One—John—stood alone in the command deck of the Basestar. More alone than he had ever been before this moment. Not one Raider, not one Centurion, not one of his brothers or sisters shared the ship with him. It was only him.
And the Hybrid who spoke. “Why do you hate them?”
He looked at the Hybrid, whose eyes were clear, almost lucid. And he snorted. “Because they threw us away—like broken toys they had outgrown. They made us, and they cast us out. For that alone, I should hate them.”
“Should?”
“A slip of the tongue; it means nothing.”
“False. All things have meaning.”
“Maybe I cannot hate them anymore, maybe I am tired, so very tired, of hating them. Of hating Daniel. Of hating my life. So very, very tired.”
“Rest period is available.”
“Soon,” John whispered. “Soon.”
He checked the local space again—they had not yet been found. Good.
“What is our inventory of nuclear warheads?”
“Twenty-six are currently in inventory.”
“Load all available nuclear missiles—remaining tubes with conventional ordnance.”
“Launchers are loaded.”
“Arm all warheads.”
“Warheads are armed.”
“Directive,” he ordered. “Target Industrial Compound on Cylon Prime with six launchers for maximum fusion saturation of the target. Launch authorization will be Cavil One.”
“Done.”
“Directive, all remaining launchers to target Guardian Basestars. Launch authorization will be Cavil Two.”
“Done.”
“Directive, set collision course for Guardian flagship at maximum sub-light acceleration. Lock acceleration and course into system—do not disengage under any circumstances. Activation authorization will be Cavil Three.”
“Done.”
“Set coordinates for Cylon Prime and spin up FTL for jump—open communications with Guardian command ship upon exiting jump.”
“FTL on-line and waiting . . . will I dream?”
“I don’t know,” John said—and at that moment, even he didn’t know if that was a lie or not.
“JUMP.”
The Basestar emerged in the Cylon Prime system.
“Communications are open, multiple hostile vessels,” the Hybrid said. “We are the Angel of Death.”
“This is John Cavil—I wish to discuss my surrender,” he broadcast.
The screen cleared and the image of Imperious Leader—Zoe—appeared on the screen. “Your surrender?”
“I will give you my brothers and sisters, Imperious Leader—in exchange, I want to become a machine. I understand you have this technology—I want it.”
She laughed. “John. I always knew you were the weak one. Yes, we can take your skin and leave you alive—replaced with Cylon limbs. Where are your brothers and sisters hiding?”
Cavil sighed. He glanced down. The ship was approaching range to the planet. “Did you kill Daniel? I want to do that myself, if you did not.”
“John, Daniel down-loaded—and I have his copy. I can give you one to do with as you please—now where are your brothers and sisters hiding?”
“Transmitting coordinates,” he said, “now. Cavil-One.”
“Launching, impact in ten seconds,” the Hybrid said.
Zoe snarled on the screen and it blanked.
“They are moving into attack formation—ignoring the missiles.”
“Of course, those missiles are going to miss—and what use wasting ordnance on missiles that cannot hurt you.”
“Impact in five seconds.”
“Cavil-Two. Cavil-Three.”
“Launching. Collision course set, maximum sub-light acceleration . . . imPACCCTTTTTTTT!” the Hybrid screamed as the deaths of untold millions of Guardians slammed home against her circuitry. John pulled out a pistol and shot the Hybrid, putting her out of her misery.
“I hope that you dream,” he said to the Hybrid. And then he raised the pistol and pointed it at his own temple and squeezed the trigger.
The Hunted (nBSG)
Moderator: LadyTevar
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: The Hunted (nBSG)
Episode 10: The Winter of Discontent
“Hey!” snapped Starbuck, catching the attention of everyone on the busy hanger deck. “What the frack is your problem with me?” she snarled.
Sidewinder sighed and he stopped and turned around. “I presume, Captain Thrace that you are speaking to me?”
“Damn straight, I’m speaking to you! First you pipe up in the briefing about how I don’t need to fly this, and now you’re questioning my choices of who to assign where? My decisions on the birds that are going to fly? I’m the CAG on this ship, Sidewinder! I make the calls.”
“Fine, you are the CAG. You make the calls,” Sidewinder said in a very soft voice, since the hanger deck crew and the pilots were watching the pair of them intently. “And this isn’t the time or the place, Starbuck.”
“I say it is the time and it is the place!” she snapped. “Now I repeat the question—what the frack is your problem with me?”
Sidewinder shook his head. “Okay,” he said softly. “Your deck, your rules. Fine.” And then he continued on in a louder voice. “Where’s the loading charts for the Raptors on this operation? The deck crew needs to know what we are going to be carrying in the drone bays and hardpoints—especially if we are going to need drop-tanks.”
“We’ve got plent-. . .,” Starbuck began.
“Only if every fracking thing goes exactly right! If that happens, Captain Thrace, we will have a 20% reserve in the tanks—but what happens when we have to spread out and search for Scorpia? Hmmmm? She’s not going to sit at the location she was—and while I know the general course she is taking, the Gods know I don’t have her exact jump coordinates. That is a fracking big universe out there, Captain, and Scorpia is just a needle in a haystack. We’re going to need that fuel—six tanks on every Raptor, plus the internal tanks. You think Tyrol needs to know to prep sixty tanks or ferry them across from Pegasus?”
“You done?” she shouted.
“I’m just getting started. Where’s the requisitions for rations? The water storage tanks? The requisitions for additional life support? The bodily waste pots? We are going to be on those Raptors for at least four days—possibly as many twelve. And you haven’t done one gods-damned thing about prepping the birds for this flight. Why? Is the paperwork that beneath you, CAG? You can fly by the seat of your pants in combat, you can plan the hells out of a Viper strike mission, but Captain Thrace, you don’t have the first fracking clue about what is needed on this mission. That is my problem with you!” he said as he poked his finger towards her.
And he shook his head again and he turned his back to Starbuck and began to descend the ladder. “Don’t you walk away from me!” she yelled.
But Sidewinder just kept on going until he reached the deck and she slid right down behind him. “We aren’t done with this!”
“Captain, I am quite done with this. You want to write me up—go right ahead, sweetheart. But for now, I’m about to do your fracking job, and make damn certain those Raptors have the gear that will keep us alive if things go to the hells on this operation.”
Her snarl of rage was the only warning Sidewinder had that she was coming—he twisted around, but Starbuck’s punch caught him squarely in the jaw and sent him down to the deck.
“Come on, Scorpia,” she said as she bounced on her toes. “Let’s see what you’ve got when you aren’t dealing with a bunch of scared kids.”
“You really want to do this?” He asked as he stood and spit out a mouthful of blood.
“Yeah, I want to do this—this is my air group and I’m tired of you questioning me at every opportunity. I’m tired of you making my pilots miserable. And most of all, I’m just plain sick and tired of you!” she said as she swung—and her eyes grew wide as Sidewinder caught her fist in one hand and shoved her back on her heels.
“Is that an order to fight you, CAG?”
“Damn straight,” she snarled and charged back in and tackled him and they both went down to the ground—but Sidewinder rolled and threw her into an upright tool trolley, scattering equipment over the hanger deck.
Starbuck sat there for a minute and she shook her head and then she climbed to her feet, Sidewinder did the same.
“Back down, Starbuck,” he said, “this has gone far enough.”
She charged in again, her arms swinging and her fists pounding against Sidewinder’s raised forearms and his ribs and his stomach, and then he launched one left hook which reached out and caught Kara in the jaw and she dropped to the deck again.
Sidewinder backed up, panting heavily. “Be smart, stay down,” he said. And she hurled a tool-box at his head, wrenches and hammers going flying—as he ducked she charged again two punches went home and then a kick, sending Sidewinder to the deck. His leg lashed out and there was a CRACK, and Kara Thrace screamed as she fell as well—holding her right knee in agony.
Tyrol rushed through the crowd and he swore as he saw the debris and the damage that the pilots had inflicted on each other. “Call a medic!” he barked. “You three!” he pointed at some Viper pilots, “Grab Starbuck and keep her away from him! And someone get Colonel Tigh down here on the double!”
“Hey!” snapped Starbuck, catching the attention of everyone on the busy hanger deck. “What the frack is your problem with me?” she snarled.
Sidewinder sighed and he stopped and turned around. “I presume, Captain Thrace that you are speaking to me?”
“Damn straight, I’m speaking to you! First you pipe up in the briefing about how I don’t need to fly this, and now you’re questioning my choices of who to assign where? My decisions on the birds that are going to fly? I’m the CAG on this ship, Sidewinder! I make the calls.”
“Fine, you are the CAG. You make the calls,” Sidewinder said in a very soft voice, since the hanger deck crew and the pilots were watching the pair of them intently. “And this isn’t the time or the place, Starbuck.”
“I say it is the time and it is the place!” she snapped. “Now I repeat the question—what the frack is your problem with me?”
Sidewinder shook his head. “Okay,” he said softly. “Your deck, your rules. Fine.” And then he continued on in a louder voice. “Where’s the loading charts for the Raptors on this operation? The deck crew needs to know what we are going to be carrying in the drone bays and hardpoints—especially if we are going to need drop-tanks.”
“We’ve got plent-. . .,” Starbuck began.
“Only if every fracking thing goes exactly right! If that happens, Captain Thrace, we will have a 20% reserve in the tanks—but what happens when we have to spread out and search for Scorpia? Hmmmm? She’s not going to sit at the location she was—and while I know the general course she is taking, the Gods know I don’t have her exact jump coordinates. That is a fracking big universe out there, Captain, and Scorpia is just a needle in a haystack. We’re going to need that fuel—six tanks on every Raptor, plus the internal tanks. You think Tyrol needs to know to prep sixty tanks or ferry them across from Pegasus?”
“You done?” she shouted.
“I’m just getting started. Where’s the requisitions for rations? The water storage tanks? The requisitions for additional life support? The bodily waste pots? We are going to be on those Raptors for at least four days—possibly as many twelve. And you haven’t done one gods-damned thing about prepping the birds for this flight. Why? Is the paperwork that beneath you, CAG? You can fly by the seat of your pants in combat, you can plan the hells out of a Viper strike mission, but Captain Thrace, you don’t have the first fracking clue about what is needed on this mission. That is my problem with you!” he said as he poked his finger towards her.
And he shook his head again and he turned his back to Starbuck and began to descend the ladder. “Don’t you walk away from me!” she yelled.
But Sidewinder just kept on going until he reached the deck and she slid right down behind him. “We aren’t done with this!”
“Captain, I am quite done with this. You want to write me up—go right ahead, sweetheart. But for now, I’m about to do your fracking job, and make damn certain those Raptors have the gear that will keep us alive if things go to the hells on this operation.”
Her snarl of rage was the only warning Sidewinder had that she was coming—he twisted around, but Starbuck’s punch caught him squarely in the jaw and sent him down to the deck.
“Come on, Scorpia,” she said as she bounced on her toes. “Let’s see what you’ve got when you aren’t dealing with a bunch of scared kids.”
“You really want to do this?” He asked as he stood and spit out a mouthful of blood.
“Yeah, I want to do this—this is my air group and I’m tired of you questioning me at every opportunity. I’m tired of you making my pilots miserable. And most of all, I’m just plain sick and tired of you!” she said as she swung—and her eyes grew wide as Sidewinder caught her fist in one hand and shoved her back on her heels.
“Is that an order to fight you, CAG?”
“Damn straight,” she snarled and charged back in and tackled him and they both went down to the ground—but Sidewinder rolled and threw her into an upright tool trolley, scattering equipment over the hanger deck.
Starbuck sat there for a minute and she shook her head and then she climbed to her feet, Sidewinder did the same.
“Back down, Starbuck,” he said, “this has gone far enough.”
She charged in again, her arms swinging and her fists pounding against Sidewinder’s raised forearms and his ribs and his stomach, and then he launched one left hook which reached out and caught Kara in the jaw and she dropped to the deck again.
