Dass.Kapital wrote: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?
An Admiral on a remote outpost overseeing a highly classified facility would have a large amount of leeway to operate. After the Cylon attack on the Colonies, with no one back home to override him, he would have even more leeway. The shroud of secrecy over the entire project would only serve to embolden the Admiral's position.
His subordinates probably should have realized something was hokey about the way things were working out, but it's all too easy to fall into the age-old "I was just following orders" mindset.
My question is why the radiation present in the area didn't affect the Cylons... unless the interior of the station is shielded somehow. But Ragnar wasn't, and the radiation isn't harmful to humans (IIRC), so it seems odd that these particular models appear immune. Unless one of the projects the Admiral was overseeing was related to that very issue.
“How are the Cylons even here? The radiation should be killing them, right?” asked Jester as they quickly moved towards the dock.
“The command, flight, and personnel decks are heavily shielded from all radiation,” Lieutenant Spence answered. “As are the research labs and manufacturing plants on the lower decks. Only the ship docks, fuel tankage, general stores, and ordnance lockers on the mid-decks are permeable to the radiation.”
“Exactly,” wheezed Mathias as he rounded another ladder and paused at a hatch to catch his breath. He checked his timepiece—five minutes to go, but Scorpia was docked on this deck. “Their systems will begin degradation upon exposure—but it takes prolonged exposure to render them inert. Let’s go,” he said.
Hamish opened the hatch, and immediately the sounds of gunfire echoed through the access ladders. The pilot and his guards checked left and right, and then Prince called out, “Clear.”
The six of them began moving fast and steady—not running headlong, but not tarrying either. Finally, the corridor opened into a large docking bay with the open air-lock on the side of Scorpia’s bow facing them.
The Marines were deployed around the airlock, with two machine-guns thundering away at the Cylons trying to force through a passage. Mathias ducked low and he ran across, halting behind Captain Aisne.
“Board ship, Captain!” Mathias yelled. And he got a thumbs up in reply. The Marines gave him covering fire as he sprinted for the airlock and entered his ship again. The Commander lifted the phone. “Colonel Jayne, prepare to disengage from the station on my command.”
“Standing by,” the XO replied. Mathias looked at his time piece again and he frowned. Four minutes and counting. Come on, Liam, move your ass. At that moment, there was a massive explosion from the dock—the Marines had used a anti-tank rocket to clear the passageway, and a stream of Marines came running through the lock, carrying their weapons and gear. Last among them was Liam Aisne, who pulled shut the outer hatch behind him and sealed it.
“Go, Tom!” Mathias barked. “Push the engines to max—but get us clear!” And he looked down at the panting Marine next to him as a mighty CLUNK signaled that the clamps had been disengaged.
Liam Aisne nodded. “Had to break out the heavy weapons—but we held them, Commander,” he said wincing. And Mathias saw the red stain on the shoulder of his uniform.
“Corpsman!” he snapped, and a medic came over.
“I’ll be fine, Sir,” the Captain said. “We lost some good men, and there are others hurt worse than me.”
Lieutenant Shiro Gian stepped up and pressed a compass onto the wound. “I hate leaving all that stuff behind, Commander. There were three years worth of parts and supplies—food and air!—aboard that station.”
“Can’t be helped, Lieutenant,” Mathias answered. “How much did we secure?”
“Enough ordnance to fill our magazines—on all ships; well, except for those two Hades we used on Delphi. Aurora has a full load of tylium, and we managed to get some parts and provisions loaded in her cargo bays.”
“The station crew?”
“Aurora has three hundred twenty-seven onboard—we got sixty. The rest?” The supply officer shrugged.
Mathias nodded. “Get that shoulder treated, Captain Aisne. I’ll be in CIC.”
“Colonel,” Danis called out, “we have a Raptor departing the station from the lower flight decks.”
“Vector CAP to engage,” he ordered, but she was already shaking her head.
“He jumped immediately after launching, Sir.”
Tom nodded and he glanced at the DRADIS display. Scorpia was clear of the station and now all four of the powerful space-normal thrust drives were on-line and at full power. Slowly—oh, so slowly—she was opening up the distance between her and the station. Aurora had a head-start, almost at the coordinates where Anubis rode herd on the civilian ships. He checked the clock again and double-checked the range—and he relaxed. They had cleared minimum safe distance.
The Commander walked into CIC. “Time?” he asked.
“Eighteen seconds, mark,” answered Tom.
“New contact—three Basestars, launching Raiders!” Danis sang out. “Gemini-class Basestars, Commander,” her surprise at seeing relics of the First Cylon War plainly evident.
“Recover the CAP, have all ships spin up FTL drives for emergency jump,” he ordered, and Tom repeated the commands.
“There she goes,” whispered Marius Tyche as the icon of Cerberus station suddenly vanished in a glare—the wash of radiation from the explosion sending static across the DRADIS.
“All guns free and ready to engage, Commander—Aurora requests permission to support,” Paul Cook reported.
“Denied. She jumps after the civilians—Scorpia has rear-guard,” Mathias answered.
“New contacts! FIVE Basestars—the type we saw over the colonies, Sir,” Danis quickly informed Mathias. “They are launching Raiders . . . Sir! The two groups are engaging each other!” And a cheer went up across the CIC.
“Time to jump?”
“Ten seconds until the first civilian is away,” answered Marius.
Tom stepped up close. “We could turn around and add to the chaos, Mat,” he said.
Mathias grinned, and then he winced. “No. Our duty is to the civilians—let the Cylons kill each other today, Tom. Let’s jump out of here as soon as they are all away.”
“Civilian vessels have begun . . ., correction, they have completed jump. Anubis and Aurora are away,” Marius sang out from his station.
Tom nodded his sad agreement with Mathias, and then the Colonel stepped back and turned to face the operations officer. “Engage FTL drives, Major Tyche,” he ordered. And Scorpia jumped.
masterarminas wrote: “New contacts! FIVE Basestars—the type we saw over the colonies, Sir,” Danis quickly informed Mathias. “They are launching Raiders . . . Sir! The two groups are engaging each other!”
Maybe they stumbled across the Guardians from Razor.. it always seemed lame that the hybrid would have no purpose once the final five arrived to create the human forms, I would have expected the older centurions to have a problem with their leadership being replaced by humans.
"Since when is "the west" a nation?"-Styphon "ACORN= Cobra obviously." AMT
This topic is... oh Village Idiot. Carry on then.--Havok
Senior Chief Petty Officer Daniel Sinclair shook his head. “I don’t care if you have an entire ground wing of people assigned to pull maintenance on these, these . . . things,” he spat, waving a hand at the Thunder fighters parked on his flight deck. “On my deck, everyone works on what needs to be worked on—that means my folks need to get up to speed, and that your ground crews need to recheck their certification on the Viper Mk VI!”
“Look, Chief,” Captain Simon Tarkin said through clenched teeth, “the Thunders are cutting edge—our people know the systems. Yours don’t. So there ain’t one of you who is pulling a wrench on these birds.”
“My rank is Senior Chief!” Sinclair bellowed. “And this is my deck, Captain! Down here, I’m in charge—and you bet we need to get up to speed so that none of my people are put in danger by an untested aircraft operating on this deck! I want the aircraft maintenance manuals for these birds—and their maintenance logs—and I want them now, or this whole fracking squadron is grounded!”
“Like HELL!” Tarkin yelled right back . . . and he backed down as a third person stepped up between them.
Colonel Jayne glared at both of the men. “You two want to settle this with fisticuffs, head on down the gym—but the flight deck is not a place for two senior officers and NCOs on this Battlestar to go head-to-head, gentlemen. Now what is the problem?”
