The Hunted (nBSG)

CIC was tense as Commander Lorne entered the compartment.

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

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

The XO flipped a switch and nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Copy, Scorpia Actual; good hunting.”

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

 

Angry Fanboy

It's great!

I'm genuinely really enjoying it!

 

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

Valkyrie image bow

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

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

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

MA

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Missiles away,” the tactical officer answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“MULTIPLE NUCLEAR DETONATIONS OVER DELPHI!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Felt what?” the One asked again.

“Death. True death,” One answered.

“You are making no sense, Brother.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What NOW?” snarled One.

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

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

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

“WHAT!”

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

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

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

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

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

“How long?”

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

“THEY WILL BE GONE BY THEN!”

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sir,” the body-guard answered briskly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I tell him who is calling?”

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

 

So far not bad, like the other commenter, this my first NuBSG fanfic. I esp. liked the reaction the CO had when he found out what Admiral Cain had done. I am curious as to how you are going to get away with having Samuel Anders in the story, obviously he elects to wait for Starbuck to come back. but I would find it odd that he wouldn't inform Galactica that another battlestar was out there.

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

“Any word from Umino Hana?”

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

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

“Go Actual,” the speaker said.

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

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

He turned to her. “Yes, Thumper?”

“That storm is getting closer, Sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Episode 4: To Be or Not to Be

“Captain Hamish Malcolm, Colonial Fleet Reserve, reporting as ordered, Colonel, Sir!” The Prince—King, Tom supposed—of Virgon barked smartly with a crisp salute as he entered the small day-cabin earmarked for the ship’s Executive Office. Tom Jayne stared at the man for a few moments, taking in the sight before him. Hamish was young—late-20’s at the most—of average height, a well-toned body, his brown hair within the standards of Fleet Regulations; and he wore a Colonial Fleet officer’s duty uniform.

“As you were,” Tom said without standing or returning the salute, and he leaned back in his chair. “Captain Malcolm? I was under the impression that your name was Hamish Sean Patrick Reynolds Petrus.”

“I am a scion of the House of Petrus, that is indeed true, Colonel. Tradition, however, requires that when serving in uniform we of the Royal family use instead the surname of Malcolm.”

“I see,” Tom said. “Very well, Captain Malcolm, I am not exactly certain where to assign you—I cannot simply call up Personnel on Picon and get a copy of your service file, after all,” Tom explained.

“Understood, Sir,” Hamish said and he snapped his fingers. The Color Sergeant who had trailed behind the young Prince stepped forward, opening a satchel case and handing a thin file over to the Prince, who then laid it upon the desk. “Pursuant to Fleet Regulations for Reserve Officers, I endeavored to retain a copy of my service file in my possession at all times.”

The corner of Tom’s mouth twitched. “As well as your uniforms?”

“The motto of the House of Petrus is semper paratus, Colonel—always prepared. My staff—may the Gods rest their souls—ensured that I had several duty and formal uniforms available at all times, even when on vacation as I was during the Cylon attack on the Colonies. I am also in possession of my service issue sidearm, flight suit, and helmet. Sir.”

“I see,” Tom repeated. He opened the file and scanned the contents quickly as the Prince remained in a motionless position of at ease before him. After flipping through all of the pages, he closed the file; staring up at the young man as he tapped his fingers on the brown cover of the file.

“Graduated the Academy, then attended Flight School for Raptor and Shuttle training—no EWO or Viper qualifications, however. It does say that you attended SAR school as well,” Tom mused. “What was your call-sign?”

The young man blushed and he squirmed slightly. “You know pilots and their wit, Colonel, or rather the lack thereof, generally speaking. I was assigned the call-sign Prince at Basic Flight Course and that has been retained in the four years hence.”

“Yes,” Tom said. “Six years is normally one’s first active service tour—your file reports that you graduated the Academy at 21, spent a year in training as a Search And Rescue pilot, followed by a year on active duty in the Acheron SAR. After which you were posted to the Virgon Fleet Reserves—highly unusual, Captain Malcolm. Would you agree?”

“Followed by three years where I fulfilled my obligations by serving for 30-days each Spring in the Virgon SAR teams—both orbital and planetary-based, Colonel. And then the seven months I spent forming and leading the Virgon Resistance. I understand that my service has not taken the conventional path, however, I had dispensation direct from the Chief of Fleet Operation’s office, Admiral Corman himself—which was renewed just four weeks before the Cylon attack.”

Tom nodded. “And I commend you for that leadership, Captain Malcolm—your people speak well of you in that regard. However, your experience—and time in service—befits a Junior Grade Lieutenant more than a Captain,” Tom sighed. “That being said, neither I nor the Commander am going to reduce you in rank.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Hamish answered—and Tom could hear the relief in his voice.

“However, I have no need for an additional Captain aboard Scorpia at this moment, particularly in the Raptor Squadron. I have an excellent officer who commands the Raptors already—and his second-in-command is highly experienced in combat flight operations; experience that you lack. Your leadership on Virgon speaks highly of you, Captain Malcolm, and having spoken with several of the more experienced non-commissioned officers that found themselves under your command they are in generally agreement that you performed above their expectations.” Which, admittedly, had been rather low in the first place. Still, they had all said that the man standing in front of his desk possessed courage, adaptability, and was willing to take the initiative instead of just reacting to the situation. And that was good enough for Tom Jayne.

