The Hunted (nBSG)

[Borgholio]

I don't recall that part of the series, I thought that all Ones were manipulators. Cool...this could be interesting.

[Themightytom]

I don't recall that part of the series, I thought that all Ones were manipulators. Cool...this could be interesting.

It's from The Plan.

We never get a chance to see what THIS Cavil might have (or have not) done . . . Adama had him shot out a Viper tube, along with the Galactica Cavil (who was counseling Chief Tyrol)! But this one (Brother Cavil) is one of the FEW Number Ones that thinks the Cylons were wrong; that they made a mistake. And that was in Canon. And the rest of his line boxed him for his aberration. So, I thought why not use him to take the story forward? And maybe show a different side to Cavil that we get hints about in the show . . . but never actually SEE.

MA

Which could be fascinating, this has always summed up Cavil nicely:



Cavil almost breaks the fourth wall several times, like when he says "You're all living in a fantasy world, savor that irony, hah, a delusional machine, what will the universe come up with next"

He's a sociopath, he doesn't care about rules, religions, beliefs, he WANTS to be a machine, beyond any of those, he rejects the value of free will in favor of absolute knowledge, "I'm a machine, and I can know more."

The Cavil we know in the series is an amoral bastard, because he despises himself. A Cavil that doesn't despise the humanity given to him by his creator is someone that can see beyond the constructions that limit the humans, AND the Cylons. He's already told them about the hate, and the pain the first Cylons could feel, and he gave them exactly what they needed to identify the Cylons in their midst ON THEIR OWN rather than just telling them where to look and having all the Cylons found be suspect. He could be a VERY discerning, rational bridge between the colonials and the machines, able to understand where both are coming from, except this one might see the value of them embracing humanity, and learning from it, instead of destroying it.

[masterarminas]

Life has intruded, but the next update will be up tomorrow.

MA

[FaxModem1]

Hope everything works out. While this story is fun, life is more important.

[masterarminas]

Episode 5: Under a Red Sky

Hope lay back in her bunk, her eyes closed, her breathing slowing down as she panted with the dim illumination dancing off of her sweat-soaked skin—as a squadron commander, she had been assigned one of the small (but private) sleeping compartments aboard Scorpia. But it was private no more. With the press of the refugees upon the internal spaces of the Battlestar—on all of the ships of the small fleet—she had offered to share her space with one of the scientists that had spent the past two years aboard ship.

Rambler hadn’t said a word when she broached the subject, he just nodded and by the end of the day it was done.

She opened her eyes as a shadow crossed over her, and she felt the light touch of her lover’s hair—and then the soft, warm lips. She put her arms around the figure and pulled her down on top of her, holding her close. “Don’t you ever get tired?” Hope asked.

“Not with you,” purred Doctor Irina Toure as she nibbled at Hope’s ear. Hope pulled away and she sat up—Irina made a moue appear on her face. “You don’t like that? I can think of other things to nibble on?” she asked, tracing a line along Hope’s bare thigh.

“No,” she whispered. “It’s not that.”

“Then what? What’s wrong?” asked Irina as she sat up on one elbow.

Hope licked her lips and she drew in a deep breath—then she slid open the drawer on the extruded metal table next to the small bed and she pulled something out. “Irina,” she said, with a quaver in her voice, as she pressed the single gold band into her lover’s hands. “Will you marry me?”

The dusky-skinned Aerilon scientist blinked—and then Hope’s heart soared as she began to grin wildly. “I thought you were afraid of what your family would think?” Irina asked. “For natives of Scorpia, they seemed rather prudish from your descriptions.”

A tear, mixed from joy and sorrow, traced its way down Hope’s cheek. “They are gone—and I ‘m out there every day—every day I might not come back,” she cried, and Irina sat up and held her tight. “I don’t want us to be apart one more day,” Hope muttered through the tears.

“We won’t,” Irina whispered as she hushed and hugged and held the pilot in her arms, unshed tears in her own eyes. She held Hope at arms length and she nodded. “I do. I will take you to be my wife,” she said with a quiver in her voice, and Hope smiled and jumped—jumped into her arms and kissed her deeply again, sliding the ring onto her finger.

“When can we have the ceremony?” Irina asked when they came up for air.

“I’ll ask the Commander tonight, when I go on dut-. . .,” but her words were cut off as a klaxon began to wail. “This is the XO! Sound General Quarters throughout the ship. Set Condition One in all compartments! This is not a drill!”

Hope rolled out of the bed, grabbing her underwear on the floor and sliding it up over her hips. She pulled on a one-piece cooling garment and then slid into her flight suit. “BOOTS! Grab my boots,” she yelled as she yanked the thick heavy garment on and squeezed her shoulders inside.

Irina held out the boots and Hope stepped into them, seating her heel as she grab her gloves, her helmet, and her sidearm belt from the locker.

“Gotta go, love,” she said, as Irina stood, pulling up the zipper so that Hope’s barely covered bust didn’t hang out.

“I’m here when you get back,” the scientist said—and the two had a brief kiss before Hope bolted into the corridor, and Irina stood there, watching out the hatch as Hope ran off; she shut the hatch, crawled back into the bed and began to sob.

[Slacker]

Misspelled Irina the second time it's used-it's my wife's name so it catches the eye.

Wonder what shoe is about to drop now.

[masterarminas]

Misspelled Irina the second time it's used-it's my wife's name so it catches the eye.

Wonder what shoe is about to drop now.

Fixed. Sometimes my hands have a mind of their own.

MA

[Slacker]

Happens to all of us.

[masterarminas]

“Status?” asked Mathias as he walked into CIC. Scorpia and her brood had jumped into this lifeless system just two hours before. The revelation that the once-mute man that Sam Caldwell had known as Daniel was in fact a copy of Doctor Daniel Graystone—the man responsible for the Cylons in their past and present forms—flamed the latent anger that the Colonial officer struggled to keep bottled inside. But he had refused to act precipitously—despite that it had been Daniel Graystone and he alone that had created the human-form Cylons that had all but destroyed civilization. Mathias had doubled the guards on the brig, but so far had left Daniel and Cavil and Sam Anders alone. Anders in particular represented a quandary—he had played no part in the Cylon’s plans, and if Cavil and Daniel were to be believed, there were no active copies of his model. Although, they insisted that were he to be killed, he would resurrect.