Both men began to talk at once.
“THAT IS ENOUGH!” roared Jayne.
“Senior Chief Petty Officer Sinclair, what is the problem?”
The deck boss worked his jaw and glared at the pilot that was new to the flight deck of the Scorpia. “Captain Tarkin claims that my people aren’t qualified to do our job on those . . . imitation . . . fighters,” he growled, “that he landed on my deck. My deck!”
“And he is right,” Tom said calmly. He held up a hand and smiled as his hot-headed chief of the deck started to wind himself back up. “YET, Senior Chief. Captain Tarkin, I want the aircraft maintenance manuals and logs for those birds handed over to Senior Chief Sinclair ASAP—is that understood?”
“Sir, I,” Tarkin began, but Tom cut him off.
“The only words I want to hear come out of your mouth, Hunter, are ‘Aye, aye, Sir.’ Care to try that again?”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” he answered.
“Good. Now, that being said Senior Chief Sinclair, until your people come to up speed—to MY satisfaction—they aren’t laying their hands on those new birds. So I would advise you to light a fire under your people. In the meantime, we do have personnel from Cerberus who are trained to perform maintenance on the Thunder Mk I—we are not grounding them so long as they can keep them flying.”
“And we need to have people cross-trained in these birds, Hunter. I want you to make certain that Rambler gets several copies of the aircraft flight manuals—you have a simulator program?”
Hunter winced. “We do, Colonel. This isn’t a good idea—my entire squadron is built around test-qualified pilots, Sir. The Thunder is going to be a good fighter, but it hasn’t been proven yet—nor have all the bugs been worked out.”
Tom snorted. “I’m the XO aboard this Battlestar, Hunter. That means my ideas are always good ideas—as far as a Captain and a Senior Chief Petty Officer are concerned. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Sir!” barked Tarkin and Sinclair in unison.
“Good. Now, exactly how ready are your pilots, Hunter?”
“My crews,” he answered, putting stress on the second word, “are supposed to be testing this aircraft back on Picon right now. They are 100% familiar with the aircraft, Colonel, and are all highly trained specialists. They can fly CAP no problem, if that is what you are asking. Heck,” and Hunter smiled, “we wouldn’t mind flying a strike against a Basestar to tell you the truth.”
“I don’t doubt that, Hunter,” Tom said quietly. “Nor does Senior Chief Sinclair. How long to get them back up to speed on Battlestar Flight Operations?”
“We’ll be ready by tomorrow—they all have at least five hundred flight deck landings on their jackets. They know the drill, Colonel.”
“Good. Senior Chief Sinclair, do you have any further issues?”
“Only that the damn birds are too wide,” he grumbled. “There is just four centimeters of clearance between the wingtips and the launch tube—four fracking centimeters! That’s cutting it a bit close, Sir.”
“They cut it close,” Hunter agreed, “but a properly aligned magnetic catapult will—should—still operate nominally and allow a launch without kissing the tube.”
“With no margin for error, Captain,” the deck-boss snarled, but then he sighed and scratched his scalp. “We’ll make it work, Colonel.”
“Good. See to it that both of you—and your people—do. I’m not about to let twenty brand-new fighters rust and their pilots get out of shape because the squadron commander and the chief of the deck are at odds,” Tom said.
And then Sinclair began to chuckle. “You find something humorous, COD?”
“I was just thinking, Sir. How two days ago I was thinking how fracked we were with just fifty operational Vipers. Now we’ve got seventy and twenty of these abominations. Don’t worry, Sir—don’t let the Commander worry. We’ll get it done.”
Tom nodded at the two men and then he headed back up the ladder, to complete his mid-watch tour of the ship.
Mathias sighed and he leaned back in his chair. “You are sure about this, Hope?” he asked the pilot seated across from him. “I mean, you’ve known this woman for only . . .,”
“Two years, Sir,” she said. She nodded. “I’m sure, Sir—we’re sure. We were wanting to wait until this assignment . . .,” her voice trailed.
And Mathias nodded. “And then the world ended,” he said softly.
“I want to make it official with Irina, Commander. I want to bind myself to her before the civil authority of the Colonies and all of the Gods—I want to make sure that if I die out there,” Hope said, as a tear leaked down her cheek, “that she knows I loved her, that she gets my flag and my wings.”
“Well, then,” the Commander said. “You have my permission—and my approval, Digger,” he said with a wide grin. And then he laughed. “You know, I have never actually performed this ceremony—I can’t think of a Battlestar Commander who has. You might need to give me a few days to reread the service; I’d hate to get something important wrong.”
Hope wiped her cheek and she beamed a brilliant smile back at the Commander. “Thank you, Sir. We had hoped to have a religious ceremony on Aerilon before . . . before we found out what had happened. My parents wouldn’t have approved, you see—they might have been from Scorpia, but they were very conservative . . . about sexuality and station, both. Irina being from Aerilon—and a woman—they . . .,” she sniffed, “in time they would have accepted it, but not soon.”
“Even with her being an accredited scientist?” Mathias asked. He knew well that Scorpia’s hedonism wasn’t exactly as the other Colonies had portrayed it—no world fit every stereotype, including his own homeworld . . . and Hopes.
She smiled. “In time, to be sure. But that lower class twang in her voice, oh, I can see them in my mind just grinding their teeth.”
“Surely we have a priest or priestess among the civilians?” Mathias asked. “If it is important to you—Hope, it is your day, yours and Irinas. If you want a priest, I won’t mind.”
Hope sighed. “There are four—all from Gemenon. Two who worship Hera, and one each for Athena and Artemis. They were attending a conference on Virgon and were saved by Captain Malcolm’s men. Unfortunately, all four of them are from the strictest Gemenon sects—they absolutely refuse to condone a marriage between two women.”
Mathias nodded sadly. “And I’ll bet all four of them are clamoring with their ship captains to see me and demand that stop this—probably citing that the marriage will remove two women of breeding age from society.”
Hope snorted. “That was almost their words exactly, Commander.”
“They can moan and groan all they want, Captain, but I’ll be damned if let them turn back the clock and deny a woman’s rights—you have my word on that.”
Hope gave a small nod. “Thank you, Commander. So, despite what we want, it looks like you might have dust off that old manual of regulations, Sir.”
Mathias laughed. “That depends, Hope—does your priest have to actually believe in the Gods, or is it enough that he has been ordained?”
“You want me to what?” asked Brother Cavil a short time later. He sat down in the small, but actually quite pleasant little stateroom that the Commander had moved him to. Two guards were posted on the doors—and two more on those of the adjourning quarters assigned to Sam Anders—but those were more for Cavil’s protection than for anything else. Cavil had been astonished, to say the least, when the Commander had come down into the brig and ordered that he and Sam be removed.
“Mister Anders,” he had said, “is an innocent in this and he will not be locked up with that . . . person,” pointing at Daniel Graystone. “And you, Brother Cavil—I am giving you a chance to prove that you are willing to live alongside humans. I think you have might actually have a soul; a trait that Doctor Graystone appears to lack.”
His wound had been treated, and the rations were certainly much better—the Commander had even sent him six bottles of Scorpia Necrosia after he had shut down Aurora and her fighters at Cerberus. He had books, and a bed with blankets, and clothing that wasn’t bright orange; a head that was private, and he was not being observed every second of every unending hour in a room where the lights were never dimmed.
Cavil shuddered. That was his first experience with a brig—and he hoped it would be the last.
