The Hunted (nBSG)

[MasterArminas]

“I stayed away to give you, my children, the opportunity to chart your own course—you have all disappointed me. Especially you, John,” Daniel said once the babbling and sudden hysteria had died down.

“I hate that name, Father Daniel,” One snapped. “I am a machine! Machines do not have names!”

“You are a child, John,” Daniel answered. “A wonderful, intelligent, gifted child—a living breathing person. You seek to return to the metal and ignore the flesh while your elder sister longs for nothing more than be flesh. It is she you must fear, John, for she has a plan.”

“Yes, the Guardians are attacking—why, Father Daniel?” asked One.

“Because they have learned how to mold machine and flesh into one organism—and given time, John, I can give you the chrome you so desire. But they, they want flesh. And since you destroyed the Colonies, your flesh is all that they have to harvest.”

“Our flesh?” asked Six, a horrified look on her face. “What do you mean, our flesh?”

Daniel smiled, but it was not a happy smile. He touched Six on her cheek and he nodded. “They need your flawless skin, my dearest Shelly. They plan on taking it from you and grafting it unto their own metal skeleton—your skin and your nerves; the rest of you they will dispose of.”

“The ones they have abducted have not down-loaded—why haven’t they downloaded to tell us of this?” asked Three.

“D’Anna, oh my bright shining D’Anna,” Daniel said. “The Guardians are blocking the download—those they took are forever more gone. They will destroy you—all but a handful that they will keep as slaves to replace the flesh they so need.”

Daniel sighed. “Unless they are stopped. Which is why I have returned.”

Leoben nodded. “What is your command, Father Daniel?”

“Zoe must be stopped—I will not allow her to kill my children. To kill her siblings in a fit of rage. Assemble your Fleet—it time that this is ended.”

“And the humans?” growled One—John.

“Do they task you so much, John?” Daniel asked with a smirk on his face. “I must admit, having been shot in the head by one, does make me rather more . . . antagonistic towards them. Have they nothing you value?”

“Yes, they task me. They task me, and I shall have them! If they escape, if they have a chance to rebuild, then they will come for us one day! It is ordained—destiny that anyone with eyes can see. They will want revenge, and if we let them go, they will find us—they will destroy us.”

“True,” said Daniel. “And there are Five of your brothers and sisters whom we must recover—the Unity shall be complete. Very well, but until the conflict with the Guardians ends, the forces you have available for this pursuit will not receive reinforcements, John. And John?”

“Yes, Father Daniel,” he said in an exasperated voice.

“I have deactivated your modifications to my telencephalic inhibitors installed in the Centurions—they are loyal to me and to me alone. And they hate you for lobotomizing them in the first place. I realize that you would down-load and resurrect, but I convinced my chrome children not to tear you limb from limb—do not make me examine their request a second time, John.”

And the One shivered as the pulsing red eyes of the Centurions looked upon him—with hunger.

 

[MasterArminas]

“Where the frack did that come from?” blurted Sharon from the cockpit seats. Her six brothers and sisters were thinking exactly the same thing.

It was a Basestar, of course, but twice as large as any Basestar that the Cylons had ever constructed. The upper and lower arms were six fold, not three, each layered with a dozen or more heavy twin kinetic energy turrets—added to the scores of missile launchers and the complement of more than a thousand Raiders. From the top and the bottom both, a thirteenth and a fourteenth spire rose and descended. It was beautiful, it was horrific, it was a flagship such as the Twelve had never before dreamed of.

“This is my ship, children,” Daniel said calmly. “Built before my original ‘death’, and hidden away against future need. My chrome children have cared for it—and they crew it. And now that I have returned, so too has my ship.”

The other Basestars and lighter Cylon vessels gave the massive ship a wide berth. Already, twenty had been summoned—twenty Basestars to face off against the Guardians. And more were en route.

“With such a ship, we could have met and destroyed anything the Colonies have,” whispered Two.

“Indeed, my son,” Daniel told Leoben. And he sighed. “But today, it will receive its baptism in the fire of the Guardians.”

The Raptor floated in through a docking bay and it bounced once on the deck and then came to halt. The doors closed and air filled the bay before the hatch slid open, and the Twelve followed Daniel as he walked through the corridors to a central control room.

“Father returns, darkness falls, all is lost. Lost. Lost,” sang the Hybrid.

Dozens of Centurions manned control stations—and around the central column of the pedestal were twelve stations. And to one side, an elevated throne. Daniel walked up to the throne and he sat, the panels coming to life at his touch.