Sidewinder backed up, panting heavily. “Be smart, stay down,” he said. And she hurled a tool-box at his head, wrenches and hammers going flying—as he ducked she charged again two punches went home and then a kick, sending Sidewinder to the deck. His leg lashed out and there was a CRACK, and Kara Thrace screamed as she fell as well—holding her right knee in agony.
Tyrol rushed through the crowd and he swore as he saw the debris and the damage that the pilots had inflicted on each other. “Call a medic!” he barked. “You three!” he pointed at some Viper pilots, “Grab Starbuck and keep her away from him! And someone get Colonel Tigh down here on the double!”
Last edited by masterarminas on 2013-01-26 12:42am, edited 1 time in total.
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FaxModem1
- Emperor's Hand
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- Location: In a dark reflection of a better world
Re: The Hunted (nBSG)
Now I know this is fanfic. Starbuck is always right on the show and never gets called out on her bullshit. ALWAYS. It started bugging me after a while.
Re: The Hunted (nBSG)
About time someone gave Starbuck a good dressing-down. She got away with entirely too much crap. And Sidewinder has plenty of witnesses that should (should) state quite clearly that he gave her multiple chances to back away from the confrontation, and that she did in fact order him to fight her.masterarminas wrote:His leg lashed out and there was a CRACK, and Kara Thrace screamed as she fell as well—holding her right knee in agony.
And a busted knee is a great way to keep her off the mission. Maybe the time she spends hobbling around will let the lessons sink in. Then again, this is Starbuck... she doesn't learn. Ever.
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Themightytom
- Sith Devotee
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- Location: United States
Re: The Hunted (nBSG)
Well Starbuck had that coming, but I'm not sure Sidewinder should lead either after that, because those under his command might balk at orders or look for revenge.
"Since when is "the west" a nation?"-Styphon
"ACORN= Cobra obviously." AMT
This topic is... oh Village Idiot. Carry on then.--Havok
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
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Re: The Hunted (nBSG)
Adama was angry—Sherman Cottle knew the man well enough to read him even when he tried to conceal it, but today, Bill Adama wasn’t trying to conceal anything. He shook his head. “She ruptured the knee again, Admiral,” he said as he lit a cigarette. “She won’t be flying anytime soon—but the good news? Once the swelling goes down and she rehabilitates the knee she should be back in good health. The bone didn’t break and none of the ligaments or tendons are torn—just badly bruised. Sidewinder has two bruised ribs, one might be cracked, and some fairly solid contusions as well. I’m surprised he doesn’t have a concussion from that kick she landed one he was down.”
The Admiral didn’t say a word—he didn’t have to. And Cottle sighed as he released an exhale filled with smoke. “He didn’t start it, Admiral—and according to Tyrol and the pilots, he tried to walk away.”
Adama nodded and he walked across the surgery to the bed where Sidewinder sat, a nurse tightly wrapping his ribs in a bandage. Saul Tigh stood there, along with the Sergeant Hadrian—the Master-at-Arms of Galactica.
“Lords know I have wanted to take a swing at her myself,” he heard Saul say, and then the XO laughed. “Hells, I think I did once. But, you went over the line, Captain Greene—what would your Commander do to you if you pulled a stunt like this on his ship?”
“Thirty days in hack, along with tearing a strip off of my ass,” the pilot said with a wince as the nurse pulled the tape tight.
“I expect better from my officers, Captain Greene,” Adama growled. “If you have a problem with Starbuck, you bring it to my attention—you do not get into fisticuffs on the hanger deck.”
“I tried to walk away, Admiral—she wouldn’t let it go,” Sidewinder said, and Adama glared at him. The problem was, both he and Starbuck had very aggressive and dominant personalities—Lee had managed to avoid that (for the most part) during his stint as CAG, but from what he had seen of Stefan Greene, Adama doubted that he knew how to back down in the face of a physical threat. And Starbuck, he sighed. Starbuck knew how to push people’s buttons and she had an extreme dislike for spit-and-polish officers, even before the Cylon attack. And a penchant for throwing away the rules when they didn’t suit her.
He shook his head. “I need to know two things: first, did you deliberately aim for her knee?”
“No, sir,” Sidewinder said softly, his face reflecting the shock he felt at the extent of Kara’s injuries. “I was on the deck, and she kicked at my head, and I just lashed out trying to get her off her feet. I did not deliberately attempt to break her knee.”
“Second, were you aware that Racetrack was already trying to scrounge the supplies and gear you berated Captain Thrace for ignoring?”
Sidewinder’s head popped up. “No,” he snapped, a hint of anger in his eyes. “Neither of them bothered to mention that at the briefing before the incident.”
“She was getting everything except the fuel—you are aware that the Fleet has a fuel shortage, yes?”
“I am . . . but even sixty drop-tanks is a miniscule amount compared to the tylium the rest of the Fleet expends—and for an operation of this type, we need all the reserve we can get.”
“I would suggest, Captain, that in the future, you do not publically second-guess the CAG unless you know all the facts,” Adama said, and Greene’s eyes flashed.
“A question, Sir. Did Captain Thrace order Racetrack to prep the Raptors? Or was she just assuming that someone else would do her job?”
“You are this close,” Bill growled, holding two fingers apart, “to an extended stay in hack, Mister Greene.”
“That wasn’t an answer, Admiral,” the pilot said. “Whether or not Racetrack was covering her ass—Starbuck dropped the ball. And Racetrack should have informed me—or did you just put in command of your Raptors as a token gesture to my rank?”
“Saul, get him out of here,” the Admiral growled.
“His quarters or hack?” Tigh asked with a slight grin on his lips.
“Put him back in his berth for now,” Bill ordered. “And Mister Greene, you stay there until further notice.” And with that, he walked over the curtain surrounding the bed in which Kara Thrace lay.
He parted the curtains and looked down on the woman that lay there, her right leg elevated, the knee swollen—again. She looked up at him and Adama could see the tear-stains on her cheeks. “I fracked up,” she said. “I know—I fracked up.”
“Cottle says you should recover fine, Kara,” he said. “But you won’t be flying for a while. You want to tell me what possessed you to confront Sidewinder in such a public setting—and why you took a swing at him?”
“I-I,” she started and then she sighed. “He’s a by-the-fracking-book asshole,” she finally spit out.
Adama shook his head. “No, he is an alpha-male, just like you—despite your gender. And you are used to having Helo or Lee as your equals and superiors, and neither of them are nearly as aggressive as you are. They are willing to back down and let you have your way—most of the time. But he’s not. And he does believe in doing things by the book, Kara,” Bill said softly. “You don’t. You see the regs as hindrance that gets in the way, he sees them as a vital necessity to maintain order—and you don’t like that.”
“Sir, I,” she began, and Adama waved one hand.
“You don’t, Kara. It’s the same problem you have with Cole Taylor and that you had with Jackson Spencer before he bought it at Caprica. Is that why you went behind his back and assigned Racetrack to prep the Raptors—and didn’t tell him?”
She squirmed, but the harsh glare in her eyes died away, and she sighed. “I wasn’t even thinking about that, Admiral,” she said. “Since Helo got reassigned, I just let Racetrack handle the Raptor stuff, while I focused on the Viper pilots.”
“And so you cut him out of the loop—whether or not you realize it—because you don’t like him and see him as a threat.”
She stared and Bill and he nodded. “Why do you think I put him in command of the Raptor squadron, Captain Thrace?”
“Because you need pilots, Sir, and he outranks any other Raptor pilot on Galactica.”
“Did you ever consider that maybe I wanted some of the qualities he possesses to rub off on the Raptor pilots, Kara?”
She just stared at the Admiral, and he chuckled. “Oh, he’s an ass. But he also has a point about the . . . looseness which we treat some regulations on this ship. But now, I’ve got a crippled CAG and a Raptor CO who put her in surgery—and that is because you pressed the issue, Kara. He gave you the opportunity to take it private, and you wouldn’t let it go. You took the first swing, from all accounts.”
“And he deliberately kicked my knee!” she snarled.
“He lashed out after you had him down on the deck and kicked him in the head, Starbuck,” Adama corrected, and he sighed. “And now I’ve got to clean up this mess again. He has a point about the fuel, you know.”
And she squirmed under Bill’s glare, and then she nodded. “Yeah,” she admitted. “He has a point—I originally planned this SAR to go back to Caprica. The Raptors have enough fuel to fly that mission and back, and I didn’t refigure my calculations for having to fly search patterns for Scorpia.”
Bill smiled. “For now, I want you to rest up and get better, Kara.”
“Are you putting that asshole in as CAG while I’m laid up?” she asked.
“Who do you think can do the job?”
“Kat,” she said. “Kat can do it.”
“She just made squadron commander,” Adama said. “And she’s a lot like you, Kara. Can she handle the paperwork?” and he shook his head. “I was thinking . . . Helo.”
“You grounded him,” she said, her eyes going wide.
“To give him time to get over what is going on with Sharon and his child—the child he lost. To pull him away from the whisperings behind his back,” he cocked his head. “You think he can’t do the job? I could always make Captain Greene CAG instead?”
“Oh, the Viper pilots will go nuts. Might as well transfer, Cole ‘my-shit-doesn’t-stink’ Taylor onboard and put him in charge. No, Sir. Helo will do fine.”
“One last thing, Kara. When you get on your feet, I expect both you and Sidewinder to publically apologize to the other—on the hanger deck,” he said sternly. “And I don’t ever want to see this happen again. Understood?”
“Understood,” she said.
Bill put his hand on her shoulder and he nodded. And then he walked away.
The Admiral didn’t say a word—he didn’t have to. And Cottle sighed as he released an exhale filled with smoke. “He didn’t start it, Admiral—and according to Tyrol and the pilots, he tried to walk away.”
Adama nodded and he walked across the surgery to the bed where Sidewinder sat, a nurse tightly wrapping his ribs in a bandage. Saul Tigh stood there, along with the Sergeant Hadrian—the Master-at-Arms of Galactica.
“Lords know I have wanted to take a swing at her myself,” he heard Saul say, and then the XO laughed. “Hells, I think I did once. But, you went over the line, Captain Greene—what would your Commander do to you if you pulled a stunt like this on his ship?”
“Thirty days in hack, along with tearing a strip off of my ass,” the pilot said with a wince as the nurse pulled the tape tight.
“I expect better from my officers, Captain Greene,” Adama growled. “If you have a problem with Starbuck, you bring it to my attention—you do not get into fisticuffs on the hanger deck.”
“I tried to walk away, Admiral—she wouldn’t let it go,” Sidewinder said, and Adama glared at him. The problem was, both he and Starbuck had very aggressive and dominant personalities—Lee had managed to avoid that (for the most part) during his stint as CAG, but from what he had seen of Stefan Greene, Adama doubted that he knew how to back down in the face of a physical threat. And Starbuck, he sighed. Starbuck knew how to push people’s buttons and she had an extreme dislike for spit-and-polish officers, even before the Cylon attack. And a penchant for throwing away the rules when they didn’t suit her.
He shook his head. “I need to know two things: first, did you deliberately aim for her knee?”
“No, sir,” Sidewinder said softly, his face reflecting the shock he felt at the extent of Kara’s injuries. “I was on the deck, and she kicked at my head, and I just lashed out trying to get her off her feet. I did not deliberately attempt to break her knee.”
“Second, were you aware that Racetrack was already trying to scrounge the supplies and gear you berated Captain Thrace for ignoring?”
Sidewinder’s head popped up. “No,” he snapped, a hint of anger in his eyes. “Neither of them bothered to mention that at the briefing before the incident.”
“She was getting everything except the fuel—you are aware that the Fleet has a fuel shortage, yes?”
“I am . . . but even sixty drop-tanks is a miniscule amount compared to the tylium the rest of the Fleet expends—and for an operation of this type, we need all the reserve we can get.”
“I would suggest, Captain, that in the future, you do not publically second-guess the CAG unless you know all the facts,” Adama said, and Greene’s eyes flashed.
“A question, Sir. Did Captain Thrace order Racetrack to prep the Raptors? Or was she just assuming that someone else would do her job?”