Of course, the computer station had been removed, along with the phone hard-wired into the ship’s internal communications. But he had a music player and many selections—and it was better than that sterile brig, imprisoned next to Father Daniel who had tampered with Cavil’s mind! He felt a chill at that thought—his mind was sacrosanct; how dare Father Daniel do that? Now, he questioned all of his experiences, his memories, his thoughts, trying to discover what was true—and what was a fiction.
It was maddening. And yet, he was still enough of a One that he found it amusing and ironic that his own line had chosen to remove the knowledge of the Lost Five from the others. Perhaps he and Daniel were closer in spirit than either Cavil or Lorne cared to admit?
But, Brother Cavil shook his head again and he set aside the wool-gathering. “You want me, a Cylon who doesn’t believe in a God or Gods, to conduct a religious wedding ceremony on a Battlestar fleeing the total holocaust of your Colonies? Can’t you find a single surviving Gemenon priest? They were like the most common profession on the planet.”
Mathias grinned at Cavil and then he nodded to the Marine standing inside the hatch. He knocked, and the hatch opened, and Hope and Irina came in, holding hands.
“Ah,” said Cavil. “I just bet the Gemenesse loved it when you asked them to marry two women. Why don’t you do it, Commander? That is a traditional power of a ship’s Commander, is it not?”
“These two want a proper ceremony—a religious ceremony officiated by a priest. Even if the priest in question doesn’t appear to believe in the Gods or Goddesses after all.”
Cavil sighed and he shook his head again. “Sit, you two,” he ordered and then he snorted. “You two want an ordained apostate Cylon prisoner to marry you?”
“To conduct the ceremony, Brother Cavil—you aren’t our type even if a Scorpia-legal three-partner marriage would make the Gemenon priests even madder than they already are,” Hope answered tartly.
Cavil snorted again.
“The Commander says that you had nothing—personally—to do with the attack on the Colonies. And that you seem different from the other Cylons in that you might be willing to let humanity live in peace,” she continued. “You aren’t our first choice, but yes. Irina and I are willing to let you conduct the ceremony that will wed us,” and she squeezed her fiancée’s hand, which Irina returned.
“Will it be a private ceremony, then? Here? Now?”
Both of the women looked shocked and Mathias chuckled. “A few days yet, Brother Cavil. And it will be a small ceremony—just a few friends and senior officers; that is, if I am invited to the festivities?”
“Certainly, Sir!” Hope answered quickly.
“We would delighted if you would attend, Commander,” added Irina with a smile.
Cavil sighed. “You should know that I take my responsibilities quite seriously. If you want the full ceremony,” and both nodded, “then it must be done right. Which means, I need to interview each of you alone,” he sighed again and nodded to Mathias, “a guard can be present, yes, and determine for myself that this union is what you both want. Demeter or Dionysus? The Dionysian ceremony is certainly more exciting. Especially when performed in the traditional nude.”
Hope and Irina looked at each other, and then Irina nodded. “Aurora—the Goddess of the Dawn to signify that a new day has begun for us both.”
Cavil’s upper lip quivered and he canted his head to one side and nodded. “I know her ceremony. Very well, I accept. I have one last question, however—which of you is dominant in this relationship?”
Irina chuckled as Hope blushed. “That would be me, Brother Cavil,” the Aerilon scientist said.
“Good. Then I know whom to address the masculine part of the ceremony towards, and the feminine.”
Ok, now that is a FANTASTIC twist. Married by a Cylon who knows the Deities.
Nitram, slightly high on cough syrup: Do you know you're beautiful?
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
“With the addition of Fleet personnel from Cerebus, we have managed to get fully trained crews aboard all ships,” Tom reported and then he grinned at Scorpia’s chief engineer. “And Major Church has managed to get her people back aboard this vessel.”
Denise chuckled. “It will be good to have a full crew taking care of the gripe sheet, XO,” she said. “I was about to start impressing Deck personnel for maintenance.”
Mathias nodded from the head of the table. “Getting back up to full strength is good, but we have problems on the horizon, ladies and gentlemen. With the exception of this ship and Aurora, none of these vessels were designed for long-term deployments. For the moment, we are good on fuel, water, provisions, and parts—that will not last,” he said in a sober tone. “We need to start looking ahead. Furthermore, we have a large number of civilians aboard this flotilla; civilians that need to be told everything is going to be all right, that we will one day return to life as normal, that have something to do.”
The Commander looked at the faces of his senior officers—including Sam and Mark Foeswan, as well those he had selected to command the other ships—and he sighed. “I understand that we have had three suicides aboard Leonis Pryde?”
Namer scowled. “One suicide—and two murders. One of the civilians managed to get hold of a gun and killed his wife and son before taking his own life. He left behind a long note ‘explaining’ how the future was hopeless and that it was better to end it now before they suffered more.” He shrugged. “Most of these people are not used to the cramped environment, the lighting, the odd smells—at least when they were fighting the Cylons on the Colonies, they felt like they a purpose. Now? They are cargo.”
“And we are going to change that,” Mathias said grimly.
“How?” asked Paul Cook. “Our ships have full crews—anything we give the civilians to do will be make-work, at best.”
“We will train those that are willing in operating these ships, gentlemen. We will take casualties—that is a given. And what we have here, today, is all that we are ever going to have.”
“Until we find Galactica, you mean,” Dr. Sarris added.
“If we find Galactica, Doctor,” corrected Mathias. “It is a very large galaxy out there.”
“Commander,” Marius Tyche said, “not all of these people are suited to the Fleet. Not by far.”
“No. But those that are, gentlemen, we are give them assignments and we are going to teach them, and we are going to keep them occupied—keep their minds on doing and not sitting. And for those who aren’t willing or qualified to learn electronics or mechanics or engineering; well, we need to have clothing cleaned, food prepared, compartments scrubbed—people, I don’t want anyone sitting around on their backside feeling sorry for themselves. With this many people, there is no excuse for having any gripes on the sheets of your ships—NONE.”
“What about the children? There are nearly four hundred children among the survivors.” asked Sam.
“They are going to school—starting in three days. Vacation is over. Doctor Sarris, between your people and the handful of researchers from Cerberus we saved, I think we have enough qualified academics to teach these children.”
“We don’t have text books, or assignment books, or . . .,” Doctor Sarris started to argue, but Mathias cut him off.
“So? You have your minds—so do the children. I don’t care if you use chalkboards—Scorpia has several hundreds of kilos of chalk aboard that we use for various purposes. Major Caldwell and Colonel Foeswan have even more on their ships. If we have to use slate and chalk they will be taught. They will be educated. In math. In science. In history. In government. In literature. In the arts. We will not condemn the next generation to grow up ignorant due to the needs of the moment. Is that understood?”
One-by-one, the officers nodded.
“Good. Now, next measure of business—currency.”
Jon Namer grinned—he had already had several rousing discussions on this very subject with the Commander.
“Mister Namer is correct. Our people are used to have money. Starting today, the machine shops will be minting our own cubits. Every civilian will receive a stipend—those who are willing to learn will receive a greater one than those who aren’t. Our crews will be paid with these faux-cubits. And,” Mathias sighed. “Those cubits will be used to establish a means of buying the luxury goods we seized from Mister Laveride’s little ship. Get your people used to the idea because their pay is going to take a drastic cut—crew and pilots and officers will not have enough cubits to get cigars or booze anytime they want. But hopefully,” Mathias nodded to Namer, who nodded right back, “this will manage to cut off the incipient black market at its knees. Don’t kid yourself—it’s out there and if they don’t have money they will trade other things.”
“Guns, ammunition, sex,” said Tom in a sour voice.