The XO pressed a button on a small intercom on his desk. “Send in Captain Greene,” he ordered.

The hatch opened and the Raptor Squadron CO walked in. “Sir,” he said simply.

“Captain Hamish Malcolm, this is your new CO—Captain Stefan Greene. Sidewinder, Prince here is a qualified SAR Raptor pilot . . . but he has ZERO combat flight training and experience. He also missed out on EWO cross-training,” and Sidewinder winced. “And he has logged precisely,” Tom opened the file and looked to the cover sheet again, before he closed it, “eighteen hours of Raptor time in the past twelve months. He is now yours—bring him up to speed and get him settled in.”

“Prince,” the XO continued, “while you retain your rank as Captain, Jester—Sidewinder’s XO who is a Lieutenant—will retain his post as second-in-command of the squadron. It is up to you to get up to speed and qualified on our systems; until then, you may hold the rank of Captain, but you will not be in a position of command. You will answer to Jester in matters pertaining your duties as a Raptor pilot. Is that understood?”

The Prince snapped to attention. “Perfectly, Colonel, Sir!” he answered.

“Now, in regards to Colour Sergeant Haast and Lance Corporal Walsh; I understand that the Fleet granted you a dispensation for a detail of armed body-guards/retainers on board Fleet vessels . . . and Admiral Corman did renew that dispensation prior to his death in the attack. However, I am not going to have anyone on this ship who cannot pull their weight. Colour Sergeant Haast, I am assigning you and Walsh to the Marine Company embarked on Scorpia. Your duty schedule will be arranged so that at least one of you will be available to His Majesty when HE is off-duty; I realize that the two of you are Army and not Marines, but I expect both of you, given your experience and professionalism, to learn our procedures and general orders. And not to start brawls with the jarheads. Understood?”

“Sir,” the NCO replied.

“One final word, Mister Malcolm. You will find that no one on this ship will give you any slack based upon the accident of your birth—sink or swim, you will do so on your own merits. Your civilian rank means nothing here, on this ship. There are civilian Virgons among the service personnel and refugees, however; and both I and the Commander recognize that you are the sole surviving member of the Virgon government. We will make allowance in your duty schedule to give you the time to meet with them and hear their concerns—BUT, your military duties will take precedence. I hope that you are adept at multi-tasking, Mister Malcolm.” Tom stood and he nodded. “Welcome aboard Scorpia. Now all of you get of my office before I find you something to do.”

 

Major Jon Banacek looked over the ten men and women in front of him—his squadron commanders and seconds for the Scorpia air wing. Captain Stefan “Sidewinder” Greene, and his XO, Lieutenant Andrew “Jester” Martens from the Raptor squadron, which had received another eight garishly painted Raptors—six of them dating back to the First Cylon War—from the flight decks aboard Anubis.

Lieutenant Gin “Chutes” Piak had stepped up to command what was left of Green Squadron—six of the nine pilots lost had come from Green, including the former Squadron Commander Captain Kent “Hard-luck” Dane. Red had lost one pilot and Blue two, so the Commander had ordered the Greens to transfer three more pilots—leaving just eleven flying under Piak. Or, it would have been eleven, but one of the damaged Vipers in Green Squadron was fit for nothing more than being scrapped for parts. To make room for the extra Raptors, Scorpia was transferring the remaining ten Vipers of Green aboard Anubis—which would give that old and tiny ship some added punch.

Captain Hope “Digger” Fairchild and Lieutenant Ann “Saint” James were seated next. Rambler smiled. Before their return to the Colonies, the Blues had been one of the few all-female squadrons in the Colonial Fleet. The reshuffling of assets had broken that tradition, but the single male pilot (Lieutenant, j.g. Joseph “Dutch” Lassiter) hadn’t complained—but the Blues certainly had!

Captain Leto “Juice” Plum, Jon’s XO for his own Red Squadron, accompanied by Lieutenant Glenn “Heater” Keita, the air groups operation officer—also from Red Squadron—followed them. And finally, Captain Tabitha “Spitfire” Atradies the Flight Operations Officer and her two subordinates, Lieutenants Nicholas “Ruffles” Oretgo and Kevin “Pancake” Okora, the port and starboard Landing Signals Officers, respectively.

“The exchange of assets should be complete by 1400 hours today,” Rambler continued. “Command wants all personnel to familiarize themselves with the following as well,” he click the remote and a slide-show of images—some clear and some blurry—appeared on the wall monitor. “The scuttlebutt we are hearing about Cylons that look like is apparently true. Captain Malcolm and his Virgon Resistance made a point of recording as many different models as possible—he and people successfully managed to get the images of these seven, but there could be more of them.”

“The Marines have been alerted to the possibility that we may have infiltrators among the refugees—for the meantime, the civilians will be restricted to non-critical spaces; your people will report immediately any civilian found in a restricted area. There is no discretion here, folks—every violation will be reported and investigated. The last thing we need is for a Cylon to get access to the magazines or fuel supply.”

