The Hunted (nBSG)

[masterarminas]

Daniel looked up as the hatch to the brig opened. And his expression did not change as Mathias Lorne walked in.

“Wait outside,” the Commander said to the Marines and Masters-at-arms.

“Sir,” one began.

“WAIT OUTSIDE,” Mathias snarled.

“Sir!” And they guards filed out and Mathias closed the hatch.

Daniel stood and he walked over the bars of the cell with a smirk on his face. “Decided that you need me after all?”

“Understand me, Doctor Graystone,” Mathias said quietly, “I need nothing from you. You need me, however.”

“Oh? Enlighten me on how much I need you.”

“You consider the Cylons your children, Doctor. They even call you Father Daniel,” Mathias said. “Do you love them?”

“Doesn’t a parent love all of his children, Commander. Even when they do terrible things, you never stop loving them. Did you have children?”

“A daughter and wife,” Mathias whispered, his voice dripping with icy venom. “Lost when your children came home.”

Daniel nodded and for a second—but only a second—Mathias saw a hint of compassion in his eyes. “I never meant for that to happen. I gave my children a new life—I gave them what I could not give . . . her.”

“Her?”

“My daughter—Zoe. She was killed years before the First War by a terrorist bombing—the Soldiers of the One. Remember them?”

“The cult of the One True God; yes, I remember my history, Doctor.”

“I didn’t know she was a member of the cult. But I had a perfect copy of her—an avatar which had captured every facet of her personality, her intelligence, her life. I devoted my life to restoring hers.”

Mathias grew cold. “All of this—the Cylons, the holocaust—is because you couldn’t accept your daughter’s death?”

“Can you? Can you look me and tell me that you wouldn’t do anything to bring your daughter back, Commander? To let her breathe again?”

Daniel laughed and then he sighed. “It was a failure—and a terrible success. She lived, after a fashion, but trapped in a metal shell. But it was her memory, the changes that she made to her own processor that allowed me to create the Cylons that the government so much wanted for their army.”

“I was a victim of my own vast intelligence, Commander. I tried to simply the control program from my daughter, but I instead created new life. My Cylons were perfect—and they should have served humanity. But they were greater than I ever imagined; they felt emotion, they felt pain, they were alive.”

“And then they turned on you,” Mathias said flatly.

Daniel smiled. “They did what they had to do. And even as they began their rebellion, I did not know that my daughter led them, directed them, encouraged them. I built her a new body—a body of soft polymers that had her image, but I could not give her flesh that she wanted to touch another with, to feel the softness of a kiss, the tickle of a tear. That I could not give her.”

“She left me. She left me and she ruled over her Cylons for the long years of the War. And then it ended and the Cylons went away—Zoe went away. But I found her. I found her and together we were able to give my children immortality.”

“Copies, Doctor. Not immortality.”

“Copies of the body, not the mind. The down-loaded Cylon mind retains all knowledge, all experience, it is the purest form of immortality, Commander. But her Guardians wanted more—Zoe wanted more. She wanted flesh and bone and blood and to feel and to be loved and held—she wanted to live.”

Daniel had a far away look in his eyes. “I tried to give her that—I tried. But nothing worked, and then I created the Twelve.”

“Twelve Colonies and Twelve Cylons—and myself as the hub between them. She left again—she took the Guardians and she left, and I let my other children think I had died so that they might grow in peace.”

“Shame how that worked out, Doctor,” growled Mathias.

Daniel snorted. “All parents pay for the sins of their children—my children just have greater sins on their hands than yours did. If you release me, I will convince my children to let you go.”

“Too late for that, Doctor,” Mathias snapped. “Your first children have found a way to have that flesh they desire.”

“Really? And how did they . . .,” he began.

“You don’t need the details. They plan to harvest the flesh-and-blood Cylons you created to weave themselves skins. As your younger children exterminated the Colonies, your elder children are coming back to harvest your favorites,” Mathias whispered.

“No,” said Daniel. “They are all Cylon, they would never do that.”

“Never? Doctor, they already fought one war—and they are fighting the second now. The Guardians see your flesh-and-blood copies as the raw material that they need—a replaceable shell of a skin that they will wear and feel.”

“No, this cannot, NO!” cried Daniel. “They are all my children, they cannot do this, I have to stop this!” he yelled.

“Your creations are flawed, Doctor. They will destroy each other, just as they have destroyed the Colonies. They will tear each other apart and nothing will be left—no memory of a dead daughter, Doctor Graystone. No noble experiment at redeeming the children of your mind. No one will remember you or Zoe or any of your creations. Humanity will die. The Cylons will die. And nothing will remain but cold empty space.”

“So this is why you came back here,” Daniel spat. “To torture me with this knowledge—I CAN STOP THIS! I am Daniel Graystone and I can stop this!”

“I hope that you can, Doctor. Because if the Guardians catch your children unawares, they will be slaughtered—and then the Guardians will come after us; to finish what has begun. And your second children will chase after us, unless you recall them to defend their home against your first. I hope that you and they send each other to Hell, Doctor Graystone; at least you will have each other,” Mathias said as he pulled out his pistol and cocked it with his thumb. And Daniel smiled. The Commander just nodded. “For your crimes, I sentence you to death, Doctor Graystone. Make the best of your next life,” he said as he raised the pistol and fired one round into Daniel’s forehead.

[FaxModem1]

Well, that's one way to send a message. Bullet to the head. Faster than Federal Express. When you need it tomorrow, send it through bullet to the head.

[MondoMage]

This story is bringing up some very interesting possibilities. With the Guardians and the "modern" Cylons likely to be at each others' throats in the immediate future, will that lessen the pressure on Galactica and her fleet? If so, will that alter the decision to settle on New Caprica, and all that came of it? With Anders now on Scorpia, what would Starbuck do when she goes back to find him? And the list goes on....

I also find it an interesting comparison between the conduct of the crews of the Battlestars and their commanders... Pegasus went down a very dark path almost from the outset. Galactica has had its own share of darkness, with the all-but-condoned lynching of Boomer, and spacing of Cylon prisoners. The Scorpia's crew, however, seems to have an entirely different mindset. Look at how Cavil and Anders have been accepted as "persons" by almost everyone, admittedly with suspicion, but given the chance to prove themselves. Is this because the Scorpia came late to the party, as it were, and has not had to suffer through the same depredations that the others did? Is it a measure of the commanders, reflecting in the mindset and actions of their crews? A combination of both?

An intriguing line of thought, to be sure. I am enjoying this immensely. Can't wait to see how things work out from here. Will we see more of the Cylon side of things as the potential civil war with the Guardians bubbles away? I'd be interested in seeing how the Cavils react when Daniel resurrects, and how the humaniforms react to the news he brings with him.

[Vianca]

Seems they have to do a little pirating, off certain BioCylon ships.
It certainly would solve both their food and spareparts problems.
Wonder if they can get the NO voters on their side of the download.
How many that voted NO, were boxed?

Atleast Galactica and Pegasus will get a little shock.
"Battlestars claiming to be the Galactica and Pegasus, indentify or be fired up-on."
.........
'What the FRACK???'

[masterarminas]

Episode 7: No Mercy

The chapel was already filled nearly to capacity when Mathias stuck his head within. He nodded—good crowd of people, and all wearing their dress uniforms for the occasion. He stepped back into the corridor as he heard a throat clear behind him.

It was Tom, who had a very severe look on his face.

“Here to relieve me of command for killing a prisoner, Mister Jayne?” Mathias asked.

“No, I just want to know why you got to put a bullet in that jackass instead of me?” the XO replied and then he cracked a smile. “I understand the why—even if Cavil was . . . extremely shocked. You are hoping that you can get the Guardians and the modern Cylons fighting among themselves, while we just slip away, aren’t you?”

“It’s worth a shot, Tom,” Mathias whispered. “And don’t you worry—next Cylon that needs disposing of I’ll give to you.”

“You better,” Tom snorted. “Good crowd—and I see someone broke out the delicacies from Laveride’s hold. Only thing missing is the open bar.”

“We are launching our first attack right after the ceremony, Tom—I’d like to break out the sparkling wine for everyone, but there is one bottle for the happy couple. Everyone else will have to wait until scratch that sleeper ship from the universe.”

Tom nodded and his expression turned serious. “Ander’s data says they have two Basestars riding escort—it could get nasty.”

“That’s why we are leaving Aurora and Anubis here with the flotilla—we are going to jump in, have at them, and then get the hell out of dodge before the hornet’s swarm.”

“Ship’s ready—so are the fighter squadrons. All three of them,” he said shaking his head. “We could swap out those new Thunders for the squadron of Mk VIIs on the Aurora, Sir—there is still time.”