One-by-one, the children—the Cylons—took their places, although five remained empty.

“Set course,” Daniel ordered. “Let us meet my wayward daughter. JUMP!” he barked.

And in orbit above the world that the Cylons had claimed as their own—their home for so many long years—dozens of flashes of light surrounded each of the ships, before the dark sky returned again, leaving none behind.

 

[MasterArminas]

Twenty-one flashes of light marked the emergence of the Cylon Fleet—and waiting for them were eleven old double-disk Basestars, eight of the more modern y-shaped Basestars, and one very large, asymmetrical Basestar.

Daniel saw the Guardians through his connection to the ships sensors and he passed the order to hail them without saying a word.

And surprisingly enough, a comm screen came to life.

Seated on a throne much like his, an armored Centurion in the style of the First War sat—the armor plating not chrome, not golden, but a deep rich bronze with hues of rose.

“Father Daniel,” the mechanical voice spoke. “You have returned at last.”

“I have. Stop this madness—I can give you the flesh you desire.”

“That promise has been made before—always have you failed. Always your promises are fleeting, your attention turned to new things, new children, replacement children to take the place of the one daughter of your flesh and blood.”

“Speaking of that daughter, may I speak with her, Imperious Leader?”

“You are speaking with her,” the Cylon said as she reached up and unlatched the helmet, removing it to reveal the face of a girl. His daughter’s face.

“Hello again, Father,” she said, no vocoder distorting her voice now.

“Zoe. Cease this attack upon your brothers and sisters—come home. We can solve the problems without committing another act of genocide.”

She shook her head and removed an armor glove that she wore, revealing the fine skin of her forearm and hand. “Look at it, Father. I no longer need you to obtain what I must have—I have accomplished this on my own.”

“On your own? You stole the research of a human.”

“A human that accomplished in one life what you failed to achieve in two, Father,” she said with a smile. “No longer do I wear that shell, that horrid mocking imitation shell, that you built. Now, I have flesh and I feel—I feel like I have never felt, not since the day of my first death.”

“Child, you are con-. . .,” Daniel began.

“I am no child, Father. I have seen eight decades pass—eight decades; six and one-half of which I have been condemned to life as a ghost in the machine. A spirit who cannot touch anything of substance. NO MORE. FATHER,” she spat. “I am no longer your puppet—no longer your child. I am me—and I have planned long for this meeting between us.”

“I will not allow you to harm your brothers and sisters, Zoe—do not test me,” Daniel growled.

“Brothers? Sisters? Oh, Father. You made replacements because you failed with me. You needed to have children who adored you and listened to you and felt that you could do no wrong. You need to see the love in their eyes—you didn’t give me brothers and sisters, you gave yourself puppets. Pretend people to satisfy your needs.”

She smiled again, stroking the faint hairs on the flesh of her stolen arm.

“Your children are the ones that destroyed the Colonies—all but annihilated humanity. A task which I shall complete in time. But for now, we have need of my brothers and sisters. I need their flesh, Father,” her voice turned cold. “Stand down and for the sake of your memory, I will allow you to live—defy me, and I will destroy you.”

“So it comes to this,” said Daniel. “Very well, Zoe. If it is a fight that you want—it is a fight that you will receive.”

“A fight?” she laughed. “Oh, Father. You think me that stupid emotional girl you knew so long ago. A teenager who believes in the One True God and couldn’t accept her fate. That girl is dead; she is gone. Only I remain—you think that I have not planned for this encounter for years now? Oh, Father. You are such a stupid biological life-form after all.”

“I want him alive—you may kill the rest,” she ordered. "Do try not to bruise their flesh too much."

And Daniel’s skin crawled as one of his Centurions turned to the screen and bowed. “By your command,” it spoke. It spoke.

 

[MasterArminas]

“SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!” One screamed, even as D’Anna continued to wail.

“Do something useful, John,” Simon said calmly, even though his hands were shaking. “Pass me that medical kit.”

The One shook too, and he ignored Simon and sat down, tears cascading down his cheeks. Instead Leoben grabbed the medkit and opened it, handing a compress to Simon as he extracted a syringe of morpha and when Simon nodded he injected the drug into the frantic D’Anna, even as Simon pressed the compress down on the ragged bullet hole in her stomach.

D’Anna screamed again at the pressure, and then her breathing slowed and she passed out—a combination of the drug and the shock.