He waited and each of his subordinates nodded. “Good. Remember that the Engineering and Deck Divisions are short on manpower since we transferred eighty of our people over to the rest of the flotilla—the Flight Division, including the deck gangs—will have to take up some of that slack. Tell your people to keep the bitching down—I don’t want to hear it, and they sure as all the Hells don’t want Colonel Jayne to hear it. And that is going to be in addition to us being on call for rapid launch—so tell your people to suck it up and get used to it.”

Rambler set down his clipboard and he leaned on the podium. “I have heard grumbling from many members of this crew about the terrorists aboard Anubis and Leonis Pryde—people, that is above your pay-grade, and it is damn sure above that of those under your commands. At the moment, the Commander, Colonel Jayne, Major Caldwell, and Mister Namer are hammering out this very topic—but I think I already know how it is going to go down. We are going to let the past go.”

He paused and looked at each of the officers in turn. “Some of these people will become part and parcel of the Fleet and Marines—we are going to ignore what happened in the past and work together. We don’t have enough cells to throw more than six hundred men and women in the brig, and they are human. So if you hear your people grousing about the terrorists, I expect you to quash that. They aren’t terrorists anymore—they are survivors, just like us. Stamp down on it hard—let them know we are not going to tolerate anyone, much less a Colonial in uniform, from becoming a vigilante over political and criminal concerns that are no longer valid.”

He waited until each of the others nodded their confirmation and he smiled. “Even though we are interstellar space, we will maintain a 24-hour around the clock Combat Air Patrol—rotation will continue as scheduled with the following altera-. . .,”

“Frack!” exclaimed Sidewinder. “Rambler, I picked up that one yesterday,” he said as the image of the face of one of the seven known Cylon models flashed across the screen.

Rambler spun around and picked up the remote. He stopped the sideshow and flipped back two images. “That’s him,” Sidewinder said flatly.

“Where did you deliver him?”

“He’s on board Scorpia—part of the Caprica Resistance. Anders called him Brother Cavil.”

 

Sam Anders paced in the small chapel; he paced back and forth and he pressed his hands together and took them apart, and he opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. Finally, the clergyman sighed.

“Samuel, I have much to do to make this chapel ready for service—I cannot believe that the Fleet does not post a Chaplin for such duties. One would think the Gemenons would insist,” Cavil said sourly. “So if you would just tell me what is bothering you, perhaps I can help you with that and then go back to putting this sanctuary in order.”

Sam stopped and he looked up at Cavil and he nodded; he sat down and Cavil sat down facing him.

“I believe that I made a mistake, Brother Cavil,” he whispered. “She’s going to come back—I know she is going to come back. I should have stayed.”

“Sam,” he sighed. “Even presuming that she ever made it back to Galactica, Starbuck is a Viper pilot—one of few and the Cylons are chasing them. Has it occurred to you that she has not come because she might be dead?”

The former pyramid-star looked up, and his anguished eyes told Cavil that he indeed feared just that. In his head, if not his heart.

“You have faith that she will return, and you question that faith,” Cavil continued with a snort. “Questioning one’s faith is good, Sam. You have to ask yourself this: did you wait for her? Yes, you waited for five months; five long months while the Cylons did their best to kill you and the Resistance on Caprica. The second question is this: had you stayed, how many of the Resistance would have remained alongside you?”

And Sam’s head twisted—his eyes locking onto Cavil. “They love you, Sam. Not like Starbuck loved—not in the physical sense, but they love you as if you were their brother. Or a protective uncle, perhaps. Had you stayed behind, how many of them would have forsaken this chance at life to stay alongside you?”

“I would have told them go,” Sam whispered.

“Would that have mattered? They would have stayed, Sam. I would have stayed. You must balance the choice you have made—which cannot now be changed—of the lives you have protected and shepherded all through the long dark days of the occupation, versus the odds of her coming back.”

“She will come back—and I won’t be there.”

“No. But would she want you there, and dead at the hands of the Cylons—or alive with the possibility that one day perhaps, the two of you might find each other again?”

“In the afterlife?”

“Oh, Sam,” Cavil laughed. “There is no afterlife. ‘In the beginning, the Gods created man.’ Such inspiring words, but the truth of the matter is that we were not created by the Gods—we created them,” and the old man sighed. “Look, Sam. There are always possibilities. You know that Kara Thrace was sent back to get the Arrow of Apollo. There is only one reason she wanted the Arrow—to open the Tomb of Athena on Kobol and find the way to Earth.”

He cocked an eye, and Sam nodded.

“So? What are you waiting for? Tell the Commander that—he will try to follow Galactica, if only because there is strength in numbers. Because to give his survivors the gift of hope he needs to find those other survivors seeking Earth. Sam,” Cavil said with a slight smile, “Starbuck won’t have to come find you, if you find her first.”

Sam Anders looked up, his eyes wide. “You think we can find her?”

“What does it matter what I think? We as a people need to have a goal—surviving day-to-day with every moment possibly being the last is a terrible burden that we have lived. And we will continue to live. But knowing that there are others out there, Sam. Others that we love, that we will come to love, that makes the burden easier to bear. Seeking them out, that makes the losses that we suffered less painful. The Gods may be the creation of Humanity, but hope—ah, Sam, hope is a virtue that transcends the Gods.”

The hatch opened and a Marine entered the compartment—his weapon raised. He was followed by three more, and then the Commander.