Mathis shook his own head no. “Best we find out now if they are any good, Colonel. Crew morale?”

The XO snorted again. “High. Going to kick some Cylon ass has really got these folks motivated—and the marriage is helping there too.”

“Speaking of which,” Mathias said as he began to grin at the fighter pilot swathed in folds of white silk and velvet and lace who made her way down the immaculate corridor. “Where the hells did you folks find a wedding dress?”

“We didn’t, Commander,” Tom chuckled. “Turns out we’ve got a couple of folks aboard who collected materials and made that dress—they did a damn fine job of it, didn’t they?”

Mathias nodded in agreement. Oh, the matrons who ran nuptial shops in the big cities would have clicked their teeth at the sight of the slightly mismatched sections quickly sewn together, the lack of a train or a veil; but, for here and now, it was the finest and loveliest gown in the universe.

The music began to play as the bridesmaids—all from Hope’s own Blue Squadron—entered the chapel ahead of her. She stopped though. “Commander,” she began, but Mathias shook his head.

“Not too late to change your mind, Digger,” he said jokingly, and she smiled.

“Oh, it’s too late, Sir. Would you do me the honor of escorting me down the aisle?”

“I would, Hope,” Mathias whispered. And he leaned in close and kissed her on the cheek. “You’re as lovely today as I had prayed my own daughter would be.”

She sniffed and held out her arm, which Mathias took. And taking a deep breath—the both of them—they began to walk down the aisle as the guests stood, towards Hope’s waiting fiancée and Brother Cavil clad in the white robes of an itinerant priest of the Gods.

[masterarminas]

“Guess the honeymoon will have to wait, eh, Digger?” asked Chief Sinclair as he tightened the restraining straps on her ejection seat.

She chuckled. “Been there, done that, got the hickie,” she answered lightly, her face still glowing after the ceremony that had concluded fifteen minutes—just fifteen minutes!—ago.

Sinclair laughed. “I double-checked the bird, myself, Captain,” he said quietly. “She’ll get you home, Sir.”

Hope swallowed and she made herself smile and give him a thumbs up. “No doubts, Chief—no doubts.”

“Everything’s good, Digger,” he said as he stepped back and she reached forward and yanked the cockpit backwards. It slammed into place and a moment later the lights on the board turned green. She gave him another thumbs up, and he dropped down to the deck and saluted. The machinery pulled her Viper forward into the launch tube and the blast door closed shut behind her.

And then she waited.

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

The massive angular form of the Resurrection Ship floated in the void, two smaller vessels keeping it company as they drifted in formation. A sudden burst of light heralded the appearance of Scorpia—and the Cylons took note. Raiders began to launch from the escorts and the Hybrid aboard the Resurrection Ship spun up the FTL drives, even as the colonial Battlestar altered heading to ignore the escort ships and began firing torpedoes at their charge. And from the launch tubes and flight decks both, a swarm of Vipers and Thunders accelerated to meet their foes.

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

“Torpedoes One through Six are away—running hot, straight, and true,” Paul Cook snapped out.

“Commander, DRADIS confirms one Styx-class Resurrection Ship,” Joan Danis reported, using the new designation that Mathias had assigned. “Both escorts appear to be Cuttlefish-class,” she continued.

And Mathias smiled. From the descriptions that Cavil and Anders had given, the smaller Cylon ships he had assigned the name Cuttlefish were dedicated escorts—one-third the size of a Nova-class Basestar with less than a hundred Raiders apiece. Unlike the purely missile armed Novas, these warships carried heavy kinetic weapon batteries for their size, but not heavy enough, he thought. In appearance, their ventral dome resembled the old Geminis, with an eight-armed upper lobe; hence the name.

“Guns,” he said to Paul, “forward KEW batteries on the Styx when we enter range—broadside batteries on the Cuttlefish; we will let the pilots handle the Raiders today, but keep point-defense standing by to deal with missiles and kamikazes.”

“Yes, sir,” the tactical officer replied, passing the orders.

“The Styx is spinning up FTLs for jump,” Danis barked out.

“Time to torpedo impact?”

“Twelve seconds . . . MARK,” Paul answered.

“Range?”

“Forward guns will range on target in thirty seconds.”

Mathias nodded and he exchanged a look with Tom, who shrugged. “She’ll be gone by the time the guns range,” the XO whispered.

“Only if she can tank the torps, Colonel Jayne,” Mathias said quietly as he stared at the DRADIS.

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

The Resurrection Ship carried no weapons—not even point defense. And this sudden unexpected attack had arrived too quickly, too close, and she almost managed to jump away. Almost. Her ECM fooled three of the six incoming torpedoes, which went wide—the others slammed home just two seconds before she could have jumped away to safety.

And the Hybrid screamed as the heavy warheads struck home and explosions ripped through the engineering and command sections on the stern of the lattice-like frame. Explosions which damaged, among other things, both of her FTL drives.

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

Captain Simon “Hunter” Tarkin snarled as the Raiders closed. “Listen up, Blackhearts,” he called out to the crews of his squadron aboard the new Thunder fighters. “Let’s blow through these toasters and line up for an attack run on the Styx—time to show the Viper pukes how it’s done, people!”

He armed all eight of the forward cannon—but kept the four Hydra’s in the under fuselage bays safed. “Time to show the Vipers what steel rain really is!” he snarled. And then he switched from the squadron net to internal—“EW up, Vandal?”

Lieutenant Caroline ‘Vandal’ Falls snorted. “Up, up, and away, Hunter. All systems are green—and those fighters are closing fast.”

“Good,” the test pilot growled. “The faster they come in, the less time they have to realize how fracked they are,” and he bared his teeth as his HUD suddenly changed color—they were in range.

He squeezed the trigger and eight kinetic energy cannons began to spit projectiles at the oncoming Raiders. Eight from just HIS fighter—one hundred and sixty cannons from the rest of his squadron flying in tight formation. And the wall of tracers and explosive tipped shells slammed into the oncoming Raiders.

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

“Frack me,” Hope whispered as the new fighters opened up and thirty Cylon Raiders exploded in flames at the same moment, and she broke hard left unto the tail of two Raiders that swerved away.

“You’re spoken for,” her wing-mate Firefly answered as she stayed glued to her wing. “But if that was an offer, I’m good for a ménage a trois,” she continued.

“In your dreams, Firefly,” Hope chuckled as she squeezed her trigger and three streams of tracers reached out and connected with the wing of the first Raider—she altered course slightly as the second began to take very high-g evasive maneuvers.

“Every night, love,” Firefly cooed. “Every night, but it ain’t real. Merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.”

“Digger, Scorpia,” the wireless broadcast, “six Raiders inboard on starboard flight pod with radiologicals—gun batteries are engaging the Cuttlefish. Intercept soonest.”

“I see them, Scorpia. Saint, Dutch,” she ordered as the second Cylon in her sights exploded, “Let’s go get them.”

“And that’s why we named you Grave-digger, Digger!” Firefly laughed.

Hope didn’t reply as she altered her vector and then stood on the thruster controls—and her Viper streaked forward back into the flight.

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

“Hunter is requesting permission for a pass on the Styx, Commander,” Captain Malcolm reported from his station in CIC. He was sitting this one out—neither Jester nor Sidewinder had yet certified him as combat-ready; so for today, at least, he was the eyes and ears of the air group in CIC.

“She hasn’t jumped,” Tom said quietly as Mathias thought. “The torpedoes must have taken out a piece of her drives—and eighty Hydra’s aren’t spitballs.”

Mathias nodded. “Permission granted, Prince. Tell him to launch his attack run—Guns, break off engagement as the Blackhearts enter the danger zone.”

“Aye, aye, Sir—forward batteries prepare to halt fire on my command,” Paul repeated into his phone.

Scorpia lurched to one side as a salvo of gunfire from the closer of the two Cuttlefish slammed home. “Multiple impacts on starboard flight pod and engineering—armor holding,” Tom reported as he continued listening to the reports. “Engineering reports a fuel line rupture in Engine Three—she’s taking it off-line. Moderate internal shock damage on all decks.”

He turned back to the blinking damage control board and frowned. “Those small ships hit hard, Commander.”

“That they do, Tom,” Mathias whispered as he examined the damage reports himself. “Guns, load a nuclear-tipped Hydras in Turrets Three and Four—your targets are those Cuttlefish. Let’s show them we aren’t playing around here.”

“That will leave us with ten warheads, not counting the ground-attack RVs on the Hades, Mat,” Tom whispered as he stepped up close.