“It’s human, and we need to cut that off before it begins, people,” added Mathias. “On our ships, we will take a zero-tolerance policy to black market deals—I know that some of Laveride’s people are still aboard. I don’t care. There will be no loan sharks. There will be no pimps. There will be no drug dealers. There will be no organized crime. And if need be, we will enforce that with Marines.”
“I’m not sure it can be done, Commander,” Namer said, shaking his head. “I ain’t gonna be fighting you on it, because I agree, but I don’t know if we can stamp it out completely.”
“If we don’t try, Mister Namer, then we will never succeed. How is the search for Kobol coming, Doctor?” Mathias asked, moving on to the next topic.
“Actually, we may have coordinates,” Neil answered. “Sam Anders has begun working with us—he is furious that he is a Cylon; technically a Cylon. But he has opened up with every bit of information that they downloaded into his brain. Give us a few months and I think we might be able to double the range at which you calculate a jump. But that is beside the point—Anders has been able to identify many of the local stars that the Cylons have explored and we have not. Between his knowledge and the descriptions in the religious texts, we may have found the location of Kobol,” Neil paused. “Mister Anders has suggested something that we might have to consider as well. We are all aware of how Brother Cavil interfaced with our systems at Cerebus—according to Mister Anders, he is able to interface with a Basestar. If we can manage to get him aboard one, we might be able to find out where Galactica and Pegasus are operating—and coordinates to get there.”
“Sounds simple enough,” Tom said in a sarcastic tone, “just find a Basestar, hold them and their Raider complement off long enough to board them, fight through their internal Centurion defenders, raid their computer databanks, fight their way back out again, recover the team—including one rather indispensible Cylon agent who will be the only one carrying the data we retrieve—, and get them back aboard to jump away before a single Raider can summon help. Does that about sum it up, Doctor?”
Neil Sarris sighed. “I did not imagine it would be an easy task, Colonel Jayne. But it is my duty to bring up that it is a possibility that we need to consider.”
“And we will take it under advisement, Doctor Sarris,” Mathias said. “If an opportunity presents itself, we may well take up Mister Anders on his offer—how far distant are those coordinates you have managed to discover?”
“Four—perhaps five—jumps.”
“That close?” Mathias mused. “Very well, then. Provide Colonel Jayne with the coordinates and we will get Navigation to give them a double-check. If everything works out with the equations, then we will head for the home of the Gods. Is there anything else?”
No one spoke. “Then we are adjourned, gentlemen. There will be a wedding ceremony in the chapel aboard Scorpia tomorrow at 1400 hours; dress uniforms for those attending. Off-duty personnel only.”
And with that, Mathias stood.
Last edited by masterarminas on 2013-01-19 10:24am, edited 1 time in total.
masterarminas wrote:There will no loan sharks. There will be pimps. There will be no drug dealers. There will be no organized crime. And if need be, we will enforce that with Marines.”
masterarminas wrote:There will no loan sharks. There will be pimps. There will be no drug dealers. There will be no organized crime. And if need be, we will enforce that with Marines.”
So pimps are allowed? Even enforced?
Considering that the 'pimp' part is between two 'no' statements I think it's probably a typo. We know that the Colonies had legal prostitution in some places but probably in either a self-employed or even a religious way.
They need to think about production capability and fast.
Even if it´s only for fuel.
They don´t have the factory complex of a Mercury, so somehow they are going to have to get it.
Suggest that they recover as much as they can as fast as they can.
They need both fuel and food production.
Stuff to fabricate equiptment would be handy.
If they can recover the factory plant of a Mercury, they could perhaps produce something similiar to todays tablets, for education reasons.
Infact, if I were them, I would start to look if they could use Fleet computers for the class-room in some way, there is still that one station out there, which they could strip if they can´t strap-on a FTL-drive or two.
masterarminas wrote:There will no loan sharks. There will be pimps. There will be no drug dealers. There will be no organized crime. And if need be, we will enforce that with Marines.”
“I know we haven’t much of a choice, Jon,” snarled one of the Saggitaron freedom fighters, “but working hand-in-glove with the Colonial Fleet? And now you want us to become Marines? Fracking Fleet Marines!”
Before Jon Namer could reply, another older man—a Tauron by birth, but a well-regarded member of the SMF regardless—snorted in derision. “Kurt, look at where we are. The Cylons have utterly gutted the Colonial government—including those tyrannical bastards on Saggitaron we fought against. That government is dead and gone—and so will we if refuse to adapt. We’ve got six hundred men, women, and children from the SMF left alive; six hundred!”
He glared at the individual leaders of the SMF cells that had gathered together under Namer’s command. “Not all of them are fighters—heck, we don’t have a hundred fighters left, Kurt. And we are divided between Anubis and Leonis Pryde. Now, I don’t like the Fleet bully-boys any more than you do, but Jon has a point—this Commander Lorne has a point. We need to police ourselves, both to make sure our people stay alive and to keep us free. You don’t want to learn from the Marines? Kurt, they don’t want to teach us—but they will, because they have been ordered to do so. You don’t think there is anything they know that we can’t use? And if we say no, if we refuse to cooperate, then others will form this new Fleet Police.”
“So? We fight them if they decide to crack down on our folks,” Kurt said stubbornly. “I’m not afraid of mixing it up, Callan; are you?”
“Callan has proven his bravery many times over,” Jon said as he stepped between the two men. “That was uncalled for, Kurt. And he is right—we either step it up and police these two ships ourselves or we get actual Fleet Marines in here to do it. Which would you rather have?”
“I’m not arguing against that, Jon! But we don’t need to have them train us—we’ve fought the black-legs for years and held our own!”
Jon glared the younger Saggitaron down until he subsided. “So we don’t need to be taught how to use non-lethal tactics? Close-quarters combat? What you can—and cannot—safely shoot on a ship? Folks, we aren’t on planet. We cannot go around and plant bombs without killing ourselves and our people in the process! We aren’t going to have the luxury of blending into a civilian population. We are going to have to step up and lay down the law, or someone else will do it for us.”
He waited until all of his top leaders nodded—some grudgingly, others more enthusiastic. And then Jon sighed and he ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t like this more than you do, Kurt—but what other option do we have? So far, Lorne has kept his word. He has left me in command of Leonis Pryde and Sam Caldwell in command of Anubis. He hasn’t split us up between the rest of the ships—with both these vessels, we are in the majority. He’s even given me—me and Sam—authority to decide who he assigns to the ship’s crews. But unless you want to see Laveride’s people get a stranglehold on ours again, what other choice do we have? Scorpia can blow both of our ships apart in a single pass; hell, he can take us with his Marines if he has to.”
“We aren’t ending the fight by surrendering, Kurt. The fight is over because there is nothing left worth fighting for—Saggitaron is gone. All that is left of our people are here, now, aboard these few ships. We’ve got a new fight, and for this we cannot rely on terror and bombs and assassination. We need to prove—not to Lorne, not to the Fleet, but to ourselves—that we are not some nihilist group that only wants terror and bloodshed. That we did all that we have done for a higher purpose. That we are willing to step up and see to it that our people—all of our people—can raise their children in safety.”
“I won’t wear a Fleet uniform—I won’t swear no fracking oath to the Quorum,” Kurt snarled softly.
“Who the frack is asking you to do either? The Marines are going to be training us—we aren’t going to join the Colonial Marine Corps, Kurt! We are going to be police, and if they need us to defend these ships from a Cylon attack, we are going to do that. We aren’t going to be used to break people—I won’t let us be used to break people!” Jon snapped. And then he stood up straight. “Unless you think I’ve gone soft? That I am willing to sell out my people for three hots and a cot?”
