected, it was still fifteen percent of his entire complement. Nine Vipers that were destroyed, nine irreplaceable pilots lost forever.

And despite that, Scorpia had been incredibly lucky with the limited damage suffered. Her armor had held despite several missile and Raider impacts; albeit at the cost of nearly 5% of her total magazine capacity for the guns. She still had four Hades space-to-surface missiles left (and their thirty-two nuclear warheads), but just twenty-four of Thunderbolt torpedoes—and just six of those were armed with atomic payloads.

But they had accomplished the impossible. Three hundred and ninety-two survivors from Caprica, five hundred and eleven from Virgon, eight hundred and forty-seven from Tauron had all been contacted and packed aboard the Bounty, Leonis Pryde, Scylla, and Umino Hana—and they still had room for more, even carrying the six hundred and twenty men and women from Charon. He had ordered the small flotilla under his command—Fleet being too grandiose a word—to spread out and quickly search the remaining Colonies. It was a risk, and Mathias knew it. But he had to make certain that he had retrieved every single person it was possible to save. Two thousand three hundred and seventy souls had been added to the fourteen hundred and ninety-four officers and men aboard Scorpia—Mathias winced, fourteen hundred and eight-five, now—and the one hundred and eleven members of the scientific research team. He knew that time was running out, and that three thousand nine hundred and sixty-six survivors (including his own crew) were a miracle; however, he still had the space for nearly fourteen hundred more, so he wasn’t leaving. Not yet.

And this latest news—from the Virgon Prince and the Caprican Resistance and the other survivors. That the Cylons had models which looked, sounded, and felt exactly human. Mathias shivered; that was how they had managed to catch the Fleet unawares, how they had inserted that backdoor in the nav programs. And it was a problem that would have to be addressed—how, he wasn’t quite certain.

“Commander,” Paul Cook said as he sat down the phone. “Rambler reports that sixty-seven survivors have been recovered on Picon.”

“Anubis requests a shuttle for ninety-one survivors on Aerilon,” added Joan Danis.

Colonel Jayne smiled, as he handed the Commander a print-out from the Leonis Pryde. And Mathias matched his grin. “Jon Namer reports eighty-eight from Saggitaron, and Scylla has managed to find one hundred eighty four on the moon Hibernia,” the Commander announced, his mental tally kicking up to four thousand three hundred and ninety-six. “Colonel Jayne, dispatch a shuttle to Aerilon to meet up with Anubis. Leonis Pryde, Scylla, and Bounty are at full load—order them to proceed to the rendezvous. Dispatch two flights of Vipers; they will ride Pryde externally and fly CAP until we arrive. And one Raptor as well.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

“Any word from Umino Hana?”

Danis held up her hand as she listened to her earpiece. “Umino Hana reports recovery of seventy-two survivors from Canceron—she’s at full load now, Commander.”

“Send her to the rendezvous,” Mathias said as his people cheered. “Tom,” he said, and his voice cracked. “Instruct the shuttle bound for Aerilon to rendezvous with Scorpia in geosynchronous orbit over Scorpia after she completes her recovery—that should keep us out of the worst of the debris fields. Set coordinates and prepare for an FTL jump to that location.” He lifted the phone. “Flight Operations, Scorpia Actual.”

“Go Actual,” the speaker said.

“Prepare a Raptor—I am going to the surface.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

Tom shook his head and stepped over close to his commander. “Don’t do this to yourself, Mat—there’s a reason you assigned the crew Colonies that weren’t their homes. I don’t care for that terrorist bastard Namer, but seeing Saggitaron tore him apart emotionally,” he whispered. “There’s nothing you can do down there.”

“We’ve checked all of the Colonies except Scorpia, Tom. And I want to see my home one last time with my own eyes,” Mathias said in an equally quiet voice. “We need to confirm there is no one left down there before we leave.”

“Yes, sir—we do. But you don’t have to go down yourself. And we are expecting this Captain the Prince Hamish Petrus; you should be here to greet him when the shuttles return from Virgon.”

“That is where you are wrong, my friend. I do. And though it might disappoint His Majesty, he will have to settle for you at the moment,” Mathias shrugged. “You debrief him, Tom. See if he has photographs of the . . . skin-jobs, as he and Anders called them. If he does, we can identify any among the refugees. This is something that I have to do—I have to.”

Tom stepped back and he nodded—but the worry on his face was clearly evident to all. “Major Tyche, spin up FTL One and Two and prepare for a jump to Scorpia geosync.”

“Aye, aye, Sir, spinning up FTL One and Two, coordinates set for geosynchronous orbit over Scorpia.”

[masterarminas]

Mathias knelt beside the burnout shell of his home on Scorpia. But he was not looking at the ruins of ash and char; he stood in the falling snow—snow, on Scorpia!—atop of the granite promontory looking out over the angry sea twenty meters beneath him. White-topped breakers rolled in, churned by the sudden change in the planet’s climate that the impact of so many weapons (and the resulting clouds of ash and dust) had triggered.

He knelt on one knee, and he lifted a handful of the rich black soil that lay underneath the sod he had so painstakingly laid just three years ago. Finally, he stood and he wiped off the excess dirt from his hands, rubbing them together briskly, even as the falling snow melted into his flight-suit. It no longer mattered—Anna and the girls were long gone; the place had not been disturbed in months. Gone—and with them any desire that he had to remain here.

“Sir,” Lieutenant Jan Falsen—her call sign was Thumper—, her EWO, and the Marine detail had given the Commander his space, but now she approached and quietly addressed him.

He turned to her. “Yes, Thumper?”

“That storm is getting closer, Sir.”

Mathias nodded. And he turned his gaze back to the horizon again. “You like Necrosia, Thumper?” the Commander asked.

“Sir?” she replied, caught off-guard by the question.

“Necrosia—you know the black beer that made Argenum Bay famous as a vacation spot for Vernal Break. Do you like it?”

She nodded, “It’s a very rich beer, Gremlin, a very expensive beer,” she said, having seen that conversation had shifted from commander-subordinate to pilot-pilot. “I love the taste, but it’s not something I could regularly afford.”

Mathias nodded and then he sighed. “The Cylons burnt down the house—but the storm cellar on the north side is still intact,” he smiled sadly. “I checked it earlier, but they weren’t there. No sign that they were there. Anna probably took the kids to visit her sister in Celeste; her birthday was the same week as the attack. Take the Marines and Pappy down there with you. Reckon we can fit twenty-two cases on board the Raptor?”

“Twenty-two cases? There’s two dozen bottles in a case!” she sputtered. And then she grinned. “And a single case is worth a week’s pay. It’ll be tight, Gremlin but for Scorpia Necrosia, we’ll make room!”

Mathias smiled again. “No sense in leaving it behind. When we get back aboard, after it’s been chilled down properly and had a chance to settle—we’ll crack open a bottle or two to say goodbye. Go ahead, fetch the beer. Like you said, the storm is coming.”

Thumper paused. "Is there anything else you want to get, to take back aboard, Sir?" And Mathias knew what she meant . . . photos, old memories, a stuffed bear, things to remember them by.

"I will always have their memory, Thumper. And their love; I don't need things to remember them with. Go on now, we need to be airborne before that front arrives."

He knelt down again as she began shouting orders to the two Marines and Pappy back at the Raptor, and he watched the waves until they were done.

[dragon]

Very nice and now they get to find out about skin jobs