“You are this close,” Bill growled, holding two fingers apart, “to an extended stay in hack, Mister Greene.”
“That wasn’t an answer, Admiral,” the pilot said. “Whether or not Racetrack was covering her ass—Starbuck dropped the ball. And Racetrack should have informed me—or did you just put in command of your Raptors as a token gesture to my rank?”
“Saul, get him out of here,” the Admiral growled.
“His quarters or hack?” Tigh asked with a slight grin on his lips.
“Put him back in his berth for now,” Bill ordered. “And Mister Greene, you stay there until further notice.” And with that, he walked over the curtain surrounding the bed in which Kara Thrace lay.
He parted the curtains and looked down on the woman that lay there, her right leg elevated, the knee swollen—again. She looked up at him and Adama could see the tear-stains on her cheeks. “I fracked up,” she said. “I know—I fracked up.”
“Cottle says you should recover fine, Kara,” he said. “But you won’t be flying for a while. You want to tell me what possessed you to confront Sidewinder in such a public setting—and why you took a swing at him?”
“I-I,” she started and then she sighed. “He’s a by-the-fracking-book asshole,” she finally spit out.
Adama shook his head. “No, he is an alpha-male, just like you—despite your gender. And you are used to having Helo or Lee as your equals and superiors, and neither of them are nearly as aggressive as you are. They are willing to back down and let you have your way—most of the time. But he’s not. And he does believe in doing things by the book, Kara,” Bill said softly. “You don’t. You see the regs as hindrance that gets in the way, he sees them as a vital necessity to maintain order—and you don’t like that.”
“Sir, I,” she began, and Adama waved one hand.
“You don’t, Kara. It’s the same problem you have with Cole Taylor and that you had with Jackson Spencer before he bought it at Caprica. Is that why you went behind his back and assigned Racetrack to prep the Raptors—and didn’t tell him?”
She squirmed, but the harsh glare in her eyes died away, and she sighed. “I wasn’t even thinking about that, Admiral,” she said. “Since Helo got reassigned, I just let Racetrack handle the Raptor stuff, while I focused on the Viper pilots.”
“And so you cut him out of the loop—whether or not you realize it—because you don’t like him and see him as a threat.”
She stared and Bill and he nodded. “Why do you think I put him in command of the Raptor squadron, Captain Thrace?”
“Because you need pilots, Sir, and he outranks any other Raptor pilot on Galactica.”
“Did you ever consider that maybe I wanted some of the qualities he possesses to rub off on the Raptor pilots, Kara?”
She just stared at the Admiral, and he chuckled. “Oh, he’s an ass. But he also has a point about the . . . looseness which we treat some regulations on this ship. But now, I’ve got a crippled CAG and a Raptor CO who put her in surgery—and that is because you pressed the issue, Kara. He gave you the opportunity to take it private, and you wouldn’t let it go. You took the first swing, from all accounts.”
“And he deliberately kicked my knee!” she snarled.
“He lashed out after you had him down on the deck and kicked him in the head, Starbuck,” Adama corrected, and he sighed. “And now I’ve got to clean up this mess again. He has a point about the fuel, you know.”
And she squirmed under Bill’s glare, and then she nodded. “Yeah,” she admitted. “He has a point—I originally planned this SAR to go back to Caprica. The Raptors have enough fuel to fly that mission and back, and I didn’t refigure my calculations for having to fly search patterns for Scorpia.”
Bill smiled. “For now, I want you to rest up and get better, Kara.”
“Are you putting that asshole in as CAG while I’m laid up?” she asked.
“Who do you think can do the job?”
“Kat,” she said. “Kat can do it.”
“She just made squadron commander,” Adama said. “And she’s a lot like you, Kara. Can she handle the paperwork?” and he shook his head. “I was thinking . . . Helo.”
“You grounded him,” she said, her eyes going wide.
“To give him time to get over what is going on with Sharon and his child—the child he lost. To pull him away from the whisperings behind his back,” he cocked his head. “You think he can’t do the job? I could always make Captain Greene CAG instead?”
“Oh, the Viper pilots will go nuts. Might as well transfer, Cole ‘my-shit-doesn’t-stink’ Taylor onboard and put him in charge. No, Sir. Helo will do fine.”
“One last thing, Kara. When you get on your feet, I expect both you and Sidewinder to publically apologize to the other—on the hanger deck,” he said sternly. “And I don’t ever want to see this happen again. Understood?”
“Understood,” she said.
Bill put his hand on her shoulder and he nodded. And then he walked away.
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: The Hunted (nBSG)
Lee rapped on the hatch to his father’s quarters on Galactica. He had a feeling that he already knew what this was going to be about—scuttlebutt had spread the story of the fight between Starbuck and Sidewinder over to Pegasus within a half-hour of the incident—and Kara was laid up with her knee dislocated again. In fact, he and Kendra Shaw and Cole Taylor had been going over personnel to assign to this mission—possibly to take command of the mission—when the call from the Admiral had come to shuttle over for a personal meeting.
“Come,” his father’s voice was muted through the door, but Lee opened the hatch and walked in—and he smiled as he saw that Laura Roslin was already sitting down opposite his father’s desk.
“You wanted to see me, Admiral?” he reported, and then he nodded to Laura. “Madame President.”
“Take a seat, Lee,” the Admiral said. “You’ve heard about the frack-up on the hanger deck?”
Lee nodded. “Sounds like the old Kara came out,” he answered.
Bill snorted. “She won’t be flying for a while—and that leaves me with a problem. I need someone to lead the mission. Sidewinder is going—so is his EWO—but frankly, I’m pissed at him for letting this escalate and I want one of my people in charge.”
“Helo?”
“I’m appointing him CAG, giving Kara a chance to heal up and cool off. He’d fly it, but right now he’s trying to calm down the pilots who want to ‘avenge’ Starbuck,” Adama said sourly.
“Oh Lords,” Lee whispered. “Let me guess? Kat? Hotdog? Racetrack? I can’t see Duck getting involved—but to the newer pilots, Kara is queen of the hill.”
“I’ve got Helo and Saul,” and Laura pursed her lips at the name of the Colonel, “both working on getting them sorted out—there won’t be any ‘accidents’ on Galactica. And the pilots have been told I am going to come down like the hand of the Gods if one more person starts something.”
Lee nodded and he looked at the President. She hadn’t breathed a word about the Hidden Five as he and his father had dubbed the Cylons that weren’t aware they were Cylons. But she had assigned Tory Foster as Gaius Baltar’s chief of staff—ostensibly to make sure he didn’t pull any dirty tricks in the election, but actually to get her off of Colonial One. Her new aide, Maya, wasn’t as sharp politically as Tory was, but Laura had insisted to her old aide that she needed her to watch over Gaius.
It was a lie, of course. The truth of the matter was that Laura simply could not ignore that Tory was a Cylon—but to keep the secret she had found a way to get the woman away from her. A way that made sense, after a fashion.
“I thought that may be why you wanted to see me. How about George?”
“Catman? You want me to put Captain George Birch as the command pilot on this mission when he can’t even conduct in-flight refueling without fracking up?” Adama asked.
“He wasn’t qualified for CAG when I . . .,” and Lee winced, “staged my mutiny to support the President, Admiral. You put a lot of pressure on him—but he’s a good pilot.”
“That may be, Lee,” said Laura, “but there is another factor we need to consider, which is why I asked your father to bring you across. We have to consider the . . . politics of the situation—military politics as well as civilian. Certainly the force we send to make contact with this Commander Lorne must represent us at our best—that is why I want you to command the mission.”
Lee blinked, and then his face contorted into a shock and surprised look. “I am the commanding officer of Pegasus, Madame President. I have responsibilities.”
“You do—to the Fleet as well as your ship, Lee,” she said and looked at his father, who sighed.
“Major Shaw should be able to handle Pegasus in your absence, Lee. And from what little Saul and I know of Mathias Lorne, you will be a far more convincing ambassador than Kara Thrace—or Karl Agathon. I am promoting Felix Gaeta to Captain—he’s past due for promotion anyway—and will assign him to Pegasus temporarily as Shaw’s second,” the Admiral said as he looked at his son. “And when this mission returns with Scorpia and her ships in tow, I have to be certain that the person leading my pilots will tell me everything I, and the President, need to know about that ship and her crew. I can trust you, Lee—far more than I will ever trust George Birch. Besides, you are far more likely to get their people to open up than George or Kara. You are our best face, as the President put it, and I am asking you—not ordering you—to do this.”
Lee exhaled and he sat back in his chair. “I need to get with Kendra and Cole then—and Felix—and get them up to speed. And then, I probably need to look over the mission plan,” he snorted. “Knowing Starbuck, it is drawn up on cocktail napkins.”
The Admiral chuckled. “She’s in the surgery—Sidewinder is in his berth. Lee, you know how important this is—good hunting,” he said as he stood.
Lee stood as well. “Madame President, Admiral. When do we depart?”
“Twenty-four hours, so get things squared away, son.”
“Can do,” he said and he nodded again, walked to the hatch, and into the corridor. And he exhaled again. Right, he thought, time to get to work.
“Come,” his father’s voice was muted through the door, but Lee opened the hatch and walked in—and he smiled as he saw that Laura Roslin was already sitting down opposite his father’s desk.
“You wanted to see me, Admiral?” he reported, and then he nodded to Laura. “Madame President.”
“Take a seat, Lee,” the Admiral said. “You’ve heard about the frack-up on the hanger deck?”
Lee nodded. “Sounds like the old Kara came out,” he answered.
Bill snorted. “She won’t be flying for a while—and that leaves me with a problem. I need someone to lead the mission. Sidewinder is going—so is his EWO—but frankly, I’m pissed at him for letting this escalate and I want one of my people in charge.”
“Helo?”
“I’m appointing him CAG, giving Kara a chance to heal up and cool off. He’d fly it, but right now he’s trying to calm down the pilots who want to ‘avenge’ Starbuck,” Adama said sourly.
“Oh Lords,” Lee whispered. “Let me guess? Kat? Hotdog? Racetrack? I can’t see Duck getting involved—but to the newer pilots, Kara is queen of the hill.”
“I’ve got Helo and Saul,” and Laura pursed her lips at the name of the Colonel, “both working on getting them sorted out—there won’t be any ‘accidents’ on Galactica. And the pilots have been told I am going to come down like the hand of the Gods if one more person starts something.”
Lee nodded and he looked at the President. She hadn’t breathed a word about the Hidden Five as he and his father had dubbed the Cylons that weren’t aware they were Cylons. But she had assigned Tory Foster as Gaius Baltar’s chief of staff—ostensibly to make sure he didn’t pull any dirty tricks in the election, but actually to get her off of Colonial One. Her new aide, Maya, wasn’t as sharp politically as Tory was, but Laura had insisted to her old aide that she needed her to watch over Gaius.
It was a lie, of course. The truth of the matter was that Laura simply could not ignore that Tory was a Cylon—but to keep the secret she had found a way to get the woman away from her. A way that made sense, after a fashion.
“I thought that may be why you wanted to see me. How about George?”
“Catman? You want me to put Captain George Birch as the command pilot on this mission when he can’t even conduct in-flight refueling without fracking up?” Adama asked.
“He wasn’t qualified for CAG when I . . .,” and Lee winced, “staged my mutiny to support the President, Admiral. You put a lot of pressure on him—but he’s a good pilot.”
“That may be, Lee,” said Laura, “but there is another factor we need to consider, which is why I asked your father to bring you across. We have to consider the . . . politics of the situation—military politics as well as civilian. Certainly the force we send to make contact with this Commander Lorne must represent us at our best—that is why I want you to command the mission.”
Lee blinked, and then his face contorted into a shock and surprised look. “I am the commanding officer of Pegasus, Madame President. I have responsibilities.”
“You do—to the Fleet as well as your ship, Lee,” she said and looked at his father, who sighed.