He had led the fight against the Cylons on Caprica—and his reaction at the news that he was indeed one of the creatures he hated; well, it had been sobering from Mathias’s point of view. Mathias and Tom had both worried that he might well try to take his own life—so for now, at least, he had been sedated and held under guard. Mathias shook his head. The man had done nothing wrong, committed no crime—just been at the wrong place at the wrong time; and yet, just by existing he posed a very real threat. Doctor Graystone had restored his—and Cavil’s—memory with a code; what if the Cylons had other codes? Codes that would steal away Ander’s free will and turn him into a programmed weapon? But did that threat justify taking away an innocent man’s life? Would judging Sam Anders—and the other Cylons who were not aware of their true nature once they finally caught up to Galactica—make Mathias just as much of a criminal as Daniel Graystone was?

Mathias had been meditating on this before his next meeting with the prisoners when the alert had sounded. And now, he put it out of his mind as he stepped up next to Tom beside the center console.

“Two Cylon Raiders jumped in, Commander—CAP engaged and destroyed one; the second was damaged but managed to jump away. All ships confirm receipt of the proper emergency jump coordinates and are spinning up FTLs.”

“Thank you, Colonel Jayne,” he said as he picked up the phone. “Flight Operations, CIC. Rambler, get the birds back on the deck,” he looked up at Tom.

“Two minutes,” the XO said.

“We jump in two minutes whether they are aboard or not—so get them aboard.”

“They are heading back to the barn, now, CIC,” Rambler’s voice came over the intercom.

Mathias racked the phone. “Guns,” he said to Paul Cook, “stand-by to engage Basestars as they appear—standard fire rate on the batteries, we need to start watching munitions expenditures.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” Cook answered. “Guns are hot, local fire control on line. All forward tubes are loaded—not armed.”

Mathias kept his eyes fixed on the DRADIS as the seconds ticked away.

“CIC, Flight Operations—all birds on the deck,” Rambler reported.

And then five new icons appeared—just outside of weapons range.

“New contacts,” Joan Danis sang out, “five Basestars launching Raiders—count one thousand plus inbound. They are launching missiles—radiological alert!”

Mathias’s lips tightened—the missiles would be on top of them in thirty seconds; the Raiders just a few heartbeats later. “Time to jump?”

“Scylla, Leonis Pryde, Bounty, and Umino Hana are away,” reported Major Tyche. “Just us and Anu-correction, Anubis has made the FTL jump?”

“Time to go,” Mathias snapped. “Engage FTL drives!”

Marius Tyche depressed the lever. With a flash of light, Scorpia vanished and scores of heavy missiles passed through the space where she had once been.

[masterarminas]

Samantha Caldwell frowned as the DRADIS stabilized—the images were broken and filled with static, and while she had expected that, it still troubled her. Commander Lorne had chosen this system for a reason . . . it turned out that the bloated Red Giant at its heart radiated the same of type of radiation that had been discovered in the upper atmosphere of the gas giant Ragnar. And like Ragnar, the Fleet had constructed an outpost here.

“DRADIS on-line, ma’am,” her sensor operator sang out. “All ships accounted for except Scorpia—wait, there she is.”

Sam sighed. She and Mathias had decided to allow her original crew to remain aboard—although most of them were ex-Fleet, many had not used their skills in years. Jon Namer had done his best to assemble a crew; but the Cylon attack had caught them completely off-guard and no one had the true proficiency that Sam desired. Yet. She was working hard on fixing that, but for now, she and Commander Lorne had decided that it be better for morale to keep the two crews separate. She snorted. And probably good for the medical supplies. Ex-Fleet a majority of this crew might well be, but that was because most of them had come to see the Quorum as a tyranny. No, they and the crew of Scorpia would mix like oil and water—that is to say, not well at all.

“Very good, Miss Tyrell,” she answered. “Inform Lieutenant Piak to put up a CAP, and get me two Raptors airborne to extend our DRADIS coverage,” with exceptions, she thought to herself with a grin; exceptions such as the Viper pilots transferred aboard and the handful of desperately needed engineers. So far, she and Jon Namer had managed to keep the more vocal and physical SMF members from overly antagonizing the transfers—but it was only a matter of time, she feared. Unless she and Jon managed to get those freedom fighters head’s screwed on straight.

“Ma’am!” the sensor tech snapped. “We are being challenged!” The tech listened to her ear-bug and then she said in a calmer voice, “Scorpia is responding.”

“Stand by the guns,” she ordered as the icon of a large (very large) station slowly appeared on the screen—and her jaw dropped at the sight of a smaller capital ship icon next to it.

“IDENTIFY!” she barked.

“Transponder is Colonial, ma’am. Reading . . . Fleet Support Ship Aurora—Bezrek-class. CAP reports they have spotted Vipers launching from her flight pod.”

She picked up the phone. What the . . . this system was supposed to be abandoned! “Scorpia, Anubis Actual. Are you seeing what I am seeing?”

“Affirmative, Anubis Actual” Colonel Jayne’s voice paused and then he spoke again. “Set comms to frequency 237-Delta,” and with that his transmission ended.

“Switch frequency to 237-Delta,” he whispered. “On speakers.”

“. . . and I don’t care who the frack you are or what your rank is! Unless you have the proper authentication and confirmation codes from Fleet Command, you have sixty seconds to leave this system, or we will open fire!”

Mathias’s voice was smoldering with anger and cold as ice as it came through the speaker. “Aurora, Scorpia Actual. Firing upon us will be the worst decision you could possibly make—this is a Battlestar, and your vessel is a Fleet auxiliary. Stand down! The Colonies have been attacked by the Cylons—they have been destroyed by the Cylons! Why do you think you haven’t received any supplies in the last seven months?”

Sam stood upright. “Transmit orders to the civilian ships to put some distance between themselves and the station—hold Anubis between them and that ship!”

As her people began to rush to their tasks, Sam picked up the phone again. “Chutes,” she said to the Viper squadron commander on board. “I want the rest of your birds ready to go—there might be a furball out there shortly.”

“Copy that, all Vipers are manned and ready for launch, Major,” Gian Piak, the CO of Green Squadron said calmly.

“Scorpia Actual, you have thirty seconds to withdraw or we will engage you,” the loudspeaker broadcast.

“Ma’am, Scorpia is launching all Vipers.”

“Scramble our launch,” Sam ordered, “get the birds in the air.” Damn fools.

“All Vipers away,” the tech replied.

And from the loudspeaker, came Mat’s voice again. “Colonel, I suggest you request instructions from the station commander before you engage—I don’t want to kill your people.”