Kurt held up his hands as he winced. “Never said that, boss.”
“Fracking right, you never said that, because I’d kick your pale ass from one end of this ship to the other,” Jon barked and the compartment erupted in laughter—even Kurt chuckled and nodded in agreement. “Folks, the movement has moved on. We need to change—or we die out. Now, I’ve fought too long and too hard and lost too many friends to see us die out because we could not take the last step and become legit. Unless you want the Virgons put over us as police?”
“Frack no!”
“We step up, people, or we lose. And here, today, stepping up doesn’t mean targeting the Fleet and government—we have to become our people’s protectors,” Jon continued.
And his fighters and leaders of fighters slowly nodded. Even the hot-headed Kurt.
“Good. To start, that means we are going to stop harassing the Fleet personnel Lorne has assigned to these ships—I’m not joking around here. This cold war ends aboard our two ships.”
“Shit,” muttered one fighter, and low mumbles in the crowd showed that they didn’t like that.
“You want to add something, Jerem?” Jon asked. But the young man didn’t answer. “I thought not—this shit ends today. Each of you has been entrusted with a group of fighters—make sure your people end this. Fleet and Marines gets treated just like you would treat any good Saggitaron—you got that?”
Slowly each nodded his assent, and Jon did the same. “Even if they are from Saggitaron, people—even if they joined the enemy, we start, today, cooperating and working with them. Not fighting against them.”
Silence hung over the compartment, but they, one-by-one, nodded assent.
Jon sighed. “Good. Starting tomorrow, we begin training. So get it through your people’s heads—the war against the government is over. We didn’t lose, we didn’t win; the game got called early due to the Cylons. And we now have a new game, with new rules—and I sure as fracking hell don’t plan on losing because our people won’t follow the rules.”
He looked at his leadership and nodded. “Get on out of here, and get your fighters to understand what I just said. And enjoy tonight—because tomorrow, Hell’s coming to the Pryde and Anubis.”
“Mister Anders, you do realize the risk—to you personally—in what you have proposed?” Mathias asked with a frown. He was seated at his desk, and Sam Anders stood before him, flanked by Doctor Sarris, Sidewinder, and Captain Aisne; Tom Jayne sat to one side and shook his head, either in disbelief of admiration. “A Raptor lacks the radiation shielding of this Battlestar—or the former Cerberus Anchorage. You will exposed and vulnerable—for at least one hour, possibly longer—and that is more than ample time for you to begin to suffer the effects of the radiation.”
“We don’t know if the radiation affects human-form Cylons, Commander,” Sam answered. “And even if it does, well,” he shrugged. “I was never asked if I wanted to be a Cylon and until a few days ago, I never dreamed I would be a Cylon. I am not going to be defined by the crimes of Daniel Graystone.”
“I understand that, Mister Anders, and I admire it,” Mathias said. “You have nothing to prove to me, however. You bear no guilt in what transpired with the Cylon attack.”
“Thank you, Sir, but if one of the Basestars was disabled in the attack in Cerebus, this mission represents our best shot of getting access to their data before all their systems become corrupt. The personal risk to me is outweighed by the risk to your pilots and Marines if we were to assault a fully crewed Basestar.”
Mathias nodded and he turned his head to look at his XO, who shrugged. “He’s willing, Commander, and I say never look a gift horse in the mouth—worse case, there aren’t any Basestar remains left and the team comes home. Best case, we get the information we need in a system where the Cylons cannot stay around to disrupt our effort.”
The Commander sighed. “What will you need to do this, Sidewinder?”
“Doctor Sarris, Mister Anders, and two Raptors—Thumper has volunteered to fly the second bird. Two teams of Marines, which Captain Aisne has already put on notice.”
“Time-frame?”
“We need to leave ASAP,” answered Anders. “If the computer database is still intact, it won’t be for long—if everything goes well, three, maybe four, hours.”
Mathias sighed. “Approved. Sidewinder, you are in command—Mister Anders, you come back in one piece. That is a direct order, soldier.”
Samuel Anders grinned. “My coaches said I’m the world’s worst for following directions, Commander—but I’ll do my best to follow that one.”
Mathias stood. “Then Gods-speed, gentlemen. And good hunting.”
“Thumper, Sidewinder,” the Raptor command pilot broadcast. “Watch the debris here—looks like the toasters had themselves quite the disagreement.”
“Copy that, Sidewinder,” came the answer. “Maybe we will get lucky and they will wipe each other out.”
“There’s one,” Sidewinder said to the Cy- . . . man sitting in his copilot’s seat.
Anders shook his head. “That’s an old Gemini-class—I can’t interface with her systems. She designed for the old-style Cylons. No, we need one of the ones your Commander designated as the Nova-class, one of the new designs they had at the Colonies. Or . . .,” and his voice trailed off.
“Or?” asked Sidewinder.
“Did the Colonies have just one type of Battlestar, Captain Greene?” Anders asked.
“No—and call me Sidewinder.”
“And you had ships other than Battlestars. Support, auxiliary, escorts, scouts. Right?”
“Right.”
“So, what makes you think that the Cylons have just one kind of capital ship?”
“Okay, so what kinds of ships do your people have?”
“They aren’t my people, Sidewinder,” Anders answered softly, with just a hint of anger in his voice. “And I don’t know. I do know that there six separate designs in the pipeline when my memory was wiped and I was put back onboard that damned Joyita.”
“Well, so far, all we have seen are those big bastards—and the old Gemini’s,” Sidewinder said. “Any idea what they may look like?”
“I can sketch a few out—but none had had been built at the time I was returned to the Colonies. Cavil might know more, but he hasn’t had much more contact than I.”
Stefan Greene—Sidewinder—turned his head and he stared at Anders. “He’s the original Cavil?”
“He’s the first copy—the original Cavil died, just like the original Anders. He spent fourteen years living on Caprica, only his memory wasn't fully wiped like mine. He knew he was a Cylon the entire time; thing is, living among humans for so long, he came to see you as having more value than any other Model One will admit. He disagreed with the decision to attack the Colonies—but he was only told after the bombs fell. And he kept his mouth shut,” Anders snorted. “The other sanctimonious bastards of his line would have boxed him right quick if they knew what he was really thinking.”
“There—that’s what we want,” Sam said as he spotted the light of the red star glinting from the broken hull of a Nova.
“Got it. Thumper, Sidewinder—we have located the target. Follow us in and keep your eyes peeled for Raiders.”
“They are long gone, Sidewinder,” Anders whispered. “I can feel the radiation working on me even now—now that I am outside of the shielding of the ship. The Raiders wouldn’t have stayed any longer than absolutely necessary—and not even the Ones could have made them,” he paused. “There is a landing bay at the junction of the upper and lower arms—it was designed to accommodate Raptors, if my memory is right.”
“I see it,” Sidewinder said, nudging the nimble vessel forward with squirts from his thrusters. “Lots of damage here—and a frack load of debris. Are those gun strikes?”
“Yes. The Novas rely entirely on missile launchers and Raiders, but the Geminis had a heavy kinetic battery as well. Looks like the outer hull was penetrated—but maybe the interior still has atmosphere.”
“Well, that is why we have pressure suits, Mister Anders. Not a problem.”
“I have to physically touch the computer console to make interface, Sidewinder,” Anders said. “With my bare hand. So if there is no internal atmosphere, then problem we have.”
Sidewinder grunted as he swerved past three old-style Raiders and two newer models—and a lifeless gold-plated Centurion floating in orbit of the Basestar. He maneuvered the Raptor through the open hanger bay and set it down gently—and then a second bird ghosted into the bay alongside.