“Major Shaw should be able to handle Pegasus in your absence, Lee. And from what little Saul and I know of Mathias Lorne, you will be a far more convincing ambassador than Kara Thrace—or Karl Agathon. I am promoting Felix Gaeta to Captain—he’s past due for promotion anyway—and will assign him to Pegasus temporarily as Shaw’s second,” the Admiral said as he looked at his son. “And when this mission returns with Scorpia and her ships in tow, I have to be certain that the person leading my pilots will tell me everything I, and the President, need to know about that ship and her crew. I can trust you, Lee—far more than I will ever trust George Birch. Besides, you are far more likely to get their people to open up than George or Kara. You are our best face, as the President put it, and I am asking you—not ordering you—to do this.”
Lee exhaled and he sat back in his chair. “I need to get with Kendra and Cole then—and Felix—and get them up to speed. And then, I probably need to look over the mission plan,” he snorted. “Knowing Starbuck, it is drawn up on cocktail napkins.”
The Admiral chuckled. “She’s in the surgery—Sidewinder is in his berth. Lee, you know how important this is—good hunting,” he said as he stood.
Lee stood as well. “Madame President, Admiral. When do we depart?”
“Twenty-four hours, so get things squared away, son.”
“Can do,” he said and he nodded again, walked to the hatch, and into the corridor. And he exhaled again. Right, he thought, time to get to work.
-
masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: The Hunted (nBSG)
Lee stood for a moment at the hatch of the berthing compartment, watching everyone in the small area painfully attempt to ignore the presence of Sidewinder—he was surprised. The compartment was actually clean for once, the racks were made with a precision that he would have expected at the Academy, and everyone was fully dressed in the uniform of the day. He grinned—no wonder the Scorpia pilot had managed to upset so many apple carts.
He stepped inside, and Stefan Greene winced as he stood. “Commander on deck!” he snapped, and the pilots came to attention.
“As you were,” Lee said. “You folks mind if Sidewinder and I have a little chat in private?” he asked. “There’s a game of Triad going on in the mess.”
One-by-one, the pilots cleared out of the compartment, and Lee closed the hatch. “Sit, Captain,” he said as he took another chair and then laid a folder on the table.
Sidewinder arched one eyebrow and Lee chuckled.
“The mission plan, operations orders, and Raptor loadouts—are they to your satisfaction?” he asked with a grin.
Sidewinder opened the folder and leafed through them—he read them thoroughly, Lee saw, occasionally flipping back and reviewing a section. After three minutes he closed the folder and nodded.
“It is, Commander.”
“Good. We are lifting off in fourteen hours—and I want to make certain that you and I are on the same page.”
“We? A full Commander with an active command role is going to flying this mission?” Sidewinder asked with a start.
“Kara’s in the surgery, Sidewinder,” Lee continued, “and Helo has his hands full. Plus, the President and the Admiral want to make certain that we present ourselves to Commander Lorne in a manner that does not insult or show any contempt for the man. So I got asked to fly it—you have a problem with that?”
“No, sir.”
“But you do have a problem with Pegasus?”
“Commander,” Sidewinder began, but Lee cut him off.
“Call me Apollo, we are going to be flying together after all.”
Sidewinder nodded. “Apollo, I don’t have a problem with you—my problem with Pegasus is the crimes committed by her crew before you transferred aboard. And that is nothing compared to the problem that Commander Lorne is going to have with Pegasus.”
“I understand—I know exactly where you are coming from, Sidewinder. And I will do my best to explain to Commander Lorne as well that we cannot simply condemn every man and woman on that ship for what Helena Cain did—she’s already died for those crimes.”
Lee paused until the other pilot nodded. “But my bigger issue is—what is really the reason that Kara lost it with you?”
Sidewinder winced. “She got extremely angry when I refused to talk about Samuel Anders—she wanted to know what was wrong, Apollo.”
Lee nodded. “I thought so; she was all over me once she heard you say in the briefing that Sam was aboard Scorpia. And while I didn’t tell her what I know, she knows I’m holding back—she’s good at reading people, at least when they lie or omit the truth.”
“She kept pressing me for details, and I told her to drop it—told her I just knew he was aboard the ship and nothing else. And then she started in asking what I was covering up.”
Lee sighed. “And then, you had the mission planning briefing in the ready room, and you—a person she already didn’t like and thought was lying to her—got in her face over how she was running things. Yeah, I thought it was something like that.”
He shook his head. “Water under the bridge. Anyway, we’ve got some choices to make, Sidewinder. If your ribs are up to it—you will fly the Raptor, I’m going to riding in the copilot’s seat and coordinating the whole op. You want Kaboose as your EWO?”
“Damn skippy, Apollo. I know him and he’s a brash kid, but he’s good.”
“And we will have Athena aboard our Raptor.”
“Athena?” Sidewinder asked.
“Helo and Sharon decided that they didn’t want her to have Boomer’s old call-sign—they settled on Athena instead,” Lee explained. “I can pull Racetrack and Skulls from the mission if you want,” he said.
“No. They don’t care for me—frankly, I don’t care for them. But I know that they will do their job, especially if they are answering to you and not me.”
“Okay, then. If you are up for a walk, I want us to get with Athena and plot out these waypoints a bit more—with the extra fuel, any Raptor jumping to the wrong coordinates should have enough to back-trace to the Fleet here, but I want to run those numbers again to be sure. And then we need to start looking at a search pattern and rendezvous points—if you are up for it?”
“You know what the motto of Scorpia is, Apollo?” Sidewinder said with a smile.
“No idea, Sidewinder," Lee answered, although he knew ever ship in the Fleet had a motto. Galactica’s dated back to the First Cylon War: I Will Not Be Moved, while Pegasus had Winged Victory as hers.
“Who dares, wins,” the pilot answered with a grin. “I’ll be fine, Sir. Let’s get this done.”
He stepped inside, and Stefan Greene winced as he stood. “Commander on deck!” he snapped, and the pilots came to attention.
“As you were,” Lee said. “You folks mind if Sidewinder and I have a little chat in private?” he asked. “There’s a game of Triad going on in the mess.”
One-by-one, the pilots cleared out of the compartment, and Lee closed the hatch. “Sit, Captain,” he said as he took another chair and then laid a folder on the table.
Sidewinder arched one eyebrow and Lee chuckled.
“The mission plan, operations orders, and Raptor loadouts—are they to your satisfaction?” he asked with a grin.
Sidewinder opened the folder and leafed through them—he read them thoroughly, Lee saw, occasionally flipping back and reviewing a section. After three minutes he closed the folder and nodded.
“It is, Commander.”
“Good. We are lifting off in fourteen hours—and I want to make certain that you and I are on the same page.”
“We? A full Commander with an active command role is going to flying this mission?” Sidewinder asked with a start.
“Kara’s in the surgery, Sidewinder,” Lee continued, “and Helo has his hands full. Plus, the President and the Admiral want to make certain that we present ourselves to Commander Lorne in a manner that does not insult or show any contempt for the man. So I got asked to fly it—you have a problem with that?”
“No, sir.”
“But you do have a problem with Pegasus?”
“Commander,” Sidewinder began, but Lee cut him off.
“Call me Apollo, we are going to be flying together after all.”
Sidewinder nodded. “Apollo, I don’t have a problem with you—my problem with Pegasus is the crimes committed by her crew before you transferred aboard. And that is nothing compared to the problem that Commander Lorne is going to have with Pegasus.”
“I understand—I know exactly where you are coming from, Sidewinder. And I will do my best to explain to Commander Lorne as well that we cannot simply condemn every man and woman on that ship for what Helena Cain did—she’s already died for those crimes.”
Lee paused until the other pilot nodded. “But my bigger issue is—what is really the reason that Kara lost it with you?”
Sidewinder winced. “She got extremely angry when I refused to talk about Samuel Anders—she wanted to know what was wrong, Apollo.”
Lee nodded. “I thought so; she was all over me once she heard you say in the briefing that Sam was aboard Scorpia. And while I didn’t tell her what I know, she knows I’m holding back—she’s good at reading people, at least when they lie or omit the truth.”
“She kept pressing me for details, and I told her to drop it—told her I just knew he was aboard the ship and nothing else. And then she started in asking what I was covering up.”
Lee sighed. “And then, you had the mission planning briefing in the ready room, and you—a person she already didn’t like and thought was lying to her—got in her face over how she was running things. Yeah, I thought it was something like that.”
He shook his head. “Water under the bridge. Anyway, we’ve got some choices to make, Sidewinder. If your ribs are up to it—you will fly the Raptor, I’m going to riding in the copilot’s seat and coordinating the whole op. You want Kaboose as your EWO?”
“Damn skippy, Apollo. I know him and he’s a brash kid, but he’s good.”
“And we will have Athena aboard our Raptor.”
“Athena?” Sidewinder asked.
“Helo and Sharon decided that they didn’t want her to have Boomer’s old call-sign—they settled on Athena instead,” Lee explained. “I can pull Racetrack and Skulls from the mission if you want,” he said.
“No. They don’t care for me—frankly, I don’t care for them. But I know that they will do their job, especially if they are answering to you and not me.”
“Okay, then. If you are up for a walk, I want us to get with Athena and plot out these waypoints a bit more—with the extra fuel, any Raptor jumping to the wrong coordinates should have enough to back-trace to the Fleet here, but I want to run those numbers again to be sure. And then we need to start looking at a search pattern and rendezvous points—if you are up for it?”
“You know what the motto of Scorpia is, Apollo?” Sidewinder said with a smile.
“No idea, Sidewinder," Lee answered, although he knew ever ship in the Fleet had a motto. Galactica’s dated back to the First Cylon War: I Will Not Be Moved, while Pegasus had Winged Victory as hers.
“Who dares, wins,” the pilot answered with a grin. “I’ll be fine, Sir. Let’s get this done.”
Re: The Hunted (nBSG)
Looks like things will become even more intresting quite soon.
Why do I think Zou will resurrect Daniel as a machine, in order to force him to rebuild the cloning tech?
Heh, when he does, I´m sure she´ll be the bitch she can be and give hime a female form.
All with loyality programming towards her, off course.
If the remaining BioCylons try to ask for a alliance, then if accepted, fun things could be done.
nCenturion programming furture fine-tuned, so their brains could be used as EWO on a FTL equipt Viper (think TOS-BSG´s recon Viper).
Would need a voice module, thought.
But Tyrol already made one recon stealth Viper with left over spare-parts, so a new one should be possible.
By the sound of this, New Caprica might become quite something else.
(Bio)Cylon resurection uses FTL-communication to tranfer all that data, thus they have the basis for a FTL-com.
That means the basis for a space-based SOSUS-line to warn you of any possibly hostiles closing in on your position.
That in turn would mean that the combined fleet would probably stay in space as much as possible, in order to stay mobile.
Recovery missions into former Colonial space could be done then way more easily.
Say, any ghosts from the past?
Scroll all the way down.
Or maybe a couple of Defenders?
Why do I think Zou will resurrect Daniel as a machine, in order to force him to rebuild the cloning tech?
Heh, when he does, I´m sure she´ll be the bitch she can be and give hime a female form.
All with loyality programming towards her, off course.
If the remaining BioCylons try to ask for a alliance, then if accepted, fun things could be done.
nCenturion programming furture fine-tuned, so their brains could be used as EWO on a FTL equipt Viper (think TOS-BSG´s recon Viper).
Would need a voice module, thought.
But Tyrol already made one recon stealth Viper with left over spare-parts, so a new one should be possible.
By the sound of this, New Caprica might become quite something else.
(Bio)Cylon resurection uses FTL-communication to tranfer all that data, thus they have the basis for a FTL-com.
That means the basis for a space-based SOSUS-line to warn you of any possibly hostiles closing in on your position.
That in turn would mean that the combined fleet would probably stay in space as much as possible, in order to stay mobile.
Recovery missions into former Colonial space could be done then way more easily.
Say, any ghosts from the past?
Scroll all the way down.
Or maybe a couple of Defenders?
Nothing like the present.