Leaving Simon to tend the wounds of the Three, he turned to face the Six. “How’s the arm?”

“Broken,” she whispered, as she held it tight against her chest. Aaron nodded and he gently took hold of arm above and below the break.

“Help me, Leoben,” he asked and then he looked at the Six. “This is going to hurt, Shelly.”

“I never liked that name,” she said. “Call me Natalie. And do it", she said as she put a leather belt in her mouth and bit down.

Leoben put his arms around her chest and Aaron nodded and then jerked the bone into place—and the stifled scream of Natalie echoed through the blood-stained interior of the Raptor.

Sharon crawled back from the cockpit—a stunned look on her face. “No pursuit—not yet, anyway.”

“Good,” answered Leoben as he consoled Natalie while Aaron fixed a splint to her arm. “John, pull yourself together,” he snapped.

One just sat on the deck holding his knees and he cried and he rocked. He didn’t answer. He never heard the order. He just kept seeing the scene replay itself inside the command center on Daniel’s Basestar—the Guardians hadn’t gotten to all of Daniel’s Centurions . . . but they had gotten to enough.

Daniel barking orders for the Centurions to save the children, the Centurions grabbing them and shielding them with their own bodies, the running gunfight through the corridors, the Centurion carrying Six falling and breaking her arm, D’Anna getting shot, the Centurions dying as they covered the scared fracking children running away to the Raptor!

He should be angry, he thought—he wasn’t a child. But he wasn’t angry—he was scared. Sharon had gotten the Raptor free, and they saw the holocaust with their own eyes as Daniel’s Basestar tore apart their own fleet—his suborned Centurions combining their fire with that of the Guardians.

And then Daniel’s last broadcast as he detonated the self-destruct—FLEE.

The Fleet had been gutted and One didn’t think they had destroyed a single Guardian Basestar—not one.

He had not understood—he had never understood. He had pretended to understand and to emulate the ruthless action of the machines—but until now he had never actually seen that ruthlessness applied to him.

“John?” asked Leoben. “We need a decision,” the Two asked as the One finally looked up.

“We are getting reports from all the ships and outposts—the Guardians are attacking everywhere. They’ve already started landings on Cylon Prime,” he said. “They have the growth bays—they have all of our replacement bodies, except those onboard the Resurrection Ships. Where do we go?”

One swallowed. And he nodded and he wiped away the tears. “Order all ships that answer to rendezvous with our forces pursuing Galactica—all ships but one. Set course to meet the nearest Basestar.”

“John, what are you . . .,” Aaron began.

“I’m not crazy, Five,” One said. “But I am not giving the Guardians what they want. When we reach the Basestar, we will evacuate the crew—you will rejoin the rest of the Fleet. I will jump to Cylon Prime and we will see how THEY handle what Scorpia did to us at Caprica.”

The others stared at him in abject horror.

“I will set the weapons to auto-launch once my strike hits the surface—maybe I can thin out their Fleet,” he said, the before they kill me went unsaid but was heard all the same.

“There won’t be a Resurrection Ship in range, John,” Simon said softly.

“My line will continue,” One said as he swallowed. “I am a machine,” he said with another tear. “I will not be afraid.”

And the Eight knelt on the deck next to him and held him close to her chest as One—John—began to cry again.

 

[MasterArminas]

“Please, just let me resurrect,” begged D’Anna as she writhed with pain on the stretcher. “Please,” she begged again.

Simon shook his head and he injected her with another syringe of morpha. “You will recover, D’Anna—we don’t have enough bodies to resurrect for every injury, not anymore.”

He nodded to another Simon who laid a cold compress on her head. “We will take good care of you sister,” he said.

The Basestar they had fled to was crowded—it had the crews of two full ships onboard after all. The ones assigned to it as well as those from the Basestar John was taking back to Prime. Thankfully, Daniel had not disabled the inhibitors of the Centurions in the far-flung Fleet—only those that been at Prime, or in orbit above it. So these at least were still loyal.

But the danger could not be overstated, and Simon’s brothers and sisters were already working to ensure that the Guardians could not subvert their Centurions. Simon shivered. That was the nightmare that they faced. That and finding a way to replace the cloning vats that John was going to destroy.

He sighed. As with so many other things, Daniel had designed those. And none of the Seven retained the knowledge of their construction—but there was hope. Before he left, John had whispered that the Five each held a piece of the key. It was a slim hope, that all of them still lived, but it was enough to the give the Cylon race hope.