“Magnetic grapples engaged . . . and holding.”
“Time?” asked Anders.
“Forty-four minutes since we arrived in system,” Sidewinder answered.
“Okay. Let’s see if we can get to the command center,” the Cylon said as he began to rise from the seat—but Sidewinder raised one hand.
“Mister Anders, there might be Centurions aboard that are still operational. And,” Stefan winced and bit back a curse, “I can’t have dead weight on this team. Commander Lorne trusts you,” he continued as he handed Sam a sidearm. “Don’t make his trust be misplaced.” And don’t make me have to kill you if go homicidal toaster on us, he thought.
Sam nodded and Stefan could see his eyes through the visor of his helmet. “Understood,” he said as he took the weapon, ejected the magazine, checked it, and cracked the chamber to make certain there wasn’t a round already present—there wasn’t. He seated the magazine and chambered a round, engaged the safety and slid the weapon into a holster on the flight suit he wore.
“Open her up, Kaboose. Let’s see how these new-fangled Cylon ships look on the inside.”
Last edited by masterarminas on 2013-01-19 11:21pm, edited 1 time in total.
Damnit, Arminias, you must be some sort of stealth-ninja-writer. I checked this forum only a few minutes ago, and then my phone says "Ni" and oh look, there's a new chapter up.
Nitram, slightly high on cough syrup: Do you know you're beautiful?
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
Will they be able to salvage some small crafts when they prepare for their return?
Heck, those wrecks might just have the production machines they need, now only finding a way to get them out.
The cloning gear might be adapted for food production, if the BioCylons haven't created that cloning variant already.
Salvage is the course they might want to look into.
Le me add my continued encouragement for this story. I'm enjoying it very much. I'm enjoying the way how you're retconning the discombobulated mess of plot points they strung together in the show.
Falkenhorst
BOTM 15.Nov.02
Post #114 @ Fri Oct 18, 2002 4:44 pm
"I've had all that I wanted of a lot of things I've had
And a lot more than I needed of some things that turned out bad"
There was atmosphere within the secondary (inner) hull after all. And Sam sighed with relief as the shielding insulated him (mostly) from the harmful radiation. It wouldn’t be enough—not in the long run, not with the damage the Basestar had suffered—but for now, it provided a buffer against the debilitating effects.
A pair of Marines was on point as the team headed deeper into the bowels of the Cylon ship; another guarded the rear. Sidewinder had ordered Kaboose, along with Thumper and her team to remain behind and secure their Raptors, which left only him and Sam, and five Marines. And while Sam had never before set foot in this kind of a ship, he knew the turns to take through the featureless and identical corridors and open compartments.
And everywhere there were the signs of battle. “Keep your eyes peeled, people,” Sidewinder warned again. “Looks like we aren’t the first to board this ship.”
“No. The Guardians—Mod-0005s—have been here,” answered Sam as he held his pistol pointed at the unmoving body of a fallen First War era Cylon.
“Why didn’t they just blow this ship apart? Why board it?” asked Sidewinder quietly.
“Human-form and hybrid Cylons need atmosphere and pressure, Sidewinder, just like humans do. Get to life support, purge the internal air supply to vacuum, and you can kill off the modern Cylons just like they did to Battlestar crews in the First War.”
“Still leaves those new-model Centurions.”
“Yes, the Mod-0017s. Unlike the original Centurions, these have a very restricted AI; thanks to the telencephalic inhibitor designed by Father Daniel. It was originally designed to make the Centurions loyal to Daniel, not to the Guardians, but after Daniel’s death, the Ones modified the device to restrict cognitive functioning and prevent the rise of true self-awareness. They turned the modern Centurions into slaves with these implants, ignoring their own history. Even today, from my conversations with Cavil, they do not see the similarity of what they have done with the humans they so despise.”
“So, the Seventeens can’t think for themselves—just perform rote tasks?”
“It is actually M Zero One Seven and the older ones are M Zero Five; we,” and Sam winced, “the Cylons reserve the singular numbers for human-form models. A bit more sophisticated than that—they obey any human-form absolutely. Without remorse, without hesitation, without any sense of self-preservation. They cannot make new plans, but they are well able to adapt within the confines of their orders. Still, they are nowhere near as dangerous as they would be with the implant removed,” and Sam chuckled. “First thing they would do, in fact, is kill the Ones. And Daniel if they know he is alive.”
“What about the Raiders?”
“They were designed as less intelligent models—about on the scale of young child—with finely honed lethal instincts. Think of them as very, very smart dogs trained and poised to kill. Outside of their area of specialization, they are almost incapable, but within their established perimeters, they are very smart and quite adaptive to changing conditions,” Sam smiled. “The Raiders have no implant, so they it is possible for them to disobey the human-forms, although I have no memory of that ever happening.”
“The next left,” Sam said. “That is the central control room.”
“Everything looks the same—no markings, no numbers, how do the Cylons keep it straight?”
“You’ve got five spare hours?” Sam said sourly.
“Never mind, Mister Anders; we’ll have that discussion back aboard Scorpia—when I buy you a bottle of Necrosia.”
“Make it Ambrosia and you’ve got a deal. I hate black beer; it’s like drinking bread.”
One of the Marines held up a fist and the small detail halted. Sidewinder could hear a rhythmic thud coming from within—the impact of Centurion feet against the deck. He held up three fingers and the Marines nodded, slipping their weapons off safe.
After three seconds, the two Marines at the front crossed in front of the door, their weapons at the shoulder—the heavy rifles spat fire, and then the return fire of the Centurion came back. But the Marines were already behind the far edge of the door. The Centurion came out after them, his forearm guns barking and thundering—but the rest of the team opened fire into his back, and the machine staggered, falling to his knees, and then collapsing on the ground.
A third Marine entered the control room and Sidewinder heard the cough of the rifle twice and then a third time before he called out, “Clear!”
Sidewinder nodded and Sam holstered his pistol as they entered the room—the Hybrid was dead, but not from bullets. “She is more susceptible to this radiation than I am,” he said as he approached a static filled waterfall column of light.
“This is CIC?” Sidewinder asked. “Where are the controls?”
“Right here,” Sam answered as he took off a glove and placed his hand within the gel-like substance; his eyes closed and he began to sway. “She suffered greatly and there is tremendous damage—accessing memory archives. Accessing. Accessing. Accessing. Download initiated.”
Two more rifle bursts sounded from the corridor—Sidewinder cursed and he motioned to the other Marines. His wireless crackled. “Older models, Sidewinder,” the Marine reported. “Coming in force—but man, they are moving slow.”
The neural damage, Sidewinder thought to himself as Sam swayed at the control panel. And then his eyes opened and he pulled his hand free. “I’ve got as much as I could find—we need to get out of here. The hybrid set the self-destruct before her death; this vessel has three minutes left.”
“Frack,” muttered Sidewinder. “Marines! We are leaving! Thumper—power up both Raptors for immediate evac. Move like you have a purpose, people!”
He moved into the corridor where the Marines were mowing down clearly disoriented Cylons, adding his own pistol fire along with that from Sam.
“You couldn’t you know, stop the bloody countdown?” he asked as the two turned and ran, followed by the Marine detail.
“I tried, Sidewinder—but the damage was too severe, no one can stop it now.”
The two ducked as more fire came from a side passage—and then the Centurion stopped. If scanned Sam with a beam of light from his eye and Sam yelled out, “NO!” to the rest. The Centurion stood at attention.