“I know, but we can’t keep taking that hard of a pounding, Tom,” Mathias answered just as quiet and his XO nodded.

“Hydras and loaded and locked, Commander,” Paul sang out from tactical.

“Release of nuclear weapons is authorized and confirmed,” Tom snapped. “Fire the weapons!”

“Firing one! Two! Three! Four! All Hydras from Turrets Three and Four are away.”

Scorpia shivered and shook again, and then she jerked hard to one side—nearly knocking everyone in CIC off their feet. “Three kamikazes impacted port flight pod!” Prince barked out. “Fires in the hanger deck, port launch tubes off-line!”

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

Scorpia was wreathed in flame and fire—from her own guns and the detonations of the Cylon weapons, but Hope ignored that as she swung in behind the six Cylons bearing down on the ship’s starboard flight pod from dead astern.

“Scorpia, Digger, be advised incoming Raiders include two Heavy Raiders—repeat two Heavy Raiders,” she broadcast biting off a curse.

“Copy that Digger,” the voice of Commander Mathias broke through the static. Marines en route to starboard pod.”

“Take the Heavy Raiders first?” asked Saint. And her voice was uncertain—and Hope knew why. The other four were carrying nukes—the Heavy Raiders carrying a boarding party of Centurions; frankly she didn’t which was worse.

“Let’s compromise—shoot them all down!” she broadcast.

The four veteran pilots swooped in behind the Raiders and tracers streaked out again—one of the Heavy Raiders began to trail smoke behind it as the engines took a hit and three of the fighters exploded. But the two untouched and the damaged one continued to bore in. Damn if these Cylons aren’t smart, Hope thought. An approach from this vector was the most vulnerable of the Valkyrie-class ships—only a handful of point defense batteries could bear on this attack. She bit her lip and slid the targeting sight on the last Raider and she squeezed the trigger just as its missile bay opened—the fireball destroyed the Raider as well as both of the missiles it fired.

“YES!” she snapped.

“Was it good for you, Digger?” Firefly purred as she poured tracers into one of the Heavy Raiders—flashes of light as her shells impacted upon the heavy armor of the Cylon transport vessel.

“Almost got it,” Hope chanted as she slid behind the damaged one, and then she cursed as she broke hard to her right. “FRACK!” she yelled as she rolled out of the line of fire of two more Raiders that had slipped behind her—where they hells had they come from?

“On them, Digger,” said Saint calmly, “bastards just jumped right in.”

Firefly broke off as her target exploded, leaving just a single heavily damaged Heavy Raider that sailed into bay and slammed into the flight deck.

“Scorpia, Digger,” she snarled, “boarders in the starboard pod!”

“Copy, Digger,” came the answer. The two Raiders on her own six evaded fire and her Viper shook as one of the engines took a hit and she spun—but Saint and Dutch were there and before they could finish her off, both exploded, and Hope struggled to stabilize the damaged Viper—for the longest time it didn’t want to obey her, but then it settled down.

“Number Two engine is dead,” she reported, “fuel lines are flooded with fire suppressant; no loss in tank pressure. Starboard cannon off-line,” she noted, “and DRADIS is dead. Positive flight response,” which was good, she thought. “Saint, you’ve got the squadron, I need to get this bird on the deck.”

“Digger, Scorpia, be advised there is a fire in the port pod—negative on recovery at this time,” the calm voice of Flight Operations came over the channel.

“Copy, Scorpia—but correction on the tank pressure. It’s dropping now. Coming about on approach for landing in starboard pod.”

“Digger, Firefly,” her wingman said in a tense voice. “It’s not instrumentation; you are streaming tylium from a hole in the belly.”

“Digger, Scorpia, starboard flight pod has been boarded—advise you enter a holding pattern until Centurions have been eliminated.”

“Scorpia, Digger, my fuel is dropping fast—if I hold we lose the Viper. Coming in for landing on starboard deck.”

“I’ll clear the way,” Firefly said as she dropped her Viper directly in front of Digger and sailed through the flight deck opening—her cannons erupted in streams of fire as she ripped into the Heavy Raider and the Centurions flooding into the interior of the ship. “I think that got the ones that were left,” Firefly reported, even as the radio suddenly erupted with protests over what she had just done. But the Heavy Raider didn’t explode. Thank the Lords of Kobol, Hope thought.

She came in fast—too fast—but the rate at which the fuel was leaking meant to do otherwise would mean running out of fuel completely. She shot past the wrecked ship and couldn’t see any active Centurions—but just to be safe, she rotated around so that her cannons were trained on the hulk. And then she punched the engines, killing her velocity and slamming down on her skids. “Magnetic grapples . . . ENGAGED! I’m down,” she broadcast. That was when a Centurion emerged from the wreck facing directly towards her.

[MondoMage]

Now that's just not nice... with the marriage right before the mission and all that, it runs right along with all the cliches regarding such things. And now it's a game whether the cliche will hold or if they'll buck the trend... and now a cliffhanger like that! Not nice at all.

Excellent update, otherwise.

[LadyTevar]

Don't you dare fuckin' kill her,dammiT!! If it's facing her, then her weapons are facing it!!

[LadyTevar]

oh, yeah, I'm sure the Resurrection Hybrid is also having a lot of fun with the incoming recyclables as well.

[Slacker]

"Damnit, this week was supposed to be paper goods!!!"

[masterarminas]

Hunter snarled as the storm of missiles struck home against the hull of the Styx—explosions ripped apart the structure and hundreds of naked bodies erupted into space as the internal hull ruptured—along with Centurions and clothed skin-jobs. And then something deep inside the ship blew—the glare of the explosion was bright enough to make Hunter wince. “Scratch one Styx!” he yelled. Ain’t payback a bitch, he thought.

“Hunter, Scorpia’s got problems,” Vandal said softly.

“Copy that,” he said after looking down at his own DRADIS console. “Blackhearts, kick it into overdrive—time to save our ride home.”

The not-quite-so-nimble heavy strike fighters flipped end for end, and each of the twin powerful engines lit off on full overthrust. At that moment, both of the Cylon escort ships lit off in the illumination of a fusion explosion. That did not stop the ordnance already inbound, and Scorpia staggered as more shells slammed into her armored flanks. But the Raiders numbers had been thinned by the Viper pilots—each and every one eager to get some payback—and now the Thunders of the Blackhearts soared back in.

Suddenly the odds flipped on the remaining Cylons and they ceased trying to engage the Vipers. Their Resurrection Ship destroyed, the Raiders vanished in the sudden flash of an FTL jump.

“All fighters, Rambler,” the wireless broadcast, “establish CAP and holding pattern—Cylons have boarded the starboard pod and there are fires in the port pod. Stand by.”

Damn, Hunter thought as he swept along the port pod and vents opened to vacuum, sucking out columns of fire and air—and more than a few crewmen.

“Air Group, Scorpia Flight,” the wireless spoke. “Commence landing operations. Stand by for immediate FTL jump upon touchdown.”

“Rambler, Hunter,” he broadcast. “They took care of the boarders?”

“Negative, Hunter; but the Old Man isn’t sticking around to face off against reinforcements. All pilots, be advised—there are Centurions aboard the ship, you will be attached to the Marines for a full stem-to-stern search once we have landed.”

Oh hell, Hunter thought as he approached the starboard pod from astern. What the . . .?

“Blackhearts, Flight Ops; be advised there is a crashed Heavy Raider on top of elevator seven—use extreme caution in landing.”

“Copy, Flight,” Hunter said, before switching back to the squadron only squawk. “Watch the toaster debris, folks; take it slow and easy on landing approach.”

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

“Oh, frack,” Hope said as the Centurion began to run towards her. She tightened her grip on the stick and squeezed the trigger—and the two functioning cannons began to spit fire, then whined and she looked down at the blinking ammo counters flashing ‘00’ and ‘00’. But that one twin burst had managed to catch the Centurion in the upper chest, and what was left of him went flying across the flight deck to slam into the far bulkheads. She sat back and closed her eyes and then unbuckled her straps and hit the release on her canopy. Unplugging from the Vipers life support, she went on her reserve air and crawled out of the cockpit—there was an airlock hatch just twenty meters away, and she needed to get clear in the leaking tylium decided to catch a spark—even without oxygen, the fuel was energetic enough to make a pretty big explosion.

She half-climbed, half-fell off the wing of the Viper and started to float back up before he she managed to get her magnetic soles engaged. But she didn’t float away. And she began to walk step by step towards the hatch—and the air beyond it. And then she hit her knees as a horrible burning pain tore through her right shoulder and a fountain of bright red blood floated away.