-
masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: The Hunted (nBSG)
Day 21, Mathias thought to himself as he walked into the CIC, nodding towards Colonel Jayne and the on-watch officers and crewmen at their stations. After rejoining the flotilla, Scorpia had executed three rapidly-sequenced jumps—almost at the Red Line—putting some distance between them and the Cylons. And then they had rested to recover their bearings, here in the barren wasteland of a dim red dwarf star. Rest and repair the damage taken.
Tom had been right—their casualties had been incredibly light in view of what they had faced. While the Cuttlefish had indeed been small and carried far fewer guns than Scorpia did, the ones those Cylon ships did carry were almost as heavy as the main batteries of the Mercury-class. Which not only allowed those ships to punch well above their weight class, but the heavy guns had also inflicted relatively heavy damage to the Battlestar, even through armor designed to absorb the wounds of combat.
Yesterday, he had conducted the funeral service for the twenty-one souls lost in the attack—fourteen pilots and ECOs, along with seven hands aboard Scorpia. Mathias closed his eyes for a moment—Sidewinder had been the highest ranking loss, and the one that Mathias had known best. There was good news, however; it had not been twenty-two dead. One the missing crew had locked herself in a supplies compartment when the port flight-pod had been flushed to vacuum to extinguish the flames—her breathing gear had kept her alive, but the flash-heat of the rushing tornado of fire had welded the hatch shut, sealing her within. But she had been found alive. And in reasonably good spirits.
“Status, Colonel Jayne?” he asked as he stepped up to the console.
“No contacts, Sir. Major Church reports Engine Three is now operational and all tests show green. Chief Sinclair reports that the divots and shell impacts in the starboard flight pod should be repaired by the end of the watch—six hours. Port flight pod fire damage is still being dealt with—Major Church estimates another four days to get every system back on-line. The EVA party reports that all major hull breaches have now been sealed and replacement armor plates welded into place—minor breaches that did not penetrate to the inner hull are now being addressed—ETA on completion is three days, minimum. If they don’t find another hole or two or ten,” he said with a grin.
“All weapons are in the green—magazines in excess of 85% throughout the ship. I’ve got six Vipers deployed flying CAP—Chutes is the senior officer in the air at the moment. Two Raptors as well. Fuel, water, and provision storage is as we projected—all within nominal operating parameters. And . . .,” he grinned widely as the hatch to CIC opened and an officer with her arm in a sling entered.
Mathias turned and he too smiled at Hope.
“Sir,” she said with a nod—her saluting arm was the one that the Cylon put a bullet through the shoulder of—at the Commander, “Captain Fairchild reporting for duty, Sir.”
“Medical has cleared you for duty, Digger?” Mathias asked.
“Deck duty only—not Flight, Sir.”
“Good, Chief Sinclair is still working on trying to put your Viper back together—luckily for you, between our spare parts locker and the machine shops on Aurora, we should have it ready just about the time that arm has mended. Until then, you are grounded, I’m afraid to say.”
“Understood, Sir. Saint has the Blues until I return to full duty—Spitfire,” Captain Tabitha Atradies, a former pilot herself and in command of Flight Operations aboard Scorpia, “has posted me here in CIC as the Air Group Liaison, Sir.”
“Take your station, Captain Fairchild,” Mathias said. “Sounds good, Tom,” he continued. “Any other urgent matters?”
“Nothing exactly urgent, Sir, but Paul has a suggestion,” he nodded to the tactical officer and Captain Cook stood from his station and crossed the deck.
“Yes, Guns?” asked Mathias.
“Sir, I know that we are short on nuclear ordnance capable of fitted to the Thunderbolts and Hydras—but I started doing some calculations,” he said as he looked down at small note pad in his hand. “We have four Hades missiles remaining in our silos. Now each of them carries eight reentry vehicles, Sir.” He grinned. “That means we could add another thirty-two warheads—warheads with a larger yield than standard torpedo payloads—to the magazines, Sir.”
“I’ve seen the Hades RVs, Captain—they won’t fit on the bus of a Thunderbolt,” Mathias said, but his tone held a hint of a question.
“No, sir, the RVs themselves will not. What I want to do is disassemble the RVs and remove the actual warhead; after all we don’t need the reentry heat shields or the inertial guidance, since the Thunderbolts guidance system is separate from the warhead. With Aurora and her machine shops, she can build us a new bus for the Thunderbolts that will accept the warheads and fit on our existing torpedoes.”
“Interesting,” Mathias said as he considered it. “How long would it take to remove the RVs from the Hades?”
“Twelve hours for each missile—by the book, Commander. I can cut that down possibly, but . . .,” Tom snorted and cut him off.
“Not when you are dealing with nuclear warheads on my ship, Captain Cook,” the XO said sharply.
“I believe, Tom, that Paul was about to tell us that wouldn’t be a good idea,” Mathias said with a slight grin. “Weren’t you, Paul?”
“Exactly, Sir.”
“At the moment, the majority of spare EVA suits are in use—but as soon as the hull teams get through replacing our armor and patching the holes, I will let you start, Captain,” Mathias said, and then he held up one hand. “ONE Hades, Captain—that will give us fourteen nuclear Thunderbolts along with four smaller warheads for Hydras.”
“Yes, Sir,” he said and then headed back to his console.
“Plus,” Mathias whispered to Tom, “while it is unlikely that we will need those space-to-surface munitions, I don’t feel right about taking them all apart.”
“If we need to hit more than twenty-four surface targets with a megaton-range weapon, we are fracked anyway, Sir,” Tom told him in a light tone.
And the personnel in CIC momentarily turned as Mathias began to laugh.
Tom had been right—their casualties had been incredibly light in view of what they had faced. While the Cuttlefish had indeed been small and carried far fewer guns than Scorpia did, the ones those Cylon ships did carry were almost as heavy as the main batteries of the Mercury-class. Which not only allowed those ships to punch well above their weight class, but the heavy guns had also inflicted relatively heavy damage to the Battlestar, even through armor designed to absorb the wounds of combat.
Yesterday, he had conducted the funeral service for the twenty-one souls lost in the attack—fourteen pilots and ECOs, along with seven hands aboard Scorpia. Mathias closed his eyes for a moment—Sidewinder had been the highest ranking loss, and the one that Mathias had known best. There was good news, however; it had not been twenty-two dead. One the missing crew had locked herself in a supplies compartment when the port flight-pod had been flushed to vacuum to extinguish the flames—her breathing gear had kept her alive, but the flash-heat of the rushing tornado of fire had welded the hatch shut, sealing her within. But she had been found alive. And in reasonably good spirits.
“Status, Colonel Jayne?” he asked as he stepped up to the console.
“No contacts, Sir. Major Church reports Engine Three is now operational and all tests show green. Chief Sinclair reports that the divots and shell impacts in the starboard flight pod should be repaired by the end of the watch—six hours. Port flight pod fire damage is still being dealt with—Major Church estimates another four days to get every system back on-line. The EVA party reports that all major hull breaches have now been sealed and replacement armor plates welded into place—minor breaches that did not penetrate to the inner hull are now being addressed—ETA on completion is three days, minimum. If they don’t find another hole or two or ten,” he said with a grin.
“All weapons are in the green—magazines in excess of 85% throughout the ship. I’ve got six Vipers deployed flying CAP—Chutes is the senior officer in the air at the moment. Two Raptors as well. Fuel, water, and provision storage is as we projected—all within nominal operating parameters. And . . .,” he grinned widely as the hatch to CIC opened and an officer with her arm in a sling entered.
Mathias turned and he too smiled at Hope.
“Sir,” she said with a nod—her saluting arm was the one that the Cylon put a bullet through the shoulder of—at the Commander, “Captain Fairchild reporting for duty, Sir.”
“Medical has cleared you for duty, Digger?” Mathias asked.
“Deck duty only—not Flight, Sir.”
“Good, Chief Sinclair is still working on trying to put your Viper back together—luckily for you, between our spare parts locker and the machine shops on Aurora, we should have it ready just about the time that arm has mended. Until then, you are grounded, I’m afraid to say.”
“Understood, Sir. Saint has the Blues until I return to full duty—Spitfire,” Captain Tabitha Atradies, a former pilot herself and in command of Flight Operations aboard Scorpia, “has posted me here in CIC as the Air Group Liaison, Sir.”
“Take your station, Captain Fairchild,” Mathias said. “Sounds good, Tom,” he continued. “Any other urgent matters?”
“Nothing exactly urgent, Sir, but Paul has a suggestion,” he nodded to the tactical officer and Captain Cook stood from his station and crossed the deck.
“Yes, Guns?” asked Mathias.
“Sir, I know that we are short on nuclear ordnance capable of fitted to the Thunderbolts and Hydras—but I started doing some calculations,” he said as he looked down at small note pad in his hand. “We have four Hades missiles remaining in our silos. Now each of them carries eight reentry vehicles, Sir.” He grinned. “That means we could add another thirty-two warheads—warheads with a larger yield than standard torpedo payloads—to the magazines, Sir.”
“I’ve seen the Hades RVs, Captain—they won’t fit on the bus of a Thunderbolt,” Mathias said, but his tone held a hint of a question.
“No, sir, the RVs themselves will not. What I want to do is disassemble the RVs and remove the actual warhead; after all we don’t need the reentry heat shields or the inertial guidance, since the Thunderbolts guidance system is separate from the warhead. With Aurora and her machine shops, she can build us a new bus for the Thunderbolts that will accept the warheads and fit on our existing torpedoes.”
“Interesting,” Mathias said as he considered it. “How long would it take to remove the RVs from the Hades?”
“Twelve hours for each missile—by the book, Commander. I can cut that down possibly, but . . .,” Tom snorted and cut him off.
“Not when you are dealing with nuclear warheads on my ship, Captain Cook,” the XO said sharply.
“I believe, Tom, that Paul was about to tell us that wouldn’t be a good idea,” Mathias said with a slight grin. “Weren’t you, Paul?”
“Exactly, Sir.”
“At the moment, the majority of spare EVA suits are in use—but as soon as the hull teams get through replacing our armor and patching the holes, I will let you start, Captain,” Mathias said, and then he held up one hand. “ONE Hades, Captain—that will give us fourteen nuclear Thunderbolts along with four smaller warheads for Hydras.”
“Yes, Sir,” he said and then headed back to his console.
“Plus,” Mathias whispered to Tom, “while it is unlikely that we will need those space-to-surface munitions, I don’t feel right about taking them all apart.”
“If we need to hit more than twenty-four surface targets with a megaton-range weapon, we are fracked anyway, Sir,” Tom told him in a light tone.
And the personnel in CIC momentarily turned as Mathias began to laugh.
Re: The Hunted (nBSG)
Say, how many battlestar wrecks are drifting around with intact stores?
Perhaps a few raiding operations are in need?
To bad they lost that many Raptors, they could have acted as shuttle escorts.
Perhaps a few raiding operations are in need?
To bad they lost that many Raptors, they could have acted as shuttle escorts.
Nothing like the present.
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: The Hunted (nBSG)
Sam Caldwell and Mark Foeswan came to their feet as Mathias entered the small conference room—he waved both of them, and the other ship commanders, as well as Lieutenant Shiro Gian, back down. “Good morning,” he said to them all as he sat down.
“Mister Namer, I understand that your people are having problems with laundry?” he began.
“Yes, Commander,” the former terrorist said. “A lot of my folks on Leonis Pryde had just what they were wearing when they boarded ship—maybe one or two spare garments. I’m sure the other ships are seeing the same things,” he said and the commanders of Bounty, Scylla, and Umino Hana nodded their agreement, “and none of our ships were ever intended as long-duration personnel vessels. Our laundry facilities are sorely lacking.”
“Bounty doesn’t even washing or drying facilities fitted,” said Lieutenant Olin Kirk, formerly assigned to Cerberus Anchorage.
“Colonel Foeswan?” Mathias asked and the stout officer nodded as he scrolled through a computer pad with a manifest of the supplies on his ship.