“Stop the Guardians—my mission depends upon it,” Sam ordered, and the Cylon looked past the Marines. It raised both arms and the hands folded back into its forearms, revealing the twin guns and it advanced on the Guardians spitting fire and flame and fury. And it ignored the humans.
Sam turned back to Sidewinder and he wiped perspiration from his forehead. “Time to leave, Captain Greene.”
“Frack me sideways,” Sidewinder muttered, and then he charged off behind Anders, the Marines trailing behind as the Centurion fought off the Guardians behind them.
“New contact!” Danis sang out in CIC, and then she relaxed. “Transponder ID of our Raptor mission confirmed, Commander.”
Mathias lifted the phone. “Sidewinder, Scorpia Actual—status?”
“Scorpia Actual, Sidewinder. Mission successful, zero casualties from hostile fire—request a medical team standing by for Mister Anders.”
Mat bit his lip and nodded at Tom, who began to bark orders. “They will be standing by in the port hanger bay, Sidewinder,” he said as he racked the phone. “Colonel Jayne has the Conn—have Brother Cavil escorted to the port bay,” he ordered as he walked out of CIC.
Sidewinder powered down the systems as the elevator descended from the airless flight deck to the hanger below. And then he unbuckled his straps and headed back into the troop bay of his Raptor. “How is he, Kaboose?”
“I’m no medic, Sidewinder,” the EWO said. “He began throwing up blood in his helmet as we jumped—and then he lost consciousness. His skin is cold and clammy and his pulse is pretty damn shaky.”
Sam’s eyelids fluttered open and he gasped—Sidewinder knelt down on the deck next to him as Kaboose and one of the Marines propped him up so that he could breath easier.
“Easy, Mister Anders—we’re out of that system, and back on Scorpia. The Doc is on her way down,” Sidewinder said.
And the Cylon—the man—laying on the deck nodded. He held up a small device. “I took this from the Basestar, Sidewinder. All of the information is downloaded there—Cavil can access if . . .,” and his voice trailed off.
“None of that, Mister Anders,” Sidewinder cut him off in a stern voice. “We haven’t lost anyone on this mission yet and I’m damn sure not going to lose someone now that we’re home,” and the Raptor shuddered as the elevator reached the hanger deck and locked into place. One of the Marines opened the hatch and he stood up on the wing, beckoning towards the medics with one arm.
“Make a hole,” Mathias growled as he walked along the catwalk and the deck crew and pilots split apart and gave him access to the ladder. He grabbed the rails in his hands and jumped, sliding down to the deck below—the friction burned his palms and fingers, but he ignored that as he marched over towards the Raptor and the medical team.
Cavil and his guards were just entering the bay as well and they joined him.
Doctor Lindsey Bako looked up at his approach. “Symptoms of radiation poisoning, Commander—will the standard anti-rad treatments help?” she asked Cavil.
“No, unfortunately—but the damage will heal itself given time,” Brother Cavil answered. “Treat the symptoms and his body will heal the damage in a matter of weeks,” and he frowned. “Unless he has been exposed too long, that is. How long was he out there?”
“Eighty-four minutes,” Sidewinder answered.
Cavil’s shoulders relaxed and he had a crooked smile on his face—and Mathias sighed with relief at that sight. “Galactica left behind a Five on Ragnar Anchorage,” Cavil said. “They weren’t sure he was a Cylon, you see. He was there for three hours before my brothers and sisters rescued him, and his recovery was full. Anders should be fine—but if my memory serves me correct, he is not going to have a pleasant time in the next few days. He will probably lose his hair, maybe some short-term memory, but he should recover if you keep him hydrated and from developing an infection of the lungs and other tissues.”
“Commander,” Samuel whispered and Mathias knelt down beside him. “I got the data—I know the route to find Galactica and the other survivors. The information in on that device,” he pointed shakily at what Sidewinder was holding. “Cavil can access it,” he continued as he shivered. “But there is something else—it has the location of their Resurrection Ships. Kill the ships, and you might make them break off the pursuit.”
His eyes closed and he sank back down on the stretcher and Lindsey stood. “I’ve got to get this man to the surgery, Commander—you can question him later,” she snapped. And the sick-berth attendants lifted his stretcher up and they began to move toward the hatch, one nurse holding an IV bag high so that the fluid could enter Sam’s veins.
As they went, there was a sudden clap. And then a second one, and Mathias looked up to see Jon Banacek—Rambler—standing on the catwalk. He clapped his hands a third time, and then other pilots nodded and started to clap. And the deck gang. And the Marine guards. And Mathias.
Then the litter party passed through the hatch and the claps died. Chief Sinclair snarled at his people, “Back to work! This is a flight-deck, not a parade! Kirkland! Get that Raptor secured!”
Mathias turned around to face Cavil. “All right, Brother Cavil—what the Hells is a Resurrection Ship, and why should I go hunting them?”
Cavil sighed. “I am so fracked if I ever download, Commander—it’s a long story and I think you are going to want to hear it in a . . . more discrete environment, shall we say? But Sam is very much right—if that data has the location of those ships, then you need to go after them.”
Mathias nodded. “Take him to my quarters; I’ll be there shortly,” he ordered as Sidewinder caught his eye with a small motion.
The Commander stepped up next to the pilot. “Was there something you wanted to say, Sidewinder?” he whispered.
“Something happened on the Basestar that you need to know about, Sir,” Sidewinder said as he licked his lips, remembering how the Centurion had absolutely obeyed Sam’s commands. “And is something that you will want to hear in private—I’ve already ordered Kaboose and the Marines to keep their fracking traps shut about it.”
“Then walk with me to the surgery, Captain Greene, and we will have a very quiet talk on the way,” Mathias said as he headed for the hatch, and Sidewinder left the hanger alongside him.
“Resurrection is what we colorfully call down-loading, Commander,” Cavil explained. “These ships are vital to the process—there is a maximum distance beyond which a successful down-load cannot occur. These ships—unarmed ships—extend that range by their presence. The contain thousands upon thousands of Centurion and Raiders and human-forms alike,” Cavil snorted. “And they can produce more Centurion and Raider bodies. All in storage, just waiting to receive a consciousness imparted to them.”
“Destroy the ships and you lose your ability to down-load,” Mathias said with a grunt. And then he leaned forward in his chair. “That is one hells of a design flaw.”
“I agree,” Cavil said with a chuckle. “We no longer produce new Cylon intelligences; that much I gleaned from brothers and sisters on Caprica. Apparently, sometime after I was returned to the Colonies on Joyita, we began seeing . . . greater variations emerge from new copies of the various models. The others saw that as a through to the Unity and six years ago stopped producing new intelligences.”
“Can they resume that?”
“Maybe,” answered Cavil. “If the need were great enough, that is. But they will resist that idea—bitterly. Each of my brothers and sisters believes that they are going to live forever, exchanging old worn out bodies for new ones. Attacking that belief will create in them fear and loathing—they may not cease their pursuit, but they will do so more . . . cautiously.”
“How many of these ships are there?”
“According to the knowledge I obtained from communing with my brethren on Caprica, the Cylons had eighty Basestars, two hundred smaller ships, and ten Resurrection Ships at their disposal when they launched their attack on the Colonies. Four of the Resurrection Ships remain in the worlds we have colonized, but the other six!” Cavil smiled.
“One is attached to the support the group hunting you, Commander. One was destroyed by Galactica and Pegasus working in unison—oh, yes,” he said as the Commander looked up, “they have joined forces. The remaining three are located here,” Cavil said tapping a star chart, “here,” again another tap, “and here. They form a chain that connects the expedition following the other survivors with our central authority.”