“Scorpia, my orders are clear—NO ONE without a valid authenticated code is allowed in-system. Will you withdraw?”

“No, Colonel, we will not withdraw. STAND DOWN.”

“Ma’am,” the tech looked up from his panel. “Aurora has ceased broadcasting and her fighters are assuming attack formation.”

Lords of Kobol forgive us, Sam thought as she closed her eyes. “All pilots, all batteries—you are free to engage if fired upon.”

[masterarminas]

For those unaware, this is the Berzerk-class, which I have reflagged as the Bezrek-class for this story. Images are in the post.

The Hunted

She's a bit longer than Scorpia (842 meters), but far lighter, less heavily armored, and with fewer (a LOT fewer) guns; two nose guns comparable to those aboard Pegasus, ten twin heavy KEW turrets, ten twin fixed light KEW turrets, and point defense. No missiles. She's primarily a support ship with a core crew of just 600 officers and men, including 43 Marines and 52 flight crew (20 Vipers, 10 Raptors, and 4 Shuttles). But she has a LOT of cargo space and fuel tankage; she serves (in this AU) as a Fleet replenishment vessel that isn't quite so vulnerable as such ships are today. This one can fight back. For a little while.

MA

[masterarminas]

Mathias swore as he racked the phone. And then he sighed. He lifted the phone again. “Brig, CIC.”

“Go, CIC,” came the answer.

“Put Brother Cavil on the line,” Mathias ordered.

Tom jerked and he stared at his Commander. “Sir?” he whispered.

“Yes, Commander—I take it that you have a question for me?”

Mathias closed his eyes. “What is the access code to trigger the backdoor in the CNP program?”

Cavil laughed. “Commander, that isn’t something I can just tell you—it is machine language. Cylon language. You couldn’t use it if I did inform you.”

“Can you broadcast it?” Mathias asked as Tom just stared with wide eyes.

“I can, but not from here. Why do you need it transmitted? Your ships don’t have the system updates?”

“No, but there are others here who might; others who are attempting to destroy this ship and everyone on it—including you.”

“Ah. But I will just down-load, Commander.”

“Perhaps not—we are in a system generating Ragnar-like radiation; you do know what that means?”

Cavil was silent. “I will need a transmitter—a direct connection into the comm system by fiber-optic cable.”

“Done,” Mathias said as he racked the phone. “Get him what he needs, Colonel Jayne—Captain Danis, activate full internal firewalls—he is to have access ONLY to communications. Physically take long-range comm off-line.”

Tom started to argue, but Mathias snarled. “It’s either this or kill them all, Colonel! MOVE!”

For a moment Mathias was afraid that Tom wasn’t going to obey the order, but then he nodded and jogged out of CIC.

“Rambler, Scorpia Actual—we may have a way to stop this attack without killing everyone. Run interference, disrupt their attack as best you can, but do not fire for effect without my direct order.”

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

“Copy that, Scorpia Actual,” Rambler said. “Frack,” he whispered. “All pilots, listen up. We are not, repeat NOT to engage these guys. Command wants us to mess up their attack run however, but warning shots only. Make them deviate from course.”

Expressions of disbelief and a few swear words filled up the tactical channels, and Rambler snarled. “Clear the air, pilots! You have your orders.”

How the frack we are going to do that is beyond me, he thought as his Vipers broke hard as they entered the weapons envelope of the oncoming strike—flying Mark VIIs!—and his opponents began to spit gun-fire. Whatever you doing, Commander, make it fast, he thought as he jinked to avoid a burst.

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

“All batteries hold fire!” barked Sam. “Range to the Aurora?”

“She’ll be in gun-range in forty-five seconds . . . MARK . . . presuming her acceleration stays constant,” the tech answered.

Mat, I hope to the Hells you know what you are doing, she thought.

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

Daniel and Anders watched as Cavil was pulled out of his cell and then the hatch slammed open and Tom entered with two technicians and a loop of fiber-optic cable. The techs removed an armor plate from the wall and hooked one end of the cable into a comm line; the second Tom offered to the Cylon.

And then Tom pulled his sidearm, chambered a round, and place it against the side of Cavil’s forehead. “Here, in this system, if you die, you die forever. Frack with us, and you will be in Hell before me,” Tom said.

“There is no Hell but what we make,” said Cavil. “I need a knife.”

Tom nodded at the Marines, who gave the Cylon a short—but razor-sharp—knife.

“What are you doing, John?” Daniel asked.

“Saving our collective asses, Father Daniel,” the Cylon answered as he sliced his arm and inserted the cable, dropping the knife on the floor in the process.

Tom frowned—the Cylon was bleeding. “Call a corpsman to the brig,” he ordered the Marines, and Cavil chuckled.

“Threaten to kill me one moment and then concerned for my well-being the next.”

“I’m only human,” Tom said.

“You say that like it is a good thing,” Cavil continued to insert the cable and then he stopped and jerked. “Interface connection made . . . short-range comm unit open . . . broadcasting shut-down commands,” his eyes glazed over and he swayed slightly.

Tom grabbed the phone in his free hand. “CIC, Brig. Cavil is transmitting now.”

“We confirm, Brig.”

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

“Range to Aurora?” Mathias asked.

“She will enter gun-range in ten seconds . . . MARK,” replied Marius.

“The Air Wing?”

“Haven’t lost anyone yet, Sir—but there have been some close calls. Those pilots are not pressing the attack as hard as they should be,” Marius said and he gave a crooked grin. “Maybe some of them don’t want to be attacking a Battlestar anymore than we want to destroy that ship.”

Mathias ignored the comment and he kept his gaze focused on the DRADIS display. Come on, he thought. If they don’t power down . . . he sighed. “Captain Cook, look all batteries on Aurora and prepare to open fire on my com-. . .,”

“SCORPIA, Rambler!” screamed a static filled voice from the intercom. “All hostile Vipers have lost power and are drifting!”

The Commander grabbed the phone. “Rambler, Scorpia Actual. Aurora?”

“Tumbling out of control, Sir.”

Mathias grinned. “CIC to Captain Aisne.”

“Go, CIC,” the Marine commander immediately answered.

“I want a boarding party to take Aurora before she can restore her systems—non-lethal weapons where possible; I’ll understand if it is not. Take her, Liam.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

“Sidewinder, Scorpia Actual,” he continued.

“Go, Scorpia Actual.”

“I want your Raptors to tow those disabled vipers into the port flight pod—don’t ding them or the pilots too badly.”