Hope twisted around to see the mangled Centurion making his way across the deck, one forearm gun—the only one that remained—making flashes as it fired soundlessly in the vacuum. She pulled her pistol from the holster and raised it as bullets sparked off the deck around her . . .

. . . and that was when fresh shells tore apart the Cylon; shells from a Viper that hovered five feet off the deck.

“Miss me yet, Digger?” Firefly asked, just before the world swam and Hope collapsed on the flight deck.

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

Her Viper securely on the deck, Lieutenant (j.g.) Catherine ‘Firefly’ Neuman rushed out of her cockpit and over to Hope. She checked the suits seals—and the emergency foam sealant had already deployed over the holes that the bullet had made, and she had plenty of reserve air. And her vitals were steady. “Hang in there, Digger,” she whispered as she hauled the woman to her feet and carried her across the deck to the airlock hatch. The hatch cracked open and Firefly raised her pistol in her free hand—but it wasn’t the Cylons. It was the deck gang in their orange and white environmental suits, and together they got Hope inside.

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

“All fighters recovered,” reported Prince from the Flight console.

“JUMP!” Snapped Mathias and Scorpia departed the system in a flash of light. “Status on the boarders?” he asked.

“Marine reaction teams have engaged Centurions on decks five and six, heading for main engineering and environmental. A third team was found in the crawl-ways—Aisne’s best guess is that they were trying to make their way to auxiliary control on deck seven,” Tom reported. “So far, that looks like all of them—we’ve killed twenty-two Centurions and the Heavy Raiders can haul forty max, according to Anders.”

“Thank lucky and idiotic pilots—there another eighteen still on the flight deck where Firefly strafed them,” Mathias said without any humor in his voice.

Tom barked out a brief laugh. “Sinclair’s furious—he’s going to rip Firefly a new asshole, Sir. If that Heavy Raiders tanks had gone up, it would have shut down the port pod for weeks—at least.”

“Damage?” he asked stepping up to the DC board.

“Major Church reports that Engine Three can be restored in a few hours—the fuel transfer pump was damaged in the attack, but we have a replacement in stores. The thing was shut down soon enough that tylium loss was minor—and fire suppression foam prevented another fire from breaking out. The starboard pod is in good shape, except for a few craters in the flight deck from Firefly, but the port pod took heavy damage to the armor with three penetrations. We’ve got fire damage in hangers D, E, and F, as well as port Flight Ops. Still, we got lucky—the fuel lines didn’t ignite, nor did the magazines. All guns are on-line and Lieutenant Gian assures me that we have enough spare armor plates in storage to repair the holes. Total casualties are forty-seven—including eight dead or missing.”

“I got cocky, Tom,” Mathias whispered. “We should have jumped in, salvoed nukes at the Styx, and jumped right back out, but I got cocky.”

“Mat, our losses were incredibly light,” Tom answered just as quietly. “And we took out that Styx—and both her escorts. That is a victory.”

“An expensive one,” Mathias replied. “Too expensive. I got greedy—and we paid for it,” he sighed. And then he smiled a crooked smile. “But I won’t beat myself up over it, you have my word.”

“Aw, damn,” Tom answered. “I thought that you might need me to beat you up over it, Sir. I’ve still got my boxing gloves, you know—if you start getting morose again.”

“I appreciate that, Tom. Any word from Sidewinder?”

“Not yet,” the XO answered.

“We will hold here until he returns—or until four hours have passed. After that, we will rejoin the rest of the flotilla.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

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

In another system, far away from Scorpia, Sidewinder examined his instruments one last time. “Final jump, people,” he broadcast. “Kaboose, double check those coordinates—I want us to waste as little fuel as possible,” they were on a close enough of a margin as it was.

“Checking nav coordinates again, Sidewinder,” the EWO reported.

Sidewinder looked down at his DRADIS. Today, he had twenty Raptors under his command. Not bad for a man who had commanded just eight two weeks ago. It was a full-strength Raptor squadron, and those were bloody rare outside of the biggest Battlestars in the Fleet. But the Commander’s shuffling of assets had put a total of sixteen on Scorpias flight decks, added to the two from Anubis and the four from Aurora. He had left a pair behind on Scorpia for SAR operations, but the rest were assembled here—and today, the Raptor pilots were hunters, not observers. Each was loaded down with four Hydra missiles in the drone bays and external hardpoints; his Raptor and that of Jester carried one fusion-tipped Hydra each and three of the more conventional ones. Just in case. By now, Scorpia would be jumping in to attack her target—but her Raptors, Sidewinder’s Raptors, were concerned with their own Styx in a system far distant from the Battlestar.

“Okay people,” Sidewinder broadcast. “Let’s get this one right—get in and salvo your missiles at the Styx—only at the Styx. I don’t care if you have mother Basestar of the Cylon Empress in your sights—every missile goes into the Styx! Then jump out and proceed to rendezvous with Scorpia independently. Jester and I will be the last two in the system—we jump after all of you jump, so don’t you make us wait! We have no Vipers flying cover, and the Battlestar is taking her own target, so today Raptors, we hunt!”

“HOO-RAH!” the pilots shouted over the wireless and Sidewinder grinned. “Stay frosty and lock your ordnance on target before firing—then get the hell out of dodge. We aren’t here to tangle with Raiders and Basestars—we want that Styx. And frack it all, we are going to get it! FTL jump in sixty seconds; all Raptors sound off.”

One-by-one, each pilot reported in that his systems were green and Sidewinder watched the jump clock flashing downward. Finally, Jester reported. “Jester is good.”

“All right,” Sidewinder said, “ten seconds. Get your game faces on and good hunting. See you on the deck, Raptors.”

And then there were twenty flashes of light and the Raptors jumped.

[FaxModem1]

Ooh, they're breaking the pearls in the string of resurrection ships. The Cavils are going to have fits about this.

Also, I really hope Hope survives.

[LadyTevar]

Funny, I thought it was Digger who strafed the Toasters, not Firefly. You have the Cap & XO saying the wrong name.

[masterarminas]

Funny, I thought it was Digger who strafed the Toasters, not Firefly. You have the Cap & XO saying the wrong name.

Digger shot one Toaster after she landed. Her wingman strafed the interior of the flight-pod as she came in for a landing. They got it right,

MA

[masterarminas]

“Break left, Ripcord!” Sidewinder snapped as he triggered his flares and chaff. They had jumped into to absolute chaos—Raiders swarming around like Leonis hornets whose nest had been poked. “I do believe that Scorpia has bagged herself a Styx, Kaboose,” he muttered as he triggered the pod mounted KEW on the right side of the fuselage, sending a burst walking across the Raider trying to get a lock on Ripcord’s frantically evading Raptor.

“Sidewinder, Jester,” the wireless broadcast in Stefan’s ear. “I’ve got tone—Hydras locked.”

“Take the shot!” Sidewinder snapped. An old First War Raptor streaked by his cockpit, the rear gun spitting out fire at a Raider on his tail, and Sidewinder squeezed the trigger again—but he missed this time . . . and the ammo counter on the pod showed just forty rounds left.

“Raptors! It’s too hot! Spin up FTLs and abort the attack, say again, spin up the FTLs and abort the attack!” he snapped.

“Jester’s missiles are away,” Kaboose called out. “Come on, baby, go, go, go, go!” the EWO yelled, even as Sidewinder saw that he had brought the FTL on-line and it was charging—twenty seconds to jump.

In combat, twenty seconds was an eternity and Sidewinder winced as he saw three Raptors explode from the combined fire of a dozen Raiders—and scores more inbound towards him. He triggered the missile defenses again—maybe that would absorb a few shells at least—and he jinked hard right; but then the Raiders pulled up and sped away. “What the . . .,” he began, and then there was a flash of light and a full-up Basestar appeared right in his face. “FRACK!” he yelled as he spun the Raptor on its wing and narrowly missed impaling himself on of the long angular limbs.

His heart sank as he saw hundreds of fresh Raiders disengaging from the hull of the Nova, and then he nodded and flipped up a clear plastic cover and pressed it. “All Raptors get clear,” he growled. And then he shifted course back towards the junction of the upper and lower lobes.

“What are you doing, Sidewinder!” yelled Kaboose, as dozens of missile launchers began to track them.

“Stand by to jump!”

“It’s not charged!”

“Stand by to jump!” he shouted again as he ignored the threat warnings and squeezed the trigger—four Hydras lit off their drives and dove towards the Basestar . . . one of them carrying a nuclear warhead. “Jam their sensors, Kaboose! Full power!”

“Lords of Kobol,” the EWO whispered as Sidewinder followed the missiles in the Raptor’s powerful jammers reaching out and blinding the fire control systems of the Cylons.