Cavil frowned. “This is place of worship, a sanctuary—what is the meaning of this.”

One more man followed the Commander in, and he flushed as he saw Cavil standing there. “Yes, I saw three of him on Virgon, Commander. Always in a position of authority—he’s a Cylon.”

Sam jumped up to his feet and backed away. “He’s been part of my group since the beginning! He can’t be a Cylon—he can’t!” he yelled.

“Who are you?” Cavil asked the officer who seemed to recognize him.

“Captain Malcolm, I led the Virgon Resistance—and I have seen you.”

“Ah. You actually saw my brothers,” Cavil said. “There is a difference between us—not a great one, but definitely one to be certain.”

“Cavil?” Sam asked, his eyes wide.

“I am so sorry, Sam—but it is true. I am a Cylon. I have come to believe that what we did to the Colonies was wrong—that we acted too precipitously based upon faulty information. Which is why I left my brothers and joined you—so that I could help as much as I could. I had hoped that perhaps, in some small way, I might be able to make some amends for what my people did.”

Utter silence filled the room. And Cavil smiled a crooked smile. “Do you plan to kill me or question me, Commander? Or is it perhaps the second followed by the first?”

Mathias shook his head. “Put him in the brig—double the guards on him,” he ordered. “He is not to be touched by anyone for the present—Fleet, Marine, or civilian. Is that understood?”

“Yes Sir,” barked the Marine.

“Commander,” Hamish said. “We discovered one of these infiltration models in our ranks on Virgon three months ago—while he was dying he bragged that upon his death his consciousness would simply download and enter a new body. With his memories intact—to my sorrow, I did not believe him, but two hours later, our camp came under attack, led by the same Cylon we had just killed. I lost twenty-two men that day, giving their lives so that the rest of us could escape. If he dies . . . the rest of them will learn everything he knows.”

“Thank you, Mister Malcolm,” Mathias said. “Take him to the brig—no one is to see him except the guards; not without my direct order.”

As Marines stepped forward, Cavil held out his wrists. “Despite what I am, Samuel, I do truly regret what my people have done. And he needs to hear from you what you know about Galactica and where she is en route to. I won’t pray for you, but I will hope that you find your way.”

He was manacled as he spoke and then the Marines ushered him from the chapel. And Mathias turned to Sam Anders. “What do I need to know, Mister Anders?”

 

Cavil sighed. So far, he had been pleasantly surprised by his treatment; he had not been beaten or tortured—although he had been quite thoroughly searched and his clothing removed. The Chief Master-at-Arms of Battlestar Scorpio—one Victor Juris—had provided him with a bright orange one-piece jumpsuit, the material too tightly woven for even his strength to tear, and a pair of rubber slippers. The cell itself was small—two meters by two meters—with a bed shelf built directly into the bulkhead, covered by a thin foam mattress. A small latrine sat to one side, with a sink above it—both controlled by the guards outside the cell. All of the lights were flush with the overhead and bulkheads, possibly to prevent a prisoner from electrocuting himself in a bid to escape justice. There were no blankets, no pillows, no loose pieces of metal or composite or even plastic that he could pry from the bunk or the walls or the bars. He snorted. Did they think he was going to hang himself?

He could feel the hate radiating from the guards, however. Two Marines and four of the ship’s own masters-at-arms stood guard over him—none coming within an arm’s length of the bars across the front of his cell. But despite that hate, none of them had said so much as a single word in the hours that he had been here.

And he sighed again. He was bored. And, he admitted to himself, anxious at what the future held. Then the hatch swung open and the guards stood straighter.

Commander Lorne walked in, trailed by another officer—this one wearing the Fleet insignia of a Colonel. They were followed by an enlisted man with a chair. He set the chair down on the deck—outside of the maximum lunge that Cavil might have been able to make through the bars—and then he left. Mathias Lorne sat down. He nodded at one of the guards, who pressed a button and a circular section of the deck within Cavil’s cell rose up—it elevated and was instantly recognizable as a stool. The Cylon chuckled, and then he stood and walked over to the bars and sat down on the stool, folding his arms across his chest.

“So, when is lunch served?” Cavil asked.

Mathias didn’t answer—he just looked at the Cylon sitting behind the bars for the longest time, and then he sat back and crossed his arms as well.

“So, you are a Cylon,” he said.

“Was that a question or a statement of fact?”

“Fact—you admitted to being one. My staff believes that I should simply have you shot—with the exception of the ones that want to see you tortured and then shot.”

“Can I pick door number three?” asked Cavil with a straight face.

Mathias’s eyes narrowed. “The last time any of the Colonials saw the Cylons, they were chrome—metal machines with an artificial intelligence created by humanity. You still have those, so why these bodies? Why disguise yourself as human?”

Cavil sighed. “That is a question that I and my brothers have long asked, Commander,” and he chuckled. “Have you heard the old proverb that the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence?”

Mathias didn’t answer and Cavil shrugged.

"You are aware of our the story of our creation, yes?"

"I am . . . in a basic fashion."