“On our way, Actual.”

“Captain Danis, raise that station—I want to have a talk to the imbecile that just tried to get Colonial officers and crew killed for no good reason. A long talk.”

[Falkenhorst]

I just wanted to say that I've been reading your stories with great interest, Masterarminas. I really enjoyed the first part of Broken Empire and I hope you'll continue it in good time. Meanwhile I find myself checking this thread for updates constantly. You are an exemplary author.

[Eternal_Freedom]

Very clever Commander, very clever.

Whatever are they hiding here?

[masterarminas]

A quick sneak peek.

Thunder Mk I

Thunder Mk I BSG colors

Coming up soon.

Viper Mk II (Canon)
Length: 27.6 feet (~8.4 meters)
Height: 8.9 feet (~2.7 meters)
Wingspan: 15.5 feet (~4.7 meters)
Crew: 1
Guns: 2 light KEW (kinetic energy weapon) cannons, up to two slung missiles

Viper Mk VI (The Hunted AU)
Length: 29.5 feet (~9.0 meters)
Height: 9.7 feet (~3.0 meters)
Wingspan: 17.3 feet (~5.2 meters)
Crew: 1
Guns: 3 light KEW, up to two slung missiles

Viper Mk VII (Canon)
Length: 32.3 feet (~9.8 meters)
Height: 9.7 feet (~3.0 meters)
Wingspan: 18.4 feet (~5.6 meters)
Crew: 1
Guns: 3 light KEW, up to two slung missiles

Thunder Mk I (The Hunted AU)
Length: 30.3 feet (~9.2 meters)
Height: 10.7 feet (~3.3 meters) combat, 8.9 feet (~2.7 meters) launching/landing cycle
Wingspan: 17.8 feet (~5.4 meters) combat, 20.3 feet (~6.1 meters) launching/landing cycle
Crew: 2 (pilot, EWO)
Guns: 8 light KEW, up to four slung missiles, internal chaff/decoy dispenser
Special: Carriers Raptor-type jamming gear

The Thunder is a slower, heavier, less maneuverable fighter than the Viper currently under development at the time of the Cylon attack. Designed for heavy firepower and to provide combat EW support to the more nimble Vipers, the programs future was uncertain. In the wake of the Cylon attack, only a handful of these fighters have been produced.

All dimensions are taken from the shows (canon for the Vipers, actual physical mock-up for the Thunder).

To fit in the Viper launch tubes, those lower stabilizers have to be variable-geometry. They are extended (as shown in the pictures) for combat operations and then elevate for launching and landing. This does increase the wingspan, but it is not enough to prevent the fighter from using the tubes.

MA

[masterarminas]

“Commander,” Danis answered holding one hand to he comm link she wore on one ear. “The station is hailing us.”

“On speaker.”

“Battlestar Scorpia, Cerberus Anchorage. Halt your attack immediately—this is a direct order from the person of Rear Admiral Carson Trahn. Authentication codes follow,” the loudspeaker broadcast, just as Tom walked back into CIC.

“What the frack? Admiral Trahn?” he asked Mathias and the Commander nodded his own unease. Carson Trahn was on the board of the Fleet Advanced Projects Bureau—he wasn’t a line officer and he certainly should not be out here.

“Admiral Trahn’s personal codes are confirmed and authenticated, Commander,” reported Danis.

“Cerberus, Scorpia Actual—we have not yet begun to attack, Cerberus. Your guardship launched an ill-advised attack upon us. The crew aboard Aurora should be grateful that we resolved that illegal and unwarranted attack in a non-lethal manner.”

“Scorpia Actual, Cerberus Actual,” the loudspeaker said after a few moments. “I believe that matters have nearly gotten out of hand—what is your clearance from Picon Fleet Headquarters?”

“Cerberus Actual—seven months ago the Cylons launched an attack on the Colonies. Picon Fleet Headquarters was destroyed. Every Colony was struck with hundreds of nuclear warheads—the Fleet is gone. Scorpia is escorting survivors in an attempt to link up with other Fleet elements.”

There was a long pause. “I . . . see,” the Admiral on the far end of the line said slowly. “Perhaps it would be for the best, Commander, if you were to come aboard and brief me in person. Proceed with your Battlestar to Docking Bay three—all other ships to keep their distance or they will be fired upon.”

“Cerberus Actual, Scorpia Actual. Do you mean to suggest that I should halt recovery operations on Aurora and her pilots in order to dock this ship? I am officially and for the record requesting permission to take a Raptor across instead.” Mathias asked the question with a frown on his face and a small shake of his head.

Once again there was a pause and then the Admiral sighed. “Very well. Complete your recovery efforts and then dock. We will be expecting your Raptor while Scorpia completes the recovery operation. Cerberus out.”

Mathias racked the phone, and Tom swore. “I don’t like this, Commander,” he whispered. “We nearly blow away a Fleet ship and crew, and he doesn’t seem the least bit concerned? Not about our intentions or the lives of the people aboard, but he wants us to hard-dock? Where if we were hostile we could tear out the bowels of that station from point-blank range. And he was just going to leave the people on Aurora and in the Vipers out there to die?”

He sighed and nodded. “Agreed, Tom. Still, he’s an Admiral—I’m a Commander. You have the conn—and stay on full alert,” Mathias added.

“At least ta-. . .,” Tom began, but Mathias chuckled as he unracked the phone.

“Flight Operations, CIC. Have Prince spin up a Raptor for transport—with his guard detachement onboard,” the Commander ordered and then racked the phone.

“My pilot is the monarch of Virgon—and well, Virgon law, enshrined in the Articles of Colonization, requires that he have armed guards at all times, in all locations. Even if Trahn objects, he hasn’t a leg to stand legally to order them back to the ship.”

Tom smiled and he nodded. “Good hunting, Commander,” he said with a salute.

“You have the conn, Colonel,” Mathias answered before returning the salute and exiting CIC.

[masterarminas]

“Captain Malcolm reporting to the Flight Deck as ordered, Commander!” the pilot snapped with a brisk salute—and Mathias shook his head.

“As you were, Prince,” the Battlestar Commander said as Chief Sinclair and the deck gang readied a Raptor for the short flight. “You can fly that thing, right?”

“Sir. I can fly it quite well,” Hamish answered with a broad grin.

“Technically, he can fly, Gremlin,” added another voice—that of the Raptor Squadron XO, Jester, Lieutenant Andrew Martens. “But he isn’t combat qualified yet—are you, Prince?”