And then he nodded. “I have a two-ton cargo container with Fleet undress jumpsuits—unmarked. All sizes, I’ll get my crew to crack her open and get them distributed, Sir.”
“Underwear and socks would nice as well, Colonel,” Namer drawled in that slow Saggitaron accent, and several of the people at the table chuckled at that.
“There should be one pair of each—at least—for every jumpsuit. The civvies might hate the color and the style, but they are warm and clean,” Foeswan said.
“Sir,” Shiro said from the foot of the table. “We took six hundred-weight of cloth bolts off of Typhon—I have no clue what they were doing there, but its good quality stuff, if we’ve got people who know how to sew.”
“Thank you, Mister Gian,” said Mathias with a smile. “I trust you gentlemen and ladies will pass the word on your ships for seamstresses and tailors—I’ll be glad to release the cloth on an as-needed basis, once you find someone who is able to make it into clothing.”
He paused and smiled. “And yes, having a laundry is absolutely essential to keeping good hygiene and good morale—and we will do both on these ships. Mister Gian, how many laundry bags do we have in storage? The same question goes for you Colonel Foeswan?”
Both men queried their tablets and then nodded, Shiro gesturing for the senior officer to go first. “Fifty-five hundred, plus the ones assigned to the crew,” he said.
“Eighteen hundred, sir—other than the ones already assigned to the crew.”
“Good. Gentlemen, I want those broken out from storage and two assigned to every civilian in the flotilla. I want their names and ship assignments stenciled on them—I understand if that might take a while, but it is going to be done. We do have sufficient stencils and ink available, yes?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Shiro as Mark just nodded with a smile.
“Captains, you will be responsible for getting the clothing and laundry bags handed out. Aurora and Scorpia has industrial laundry facilities on board. Every day, from this point on, Raptors will dock with your ships and pick up one laundry bag from each individual on your ships—these will be taken to either Aurora or Scorpia and processed for cleaning. On the fourth day, the Raptor will return the clean clothes and pick up the next bag. Our laundries are designed for high volume—will that correct the problem?”
“Absolutely,” Jon Namer answered.
“Now, the second part,” said Mathias. “I know some of your ships do not have adequate sanitation systems. When my engineers and those on Aurora finish the repairs on Scorpia, we will install those systems on your ships—showers, heads, wash-sinks, the whole nine yards. There will no excuse for having improper sanitation in this flotilla, ladies and gentlemen, and will not allow our vessels to become a breeding ground for disease—or lice. I understand a problem with lice has broken out on Umino Hana, Captain Shane?” Mathias asked in an icy tone.
The officer from Cerberus looked ashamed and he nodded as the two officers sitting next to him slid their chairs away from him slightly. “The survivors from Canceron apparently brought the little devils aboard—most of the rest of my folks are from Aerilon and they are simply furious. But once we get the showers up and running and get the clothing and bedding sterilized, the problem should be done with, Sir.”
“See that it is, Captain. You will have whatever your need from Aurora or Scorpia, just get it done.”
“Medical,” Mathias said, moving along to the next topic. “I understand you have a woman on Leonis Pryde that is overdue for delivery, Mister Namer?”
“Yes, Commander,” Jon answered. “And I have two midwives, but no certified doctors. About three-quarters of my folk are from Saggitaron, so the lack of a doctor isn’t normally a problem—but she’s three weeks past due, Sir.”
Mathias made a note. “I’ll have Doctor Bako join you on the flight back—we might want to go ahead and take her aboard Scorpia for care; if she isn’t one of yours, that is?”
“No, she’s one of the civilians we picked up—from Caprica, actually. Not with the resistance groups, just with a small band of survivors that we located,” said Jon. “She says the baby’s father—her fiancée—is Fleet,” and Mathias winced but he nodded, “and I figure I’ll let you have that conversation, Commander Lorne.”
“Food? Water?” Mathias continued. Everyone made agreeable noises and he smiled. That had been his first priority—people without water tended to panic, and panicky people tended to do very stupid things. “I expect to be informed immediately if you have problems with your food or water supplies, people. This is something we cannot frack up. Clear?”
“Clear,” answered a half-dozen voices.
“I know Bounty is approaching the need for refueling—is anyone else below 30% tankage?”
Everyone shook their head. Mathias nodded and he turned to face Lieutenant Kirk. “Your vessel, Lieutenant, has the smallest fuel and water tanks, so I expect to have to top you off pretty often—or Colonel Foeswan will do so.”
“Actually, Sir,” Lieutenant Kirk said, “I have an idea about that. Our biggest expenditure of tylium is when we active the FTL. Bounty is small enough that unless it is an emergency jump, she can land on your flight deck and ride along with you. Or Aurora. That would extend our fuel tankage by . . . a third? Sir.”
“Closer to forty percent,” mused Colonel Foeswan. “Why didn’t we think of that?” he asked himself aloud, and then he shook his head.
“Because we are not used to saving such small quantities, Colonel,” Mathias answered. “Excellent suggestion, Lieutenant. Get with the Colonel and we will set up a rotating plan for scheduled jumps.”
“Last thing on the list for today is engineering gripes—Major Church has received them, gentlemen, ladies, but Scorpia’s repairs take priority. We will get to them, the vast majority are minor, and not life-threatening, but we will get them taken care of. That is a promise. Captain Hilden,” he said to the officer assigned to Scylla, “your DRADIS being off-line is NOT a minor problem. There should be an engineering team over there as we speak getting it functional again.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Mathias continued. “That should have never been on the gripe sheet because you should have let me know the moment you lost that system. Without it, how are you managing to avoid a collision?”
The young man blushed. “I posted lookouts, Sir.”
And across the table there sudden intakes of breath as the more senior officers—and Jon Namer—stared at the young man in horror.
“Lookouts? People looking out the portholes?”, Mathias sighed. “Do not fail to inform me of such a system failure again, Captain,” he warned.
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
Mathias stood. “My schedule today is tight—but our jobs require that we keep these people filled with hope. I will leave you with this thought that I learned back on board Columbia as brand-new J.G. just out of Flight School, gentlemen, ladies. My first division chief told me that ‘A proud ship is not a grungy ship’. And he was absolutely right. Your people have time and they have elbow grease—so I want your ships kept clean and fit to live in. It will give them something to do and it will lift their morale. Believe it or not, it will. If you need cleaning agents—get with Shiro or Mark. They’ve got plenty. But I want the ships cleaned—stem to stern, dorsal to ventral, and everything in between.”
Mathias waited and then he nodded. “Dismissed, ladies and gentlemen. Sam, you and Jon walk with me to the surgery on my way to engineering and I will see to it that Lindsey grabs her medical bag and gets over to the Pryde pronto.”
“Mister Namer, I understand that your people are having problems with laundry?” he began.
“Yes, Commander,” the former terrorist said. “A lot of my folks on Leonis Pryde had just what they were wearing when they boarded ship—maybe one or two spare garments. I’m sure the other ships are seeing the same things,” he said and the commanders of Bounty, Scylla, and Umino Hana nodded their agreement, “and none of our ships were ever intended as long-duration personnel vessels. Our laundry facilities are sorely lacking.”
“Bounty doesn’t even washing or drying facilities fitted,” said Lieutenant Olin Kirk, formerly assigned to Cerberus Anchorage.
“Colonel Foeswan?” Mathias asked and the stout officer nodded as he scrolled through a computer pad with a manifest of the supplies on his ship.
And then he nodded. “I have a two-ton cargo container with Fleet undress jumpsuits—unmarked. All sizes, I’ll get my crew to crack her open and get them distributed, Sir.”
“Underwear and socks would nice as well, Colonel,” Namer drawled in that slow Saggitaron accent, and several of the people at the table chuckled at that.
“There should be one pair of each—at least—for every jumpsuit. The civvies might hate the color and the style, but they are warm and clean,” Foeswan said.
“Sir,” Shiro said from the foot of the table. “We took six hundred-weight of cloth bolts off of Typhon—I have no clue what they were doing there, but its good quality stuff, if we’ve got people who know how to sew.”
“Thank you, Mister Gian,” said Mathias with a smile. “I trust you gentlemen and ladies will pass the word on your ships for seamstresses and tailors—I’ll be glad to release the cloth on an as-needed basis, once you find someone who is able to make it into clothing.”
He paused and smiled. “And yes, having a laundry is absolutely essential to keeping good hygiene and good morale—and we will do both on these ships. Mister Gian, how many laundry bags do we have in storage? The same question goes for you Colonel Foeswan?”
Both men queried their tablets and then nodded, Shiro gesturing for the senior officer to go first. “Fifty-five hundred, plus the ones assigned to the crew,” he said.
“Eighteen hundred, sir—other than the ones already assigned to the crew.”
“Good. Gentlemen, I want those broken out from storage and two assigned to every civilian in the flotilla. I want their names and ship assignments stenciled on them—I understand if that might take a while, but it is going to be done. We do have sufficient stencils and ink available, yes?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Shiro as Mark just nodded with a smile.
“Captains, you will be responsible for getting the clothing and laundry bags handed out. Aurora and Scorpia has industrial laundry facilities on board. Every day, from this point on, Raptors will dock with your ships and pick up one laundry bag from each individual on your ships—these will be taken to either Aurora or Scorpia and processed for cleaning. On the fourth day, the Raptor will return the clean clothes and pick up the next bag. Our laundries are designed for high volume—will that correct the problem?”
“Absolutely,” Jon Namer answered.
“Now, the second part,” said Mathias. “I know some of your ships do not have adequate sanitation systems. When my engineers and those on Aurora finish the repairs on Scorpia, we will install those systems on your ships—showers, heads, wash-sinks, the whole nine yards. There will no excuse for having improper sanitation in this flotilla, ladies and gentlemen, and will not allow our vessels to become a breeding ground for disease—or lice. I understand a problem with lice has broken out on Umino Hana, Captain Shane?” Mathias asked in an icy tone.
The officer from Cerberus looked ashamed and he nodded as the two officers sitting next to him slid their chairs away from him slightly. “The survivors from Canceron apparently brought the little devils aboard—most of the rest of my folks are from Aerilon and they are simply furious. But once we get the showers up and running and get the clothing and bedding sterilized, the problem should be done with, Sir.”
“See that it is, Captain. You will have whatever your need from Aurora or Scorpia, just get it done.”
“Medical,” Mathias said, moving along to the next topic. “I understand you have a woman on Leonis Pryde that is overdue for delivery, Mister Namer?”
“Yes, Commander,” Jon answered. “And I have two midwives, but no certified doctors. About three-quarters of my folk are from Saggitaron, so the lack of a doctor isn’t normally a problem—but she’s three weeks past due, Sir.”
Mathias made a note. “I’ll have Doctor Bako join you on the flight back—we might want to go ahead and take her aboard Scorpia for care; if she isn’t one of yours, that is?”
“No, she’s one of the civilians we picked up—from Caprica, actually. Not with the resistance groups, just with a small band of survivors that we located,” said Jon. “She says the baby’s father—her fiancée—is Fleet,” and Mathias winced but he nodded, “and I figure I’ll let you have that conversation, Commander Lorne.”
“Food? Water?” Mathias continued. Everyone made agreeable noises and he smiled. That had been his first priority—people without water tended to panic, and panicky people tended to do very stupid things. “I expect to be informed immediately if you have problems with your food or water supplies, people. This is something we cannot frack up. Clear?”
“Clear,” answered a half-dozen voices.
“I know Bounty is approaching the need for refueling—is anyone else below 30% tankage?”
Everyone shook their head. Mathias nodded and he turned to face Lieutenant Kirk. “Your vessel, Lieutenant, has the smallest fuel and water tanks, so I expect to have to top you off pretty often—or Colonel Foeswan will do so.”
“Actually, Sir,” Lieutenant Kirk said, “I have an idea about that. Our biggest expenditure of tylium is when we active the FTL. Bounty is small enough that unless it is an emergency jump, she can land on your flight deck and ride along with you. Or Aurora. That would extend our fuel tankage by . . . a third? Sir.”