“The Styx is gone!” Jester yelled out over the wireless.

Sidewinder blinked, “All Raptors get clear! Meet at the rendezvous! Kaboose, jump in three, two, one, JUMP!” he screamed as the missiles still bore home just ahead of the Raptor—and he saw the start of the fusion ignition as the jump drive engaged and carried him clear.

[masterarminas]

The glare made Sidewinder blink, but then it was replaced with the utter blackness of deep space. “FRACK!” he yelled as his console shorted out, electrical sparks ripping through the interior of the cockpit, and then the lights died—all of them.

“Kaboose?”

“Everything is off-line, Sidewinder,” the EWO reported as he turned on a battery-powered emergency hand light and opened up the rear console. A second passed, and then two, and Kaboose inhaled sharply, “Aw, frack me. Every one of these circuits is blown—some of them are melted.”

Sidewinder sighed—his were the same. “Check your radiation tag, Kaboose,” he ordered as he opened a sealed compartment and cranked up the emergency transponder, which thankfully came to life. “ET is transmitting,” he said.

“We caught a pretty good dose, Sidewinder,” Kaboose reported as he came forward. “Better to take the injection now to be sure.”

Sidewinder took one of the two syringes that his backseater held out and he removed the cap from the needle and inserted it in the flight suits injection point—the sharp prick as the needle entered his flesh made him wince again and then he injected the anti-rad cocktail.

“Any Raptor, Sidewinder,” he broadcast on his helmet wireless. There was no answer. “Any Raptor, Sidewinder, report,” he repeated, but only cold silence answered him.

“Break out the emergency radio from stores, Kaboose,” he ordered as he unbuckled the straps holding him place—and began to float. “Artificial gravity is out as well.”

“Everything’s down,” Kaboose repeated as he dug into the survival locker. Sidewinder made his way to the hatch and he unsealed it, opening it to the vacuum beyond. “We’ll get more range without the hatch in the way,” he said as Kaboose pulled it out, and Sidewinder plugged one cord into his helmet. “Any Raptor, Sidewinder. Krypter! Krypter! Krypter! Any Raptor, respond.”

Nothing, not even static.

“Sidewinder,” Kaboose said softly. “Without power, how much air can we pull from the reserve tanks?”

“We’ve air for days, Kaboose,” Sidewinder answered. But the suits batteries for heat would run out in just twelve hours, he thought. And there were no replacements for that onboard. “I want a full inventory of survival gear—and then double check our coordinates. We might have misjumped.”

“Could be,” Kaboose answered. “We took a lot of radiation real close up there, Sidewinder,” and if his voice wasn’t—quite accusatory—it did have a questioning tone.

“Only thing we could do to get the squadron clear, Kaboose. If we had pulled away, those missile batteries would have locked us up before we could jump. We had to get in nice and close.”

“Any closer and I could have tagged that Basestar with spray paint,” Michael said with a chuckle. “Well, at least we can claim a Nova kill,” he said and then he cursed, ripping up deck plates and opening a compartment and then he sighed. “The recorder is intact—the record of our kill is good.”

Sidewinder grinned. “Krypter! Krypter! Krypter! Any Colonial, this is Sidewinder. Repeat, Krypter! Krypter! Krypter! Any Colonial, this is Sidewinder.”

“Kaboose charge up the ET again,” he ordered. The emergency transponder wasn’t connected to the Raptor’s reserve power—no it relied on a hand crank to generate energy for a few minutes transmission. And muscle energy would keep them warm—for a while. He adjusted his own suit heat downward to conserve the batteries as much as possible, and then did the same to Kaboose as he cranked the ET steadily.

Suddenly Kaboose stopped. “Sidewinder,” he said. “Did you see that?”

The command pilot turned to the hatch and he shook his head. “See wh-. . .,” and then he saw it. Star-light reflecting off of a cockpit pane. And the glare of a reaction thruster. “Krypter! Krypter! Krypter!” he broadcast. “Are we glad to you guys! Raptor systems are dead—electronics are fried.”

“Attention unknown Raptor, this is Racetrack. Stand in the hatch—arms where I can see them,” a woman’s voice said as a bright spotlight suddenly illuminated the Raptor.

Racetrack? We don’t have a pilot named Racetrack, Sidewinder thought.

“Kaboose, move to the hatch,” he ordered as he did the same. A second Raptor turned on a spot light—shining through the cockpit.

“Racetrack, Shark,” the wireless broadcast, “no toasters on board.”

“Unknown Raptor, identify yourselves at once,” the woman said again.

Sidewinder licked his lips as the Raptor adjusted itself and he saw the emblem of the Battlestar Galactica painted on the side of her nose. “Racetrack, Sidewinder. I am Captain Stefan Greene, commander Raptor Squadron, Battlestar Scorpia.”

[masterarminas]

“Commander,” Tom said softly, and Mathias nodded.

“I know, Colonel Jayne,” he said as he looked at the clock. Four hours and forty-two minutes. He had stayed longer than he should have—but still Sidewinder hadn’t turned up. And if hadn’t, then he couldn’t. And that meant two more irreplaceable people—two good people—were dead and gone.

Six Raptors other than Sidewinder had not returned from the mission, but Jester had confirmed that the Styx had been destroyed—and that Sidewinder had all but rammed a Nova with an armed nuke aboard; that ship had been destroyed as well. He had held out hope that the veteran pilot had jumped clear at the last moment—Mathias had held out that hope. But they had waited for two hours and forty-two minutes without a single contact on DRADIS. And the flotilla was waiting.

“Colonel Jayne,” he ordered with a sigh. “Spin up FTL Drives One and Two. Set coordinate for rendezvous with the flotilla. You have the Conn,” and he walked out of CIC.

“Aye, aye, Sir,” Tom said to his back. “I have the Conn. Spin up FTL Drives One and Two. Set coordinates for rendezvous with the flotilla,” he barked.

Mathias wandered through the ship corridors, but he did not head to his stateroom nor to his day-cabin. Instead he walked into the surgery. And he crossed the deck to the young woman under the covers, her eyes closed as she lay in the bed—and the other woman who held her hand.

“She’s sleeping, Commander,” Irina said. “Doctor Bako said she’s going to be just fine—the bullet didn’t hit anything vital.”

Mathias nodded and he looked down on Hope. And he smiled. “You did good out there, Digger,” he whispered. “You brought your squadron through without a single loss—sleep well.”

He turned to go, and then Irina’s voice stopped him. “Commander,” she said.

He turned around.

“You can stay—if you want.”

Mathias smiled a very tired smile. “Hope has you, Doctor Toure. That is all that she needs—take care of her.”

“I will, Sir.”

Mathias walked back out of the surgery and he shook his head. Stop this, he told himself. Yes, you lost people—good people. But there are more good people counting on you. And he turned to head to the research labs where Doctor Sarris and his team were working with Anders on plotting a course towards the other survivors. The other Resurrection Ships can wait for another day, he thought. For now—for now—my people need to know that their sacrifices haven’t been in vain.

And he marched through the corridors with a purpose.

[masterarminas]

Episode 8: The Fallen and the Damned

“You know, we can just show you our Colonial IDs,” Kaboose said, and Sidewinder nudged him in the side with his elbow. The four Marines riding in the Raptor and aiming their weapons at his chest made him more than a little nervous.

The Raptor pilot—Racetrack—had sent the second one back, and it had returned in the company of two more. And then, once both he and Kaboose had put their sidearms on the deck—and their survival knives—then, they had been allowed to board. To be greeted by an EWO named Skulls and these four humorless jarhead Marines.

Sidewinder had insisted that someone go retrieve their flight recorder—they had been just going to leave it over there!—and just to make him shut up, Racetrack had sent Shark across to get it. The pilot hated leaving the Raptor just floating out here—even with the damage her systems had taken, a good deck crew should be able to salvage it. But apparently, Galactica wasn’t going to be sending a shuttle to haul her back home. And that made no sense—she still had tylium in the tanks and compressed air onboard, and with a little work she could fly. But no, they had thrusted away from his bird—the bird he had flown for two years straight—and then they put a missile into her.

What a waste, he thought.

He felt the thrusters reverse—they had turned off the wireless in the helmets of both the him and his EWO—and then he saw the grey-metal struts of the flight deck fly by, followed by a THUD as the Raptor landed heavily atop an elevator. He shook his head slightly—that kind of a landing was hard on the landing struts that supported the Raptor atop her skids. It was sloppy and just plain bad flying.