“Not yet, Jester,” Hamish replied in a clipped voice. “Not to worry, I will meet my qualifications within the month.”

“He has been working on it hard in the simulators, Gremlin,” Jester added with a grin. “And he’s not a bad pilot—that I can say.”

“You plan on riding along, Jester?” Mathias asked, taking in the flight suit and holstered sidearm.

“Prince doesn’t have an assigned EWO yet, and since I’m his check officer, that means I pulling that job for the moment. So, yes Sir, Gremlin, Sir, I’m riding along. Your grunts are already loaded.”

“Well, then,” said Mathias. “Time to get moving.”

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

Prince eased the Raptor into the docking bay aboard Cerberus and he gently sat down the Raptor and engaged the magnetic clamps in one smooth motion. Hamish turned his head—encased in the helmet and he nodded. “Precision is very important for Search and Rescue Operations, Commander—I might not yet be combat qualified, but I know how to set down a Raptor very precisely indeed.”

“That you do, Prince,” the Commander said as the elevator began to lower to the hanger bay located beneath the flight deck. Unlike his previous excursion in a Raptor, this time the Commander wore his duty uniform—not a flight suit. And today, he wasn’t hands-on-stick as the copilot either. Of course, the transfer had taken just two minutes from leaving Scorpia’s deck to landing here, so it wasn’t as if the pilot had needed a second. “Nice landing.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Hamish answered.

Mathias unstrapped himself and walked back into the troop compartment. “Jester briefed you two?” he asked.

“Sir,” answered Colour Sergeant Haast, with Walsh giving a nod as well. “We are here in case things go south—an event to be determined by you, Sir.”

“Exactly, gentle-. . .,” but for the second time in two days a subordinate interrupted Mathias.

“Colour Sergeant, soldier, or troop, Sir, if you please. I am no damned gentleman with a commission from the Crown or the Quorum.”

The Commander glared at the man for a moment, but then he snorted. “I stand corrected, Colour Sergeant Haast. I don’t like this situation and if things do . . .,” Mathias snorted as he repeated the NCOs words back, “go south, then I want good men at my back. Until then, however, keep your mouths shut and your weapons holstered and slung but ready. That goes for you and Jester as well, Prince.”

“Understood, Commander,” the pilot answered as Jester just nodded his acknowledgement. The Raptor jerked as the elevator came to a halt in the hanger deck. “Open her up,” Mathias ordered and Jester unsealed the hatch and swung it open.

A deck crew were already rushing forward with a mounting ladder, but Mathias ignored them and he jumped down from the stubby wing.

“Commander Lorne?” asked the officer of the deck as he came over saluted. “Lieutenant Spence, Officer of the Deck, Cerberus Anchorage. If you will come with me—your crew will be escorted to the pilot’s ready room.”

“That won’t be possible, I’m afraid,” Mathias said as he fell in step with the young man. “Captain Malcolm is my aide at the moment, and the remainder of the detail is his personal security detachement—Virgon law, I hate to say.”

The officer paused and then he sucked in a deep breath as he saw the Prince standing there. “I . . . see,” he said. “Admiral Trahn wanted to speak with you alone, Sir.”

“Well, I cannot violate the law, Lieutenant—nor can the Admiral—simply because it presents an inconvenience. Now, either escort us to the Admiral, or I and my people will return to my ship and the Admiral can pay me a visit onboard her.”

The young man blinked and then he nodded. “This way, Sir.”

“What the . . .,” Jester whispered as they passed through a set of almost sealed bulkhead en route to the ladders up. Mathias echoed that thought himself. The hanger bay was filled with fighters—a very different fighter from the normal Vipers.

Two very large and powerful engines were separated from each other, each capped by a forward assembly ending in a nose cone with cannon muzzles protruding from the four cardinal points—for a total of eight. A lifting body connected the two engine pods with a cockpit—two cockpits, Mathias noted. And outboard of the engine pods, she carried a two pairs of wings—one sharply canted delta wing above and longer straighter wing below.

Lieutenant Spence grinned. “You are the first outside of Cerberus Anchorage to see her, Commander. This is the new Thunder Mk I heavy strike fighter—ready for final acceptance trials as soon as Aurora’s replacement arrives on station and she returns to the Colonies. Do you have word on that? They are overdue.”

Mathias and his men stopped and stared at the officer of the deck. Damn, he thought. They haven’t been told. “Lieutenant,” he said gently, “there will be no replacement from the Colonies—the Cylons attacked in force and destroyed the Fleet . . . and all twelve Colonies.”

Spence blinked. “That is not a very amusing joke, Commander,” he said after working his jaw.

“Son,” Mathias said as he laid a hand on his shoulder. “That wasn’t a joke—those ships of mine out there? They carry all the survivors I could save. I am en route to rendezvous with other survivors—but the Colonies are lost.”

The young man swayed and the blood drained from his face, but Mathias’s strong hand kept him upright. He stared into the Commander’s eyes, hoping that he could see that Mathias was lying—but the eyes filled with sorrow and rage told him it was true. Spence swallowed.

And then he ran over to a refuse can and vomited up his morning meal.

[masterarminas]

Mathias waited until the young Lieutenant recovered and wiped his mouth—discarding the small handkerchief in the refuse bin in the process—walking back over to the man he was supposed to be guiding.

“My apologies, Commander,” he began, but Mathias cut him off.

“None needed, Lieutenant—trust me,” he said with a smile, “I know the feeling of receiving it suddenly. These fighters,” he said with an appreciative grin, “are they ready for service?”

“Trials, Commander. They have been flight-tested, their avionics are installed, and all weapons are functional—but until Picon Command completes a one-year testing program, they won’t enter the Fl-. . .,” he grimaced. “That is to say, they still may have glitches in their systems that haven’t been found yet.”

“Lot of firepower,” commented Jester, “but with two engines they’ve gotta a lot slower to accelerate than a Viper.”

“Not as much as you might think, Lieutenant,” Spence replied. “The Thunders engines are larger and more powerful than those on a Viper—she can’t match a Viper for acceleration, but she’s got plenty of power and she is maneuverable. Eight guns forward and she carries the same ammo load as a Mark VII Viper for each of them. She’s got a longer range—bigger tanks, and having two engines eats less fuel than three—and she is equipped with four recessed hardpoints for standard Viper and Raptor ordnance,” he knelt and smiled. “Or each of those wells can hold a full sized Hydra.”