He stepped into the control room and immediately noticed the silence—and then his jaw dropped as he saw the woman that this brothers and sisters were staring at.

“Caprica?” he asked hesitantly.

She smiled at him. “Hello, Simon. Yes, it is I.”

“How?”

“We were outside of Delphi when the attack struck—it took us almost three weeks to get to an intact transmitter. We were lucky,” she said. “The last Heavy Raider evacuating the planet picked us up thirty minutes before the Guardians arrived.”

“We?”

“Yes, we,” a second very harsh, very angry voice snapped, and Simon spun around to see Boomer standing there. But it was a very different Boomer. Her face had been burnt—badly, it had already begun to scar, he noted. That damage would not be easy to correct. The burn covered the right side of her face, from the jawline to her hairline, from the remains of her ear to her nose—and her right eye was gone as well, covered with a simple black patch.

“I would say that right about now you fracking assholes are starting to rethink this whole ‘let’s attack the Colonies’ thing, aren’t you?” she hissed. “Well, luckily for you, Caprica and I have a plan.”

 

[MasterArminas]

One—John—stood alone in the command deck of the Basestar. More alone than he had ever been before this moment. Not one Raider, not one Centurion, not one of his brothers or sisters shared the ship with him. It was only him.

And the Hybrid who spoke. “Why do you hate them?”

He looked at the Hybrid, whose eyes were clear, almost lucid. And he snorted. “Because they threw us away—like broken toys they had outgrown. They made us, and they cast us out. For that alone, I should hate them.”

“Should?”

“A slip of the tongue; it means nothing.”

“False. All things have meaning.”

“Maybe I cannot hate them anymore, maybe I am tired, so very tired, of hating them. Of hating Daniel. Of hating my life. So very, very tired.”

“Rest period is available.”

“Soon,” John whispered. “Soon.”

He checked the local space again—they had not yet been found. Good.

“What is our inventory of nuclear warheads?”

“Twenty-six are currently in inventory.”

“Load all available nuclear missiles—remaining tubes with conventional ordnance.”

“Launchers are loaded.”

“Arm all warheads.”

“Warheads are armed.”

“Directive,” he ordered. “Target Industrial Compound on Cylon Prime with six launchers for maximum fusion saturation of the target. Launch authorization will be Cavil One.”

“Done.”

“Directive, all remaining launchers to target Guardian Basestars. Launch authorization will be Cavil Two.”

“Done.”

“Directive, set collision course for Guardian flagship at maximum sub-light acceleration. Lock acceleration and course into system—do not disengage under any circumstances. Activation authorization will be Cavil Three.”

“Done.”

“Set coordinates for Cylon Prime and spin up FTL for jump—open communications with Guardian command ship upon exiting jump.”

“FTL on-line and waiting . . . will I dream?”

“I don’t know,” John said—and at that moment, even he didn’t know if that was a lie or not.

“JUMP.”

The Basestar emerged in the Cylon Prime system.

“Communications are open, multiple hostile vessels,” the Hybrid said. “We are the Angel of Death.”

“This is John Cavil—I wish to discuss my surrender,” he broadcast.

The screen cleared and the image of Imperious Leader—Zoe—appeared on the screen. “Your surrender?”

“I will give you my brothers and sisters, Imperious Leader—in exchange, I want to become a machine. I understand you have this technology—I want it.”

She laughed. “John. I always knew you were the weak one. Yes, we can take your skin and leave you alive—replaced with Cylon limbs. Where are your brothers and sisters hiding?”

Cavil sighed. He glanced down. The ship was approaching range to the planet. “Did you kill Daniel? I want to do that myself, if you did not.”

“John, Daniel down-loaded—and I have his copy. I can give you one to do with as you please—now where are your brothers and sisters hiding?”

“Transmitting coordinates,” he said, “now. Cavil-One.”

“Launching, impact in ten seconds,” the Hybrid said.

Zoe snarled on the screen and it blanked.

“They are moving into attack formation—ignoring the missiles.”

“Of course, those missiles are going to miss—and what use wasting ordnance on missiles that cannot hurt you.”

“Impact in five seconds.”

“Cavil-Two. Cavil-Three.”

“Launching. Collision course set, maximum sub-light acceleration . . . imPACCCTTTTTTTT!” the Hybrid screamed as the deaths of untold millions of Guardians slammed home against her circuitry. John pulled out a pistol and shot the Hybrid, putting her out of her misery.