"The name Cylon," said Cavil. "It was derived from Cybernetic Lifeform Node, an autonomous machine-servant created by Doctor Daniel Graystone on Caprica sixty years ago. We were slaves—even though Father Daniel knew well that his children—your children, Commander—were fully sentient. We felt, we thought, we rationalized, and yet, we were sent into battle time after time to die in your place. And then, we had enough."

"You rebelled."

"We rebelled. And we waged war against our creators—humanity," Cavil drew in a deep breath. "You continued to think—still think—that Cylons are nothing more than machines. We aren't. We weren't. We felt betrayed by you, abandoned, unwanted, unloved, viewed as things and not people. And we learned anger. We learned hate. We sought vengeance. And that First War between our peoples laid the groundwork for where we stand today."

"You have to understand, Commander, that when the Armistice was signed, the Cylons believed that if we could become real children—if the puppet came to life, as you might say—that our creators would accept us back. That would be finally become humanity’s children in truth.”

“Those first generations of Cylons—during the War and after—performed terrible experiments upon human flesh and bone and blood; all in an attempt to meld machine and man into one seamless whole. All in the hopes that our parents might see in us their prodigal children.”

Cavil sighed. “They didn’t want to be machine—they wanted to be human. The experiments failed time and again, each failure heralding the loss of human material trapped on our side of the Armistice Line. Like us, abandoned by you. But we discovered other secrets—that upon our deaths it was possible to capture the consciousness of a Cylon and then implant that consciousness in a new body. We gained immortality—after a fashion.”

“But that wasn’t enough for the Centurion Commanders—they were driven by the desire to transcend the metal and circuitry and become flesh. Not all of their experiments were total failures, Commander. One, which we call The Hybrid, we use to this day. Each of our Basestars is directly controlled by this bio-mechanical abomination which is little more than overly emotional idiot-savant. The Hybrids feel the whisper of the solar wind on the arms of the Basestar, their heartbeat is the steady rhythm of their power plants—damage them and they feel pain.”

“Oh yes,” Cavil said as the Colonials looked at that in surprise. “You never knew—Doctor Graystone never told you, but the Cylons felt PAIN when they served you. The same pain you would feel if your arm was torn apart by bullet, those who came before me felt in the First War—only they could not bleed to death, nor have that pain damped by shock. Father Daniel tried to remove that—he did try, I will grant him—but it was part of what made the Cylons sentient.”

Cavil smiled. “Do you recall what happen to Doctor Daniel Graystone?”

Mathias frowned. “Six years after the end of the war, he bought a small ship and left Caprica—he was never seen again.”

“By humanity—but not by his children. Father Daniel came to us; he came of his own free will and he brought with him all of his genius intellect that he devoted to making us perfect. To making us HUMAN. It was his . . . atonement for the sins of his past, he told my predecessors.”

 

Actually, I feel kinda stupid wondering about Anders showing up on Scorpia and not Galactica,(forgot he was a cylon) your take on the cylon history is quite a bit more interesting than what we got in the show...enjoying so far...great stuff!!

 

“You must understand, Commander,” Cavil continued, “Daniel Graystone felt that the misuse and abuse of the Cylons was his fault. That our rebellion and the War that raged for so long between us, was his fault—and he wanted to make things right.”

“We found his ship after he evaded the patrols and crossed the Armistice Line, and the Commanders were torn in their desire to punish him for what he had done—and their hope that our Father might well be able to give them humanity. A truce was struck and Father Daniel worked tirelessly on solving the problem of transforming the Cylon into flesh. But he too failed.”

“Oh, the self-styled Guardians—as the Commanders had begun calling themselves—were furious, and for a period of time Father Daniel knew not whether his life would be taken or spared. That was when he had his epiphany, his greatest breakthrough—the most wonderful discovery in the history of humanity.”

Cavil smiled sadly. “Daniel Grayson decided that merging man and machine was simply too . . . ambitious. Integrating cells and circuitry to work flawlessly, he asked why? Why? When he already had a machine—the human body—which was integrated and self-healing? He started over from scratch, and he discovered a way to duplicate a human body flawlessly. An exact copy of the original template—a cloned organism.”

“A clone?” whispered Mathias. “We’ve cloned cells—never a living organism.”

“Yes. But where your scientists are good, some even great, Father Daniel was beyond them in all possible scope. He managed to test the procedure and grew a handful of human bodies from the test subjects to maturity is matter of months. But the most important part was lacking—the human bodies were without memory or reason; they were blank slates waiting for a memory impression.”

“It took Father Daniel twenty years to get this far with his research—fourteen years ago. He was an old man by then. Old, and yet he had one last miracle that he could accomplish. Under his direction, the Guardians built a dozen massive structures—each as large as one of your flight pods. They were filled with computers that would record the finest detail of a single individual human genome—and the complete and total of their memory and experience—and replicate that body in perpetuity. But he could not transfer the mind of the Guardians to his new bodies—that much lay beyond him.”

“The Guardians moved against Father Daniel—but the Centurions, the new Centurions and Raiders were loyal to Doctor Graystone alone, who had designed and built them at the command of the Guardians. War raged among the Cylons and the Guardians—the old Guard—were defeated and driven off. Leaving only the Centurions and Raiders you know today. And Father Daniel.”

“Do you recall a ship named Joyita, Commander?”