Mathias whistled as he crouched as well. “That gives her some options, all right. Why two cockpits? Vipers have always had one pilot—except for trainers.”

“The second cockpit is for an EWO, Commander. She carries a larger and more robust DRADIS system than even the Mark VII—not as long-ranged or capable as the one on a Raptor, but better than anything on any Viper in service. And she has the full jamming system of a Raptor. The EWO controls both and is responsible for DRADIS-guided long-missile locks,” he shook his head, “and the counter-measures pod.”

He stood and walked to the back of the fighter and nestled between the engines was an series of jettison ports. “She carries chaff pods, decoys, and flares, Commander. Damn shame she won’t ever get to the Fleet.”

“I don’t know about that, Lieutenant,” Mathias said as he laid his hand on the cold metal skin of the fighter. “You have crews for these aboard station?”

“Yes, sir. They sent out pilots and EWOs to learn how to handle these for the upcoming trials—a lot of it is simulator time though.”

“Good,” Mathias whispered. “I think we can find a use for these aboard Scorpia—work out those glitches and bugs, while we are it, Lieutenant.”

Spence looked down and then he shook his head. “I don’t think Admiral Trahn will let you take them—you aren’t on the list for them, Commander. And he is just a little bit,” Spence paused and he sighed, “a little bit set in his ways.”

“We will see, Lieutenant,” Mathias said with a sudden nod. “What is the complement of the Anchorage?”

“Three hundred Fleet personnel and two hundred civilians working for the government,” he answered promptly.

“That few?”

“Well, we are a classified research station, Commander,” the Lieutenant answered lightly. “I’ve kept you here too long; if you would follow me, I am certain that the Admiral is waiting.”

And following the Lieutenant, the five officers and men from Scorpia began to ascend the ladders.

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

A stout man dressed in the uniform of Colonial Fleet was ushered into CIC by the Marines. Colonel Jayne glared at the newcomer, who returned his gaze with fury in his own eyes.

“What the frack did you do to my ship!?” he bellowed.

“We prevented you from making a major mistake, Colonel Foeswan,” Tom said in a measured tone. “I am glad that it worked, because otherwise your ship would be a pile of expanding debris and five hundred eighty-three Colonial officers and crew would have lost their lives.”

Tom ignored the Colonel for a moment and he turned back to Marius Tyche. “Have the engineers reported any problems with removing the CNP and replacing it with the pre-update program?”

“No, sir. It should be completed in one hour and then the ship can power back up—her batteries are good for that long, Colonel.”

“Thank you, Mister Tyche,” Tom said as he turned around and planted both hands on the central console. “And now, Colonel Foeswan, why the Hells didn’t you get authorization from the station before you attacked us?”

The other ship commander blinked and then he sighed. “What makes you think I didn’t, Colonel? By all the Gods and Goddesses, this whole situation is just so fracked up,” he swore, running one hand through his thinning hair.

Tom inclined his head to one side. “The station ordered you to attack?”

“Admiral Trahn ordered me to disregard what you said about the Colonies and destroy you—with authenticated confirmation of that order, Colonel,” Foeswan said quietly. “What you said about the Colonies—is it true?”

Tom just nodded. “I thought as much,” the commander of Aurora said in a whisper. “Our relief is two months overdue, but the Admiral refused to even let us send a Raptor back to find out why. The man is a fanatic about security over his projects, Colonel. I’ll wager a hundred cubits that he is giving your Commander orders right now that this ship has now just joined the Cerberus Defense Fleet,” he finished in a sour tone.

“Like hell,” Tom snorted. “We’ve got Cylons on our ass in pursuit, Colonel—five Basestars. They will at least check this system,” he snorted. “The radiation takes time to work, and they don’t need that long to kill us.”

Mark Foeswan looked up, and his eyes were squinted. “Trahn isn’t going to let you go—he won’t authorize it.”

“So? He’s a pencil pusher, Colonel—never had a field command in his life. I looked up his record. He might have the rank to order us to stay, but you know the first thing I learned at the Academy a long time ago? Never give an order that will not be obeyed. Colonel, Scorpia and the ships we are riding herd will not be staying. It’s up to you if Aurora wants to come along—or stay here and wait on the Cylons.”

“He’s an Admiral,” Mark said through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, he is. But you know what? Putting a star on someone’s shoulder doesn’t make them as wise as Athena or as courageous as Herakles. I’ll trust Commander Lorne long before I trust this Trahn. And you’ve got a choice to make, Colonel. Come with us—where you and your ship might make a difference—or stay.”

Tom stood straight and he nodded to the Marines, who removed the shackles. “Either way, I think you need to get that ship back in fighting condition, Colonel. If you aren’t planning on attacking us again.”

“No. Not again, Colonel,” he lowered his head and he swore. “There are five hundred people on that station—forty percent of them civilians.”

Tom nodded. “How many can you accommodate?”

The man blinked. “Aurora can load almost all of them—but Trahn . . .,” and Tom cut him off.

“Don’t worry about Trahn, Colonel. Just get your ship fixed and ready to load those civilians—and any supplies we need.”

Foeswan nodded and then he came to attention and saluted—a gesture which Tom returned with equal gravity. And then he left, trailed by his Marine escort.

Tom picked up the phone. “Captain Aisne, CIC,” he said.

“Go, CIC,” the Marine answered after a moment.

“How long to draw up a plan to take that station by force, if it comes to it?” he asked.

“Thirty minutes?”

“You’ve got ten,” and he racked the phone. “Captain Danis. Inform Cerberus we have completed recovery operations and are moving to dock as ordered. Major Tyche, set a leisurely course—ten minutes should be adequate.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” both officers answered.

And Tom Jayne put his hands behind his back and stared at the DRADIS display.

[masterarminas]

“Sir. Commander Lorne from Battlestar Scorpia,” Spence reported after opening the hatch to the Admiral’s very spacious office.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” a voice came from within. “You may wait outside—I will speak with our guest alone.”

“Commander?” Spence said as he held the hatch open.

Mathias nodded. “He doesn’t post Marines on his hatch, Lieutenant?”

“No, sir.”

“Captain Malcolm,” Mathias said. “Your detail will remain—for the moment. You are in command until I return,” he smiled slightly. “Hopefully, I won’t need you to come rescue me.”

“Aye, Sir,” Hamish answered as the Commander stepped over the coaming and the hatch shut behind him.