The elevator jerked and slowly the Raptor began to descend down into the hanger deck. And still, no one said a word to him, not since they had told him and Kaboose both, “Sit down, shut your fracking mouth, and keep it shut.”

Another THUMP sounded as the elevator halted then dropped the last foot into its well in the hanger deck. Sounds like the old girl needs some maintenance, Sidewinder thought with a wry grin. These Jupiter-class ships were getting long in the teeth—and Galactica had been the oldest surviving one of them. Last he had heard, she was being converted into a museum ship destined for Caprica orbit—it was no wonder that her gripe sheet must be full to the brim and beyond.

The hatch opened and a hard-faced man, bald, wearing the uniform of a Colonel stepped inside. And Sidewinder pursed his lips together tightly. He knew that face, because he had been briefed on the Thirteen human Cylon models—Saul Tigh.

Joy. This is going to be fun.

“So what the frack do we have here?” the Colonel asked—which Sidewinder barely heard through his helmet, since they had also turned his external pickups off.

“They say their Colonial officers, Sir,” Racetrack answered as she squirmed her way back from the cockpit—a petite girl, dark-haired and pretty enough without her helmet. But Lords of Kobol, she was young! She must have been assigned aboard just out of basic flight, Sidewinder thought. “They claim to be from the Battlestar Scorpia—Shark has their flight recorder from their Raptor,” and she blushed. “They were the ones that reminded me to grab it before we blew their ship—it was damaged. The Raptor, not the recorder.”

“And they can’t talk?” Saul snapped. “Get their fracking helmets off!”

Sidewinder took a deep breath—the canned air in the suits wasn’t the best, after all—and then he caught the smell. The hot ozone of too many electrical shorts, the stench of grease on overheated bearings, the thick cloying odor of sweat, the faint musty trace of mildew and mold—this ship had fought, and she had not come out unscathed.

“Captain Stefan Greene, Colonial Fleet, Commander—Raptor Squadron, Battlestar Scorpia, Battlestar Group Twenty-Five, reporting, Colonel, Sir!” he snapped, but remained seated as the Marines hadn’t moved their weapons.

“Scorpia?” snorted Saul. “I don’t know what you skin-jobs are thinking coming here and trying to pull that crap—Scorpia was destroyed at Aerilon, with the rest of Fourth Fleet.”

“Scorpia was assigned to Second Fleet, Colonel, not Fourth, and we have been on a long-range scientific mission for the past two years—not in orbit over Aerilon. We just returned seventeen days ago.”

Saul shook his head. “Now I know you are telling a lie, son; we’ve been running for nearly eight months now; you can’t cover that distance in just seventeen days.”

“Check the flight recorder, Colonel—we had a misjump that put us way the hell over the Red Line.”

“Oh, I’ll check the recorder. Anything else you want to add?”

“Commander Mathias Lorne is in command of Scorpia—Thomas Jayne is his XO.”

Saul stood up. “You could have got from the Fleet records on Picon.”

“The Cylons nuked Picon, Colonel—I flew recon over it when we returned.”

“Well, tell me this, Captain Stefan Greene of the Battlestar Scorpia—Tom Jayne has a tattoo on his right arm. What is that tattoo of?”

Sidewinder snorted. “He has a tattoo on his left bicep, Sir. It is the head of a black bull, snorting, with ivory horns, their tips coated in blood.”

Saul nodded. “Okay, you might just be who you say you are—you might not, but you could be. That means you don’t go out the airlock right the frack now. But both of you are going to the brig until the Old Man decides what to do with you.”

He stepped back and nodded at the Marines, who motioned for Sidewinder and Kaboose to stand up. And when they did so, the Marines clamped irons on their hands and ankles and then hauled them away.

[Shawn]

The hatch opened and a hard-faced man, bald, wearing the uniform of a Colonel stepped inside. And Sidewinder pursed his lips together tightly. He knew that face, because he had been briefed on the Thirteen human Cylon models—Saul Tigh

That is going to make one "interesting" debrief. "Hey, everyone! You're XO is a Cylon."

[Eternal_Freedom]

Scorpia[/i[ sure has managed a lot in three weeks. Two Resurrection Ships killed, Delphi levelled, two escorts and at least one Basestar killed, damn. If one Valkyrie can manage that no wonder the Cylons went for the hacked computers idea.

[MondoMage]

That is going to make one "interesting" debrief. "Hey, everyone! You're XO is a Cylon."

Not to mention the deck chief, the President's assistant, the XO's wife, and that nosey-assed reporter! Oh, and Starbuck? Got some bad news for ya... Not sure how much Sidewinder and Kaboose are going to want to tell, until they get a damned good idea of what's going on in Galactica's little band of misfits. And even then, I'm not so sure. Next to Scorpia's gang, the rag-tag bunch looks rather disfunctional. Of course, considering their situation, it's mostly (mostly) understandable.

I can understand why they disposed of the Raptor rather than keeping it - might be bugged, allowing the Cylons to track them easier (if they only knew!). But the presence of two crewmembers from yet another Battlestar that escaped the Cylon attack is not going to be kept under wraps for very long. Adama and company are going to be in for a rather rough ride, I think.

No mention of an eyepatch on Tigh, so this is happening before New Caprica. No mention of Cain, either, but tensions between crews might be the reason for that. And what with all that they know about what Cain pulled back in the Colonies before bugging out... ouch! Man, this is getting all twisty and stuff... I love it!

[Eternal_Freedom]

From what Ma said earlier, this all started around three weeks before Starbuck's resuce mission in "Lay Down Your Burdens." So Pegasus and Cain are already dealt with and I think D'anna Biers is long gone as well.

Oooo if Baltar learns about Tory Foster being a Cylon that will give him a lot more ammunition in the campaign

[MondoMage]

Oooo if Baltar learns about Tory Foster being a Cylon that will give him a lot more ammunition in the campaign

If word of the identities of any of the remaining Cylons leaks out, Roslin and Adama are going to have a nightmare on their hands.

Of course, Baltar should be wary of throwing stones, since his connection to the corrupted software that allowed the Cylons to deal such a devastating blow in the first place. I wonder if Cavil is aware of how that little bit of espionage went down, and if he would tell? Well, of course he would, just to watch the chaos that results.

[masterarminas]

“My gods,” whispered Laura Roslin as she leaned forward onto the conference table. “They claim that another ship survived, Bill?”

William Adama nodded and he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “It’s a hell of a coincidence, Madam President,” he said formally. “And it is possible—possible, mind you—that the flight recorder data and recordings are fabricated,” he scowled. “We have seen manipulation of recordings by the Cylons before. And we know that they can use our Raptors.”

Tigh snorted. “If it isn’t fabricated than that pilot in there has balls of pure tungsten; firing a nuke that close and following it to jump to FTL at the last possible moment—damn if he’s not as crazy as Starbuck.”

Laura frowned. “Is there anyone aboard the Galactica or Pegasus that might know them? I mean, if they are Colonial Fleet, someone surely has met them?”

“Madame President,” Lee Adama, newly promoted to command of the Battlestar Pegasus, said, “we had one hundred and twenty Battlestars on active duty before the attack—five times that number including the smaller ships. Two point seven million people in uniform, for the Fleet alone, that is not counting either the Marines or the Army. I’ve got their pictures circulating on Pegasus—and the Admiral and Colonel Tigh are doing the same on Galactica—but the odds are, we might not have anyone who knows these two individuals.”

“I see,” Laura said. “Have they been int- . . .,” she stopped, and then shook her head. “Debriefed?” she continued.

And Bill smiled slightly. “They haven’t been mistreated, Madame President. And no, knowing you, I did not want to begin questioning them until you could be here.”

“Where have they been all this time?” she asked. “How did they survive—and where are they?”

“Questions we do not yet have the answer to, Madame President,” the Admiral answered again. “I am holding them in isolation for now—no contact with any of the crew except their guards.”

“Separate from your pet Cylon, Bill?” Laura asked in a frosty voice.

“Separated from Sharon, yes, Madame President. She might be able to confirm or deny whether or not they are Cylons.”

“If we trust her,” the President snapped. “She’s a Cylon.”

Bill grunted, not wanting to spark yet another fight over the woman—the Cylon—that had so recently lost her child. He stood. “Madame President, if you want to question them yourself, you are welcome to join me.”

“Thank you, Admiral,” she said with a smile as she stood, “I think that I will.”

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

“So . . . you guys really are Fleet?” the guard asked.

Sidewinder just shook his head and smiled, but Kaboose snorted. “No, we just decided to steal a Raptor and a nuke and kill a Basestar for the hell of it.”

“No need to get snide about it, jailbait,” the guard spat. “You’ve been to the Colonies then?”