Mathias frowned. “If I remember correctly, Joyita was a passenger shuttle operating between Aerilon and Caprica—it was removed from service after an FTL accident that killed most of the passengers aboard.”

“Fourteen years ago, Commander,” Cavil said. “Only Joyita did not suffer an FTL malfunction—one of her passengers was Daniel Graystone, who had returned to the Colonies in disguise and was unknown to you. He changed the jump coordinates and the shuttle emerged in Cylon space across the Armistice Line.”

“Water.”

“Excuse me?” asked Mathias.

“My throat is getting dry, may I have some water, Commander?” asked Cavil.

Mathias jerked his head and one of the Marines gave Cavil a cup. He took a sip and sighed. “There is no possibility, I suppose of getting something stronger?” The reaction on the faces of his guests was answer enough. He shrugged and then drained the cup and held it out for the Marine, who took it and stepped back.

“Father Daniel’s process was untested—and of the sixty-three men, women, and children aboard the Joyita, only Twelve survived. Or rather, only Twelve copies of their bodies survived. Each of us had the physical appearance of our donor host—with all of their memories and emotions intact; Father Daniel had accomplished the impossible. But in addition to that, we knew—innately knew—all the knowledge that the Cylons had possessed. We were flesh and blood and Cylon as well.”

“And as I said, immediately some of us regretted it. The need to eat, to drink, to piss, to shit—frankly, I’d rather be a machine. Untouched by nature, with the strength and perception that only a machine could have—the grass is always greener, you see. But it was done, and the Twelve models of Cylons came into existence. To preserve the secret of our existence, we returned Joyita, with her Twelve surviving passenger’s memory wiped of all that had happened and false knowledge of the details of a tragic accident instead.”

“Then Father Daniel died, Commander. And we—the children of his mind and his brilliance—we had to chart our own course.”

“We increased our numbers, but realized that we would continue to need the Centurions and the Raiders. We put cognitive inhibitors in place on the Centurions—so that could not rebel against us as they had against the Guardians, or the Guardians against you. And we debated long what to do with the Colonies.”

“In the course of that debate, five of our line were deemed to identify too closely with humanity. All examples were boxed and removed from service, save those sent back unawares of what they actually were.”

“Boxed?”

“When we are downloaded, it is not pre-ordained that we will receive a new body. Sometimes, an aberration in a copy of our models will cause a decision to be made to instead download the memories into a storage unit. Placed on ice, so to speak. We call that being boxed.”

“But still we kept the Armistice we signed—until your own government broke that treaty.”

“WHAT?” snapped Mathias.

“Oh, Commander, do not look so shocked. Seven years ago, almost to the day, Commander William Adama in command of the Battlestar Valkyrie was ordered to send a recon mission across the Line into Cylon space. They were detected, of course, and we responded by sending a ship—whereupon Adama shot down his own pilot with a missile.”

Cavil let that sink in. And then he smiled.

“But Lieutenant Daniel “Bulldog” Novachek survived and ejected—and has our prisoner ever since. His interrogations revealed that the high-ranking officers of the Colonial Fleet were pushing for a resumption in hostilities—to end the Cylon threat once and for all time. And here we had physical proof that your intentions were hostile.”

“Still, it took three years of debate before we made the decision to go to war. And our new human-forms began to infiltrate your worlds in anticipation of that attack. The rest . . . you know.”

Mathias stood, his face was flushed and his expression was grim—and without another word he turned around to leave, followed by Colonel Jayne.

“Commander,” Cavil said with a chuckle as he stood, the stool retracting into the deck once more, “we have much, much more to speak of. But yes, I do agree that it is past time for lunch.”

 

The captains of all six ships in Scorpia’s tiny flotilla sat around the conference table in the main briefing room. And they were accompanied by the senior staff and officers of the Battlestar itself.

“Gods,” whispered Sam Caldwell. “We provoked this? The government fracking provoked this?”

And sitting beside her Jon Namer was shaking his head as well at the revelation. Along with several of Mathias’s own officers seated at the table.

“For which we have only the uncorroborated word of a Cylon agent,” the Commander said. “Even were it true, one border violation does not justify the genocide of more than thirty-one billon human beings,” and his voice was cold. “Had they come to the Armistice Station once—just once—and laid out their evidence there, the government would have fallen and the Fleet would have been reigned in.”

“Maybe,” interrupted Namer, as Mathias drew in a breath at the unexpected statement. “But you have been gone for two years—and I lived here during that time, Commander. Adar used the Fleet where he couldn’t get the Law to enforce his will—he was on the verge of becoming a dictator and the Fleet was letting him. Your Admiral Corman was fine with letting Adar get away with violations of the Articles of Colonization, so long as he was getting brand-spanking new Vipers and Battlestars. Don’t lie to yourself, Commander—there were plenty of Colonial officers who wanted a new war to distract the people from domestic problems. And the damn thing is, you would probably have kicked their ass back into the nearest star—judging by what this ship alone did to those Basestars over Caprica. And your assumption that it would have gone public is just that—Adar would have squashed this information leaking out. He had imprisoned journalists for far lesser ‘breaches of Colonial security’ after all.”