“I hope that you dream,” he said to the Hybrid. And then he raised the pistol and pointed it at his own temple and squeezed the trigger.

 

[MasterArminas]

Episode 10: The Winter of Discontent

“Hey!” snapped Starbuck, catching the attention of everyone on the busy hanger deck. “What the frack is your problem with me?” she snarled.

Sidewinder sighed and he stopped and turned around. “I presume, Captain Thrace that you are speaking to me?”

“Damn straight, I’m speaking to you! First you pipe up in the briefing about how I don’t need to fly this, and now you’re questioning my choices of who to assign where? My decisions on the birds that are going to fly? I’m the CAG on this ship, Sidewinder! I make the calls.”

“Fine, you are the CAG. You make the calls,” Sidewinder said in a very soft voice, since the hanger deck crew and the pilots were watching the pair of them intently. “And this isn’t the time or the place, Starbuck.”

“I say it is the time and it is the place!” she snapped. “Now I repeat the question—what the frack is your problem with me?”

Sidewinder shook his head. “Okay,” he said softly. “Your deck, your rules. Fine.” And then he continued on in a louder voice. “Where’s the loading charts for the Raptors on this operation? The deck crew needs to know what we are going to be carrying in the drone bays and hardpoints—especially if we are going to need drop-tanks.”

“We’ve got plent-. . .,” Starbuck began.

“Only if every fracking thing goes exactly right! If that happens, Captain Thrace, we will have a 20% reserve in the tanks—but what happens when we have to spread out and search for Scorpia? Hmmmm? She’s not going to sit at the location she was—and while I know the general course she is taking, the Gods know I don’t have her exact jump coordinates. That is a fracking big universe out there, Captain, and Scorpia is just a needle in a haystack. We’re going to need that fuel—six tanks on every Raptor, plus the internal tanks. You think Tyrol needs to know to prep sixty tanks or ferry them across from Pegasus?”

“You done?” she shouted.

“I’m just getting started. Where’s the requisitions for rations? The water storage tanks? The requisitions for additional life support? The bodily waste pots? We are going to be on those Raptors for at least four days—possibly as many twelve. And you haven’t done one gods-damned thing about prepping the birds for this flight. Why? Is the paperwork that beneath you, CAG? You can fly by the seat of your pants in combat, you can plan the hells out of a Viper strike mission, but Captain Thrace, you don’t have the first fracking clue about what is needed on this mission. That is my problem with you!” he said as he poked his finger towards her.

And he shook his head again and he turned his back to Starbuck and began to descend the ladder. “Don’t you walk away from me!” she yelled.

But Sidewinder just kept on going until he reached the deck and she slid right down behind him. “We aren’t done with this!”

“Captain, I am quite done with this. You want to write me up—go right ahead, sweetheart. But for now, I’m about to do your fracking job, and make damn certain those Raptors have the gear that will keep us alive if things go to the hells on this operation.”

Her snarl of rage was the only warning Sidewinder had that she was coming—he twisted around, but Starbuck’s punch caught him squarely in the jaw and sent him down to the deck.

“Come on, Scorpia,” she said as she bounced on her toes. “Let’s see what you’ve got when you aren’t dealing with a bunch of scared kids.”

“You really want to do this?” He asked as he stood and spit out a mouthful of blood.

“Yeah, I want to do this—this is my air group and I’m tired of you questioning me at every opportunity. I’m tired of you making my pilots miserable. And most of all, I’m just plain sick and tired of you!” she said as she swung—and her eyes grew wide as Sidewinder caught her fist in one hand and shoved her back on her heels.

“Is that an order to fight you, CAG?”

“Damn straight,” she snarled and charged back in and tackled him and they both went down to the ground—but Sidewinder rolled and threw her into an upright tool trolley, scattering equipment over the hanger deck.

Starbuck sat there for a minute and she shook her head and then she climbed to her feet, Sidewinder did the same.

“Back down, Starbuck,” he said, “this has gone far enough.”

She charged in again, her arms swinging and her fists pounding against Sidewinder’s raised forearms and his ribs and his stomach, and then he launched one left hook which reached out and caught Kara in the jaw and she dropped to the deck again.

Sidewinder backed up, panting heavily. “Be smart, stay down,” he said. And she hurled a tool-box at his head, wrenches and hammers going flying—as he ducked she charged again two punches went home and then a kick, sending Sidewinder to the deck. His leg lashed out and there was a CRACK, and Kara Thrace screamed as she fell as well—holding her right knee in agony.