Rear Admiral Carson Trahn sat behind his desk and he didn’t look up at Mathias’s entry. “Commander, I have new orders for your command—effective immediately your Battlestar is now assigned to this station. Have you supply requirements that need to be met?”

“No, Sir, Admiral; nothing pressing, that is; however, I think you are laboring under a misconception—Scorpia is not here to serve as your guardship. The Colonies are gone, Sir. The Cylons are in pursuit and they will eventually find us—probably quite soon. It is our duty as Fleet officers to safeguard what is left of the human race . . . not to defend a station full of secrets that no longer matters.”

Trahn looked up and his eyes narrowed. “Commander, it is not my habit to issue orders a second time—be warned I can have you thrown in the brig.”

“Admiral, with all due respect, Sir, you are a staff officer—not a line officer. And regulations stipulate that in a combat situation, which this situation is liable to result in when the Cylons do locate us,” if not sooner, Mathias thought to himself, “command devolves upon the senior Flag Officer of the line, or lacking such, the senior Battlestar Commander on scene. Which would be me. Admiral Trahn, Sir.”

“Except that the Cylons will not be attacking us, Commander. They are well aware of the effects of this star’s radiation output. Only shielded vessels and stations such as this are safe for Cylon technology.”

“The radiation effects are not instantaneous, Sir. Tests at Ragnar showed that beyond all doubt more than forty years ago. The radiation takes time to degrade the Cylon effectiveness—time in which they can and will launch an attack to destroy my ship and the civilian vessels that are under my protection.”

Trahn snorted. “None of which matters, Commander. I have taken measures to ensure that this Anchorage will remain safe from Cylon predation.”

“Sir?” asked Mathias as he felt his skin crawl at Trahn’s words.

“Did you think that Cerberus went unnoticed for seven months, Commander? No, I am quite aware that the Colonies have been destroyed, but to protect my people, I have established a . . . dialogue with the Cylons. My research interests them greatly,” he said as he removed one glove to reveal a gleaming chrome prosthetic limb. “We can no longer fear the integration of man and machine, Commander,” and from the shadows at the rear of the office, a single red-eye woke to light—and a Centurion, an old-model Centurion, stepped forward.

“You will remain here—or you will die.”

[Eternal_Freedom]

Oh bloody hell.

[dragon]

bad author bad cliff hanger.

[masterarminas]

Mathias’s eyes narrowed and he shook his head. “They are using you, Admiral Trahn—and when they believe that your usefulness has ended, they will destroy you.”

The Admiral snorted. “Cylons are not embodiments of evil, Commander—they are sapient creatures capable of individual thought and action. They have nothing to fear from the few of us that remain—so long as we show them that we are willing to have peace.”

“A peace bought with thirty-one billion dead human beings, Admiral?”

“Tragic—but it cannot be changed. It is my research that is buying you and your men a second chance at life, Commander. I urge you, do not make the wrong decision—my assistant here, he is not as . . . forgiving, as I.”

The Cylon raised his assault rifle, and Mathias shook his head. “If he shoots, my people will be in here—and yours, Admiral. How many of them know you have a Cylon on this station? How many of them know about the deal you have made?”

Trahn frowned. “Put down the gun,” he ordered, and the Cylon looked at him. “Put down the gun,” he growled, and the Admiral sighed as the Centurion lowered the weapon. “By far the majority of the people assigned to this station are short-sighted fools willing to die for the honor of the Fleet, Commander. They would condemn humanity to extinction out of pride and fear, whereas I will save our species. Even without his gun, the Centurion can kill you with his bare limbs—you know that.”

“Live as slaves,” Mathias snapped. “And only as long as the Cylons are willing to keep us alive—don’t you see that, Admiral?”

“You are like all the rest,” Trahn spat as he walked around his desk. “You ignore the big picture; you are blind to how our fear of technology has constrained us! I have developed limbs that can be interfaced with human neural systems—I can feel with this arm, Commander! Why should we be afraid of using this technology to allow those who have been crippled and maimed to live full and productive lives! The Fleet refused to allow these experiments—and we lost the technological high ground to the Cylons. THREE MONTHS! It took three months with Cylon aid for me to develop this!” he thundered, gesturing towards his arm.

“And how did you lose that arm, Admiral?”

“Lose? I didn’t lose my arm, Commander—the technology had to be tested. I allowed my Cylon assistants to remove my arm so that I could prove this technology worked,” and he smiled. “And I restored my own flesh by grafting it onto one of the Centurion Commanders. We are on the verge of being not two species—but becoming one merged race of both organic and artificial life, sharing among ourselves the best of both worlds.”

“You are insane,” Mathias whispered.

“And you are blind—our deaths will be the end of humanity, Commander. Is that better than ensuring the survival of our people? Than seeing us evolve and thrive? I will end this war, because in the end there will be no Cylon and no human—only what will come from this merging. A new lifeform will come into being, stronger, smarter, more resilient. And we will know peace.”

Only the thrum of the Cylon could be heard in the office and Mathias shook his head. “Captain Malcolm, did you copy that?”

“Yes, sir,” emerged the voice of Hamish from the wireless hidden in Mathias’s uniform jacket, as the hatch opened and he led Jester and his guards—and Lieutenant Spence—inside with their weapons drawn. “And Lieutenant Spence had it piped through to the entire station along with Scorpia, Anubis, and Aurora.”

Trahn’s jaw worked and his eyes went wide. “You fools—you are throwing away our only chance at survival! Kill them!” he barked at the Centurion.

“By your command,” the Centurion answered as he raised the weapon—Mathias dove behind the cover of the desk as the two body-guards of Hamish’s detail squeezed their own triggers. The heavy bullets slammed into the Centurion, Jester and Hamish and Spence adding their own pistol fire. The Cylon’s gun barked, tearing up a line in the carpet of the office as he raised his weapon, but his eye sensor shattered under the storm of slugs and the weapon went quiet; the Cylon fell over to the deck.

“I am in command here!” bellowed Trahn, as Mathias stood. “You will stand down, now, before you ruin everything!”

“I don’t think so, Admiral,” the Commander said as he held out his hand and Jester placed a sidearm there. Mathias chambered a round. “Admiral Trahn, I hereby find you guilty of aiding and abetting the Cylons, of multiple breaches of Colonial law, and of treason against the human race.”

“You have no authority over me,” Trahn snarled, and then his facial expression changed as the bullet caught him in the chest, and he looked down at the spreading red strain in astonishment.