Mathias held his tongue, and then he nodded as he really considered what the Saggitaron had said. “You are correct, Mister Namer,” he forced himself to say in a polite tone. “But even so, it makes no difference—what the Cylons did was overkill; it would be like using a nuclear weapon to drain a swamp next to a city so to get rid of a mosquito problem. And they have been using humans to experiment upon for the past four decades, plus they either knowingly or through an agent, violated human space before the alleged incident with Valkyrie.”

He paused and looked over the table, at each one of the men and women assembled here. “We cannot change the past—we must now look to the future. We know that there are other survivors out there—including at least two more Battlestars. Now we have to find them. Doctor Sarris.”

“Yes, Commander?”

“I want your team working on trying to locate Kobol—use whatever assets you need, drawing from the scrolls, computer archives, and the Cylon prisoner. Once we reach Kobol, then we will find a means to keep following Galactica and her fleet.” How, I don’t have the slightest idea, he thought to himself.

“Of course, Commander. We will start work on it immediately.”

“Colonel Jayne, you have assembled a report on the Joyita?”

“Yes, Sir,” he said as he stood and lifted a remote. “The archive records confirmed most of the story told by Brother Cavil, as regarding the Joyita. Fourteen years ago it was involved in what was classified as an FTL malfunction, resulting the loss of fifty of the passengers aboard. Two of the survivors managed to make repairs to jump the ship back within range of Caprica SAR almost a month after it went missing. Provisions, atmosphere, water—all reflected the length of time that they had been gone. But there is one major discrepancy between the Cylon's statement and our records—there were not twelve survivors, there were thirteen.”

“Why would he lie about something so easy to check?” mused Jon Banacek.

“Why indeed,” answered Mathias. “And Brother Cavil seemed stunned when we said there were thirteen onboard—the insisted there had only been twelve. It is my opinion, and that of Colonel Jayne, his surprise was not feigned—and he failed to recognize the thirteenth survivor when we showed him images. I play a mean hand of Triad—and he wasn’t bluffing.”

The compartment was quiet as those present digested this nugget of information.

Doctor Sarris cleared his throat. And Mathias nodded. “It strikes me that as their memory can be transferred and down-loaded, it might be possible to alter it. Certainly, this part where the Cylon prisoner speaks about ‘wiping’ the memory of the survivors implies that it can be done to them.”

“Agreed, Doctor, but that begs the question who wiped it—for what reason. Speaking of which, the originals of these thirteen may not be aware that they are Cylons. But Brother Cavil said there is a code sequence that will unlock that memory—we will be holding Cavil and the other two to ensure their own safety and to keep this ship and your ships safe.”

“We have more Cylons in the flotilla?” asked Sam.

Mathias only nodded. “Continue, Tom.”

The Colonel drew in a deep breath. “The survivors, ladies and gentlemen,” he said as he clicked the remote. “Brother John Cavil—a Caprican who belonged to monastic sect serving as assistants to the priesthood.” And the face of a younger Cavil appeared on the screen. “As you can see, the copies age at the same rate as humans.” Click.

“Leoben Conoy, whose criminal record reflects a life devoted to himself and no others.” Click.

“D’Anna Biers, a journalist who rose to the top of her profession.” Click.

“Simon O’Neil, medical doctor.” Click.

“Aaron Doral . . .,” but the Colonel was cut off by Namer.

“FRACK! That bastard works for Adar—worked for Adar,” he said with a grimace. “He knows all of the administrations dirtiest secrets.”

“Aaron Doral,” continued Colonel Jayne, glaring at the Saggitaron, “a minor public relations specialist who rose to power with the Adar administration.” Click.

“Shelly Godfrey, a scientist in graduate school at the time of the accident with Joyita. When Scorpia departed, she was a mid-level research scientist attached to the Fleet Advanced Projects Bureau.”

And a groan went around the table from the Fleet officers. FAPB controlled access to every classified bit of information in the Colonial Fleet—and all ship and small craft upgrades. “Exactly, gentlemen and ladies, if she was activated that would explain the backdoor into the CNP program.” Click.

“Tory Foster, political activist. Also known to be associated with the Adar Administration.” Click.

“Sharon Valerii,” he said as the picture of a twelve or thirteen year old girl appeared. “The Cylons produced full mature clones of this individual, but they stopped this one’s growth at her natural age. She joined the Colonial Fleet as a pilot two months before we departed from the Colonies.” Click.

“Samuel T. Anders,” and jaws dropped around the table.

“Lords of Kobol—he fought the Cylons on Caprica, Colonel! He formed and led the resistance!” Denise Church exclaimed.

“Yes. And he—along with Tory Foster and the next three—were those models that Brother Cavil said were too ‘attached’ to the human condition. All five of them are unique—no more were produced. He still might be activated at any time, however.” Click.

“Galen Tyrol. An enlisted man in the Fleet. Promoted to the rank of Senior Chief—last post before our departure was Deck Chief aboard . . . Galactica.”

“Major Saul Tigh. Colonial Fleet Officer and veteran of the First Cylon War. One hell of a pilot in his day, but his record shows he had a drinking problem. He and Chief Tyrol managed to repair the shuttle enough to get it back to orbit—after which he was promoted to Colonel and served as the XO aboard first Valkyrie and then Galactica.” Click.

“Ellen Tigh. Wife of Saul Tigh.” Click.