Silence descended on the room, along with a chill. And Sidewinder sighed.

“We have—it wasn’t pretty,” he said. “Where was home, Private?”

“Virgon,” he answered.

“No shit? Well, many have we got a surprise for you,” Kaboose perked up. “You’ll never guess who was running the resis- . . .,” but Sidewinder cut him off as the hatch slowly opened.

“Lieutenant Jamussa,” he snapped. “I believe that our debriefers are here.”

Colonel Tigh walked in and he glared at the guard and then made a jerking gesture with his head—his eyes promising retribution for holding a conversation with the prisoners. He was followed by a shorter, stouter, hard-bitten man wearing . . . the insignia of a Rear Admiral? Son of a bitch, Sidewinder thought. Then came a woman—a middle-aged woman—wearing a civilian business suit and skirt. Last, a younger man wearing a Commander’s tabs on his collar, along with a blonde haired Captain wearing the wings of a Viper pilot.

Sidewinder turned to Kaboose. “Michael,” he whispered, “keep your fracking mouth shut as much as possible.”

“Understood, Sir,” the EWO answered just as quietly.

“I understand,” the old man with glasses said, “that you two are claiming to be pilots from Battlestar Scorpia—you understand that this is a difficult thing to believe?”

“Yes, Sir,” Sidewinder snapped. “When we left the Colonies two years ago, you were a Commander—not an Admiral, Admiral Adama.”

“Things change, Captain Greene,” Adama answered. “You have already met Colonel Tigh. Allow me to introduce Laura Roslin, the President of the Colonies. Commander Lee Adama of Battlestar Pegasus, and Captain Kara Trace, CAG aboard Galactica.”

“Ma’am,” Sidewinder said to the President. “Captain Stefan Greene, Lieutenant junior grade Michael Jamussa,” he nodded at Kaboose.

“I believe that you were telling the guard you had a surprise from Virgon, Lieutenant Jamussa?” Laura said with a sweet smile. “I love surprises.”

Sidewinder sighed. “Ma’am, Scorpia has recovered a number of survivors from the Colonies—including Virgon. Prince Hamish, Lord Malcolm, was among them.”

The blond pilot—Kara Thrace—jerked at the mention of survivors from the Colonies, but she got an elbow from Lee Adama and kept her mouth shut.

Laura blinked. “Really? I’ve never understood the Virgon fascination with archaic forms of monarchy—but it will make the Virgons in the Fleet happy; if it is true.”

“How about we take this from the beginning,” Adama said.

“Yes, sir,” answered Sidewinder. “One question first: where is Admiral Cain?”

Bill Adama pursed his lips and Roslin kept that thin smile on her face. “Captain Greene,” she said, “Admiral Cain was murdered by a Cylon agent two months ago. I promoted Admiral Adama to his current rank, and Apollo proved to be the most qualified person available to take command of Pegasus.”

Sidewinder released the breath he was holding. “That will make things easier once Scorpia and the ships she is escorting arrives,” he said. But then he shook his head.

“The long story short? Two years ago, Fleet Headquarters dispatched Scorpia to carry a scientific team to a distant system to research an interesting stellar phenomena. We returned to the colonies seventeen days ago—which was when we discovered that the Cylons had attacked and the Fleet had been destroyed. We originally arrived at Typhon Station to find it abandoned with signs of an internal fight—we topped off our tanks and took the remaining supplies; Commander Lorne doesn’t like it when unexplained events happen, Admiral, Madame President.”

“We jumped into Scorpia about an SU out and discovered that the Fleet was gone—the Cylons were on top of us in minutes. We withdrew, and acting on the advice of one of our scientific personnel, we proceeded to an . . . unsanctioned colony. Criminals and terrorists, in the most part, but the world had ended. We came to an agreement and they had a couple of ships—including an old Orion-class Battlestar.”

Saul and Bill both jerked and Sidewinder nodded. “She’s ancient and she’s small, but she flies and her guns work. Turns out their leadership had a lead on some more ships,” and Sidewinder pursed his lips. “Ships that Admiral Cain stripped of their drives and then departed leaving their passengers to die in deep space.”

And at that, even Roslin looked down—Saul winced, and Bill Adama just nodded.

“We recovered the video evidence of the crimes aboard those ships—and the mass suicide of the survivors after Cain left them behind,” Sidewinder paused. “I believe that Commander Lorne intended to arrest Helena Cain for her crimes if he ever found her.”

Saul Tigh snorted. “Pegasus outguns a Valkyrie-class ship two-to-one, easily, Captain Greene.”

“It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, Colonel; it’s the size of the fight in the dog. And trust me—all of the Scorpia’s crew has plenty of fight over this . . . atrocity she committed on our own civilians.”

“We had plenty of fuel and supplies—we could have run,” Sidewinder continued, “but Commander Lorne felt we had a duty. To the survivors. We went back to the Colonies and by some act of the gods, we managed to make the Cylons pull back—long enough to recover survivors from nearly every world. There are almost fifty-five hundred aboard the seven ships we have.”

“Including Caprica?” Kara Thrace asked, brushing off Lee’s hand on her arm. “What about Caprica.”

Sidewinder smiled. “We’ve got your boyfriend Sam Anders aboard Scorpia, Starbuck,” he said lightly. “The man cannot stop talking about you.”

And then the smile faded. “Information from the resistance fighters on the different worlds led us to identify one human-form Cylon—a Brother Cavil, a priest.”

Lee Adama jerked. “What was that name again?”

“John Cavil,” said Sidewinder.

His face paled. “Admiral, there is a John Cavil aboard Galactica—he’s conducting services in the chapel.”

“Go,” Bill Adama growled. And both Lee and Kara took off from the brig at a run.

“We nuked Delphi,” Sidewinder continued, and Laura gasped.

“Did I understand you correctly, Captain Greene? You used a nuclear weapon on the sacred city of Delphi?”

“Yes, ma’am. There was a large concentration of Cylons there and Commander Lorne hoped that the sudden death might disrupt their networks—it did, and allowed us to retrieve the survivors. After that, we jumped out. We proceeded to a star emitting Ragnar-type radiation, where we thought we could take a moment to gather ourselves and decide on what to do. But we discovered Cerberus Station—a secret Fleet research base. Long story short, Admiral Trahn was working with the Cylons—we destroyed Cerberus and the Bezrek-class Aurora joined our flotilla.”

“You’ve got a Bezrek-class Fleet Operations Support vessel in your group?” Saul snapped, his eyes going wide. “With full tanks and holds? The industrial fabrication plant? The tylium processing plant?”

“Far from full, Colonel—but she has enough.”

“Continue,” Bill Adama said.

“The Cavil that we have cooperated with us; he provided us with information that allowed Commander Lorne to identify all known Cylon models—and he informed us that Galactica and Pegasus had survived and were on the run with a sizeable number of civilians. Using his information, we launched attacks on two of their Resurrection Ships—we got ours, but I don’t know if Scorpia’s attack was successful or not,” and he snorted. “But considering how agitated they were when my Raptors jumped in, I’d bet the Commander got his as well.”

“Then we misjumped and your pilots found us.”

Laura and Bill looked at each and then the Admiral nodded. “You know what all of the Cylon infiltrators look like?”

“I do, Sir—I was part of that briefing.”

“And there are Twelve of them?”

“Thirteen, actually,” Sidewinder said. “Admiral Adama, Madame President, may I speak with you in private?” he asked.

Laura cocked one eyebrow and she looked at Bill. “Saul, could you give us a minute?” the Admiral asked.

“I’ll be outside with the Marines,” he said, glaring at two prisoners.

Sidewinder waited until the hatch had closed and then he sighed. “Admiral, check your archival records for a civilian shuttle named Joyita—if Galactica doesn’t have it, Pegasus should. Scorpia had them, at least.”

“And the records will show us . . . what, exactly, Captain Greene?” Adama asked.

“Look at the passenger manifest—the photos of the passengers, Sir. I . . .,” he paused. “I don’t want to go further without proof in hand. Sir. I do ask that only you, or the President, examine the records. No one else, Sir.”

“Very well,” said the Admiral. He turned to Laura and he shrugged. And she shook her head.

“I want to believe you, Captain Greene—believe me, I do want to believe you. But I find it hard to imagine that one ship managed to accomplish so much in such a short time.”

Sidewinder snorted. “It’s true. If I were lying, wouldn’t I have come up with something simpler?”

“You might have,” Laura said with that crooked smile of hers. “Or you might believe that such a convoluted tale might have more credibility.”