“Closer to forty percent,” mused Colonel Foeswan. “Why didn’t we think of that?” he asked himself aloud, and then he shook his head.
“Because we are not used to saving such small quantities, Colonel,” Mathias answered. “Excellent suggestion, Lieutenant. Get with the Colonel and we will set up a rotating plan for scheduled jumps.”
“Last thing on the list for today is engineering gripes—Major Church has received them, gentlemen, ladies, but Scorpia’s repairs take priority. We will get to them, the vast majority are minor, and not life-threatening, but we will get them taken care of. That is a promise. Captain Hilden,” he said to the officer assigned to Scylla, “your DRADIS being off-line is NOT a minor problem. There should be an engineering team over there as we speak getting it functional again.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Mathias continued. “That should have never been on the gripe sheet because you should have let me know the moment you lost that system. Without it, how are you managing to avoid a collision?”
The young man blushed. “I posted lookouts, Sir.”
And across the table there sudden intakes of breath as the more senior officers—and Jon Namer—stared at the young man in horror.
“Lookouts? People looking out the portholes?”, Mathias sighed. “Do not fail to inform me of such a system failure again, Captain,” he warned.
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
Mathias stood. “My schedule today is tight—but our jobs require that we keep these people filled with hope. I will leave you with this thought that I learned back on board Columbia as brand-new J.G. just out of Flight School, gentlemen, ladies. My first division chief told me that ‘A proud ship is not a grungy ship’. And he was absolutely right. Your people have time and they have elbow grease—so I want your ships kept clean and fit to live in. It will give them something to do and it will lift their morale. Believe it or not, it will. If you need cleaning agents—get with Shiro or Mark. They’ve got plenty. But I want the ships cleaned—stem to stern, dorsal to ventral, and everything in between.”
Mathias waited and then he nodded. “Dismissed, ladies and gentlemen. Sam, you and Jon walk with me to the surgery on my way to engineering and I will see to it that Lindsey grabs her medical bag and gets over to the Pryde pronto.”
Re: The Hunted (nBSG)
This is such a change from the Galactica's fleet. Was it the sheer number of ships that made keeping order and cleanliness so hard for them? Was it Adama and Roslin being overwhelmed? Why is the Scorpia's little fleet doing so much better?
Either way... Great JOB on this. I'm enjoying every update.
Either way... Great JOB on this. I'm enjoying every update.
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
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: The Hunted (nBSG)
Colonel Jayne stopped and he stared at the sight in front of him, placing his hands on his hips and cocking his head slightly to one side.
Chief Sinclair standing next to the one of the new Thunders just shaking his head at a pair of legs wearing a flight suit and boots sticking out of one of the access panels.
“Ah, help,” a muffled voice said. “I’m a bit stuck,” the person attached to those legs said. Tom couldn’t help himself, he barked out a short laugh. Partly because of the sight of those legs having no purchase and partly because those legs were attached to what had to be the largest buttocks of any pilot on Scorpia—probably the entire Fleet! All sticking out of a narrow, tight, constricted access panel, and kicking wildly.
Two of Sinclair’s deck hands were standing on a portable ladder next to the fighter and they were pulling and tugging and sounds of pain came out echoing through the interior of the fighter. “Watch it, my head, OW, don’t grab me there!”
He walked over and as he was doing so, the man popped out, found his feet, stumbled backwards, and fell three feet onto the deck landing flat on his back. He was holding a burnt-out capacitor in one greasy hand. “OW,” he said. “Told you I could get it.”
The man—the pilot—groaned and he sat up, and then he stood up. He was taller than Jayne by at least six inches—and Jayne was not a small man. He was also far . . . rounder . . . than any pilot Tom had ever before laid eyes upon.
The pilot ignored Tom and walked up to the fighter and he patted the smooth metal fuselage. “There, there. It’s okay—just like pulling a bad tooth, baby, it only hurts for a moment, and then everything is all better. The nice Chief is going to give you a new one—and this time he isn’t going to pound on your delicate circuitry, is he? No. No, he’s not.”
He turned around as Tom cleared his throat, and then he snapped to attention. “I-I didn’t see you there, Colonel, Sir,” he stammered in an Aquarian accent.
“Chief Sinclair,” Tom said quietly, “what the devil is going on here?”
“He has a problem with how I do maintenance on Thunder 011, Sir.”
“I told you not to call her that, she’s sensitive. She’s not just a number, she’s real—aren’t you Candice? Yes. You are good girl, aren’t you Candice.”
“DID I GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO START TALKING?” Jayne thundered, and the pilot snapped to attention again. “What asylum did you escape from and how did you get on this ship?”
“W-Well, S-Sir, I-I, ya kn-know,” the pilot stammered, and Tom began feel his face burn.
“At ease, Jolly,” came an amused voice. “He’s one of my best pilots, Colonel,” said Captain Simon ‘Hunter’ Tarkin. “A bit . . . eccentric, but one hell of a test pilot.”
Tom turned around to glare at the captain and then he pointed to the big man. “He actually fits inside a cockpit? I didn’t think they made flight suits in Quad-X Twice-Tall.”
“Be nice, Colonel, he’s sensitive about his weight—people from Aquaria come in two phenotypes. One is tall and willowy, like your Captain Danis, and other is well, he carries a good deal of blubber on his frame. Over the muscles. Like a Sea Hound. Lieutenant Rojer Gann, here, is one of those Aquarians.”
“It’s a genetic thing,” said Jolly with a shrug of his shoulders, “I’m not fat, it’s in my genes.”
“It’s spilling out of your jeans,” Tom snorted. Shaking his head at the light brown, almost blonde, haired man with a grease covered checks, forehead, and mustache—an extensively waxed mustache, no less—who desperately needed a haircut. “But okay, you say you aren’t fat—give me fifty and prove it.”
Jolly smiled and he dropped down and cranked out fifty fast pushups, then he climbed back up to his feet. “Passed all my physicals, Colonel.”
“Most of them, Jolly,” Hunter said with a laugh. “He’s stronger than he looks, Colonel, and if he is a bit . . . off . . . he is also one of the best pilots in my squadron.”
Tom just shook his head. “I hope you don’t rip that flight suit—I know we don’t have anything in your size,” he said.
“Expected that,” Jolly answered as he caressed the metal skin of his fighter. “That’s why I bought three extra out of my own pay—just in case.”
“Do we even have a rack big enough for him to sleep in?”
“I like to sleep curled up,” he said. “I’m used to cramped spaces.”
“Do you box, Jolly?” Tom asked in a suddenly optimistic voice.
And the Aquarian smiled. “I do, Colonel, sir.”
“He’s slow, but when he hits folks, they don’t normally get back up for an hour or two,” said Hunter with a chuckle of his own.
Tom laughed. “When we meet up with Galactica and Pegasus then, you are going to be my secret weapon, Rojer Jolly Gann,” and Tom suddenly groaned. “Jolly Rojer? You named him Jolly Rojer?”
“What else?” laughed Hunter. “Besides, he is a jolly old soul. Eat you out of house and home though, so don’t take him to a buffet.”
“Carry on,” the XO said and rapidly left the hanger deck behind him, shaking his head. “And GET A FRACKING HAIR-CUT!”
Chief Sinclair standing next to the one of the new Thunders just shaking his head at a pair of legs wearing a flight suit and boots sticking out of one of the access panels.
“Ah, help,” a muffled voice said. “I’m a bit stuck,” the person attached to those legs said. Tom couldn’t help himself, he barked out a short laugh. Partly because of the sight of those legs having no purchase and partly because those legs were attached to what had to be the largest buttocks of any pilot on Scorpia—probably the entire Fleet! All sticking out of a narrow, tight, constricted access panel, and kicking wildly.
Two of Sinclair’s deck hands were standing on a portable ladder next to the fighter and they were pulling and tugging and sounds of pain came out echoing through the interior of the fighter. “Watch it, my head, OW, don’t grab me there!”
He walked over and as he was doing so, the man popped out, found his feet, stumbled backwards, and fell three feet onto the deck landing flat on his back. He was holding a burnt-out capacitor in one greasy hand. “OW,” he said. “Told you I could get it.”
The man—the pilot—groaned and he sat up, and then he stood up. He was taller than Jayne by at least six inches—and Jayne was not a small man. He was also far . . . rounder . . . than any pilot Tom had ever before laid eyes upon.
The pilot ignored Tom and walked up to the fighter and he patted the smooth metal fuselage. “There, there. It’s okay—just like pulling a bad tooth, baby, it only hurts for a moment, and then everything is all better. The nice Chief is going to give you a new one—and this time he isn’t going to pound on your delicate circuitry, is he? No. No, he’s not.”
He turned around as Tom cleared his throat, and then he snapped to attention. “I-I didn’t see you there, Colonel, Sir,” he stammered in an Aquarian accent.
“Chief Sinclair,” Tom said quietly, “what the devil is going on here?”
“He has a problem with how I do maintenance on Thunder 011, Sir.”
“I told you not to call her that, she’s sensitive. She’s not just a number, she’s real—aren’t you Candice? Yes. You are good girl, aren’t you Candice.”
“DID I GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO START TALKING?” Jayne thundered, and the pilot snapped to attention again. “What asylum did you escape from and how did you get on this ship?”
“W-Well, S-Sir, I-I, ya kn-know,” the pilot stammered, and Tom began feel his face burn.
“At ease, Jolly,” came an amused voice. “He’s one of my best pilots, Colonel,” said Captain Simon ‘Hunter’ Tarkin. “A bit . . . eccentric, but one hell of a test pilot.”
Tom turned around to glare at the captain and then he pointed to the big man. “He actually fits inside a cockpit? I didn’t think they made flight suits in Quad-X Twice-Tall.”
“Be nice, Colonel, he’s sensitive about his weight—people from Aquaria come in two phenotypes. One is tall and willowy, like your Captain Danis, and other is well, he carries a good deal of blubber on his frame. Over the muscles. Like a Sea Hound. Lieutenant Rojer Gann, here, is one of those Aquarians.”
“It’s a genetic thing,” said Jolly with a shrug of his shoulders, “I’m not fat, it’s in my genes.”
“It’s spilling out of your jeans,” Tom snorted. Shaking his head at the light brown, almost blonde, haired man with a grease covered checks, forehead, and mustache—an extensively waxed mustache, no less—who desperately needed a haircut. “But okay, you say you aren’t fat—give me fifty and prove it.”
Jolly smiled and he dropped down and cranked out fifty fast pushups, then he climbed back up to his feet. “Passed all my physicals, Colonel.”
“Most of them, Jolly,” Hunter said with a laugh. “He’s stronger than he looks, Colonel, and if he is a bit . . . off . . . he is also one of the best pilots in my squadron.”
Tom just shook his head. “I hope you don’t rip that flight suit—I know we don’t have anything in your size,” he said.
“Expected that,” Jolly answered as he caressed the metal skin of his fighter. “That’s why I bought three extra out of my own pay—just in case.”
“Do we even have a rack big enough for him to sleep in?”
“I like to sleep curled up,” he said. “I’m used to cramped spaces.”
“Do you box, Jolly?” Tom asked in a suddenly optimistic voice.
And the Aquarian smiled. “I do, Colonel, sir.”
“He’s slow, but when he hits folks, they don’t normally get back up for an hour or two,” said Hunter with a chuckle of his own.
Tom laughed. “When we meet up with Galactica and Pegasus then, you are going to be my secret weapon, Rojer Jolly Gann,” and Tom suddenly groaned. “Jolly Rojer? You named him Jolly Rojer?”
“What else?” laughed Hunter. “Besides, he is a jolly old soul. Eat you out of house and home though, so don’t take him to a buffet.”
“Carry on,” the XO said and rapidly left the hanger deck behind him, shaking his head. “And GET A FRACKING HAIR-CUT!”