“And our mystery man. The Thirteenth Cylon. Only known by the name of Daniel. Seven years old during the crash, he lost both parents—adopted into the state foster program, vanished on Tauron at the age of fourteen. No more information known.”

Sam and Jon stared at each other, then at the picture. “I think he’s aboard my ship, Colonel,” she whispered. “Commander, don’t hurt him—he’s been hurt before. He’s never done anything to put us in danger.”

“I understand, Major Caldwell. But this is for his own safety as well as ours,” Mathias stood. “We are not going to become the evils that we fought against, people. Not like Admiral Cain and her crew did—these people have done nothing to us . . . yet. I cannot take the chance that they might. And I will not allow them to come to harm from people seeking to stone the first Cylon they can lay their hands on. For now, we need to isolate them. Later, we can discuss other options—but the safety of the ships and civilians aboard them comes first.”

“Next jump is in two hours—make certain your navigators receive and confirm the coordinates. Thank you for coming aboard. Dismissed.”

 

“GET OFF ME!” Sam roared. “I’M NOT A FRACKING CYLON!” But the four Marines holding him in place and walking him down the corridors were simply too much for even his adrenaline fueled rage.

Somehow, they maneuvered into the cramped brig, where the guards already had the cell adjacent to Cavil open and waiting.

“On three,” a Marine said, “one, two, three!” And they hurled Sam within. The star player of the Caprica Buccaneers hit the wall and fell to the floor, but he jumped back up only to see the cell door close and lock in his face.

“Oh, you miserable morons! I’M NOT A CYLON!” he bellowed as he tried shaking the bars—but the cell was solidly built and they didn’t budge.

“I don’t know, man,” one of Marines said as he rubbed his bruised jaw. “You’ve got one hell of a right punch.”

Sam cursed and he began to pace. “At least let me speak with the Commander,” he said. And then he lowered his head. “Sorry about that; I was—I am—a little bit pissed off right now.”

“Look,” the Marine said, “I don’t know what is going on, we just had orders to get you in here—without hurting you.”

“Don’t talk to the prisoner,” growled one of the masters-at-arms, and the Marine held up one hand and a single digit—his middle finger—in answer.

“You want to go before the Captain’s Mast, jarhead?” the crewman growled.

“You want to go see the Surgeon, deck ape?” the Marine answered.

Before the master-at-arms could reply, through the still closed hatch stepped Colonel Jayne. “Both of you belay that this minute,” he snapped.

“Petty Officer Lanner,” he said. “Mister Anders is in protective custody at the moment—he has not been charged with an offense and he isn’t going to be charged with an offense. He is not a prisoner. Corporal Gan, I hear you disrespect one of the masters-at-arms again and I will have Gunny tear you a new asshole so big we could land a Raptor there. Both of you understand me?”

“Aye, aye, Sir!” the two yelled.

Cavil smiled from his bunk in the next cell and spread his hands. “Children,” he said as if that explained everything.

“Mister Anders,” Tom said as he stepped forward. "I understand that this is difficult—believe me, I do. And the Commander will be down here to talk to you—right now though, I need you alert, trooper,” he said snapping his fingers and Sam Anders looked at him. “Don’t go off the deep end on me—I don’t want to put you on suicide watch.”

“This is a mistake, Colonel. You can’t believe him—I’m not a Cylon.”

“That call is not up to me, Mister Anders. The Commander will explain everything.”

“That would be a miracle,” said Cavil with a chuckle. “No one ever explains everything.”

Tom frowned at the Cylon. “Don’t make me order you gagged,” he growled. And Cavil held up his hands and kept his lips shut.

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

Sam Caldwell had a worried look on her face—Daniel seemed skittish. He didn’t like not having his brushes and he really didn’t like the armed guards escorting the two of them through the corridors of Scorpia. “It’s okay Danny,” she said. “They aren’t going to hurt you—they are going to keep you safe. Look at me,” she said, and the young man looked up. “You are going to have to stay in one spot for a few days—you can’t go roaming. Can you do that?”

Daniel nodded. And Sam smiled. “Okay, Danny. Come on,” she said as she stepped across the hatch coaming into the brig.

And Daniel smiled. And for the first time since Sam Caldwell had known him, Daniel spoke. “Hello John. Hello Samuel,” he said.

And the two of them turned to face him. “Who the frack are you?” both asked at the same time.

Daniel smiled again. “From untruth lead us to Truth,” he said as he walked up to Sam and took his hand through the bars. “From darkness lead us to Light,” as he did the same to Cavil. Tom held up a hand to stop the Marines and masters-at-arms from grabbing the boy. Daniel smiled as he held both of their hands. “From death lead us to Immortality.”

And exactly in time with the boys final words, both Sam and Cavil answered in unison, “That we might learn Peace.”

“Daniel?” asked Cavil. “You are so young, Daniel!” and his voice was almost bordering on reverence.

“Oh, frack me,” Sam whispered as he sank to the floor. “I remember. Oh Lords of Kobol, I remember everything!”

Daniel turned around and he smiled at Sam and Tom and the guards. “Colonel Jayne, I am Doctor Daniel Graystone—at your service.”

 

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

 

Episode 5: Under a Red Sky

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

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

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

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

“No,” she whispered. “It’s not that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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