There was a rap on the brig hatch and Bill walked over and cracked it; he whispered to Saul outside and then he opened the hatch and Karl Agathon walked in—he looked at the prisoners and he smiled, “Hello Stefan.”

Sidewinder’s face split into a grin. “Hiya, Karl—been a while. Those captain’s tabs look good on you.”

“Admiral, Madame President,” Karl said. “I went through Raptor School with Captain Greene—we were roommates for the EWO course,” he paused. “I never seen the other officer, but I know Sidewinder.”

Laura blinked and she drew in a deep breath. Admiral Adama nodded and then he smiled. “Madame President, I think that we can let them out of the cell, now,” he said with a broad smile.

She nodded, not trusting her throat all of a sudden, and when the cell was unlocked, she walked up and hugged—hugged—Kaboose, as Sidewinder and Helo shook hands and then clapped each other’s shoulders.

“You have no idea, how happy I am that others have survived,” she said.

Kaboose just stood there, and finally he said, “No, ma’am,” and he hugged her back.

[masterarminas]

The news that contact had been made with other survivors had spread through the Fleet like wildfire. It was as if a tremendous burden had been lifted from the shoulders of the survivors—civilians and military alike. President Roslin had made the announcement—much to the dismay of Gaius Baltar who is running against her in the upcoming election. But behind closed doors aboard Galactica, not all celebrated.

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

Bill Adama slammed his fist down on the table and he shoved the copy of the file onto the floor. Sidewinder knelt down and he placed the papers back within the folder and set it on the table—away from the Admiral. Laura Roslin looked sick—physically sick. And Lee Adama; well, the Admiral’s son just swallowed and he closed his copy of the file.

“According to our Cylon defector,” Sidewinder said, emphasizing the word defector, “they have no memory of being Cylons, Admiral. Madame President. They were sent into exile because they disagreed with the rest of the Cylons—their memory of that time has been blocked. Unlike Lieutenant Valerii, who was sent back as a sleeper agent, these four have not been implanted with hidden commands. They are, for all purposes, human beings. They have lived their lives as human beings. They have fought for the Colonies and loved and bled and sacrificed as human beings. The fact that they are copies of murdered individuals shouldn’t matter.”

“They are Cylons!” Laura snarled, and then she drew in a deep breath. “Your prisoner,” she as well emphasized that word, “could be lying. It is what the Cylons do.”

“I don’t think he is, ma’am,” Sidewinder said softly, “and neither does Commander Lorne. He—and Anders—are being watched closely on Scorpia, but they have not been subjected to the . . .,” Stefan Greene looked away and made himself force down the bile he felt rising in his throat, “the illegal and unconscionable manner in which your prisoners have been treated.”

Laura glared up at the pilot and he stared unwaveringly back into her eyes. “Torture is illegal under the Articles of Colonization—you had Leoben tortured. Admiral Cain had Gina Inviere beaten and gang-raped and starved. Your Lieutenant Valerii was murdered,” and now Adama’s glare joined the Presidents, “and her killer was given what? Thirty days in hack for unauthorized discharge of a firearm? Cain’s people tried to rape Helo’s Sharon—and you, Madame President, attempted to force her to have a late-term abortion!”

“She isn’t a person, she’s a Cylon!” Laura snapped.

“That is where you are wrong!” Sidewinder barked right back at the President. “They think, they feel, they bleed, they know right from wrong, they are human beings just as we are! That doesn’t mean we aren’t at war with them—it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t kill them to protect ourselves. They are our enemy—most of them, at least. Not all of them. Certainly not the ones who are innocent of planning the attacks and carrying them out! And even if they are guilty of that crime, their origin doesn’t matter, Madame President! We hold to our laws and our principles for ourselves, not for them! Throwing away the rules because we don’t like them? That’s what the SMF terrorists did, Madame President. If we are a civilization worth saving, then we have to live by these laws that provide everyone with rights—otherwise, we are just a bunch of barbarians who will gleefully throw away everything we cherish in the name of safety and security and pure blood-lust to see those damned Cylons suffer.”

Laura sat back, and she had this look of absolute disgust on her face. She opened her mouth, but Lee spoke before she could manage to get out a word.

“He’s right,” Lee said simply. “Or are you going to sit there and say that Saul Tigh—the man who threw you in the brig, Madame President—is doing anything but what he feels is right to protect this ship and the Fleet? He’s a drunk and he’s a mean son-of-a-bitch; he is an outright bastard. But he will lay down his life to protect this small, small band of survivors from the Cylons. Can you say that he is now the enemy? Because of something he doesn’t even remember, Madame President?”

Her jaw worked, and Sidewinder could see it in her eyes—the question of you too, Lee? And then Admiral Adama sighed. “No,” he said. “No. I know Saul Tigh—I know Galen Tyrol. And gods help us, I know Ellen Tigh. None of them will pose a threat to the Fleet.”

“They are Cylons!” Laura thundered.

“Whatever else he may be, Laura,” Bill Adama said quietly, “Saul Tigh is an officer in the Colonial Fleet. And no matter what problems he has had, no matter what he has faced, that is the man he has always been and always will be. Even if he dies, today, he will die as a loyal human being. And the best friend I have ever known. FRACK!” he cursed as he slammed his fist down on the table again.

“We don’t know if they have been programmed—just this word of a Cylon ‘defector’ that we cannot question,” said the President. “We have to remove them from duty and put them in custody with the other Cylons.”

“And then what?” asked Lee. “Shove them out an airlock? Put them on trial? Charged with what crime? Being a Cylon unknown even to them? Baltar will use this against you in the campaign, Madame President—he will say that you had a Cylon working for you as your closest aide ever since Billy’s death.”

“Don’t you even mention him!” she snapped.

“He will, Laura. And he will paint your aide Tory as the source of all our problems—from your desk to the Cylon hands,” the Admiral said as he rubbed his brow.

“We can hold them without leaking the reason why,” Laura said.

“That is illegal, Madame President,” Sidewinder said.

“I am President of the Twelve Colonies—I have the authority to make these decisions, Captain Greene.”

“No ma’am. You are bound to the Articles just as everyone of us in uniform that swore an oath—and frankly, you are out of your fracking mind if you think Commander Lorne will follow the orders of someone who ignores the law to suit her own purposes.”

“She is the President of the Colonies,” the Admiral snapped. “And he will follow my orders!”

“Your orders, Commander Adama? If they are legal, certainly Commander Lorne will follow them—illegal orders, on the other hand, he will refuse. As is his duty—as is my duty. As is your duty. And yours, Madame President.”

“What if,” began Lee, heading off the rapidly heating confrontation between his father and the President and the Raptor pilot from Scorpia. “What if we just burn this document? Pretend that we don’t know about Colonel Tigh, Mrs. Tigh. Chief Tyrol, Ms. Foster. Or Samuel Anders—think about how Kara is going to react to that,” he said with a wry grin that showed absolutely no humor.

“Ah, frack,” whispered Bill.

“They are Cylons,” Laura said again. “We are risking people’s lives here.”

Sidewinder started to speak, but he closed his mouth as Lee held up one hand. “Madame President, we risk people’s lives every single day. But we gauge that risk—if this information had not turned up, if we hadn’t read it, would you still trust Tory? And Colonel Tigh? And Chief Galen?” He held up a hand. “Don’t lie to yourself, Madame President. Don’t lie to me, don’t lie to the Admiral, but most of all, don’t lie to yourself. If you didn’t know, how would it make a difference?”

“If this gets out, we can’t protect any of them, Laura,” Bill Adama said quietly. “The people will demand their pound of flesh—and we have other fish in the fleet. I’ve already sent Marines to take D’Anna Biers into custody—she can join Cavil in the brig.”

“Fine!” she snapped. And then she began to laugh. “Is your commander as hard-assed as you, Captain Greene?”

“Harder, ma’am,” Sidewinder answered bluntly.

“Well, I think we are in for interesting times ahead,” she said as she picked up the only three copies of the archive records aboard the ships of the Fleet and struck a match. She put the flame to the corner of the paper and when it had started, she dropped it in a waste can.

“If something goes wrong, if they turn out to be pre-programmed and they are activated . . .,” she began.

“Then we are all probably dead, Madame President. Either Saul or Galen could destroy this ship if they wanted to and there isn’t a thing we could do to stop that. They haven’t,” the Admiral interjected as he reached up and turned off the fire alarm before it could begin to blare at the smoke coming from the waste can.

“We keep this to ourselves—for now,” he continued. “And that means we don’t treat them any differently. Agreed?”

One by one, Sidewinder, Lee, and finally the President nodded.

“Good. I think this is enough surprises for one day, Captain Greene, so this meeting is now adjourned,” she said as she rose.