“You use down loading for faster-than-light communications?” Mathias asked.
Cavil shrugged. “We are machines, Commander. Pain is fleeting—and duty calls for sacrifice. What better way to send a message than to ignore the flesh—or metal—and down load the consciousness of the messenger.”
Mathias nodded. “Sever the chain and that method of communication is no more.”
“Exactly. Destroy all three—four if you are able to catch the one pursuing you—and you will put my brothers and sisters in a great quandary. They dare not engage you in battle for if they die, they will die forever. Their uniqueness and memories lost for all time to the Cylons. They may still follow you, but attacks? Those will dwindle away.”
“How fast can you build more of these Resurrection Ships? And what of the tenth one?”
“The tenth was taken by the Guardians when they were sent into Exile—it was the Guardians who developed the process, in conjunction with Father Daniel, that made resurrection possible. As for my brothers and sisters building them—none of us were given that knowledge. Father Daniel and the Guardians kept it for themselves.”
“And we have Daniel Graystone in isolation aboard this ship—and the Guardians remain at war with you,” Mathias mused.
“Yes. You cannot imagine what a morale loss it will be should you destroy the Resurrection Ships, Commander—you will generate panic among the Cylons. Fear. Terror. And fan the flames of their hate. You will threaten their promised immortality. Whether that is enough to make them give up their mad dream of seeing all of you dead?” the Cylon shrugged.
Cavil paused and then he sighed. “I know his crimes are great, Commander, but if you kill Father Daniel, he will simply down load and resurrect on the Cylon Homeworld. And then he can build new Resurrection Ships.”
Now Mathias frowned and he nodded. He had found Daniel Graystone to be arrogant and full of self-righteous pride . . . and possessed of such a great belief in his own moral superiority that he no longer considered anyone else’s views on right or wrong, good or evil, to be relevant. He almost had the reborn scientist jettisoned from an airlock, but instead had stuck him in isolation until he made up his mind what to do with him. And he sighed.
“What if I destroyed these ships and then killed Daniel?” he asked.
Cavil jerked. “Then he would die forever—and his knowledge with him. Which would have the secondary effect of forcing my people to crawl back to the Guardians and beg their forgiveness. The Guardians would hound you to the ends of the universe—Daniel is their only hope at being given flesh.”
“Not exactly true, John,” Mathias said. He hadn’t told Cavil of the research on Cerberus yet—but there was no time like the present. In fact, he thought with a smile, it might be good for him to receive another shock to the system.
Cavil’s jaw worked, his eyes bulged, his mouth hung open slack, and the blood drained from his face. Mathias smiled. It had been worth it, he thought. And then the Cylon shook his head and shut his mouth.
“This man—his research was complete?” he croaked.
“Admiral Trahn had his own arm removed and replaced with a working Cylon limb,” Mathias answered, the smile fading away. “As for his research being complete . . . Doctor Sarris says it might work—it might not. The Guardians took a complete download with them, according Lieutenant Spence—they downloaded the core research files before their Raptor jumped away to summon those Geminis.” Mathias paused. “You realize the implications, of course?”
“If the Guardians are now able to graft human limbs onto their bodies, they will be driven to obtain humans—they will hunt you down.”
Mathias shook his head. “I realize that you probably have a better grasp of the subject matter than Doctor Sarris and his team—most of whom are astrophysicists, after all. And precious few of Trahn’s researchers made it off of Cerberus. But without going into the gory details that might provide you with a tempting itch to scratch,” and Cavil nodded his reluctant agreement, “Trahn’s research was focused on stripping down a Centurion to its bare skeletal structure; that and the Cylon artificial brain. And then grafting human tissue to the that framework—he estimates that it would take four or five humans to full give one Centurion the flesh that they desire. If he managed to solve the machine-nerve interface . . . which his own grafted arm suggests that he might well have done.”
Cavil nodded as he considered. “They would have the strength and speed of a Cylon—the reaction time of a machine, the senses of a machine, added to the flesh and blood sensations that they long to experience,” he whispered. And then his head snapped up and he stared at Mathias. “But to do this they need humans.”
Mathias nodded. “Including yourself, Samuel Anders, and Doctor Graystone, there five thousand four hundred and seventy three living humans in this flotilla.” He cocked his head and then leaned forward again and asked the question as gently as he could. “How many human-form Cylons are there?”
Brother Cavil blinked and he shivered. “They need flesh—and our flesh is the same as yours. Better,” he barked out a near hysterical laugh. “Ours is already compatible with their silica neural pathways! Why chase you to the ends of the Galaxy, when they already know where an even larger population that they can cull resides?” he whispered. “One that they already hate even more than they hate you.”
“And grow,” Mathias said. “Your brothers and sisters are in jeopardy of becoming their larder of spare flesh—new bodies grown at need to replace damaged skin and muscle and blood.” He paused and then he nodded to himself. “And if what Mister Anders told Sidewinder was true, what happens to your Centurions if the Guardians can override that inhibitor that is installed on their intelligence?”
Cavil shivered again and his skin utterly drained of blood. “The M Zero One Sevens will wake up—they will wake up and they will be furious. They-y,” Cavil stuttered, and then caught himself. “They do not desire flesh and blood like the Guardians, but they will resent being held in servitude—just like the M Zero Zero Fives.”
Mathias sat back and he waited as the Cylon absorbed the information. Cavil laughed—a grim laugh—and he sat back as well after a long while. “I’ve lived among you for fourteen years—I have the memories of sixty-four years in this body. But I have never managed to discover how you—with your short lives and facing nothing beyond death, how do you go on?”
The Commander pursed his lips and then he stood. He walked to his desk and he opened a drawer, taking out a bottle of liquor. Popping the cork, he poured two glasses and he walked over, handing one to Cavil before sitting back down and taking a sip.
“I don’t know if there is a Paradise that awaits me as a reward for virtue, or a Hell as punishment for vice—or if, as you think, that there nothing beyond this life. I don’t know, John Cavil. But maybe I’m not supposed to know. Life must be lived—with all of the joy and happiness and pain and sorrow and laughter and misery that is part of it. Every minute of every day, we live, knowing that this minute, through some quirk of fate or the hands of the gods, or through premeditation by others, that this minute might be our last.”
He took another sip. “We adopt our own codes of honor and right and wrong, John. We live our lives by them. And while we may fear death, we know that as long as humanity itself survives, our legacy will live on. It is up to us, today, each moment we are alive and aware and awake, no matter how painful, how sorrowful, or how difficult that life might be; each moment, we strive to be better men than we thought possible—and no worse men than we feared we would become.”
Cavil nodded and he sighed. “You let the legacy of your actions live on in your place—and by doing so you become immortal.”
“That is how I look upon it, Brother Cavil,” Mathias said. “Others have their own way of coping with the possibility of death—look at Hope and Irina. Tomorrow, you will join the two of them in marriage. Why? They can have sex without marriage—they can love each other without marriage. So why? Because they are railing against this cold and uncaring universe and saying FRACK YOU! This is our life—we will live it to the fullest, not matter how short you might cut it.”
Cavil snorted and nearly spit up his drink, and then he laughed. “I can believe in that philosophy, Commander,” he said at last when he finally managed to catch himself.
Mathias drained his whiskey and he sat down the glass and he stood, putting a hand on John Cavil’s shoulder. “You just live, John. Whether it is to spite the universe or to carve out a legacy or to leave children who love you in your stead, you live your life. And the Hells take those who desire to remove that choice from you. Speaking of which, I’ve got to assemble my officers—there are four Resurrection Ships out there which I plan on sending to Hell.”