“Debatable, Admiral,” Mathias answered. “Captain Malcolm—have you the wireless,” he paused as Hamish held out the portable system. “Thank you. Colonel Jayne—I want this station searched for Cylons. Get the staff aboard our ships and grab what we can. We may not have much time.”

“Marines are boarding the station now—Colonel Foeswan is with us, Commander.”

Trahn looked up. “They will hound you to the far corners of Hell, Commander,” he whispered. “You have doomed the human race today.”

“Admiral, I’d rather die a human being fighting for my freedom than to live as a half-Cylon slave. And so would these people,” Mathias placed his pistol muzzle against the Admiral’s forehead, and without another word, he squeezed the trigger; Trahn fell back against the deck, his legs twitching, but otherwise dead.

Mathias turned to Lieutenant Spence. “Lieutenant, let’s get your pilots in those birds on the hanger deck—I want them on Scorpia in the next ten minutes. Have you a manifest of the ordnance storage here?”

“I can pull it up on the system,” the Lieutenant answered as echoes of gunfire began to bark along the corridors.

“Commander, this is Captain Aisne—we are engaging Centurions on Deck Six—Communications. They killed the on-duty crew and have transmitted a message.”

Mathias winced. “Time is running out people,” he broadcast. “Get the staff and civilians aboard and what we can grab—where is that manifest, Lieutenant?”

“Here, Sir,” he said as the computer monitor on Trahn’s desk pulled up the screen. Mathias ran his finger down the screen and then he nodded. He lifted the wireless to his lips again.

“Colonel Jayne, have a transport crew meet us at Ordnance Storage Four—Deck Three,” he ordered and began to jog out into the corridor.

“And what are we going to find in Ordnance Storage Four, Commander?” asked Hamish as he ran alongside the Commander.

“A dozen nuclear weapons, Captain Malcolm. And I want all of them.”

[masterarminas]

“Commander, Captain Aisne,” the wireless crackled. “I’ve got Centurions coming out of the woodwork down here!” The bark of automatic weapons fire resounded in the background, followed by the whoosh and boom of a heavy rocket. “We are holding Primary Life Support—but they keep on coming.”

Mathias cursed. Sinclair and his men were emptying the Ordnance Locker quickly—but it was still taking too long. “Understood, Captain. Destroy the controls in Primary Life Support and fall back on the ship,” he ordered. “Lieutenant Spence, just where are they coming from?” The ‘and how the fracking hells did they get aboard?’ went unsaid.

He pulled up a schematic of the Anchorage on a portable monitor. “The lower twelve decks are restricted areas—isolated from the normal crew and accessed only by the Admiral and hand-picked research personnel. Most of them were on duty when you came aboard, Commander,” the young reported. “That section has their own Raptor hanger—the Admiral must have ferried them across a few at a time.”

Mathias looked at the schematic and then he blanched. “Is that an industrial fabrication complex?”

“Yes, sir. We are equipped to produce our own parts.”

“How long has that area been restricted?” he asked with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Over half a year, Commander,” Spence said, his face turning a pasty white. “You don’t think . . .?”

“Can we pull up the security footage from the recorders in that area?”

“I’ll have to override the Admiral’s codes,” the Lieutenant said as he frowned and began to access different files. “Got it, Commander.”

“Oh frack all of us,” Mathias whispered as the camera began to transmit. “That bloody madman allowed the Centurions to build a Cylon construction complex down there!” And the camera suddenly jerked and went dead.

Mathias picked up the wireless again. “All personnel, this is the Commander! We are leaving! Get aboard ship ASAP!”

Daniel Sinclair nodded and he barked orders. “We’ve got all of the nukes, Commander—there are still plenty of shells and missiles in there, though.”

“No time, Chief,” Mathias answered. “Is that the last warhead?”

“Yes, sir—waiting on a pallet for it.”

“Go ahead and get the rest back to Scorpia and stand by to separate from the station, Chief—leave that one here with me.”

“With you? Commander, the Colonel will have my hide if I leave you behind.”

“I’ll be right behind you, Chief. First thought, I need to arm this warhead for detonation.”

Senior Chief Petty Officer Daniel Sinclair sucked in a deep breath and then he nodded. “Holmes! Give the Commander your tools—everyone else move! See you onboard, Sir.”

“Arm it?” asked Spence. “Commander we don’t have the codes to arm it—only the Admiral had those.”

“The codes are a fail-safe, Lieutenant. But if you know how the weapon is designed, you can,” Mathias grunted as he triggered the auto-wrench and ratcheted off the bolts that held the access panel in place, “bypass the entire lock system and arm it manually.”

“The thing is, you still need codes only Battlestar Commanders have access to override the normal arming procedure—any mistakes, any at all, and the system locks down and the weapon won’t initiate fission upon detonation.”

Mathias peeled of the cover and he took out a pair of heavy wire cutters. “Here goes,” he said as he cut three wires and pulled free the code box. Underneath the box lay another panel, a covered key-pad, and a count-down timer which flickered on, showing 0:30, then 0:29, and 0:28. And three red lights slowly pulsed to the side.

“Is it supposed to do that?” Spence asked as he held a light shining down on the access port.

“Thirty seconds from removing the code box until lockdown, Lieutenant,” Mathias said as he pried up the key cover and tapped in a fourteen digit code then hit enter. One light turned green. He tapped in a second code, and the second of the three lights turned green. And then a third one—and the countdown timer suddenly blanked.

Mathias sat back and sighed. “Colonel Jayne, I’m setting the self-destruct on ten minutes—we need to be aboard ship and clear of the station by the end of that time. Make it happen.”

Without waiting for an answer, the Commander reached back in and pressed delay, one, zero, zero, zero, and arm. And the counter display spooled up to read 10:00, and then 9:59, 9:58, 9:57, as the green lights started to strobe.

“Time to go,” Mathias ordered as he stood.

[FaxModem1]

Damn, I'm sure the fleet could have used that manufacturing station. Now, they're going to be without the means to make any replacements in anything and they're fast running out of places to salvage.

[Dass.Kapital]

I have been reading and enjoying this tale as it unfolds immensely...

My one comment is that this last scene seems....odd....

The lack of seeming checks and balances in the system that has allowed the Station's commander to go off the rails as much as he had seems...strange. Perhaps there might be some back story information to indicate the state of the Colonial Government/Military-industrial set up to offer some light upon things?

Still, t'is your most wondrous tale and I deeply and sincerely thank you for your time and amazingly rendered tale.

Very much cheers to you and yours.