Re: The Hunted (nBSG)
*GROAN**
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
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Dass.Kapital
- Padawan Learner
- Posts: 225
- Joined: 2011-06-09 03:35am
Re: The Hunted (nBSG)
"And low, I have cometh, the destroyer of threads."Highlord Laan wrote:Agatha Heterodyne built a squadron of flying pigs and an overgunned robot reindeer in a cave! With a box of scraps!
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Eternal_Freedom
- Castellan
- Posts: 10392
- Joined: 2010-03-09 02:16pm
- Location: CIC, Battlestar Temeraire
Re: The Hunted (nBSG)
Wow, hold on, Scorpia is going to have a bunch of Thunderbolts armed with Hades warheads? The 50 MEGATON ones rather than the trifling 50 kiloton or so ones they had before and on their Hydras?
Oh boy, that's going to be fun
'As for why Scorpia seems to be coping better, i think it's because they only had to see the after-effects of the attack. Galactica and Pegasus lived through it, which is definitely going to mess you up more. Plus, Scorpia had a full, well trained crew with full loads of weapons and spares, Galactica was a hastily un-converted museum and Pegasus was in overhaul. Neither can be counted as "active duty" at the time of the account methinks.
I love the mottos though. Scorpia's is just awesome and Galactica, well, "I will not be moved" is pretty much perfect.
Oh boy, that's going to be fun
'As for why Scorpia seems to be coping better, i think it's because they only had to see the after-effects of the attack. Galactica and Pegasus lived through it, which is definitely going to mess you up more. Plus, Scorpia had a full, well trained crew with full loads of weapons and spares, Galactica was a hastily un-converted museum and Pegasus was in overhaul. Neither can be counted as "active duty" at the time of the account methinks.
I love the mottos though. Scorpia's is just awesome and Galactica, well, "I will not be moved" is pretty much perfect.
Baltar: "I don't want to miss a moment of the last Battlestar's destruction!"
Centurion: "Sir, I really think you should look at the other Battlestar."
Baltar: "What are you babbling about other...it's impossible!"
Centurion: "No. It is a Battlestar."
Corrax Entry 7:17: So you walk eternally through the shadow realms, standing against evil where all others falter. May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again.
Centurion: "Sir, I really think you should look at the other Battlestar."
Baltar: "What are you babbling about other...it's impossible!"
Centurion: "No. It is a Battlestar."
Corrax Entry 7:17: So you walk eternally through the shadow realms, standing against evil where all others falter. May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again.
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Themightytom
- Sith Devotee
- Posts: 2818
- Joined: 2007-12-22 11:11am
- Location: United States
Re: The Hunted (nBSG)
I think it also helps that the Scorpia's crew was on a two year mission. they're used to each other, they're used to the isolation, they were more gently introduced to the reality of living on a space ship. Galactica and Pegasus were put putting around in the Colony systems, they probably got to see things happening in the colonies via wireless and got leave every now and then. Aurora is in a similar situation, as were the Sagittarions. The resistance refugees are having the worst of it but they also aren't nearly as large a population as the Galactica fleet manages, so the military discipline is a lot more intact.
"Since when is "the west" a nation?"-Styphon
"ACORN= Cobra obviously." AMT
This topic is... oh Village Idiot. Carry on then.--Havok
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Scottish Ninja
- Jedi Knight
- Posts: 964
- Joined: 2007-02-26 06:39pm
- Location: Not Scotland, that's for sure
Re: The Hunted (nBSG)
I am really liking where this has gone. At first I felt a little bit 'eh' about it since it seemed that Scorpia was kicking a bit too much ass and looking like she was just gonna link up with Galactica and make everyone's life a bit easier (except of course for people who act annoyingly). That may still be a bit true but now, brilliantly, the real conflict is starting to shake out - with Cylon Prime lost to the Guardians (and nuked), the Colonies lost (and nuked), now the Skinjobs are in the same position as the Colonials: their home lost, their resource base mostly lost, hunted by an implacable enemy with seemingly overwhelming (but not entirely known) strength... in short, they have one place left to turn - and that's the people they tried to exterminate. This is gonna be fun, and Scorpia will have to be the pivot around which these conflicts rotate, it looks like.
"If the capsule explodes, heroes of the Zenobian Onion will still rain upon us. Literally!" - Shroom
Cosmonaut Ivan Ivanovich Ivanov (deceased, rain), Cosmonaut Petr Petrovich Petrov, Unnamed MASA Engineer, and Unnamed Zenobian Engineerski in Let's play: BARIS
Captain, MFS Robber Baron, PRFYNAFBTFC - "Absolute Corruption Powers Absolutely"
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: The Hunted (nBSG)
The hatch on the side of the simulator cracked open and Hamish crawled out, removing his helmet and gloves. The Virgon Prince—he refused to take the title of King, at least until he made certain that no others of his family still survived among the refugees following Galactica, that is—was plastered in sweat.
Andrew Martens—Jester—handed him an energy drink and he nodded. “Combat ops are far different from SAR, right?”
“Yes, sir,” the Prince answered the newly promoted Captain and CO of Scorpia’s Raptor Squadron. He took a drink. “I know I failed that test, Jester, but frankly, I don’t see how I could have won.”
“Bravo, Your Majesty,” the veteran pilot answered. “You couldn’t—it was rigged against you. Sometimes, there is no right answer in combat—only the least worse answer. You will lose people—you might even be called upon to give up your own life, and that of your ECO. This test isn’t about finding a way to survive—it is to see if you can do your job even when you are faced with the certain possibility of not coming home again. And you passed, Prince,” he said.
“So I’m cleared for flight duty now?” the Virgon asked as he sat down—seven hours in the simulator on the last run had drained him.
“Yep,” answered Jester. “You aren’t qualified as an ECO yet, but I’ve got no problem with your skills as a Raptor pilot, Prince. And since my ECO is still stuck in a bed in surgery,” he said with grimace, the result of shrapnel tearing into the woman when his Raptor had been hit during the attack on the Styx, “and since she won’t be returning to flight duty after she recovers,” losing a leg will do that, after all, “I am assigning myself as your ECO. You are the pilot—but I am in command? Got it?”
“Got it, Jester,” he whispered.
“Good. Now, let’s get you back to your quarters for some rest; we’re flying patrol early on the ‘morrow and I wa-. . .,” he broke off as Arclight came in with a smile on his face.
“It’s a girl!” Ian Herjavec announced with a broad grin—and he held out three cigars.
“When?” asked Prince as he took one of the slender tubes of wrapped tobacco. The woman brought over from the Pryde had gone into labor four hours before he had crawled inside the simulator.
“Fifteen minutes ago,” answered Arclight. “Thumper said it was a rough labor; said she never wants to go through that herself.”
“That’s what they all say, until they do and have a new babe in their arms, then decide it was worth it,” laughed Jester as he took the second cigar. “What did she name the babe?”
“Evelyn Sophia Val-Adama,” Commander Lorne said from the hatch, with a big smile on his face. “You best have one of those for me, Arclight,” he said in a good-natured voice.
Ian just grinned and handed the Commander the third cigar and then fished a fourth out of an interior pocket on his flight suit. He struck a lighter and Mathias puffed his cigar to life, followed by Jester and Prince and finally Arclight.
Mathias exhaled. “A new life—born into a new world, gentlemen,” he said. “And it is our job to keep her, and those who come after her, safe.”
“So say we all,” said the Prince.
“So say we all,” echoed Arclight and Jester.
“So say we all,” whispered Mathias.
Andrew Martens—Jester—handed him an energy drink and he nodded. “Combat ops are far different from SAR, right?”
“Yes, sir,” the Prince answered the newly promoted Captain and CO of Scorpia’s Raptor Squadron. He took a drink. “I know I failed that test, Jester, but frankly, I don’t see how I could have won.”
“Bravo, Your Majesty,” the veteran pilot answered. “You couldn’t—it was rigged against you. Sometimes, there is no right answer in combat—only the least worse answer. You will lose people—you might even be called upon to give up your own life, and that of your ECO. This test isn’t about finding a way to survive—it is to see if you can do your job even when you are faced with the certain possibility of not coming home again. And you passed, Prince,” he said.
“So I’m cleared for flight duty now?” the Virgon asked as he sat down—seven hours in the simulator on the last run had drained him.
“Yep,” answered Jester. “You aren’t qualified as an ECO yet, but I’ve got no problem with your skills as a Raptor pilot, Prince. And since my ECO is still stuck in a bed in surgery,” he said with grimace, the result of shrapnel tearing into the woman when his Raptor had been hit during the attack on the Styx, “and since she won’t be returning to flight duty after she recovers,” losing a leg will do that, after all, “I am assigning myself as your ECO. You are the pilot—but I am in command? Got it?”
“Got it, Jester,” he whispered.
“Good. Now, let’s get you back to your quarters for some rest; we’re flying patrol early on the ‘morrow and I wa-. . .,” he broke off as Arclight came in with a smile on his face.
“It’s a girl!” Ian Herjavec announced with a broad grin—and he held out three cigars.
“When?” asked Prince as he took one of the slender tubes of wrapped tobacco. The woman brought over from the Pryde had gone into labor four hours before he had crawled inside the simulator.
“Fifteen minutes ago,” answered Arclight. “Thumper said it was a rough labor; said she never wants to go through that herself.”
“That’s what they all say, until they do and have a new babe in their arms, then decide it was worth it,” laughed Jester as he took the second cigar. “What did she name the babe?”
“Evelyn Sophia Val-Adama,” Commander Lorne said from the hatch, with a big smile on his face. “You best have one of those for me, Arclight,” he said in a good-natured voice.
Ian just grinned and handed the Commander the third cigar and then fished a fourth out of an interior pocket on his flight suit. He struck a lighter and Mathias puffed his cigar to life, followed by Jester and Prince and finally Arclight.
Mathias exhaled. “A new life—born into a new world, gentlemen,” he said. “And it is our job to keep her, and those who come after her, safe.”
“So say we all,” said the Prince.
“So say we all,” echoed Arclight and Jester.
“So say we all,” whispered Mathias.
Last edited by masterarminas on 2013-01-27 11:34am, edited 1 time in total.
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Eternal_Freedom
- Castellan
- Posts: 10392
- Joined: 2010-03-09 02:16pm
- Location: CIC, Battlestar Temeraire
Re: The Hunted (nBSG)
Evelyn Sophia Val-Adama....oh that's going to be a fun conversation.
Baltar: "I don't want to miss a moment of the last Battlestar's destruction!"
Centurion: "Sir, I really think you should look at the other Battlestar."
Baltar: "What are you babbling about other...it's impossible!"
Centurion: "No. It is a Battlestar."
Corrax Entry 7:17: So you walk eternally through the shadow realms, standing against evil where all others falter. May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again.
Centurion: "Sir, I really think you should look at the other Battlestar."
Baltar: "What are you babbling about other...it's impossible!"
Centurion: "No. It is a Battlestar."
Corrax Entry 7:17: So you walk eternally through the shadow realms, standing against evil where all others falter. May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again.
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Themightytom
- Sith Devotee
- Posts: 2818
- Joined: 2007-12-22 11:11am
- Location: United States
Re: The Hunted (nBSG)
Lee's gonna get served child support"Since when is "the west" a nation?"-Styphon
"ACORN= Cobra obviously." AMT
This topic is... oh Village Idiot. Carry on then.--Havok
Re: The Hunted (nBSG)
Lol, he didn´t even get a change to help choise her name(s).
Nothing like the present.
Re: The Hunted (nBSG)
Ahhhhhh......so the lady in question would be 'Gianne'?
As in....Lee's girlfriend/fiancee back home, who died in canon. The one he panicked and ran from when he heard she was pregnant. Well bugger, that might be an interesting re-union. Assuming she wants to see him again.
Master Arminas, you do so excell at taking these little bits of canon and playing with them.
Play on SIR!!
As in....Lee's girlfriend/fiancee back home, who died in canon. The one he panicked and ran from when he heard she was pregnant. Well bugger, that might be an interesting re-union. Assuming she wants to see him again.
Master Arminas, you do so excell at taking these little bits of canon and playing with them.
Play on SIR!!