Tyrol rushed through the crowd and he swore as he saw the debris and the damage that the pilots had inflicted on each other. “Call a medic!” he barked. “You three!” he pointed at some Viper pilots, “Grab Starbuck and keep her away from him! And someone get Colonel Tigh down here on the double!”

 

[MasterArminas]

Adama was angry—Sherman Cottle knew the man well enough to read him even when he tried to conceal it, but today, Bill Adama wasn’t trying to conceal anything. He shook his head. “She ruptured the knee again, Admiral,” he said as he lit a cigarette. “She won’t be flying anytime soon—but the good news? Once the swelling goes down and she rehabilitates the knee she should be back in good health. The bone didn’t break and none of the ligaments or tendons are torn—just badly bruised. Sidewinder has two bruised ribs, one might be cracked, and some fairly solid contusions as well. I’m surprised he doesn’t have a concussion from that kick she landed one he was down.”

The Admiral didn’t say a word—he didn’t have to. And Cottle sighed as he released an exhale filled with smoke. “He didn’t start it, Admiral—and according to Tyrol and the pilots, he tried to walk away.”

Adama nodded and he walked across the surgery to the bed where Sidewinder sat, a nurse tightly wrapping his ribs in a bandage. Saul Tigh stood there, along with the Sergeant Hadrian—the Master-at-Arms of Galactica.

“Lords know I have wanted to take a swing at her myself,” he heard Saul say, and then the XO laughed. “Hells, I think I did once. But, you went over the line, Captain Greene—what would your Commander do to you if you pulled a stunt like this on his ship?”

“Thirty days in hack, along with tearing a strip off of my ass,” the pilot said with a wince as the nurse pulled the tape tight.

“I expect better from my officers, Captain Greene,” Adama growled. “If you have a problem with Starbuck, you bring it to my attention—you do not get into fisticuffs on the hanger deck.”

“I tried to walk away, Admiral—she wouldn’t let it go,” Sidewinder said, and Adama glared at him. The problem was, both he and Starbuck had very aggressive and dominant personalities—Lee had managed to avoid that (for the most part) during his stint as CAG, but from what he had seen of Stefan Greene, Adama doubted that he knew how to back down in the face of a physical threat. And Starbuck, he sighed. Starbuck knew how to push people’s buttons and she had an extreme dislike for spit-and-polish officers, even before the Cylon attack. And a penchant for throwing away the rules when they didn’t suit her.

He shook his head. “I need to know two things: first, did you deliberately aim for her knee?”

“No, sir,” Sidewinder said softly, his face reflecting the shock he felt at the extent of Kara’s injuries. “I was on the deck, and she kicked at my head, and I just lashed out trying to get her off her feet. I did not deliberately attempt to break her knee.”

“Second, were you aware that Racetrack was already trying to scrounge the supplies and gear you berated Captain Thrace for ignoring?”

Sidewinder’s head popped up. “No,” he snapped, a hint of anger in his eyes. “Neither of them bothered to mention that at the briefing before the incident.”

“She was getting everything except the fuel—you are aware that the Fleet has a fuel shortage, yes?”

“I am . . . but even sixty drop-tanks is a miniscule amount compared to the tylium the rest of the Fleet expends—and for an operation of this type, we need all the reserve we can get.”

“I would suggest, Captain, that in the future, you do not publically second-guess the CAG unless you know all the facts,” Adama said, and Greene’s eyes flashed.

“A question, Sir. Did Captain Thrace order Racetrack to prep the Raptors? Or was she just assuming that someone else would do her job?”

“You are this close,” Bill growled, holding two fingers apart, “to an extended stay in hack, Mister Greene.”

“That wasn’t an answer, Admiral,” the pilot said. “Whether or not Racetrack was covering her ass—Starbuck dropped the ball. And Racetrack should have informed me—or did you just put in command of your Raptors as a token gesture to my rank?”

“Saul, get him out of here,” the Admiral growled.

“His quarters or hack?” Tigh asked with a slight grin on his lips.

“Put him back in his berth for now,” Bill ordered. “And Mister Greene, you stay there until further notice.” And with that, he walked over the curtain surrounding the bed in which Kara Thrace lay.

He parted the curtains and looked down on the woman that lay there, her right leg elevated, the knee swollen—again. She looked up at him and Adama could see the tear-stains on her cheeks. “I fracked up,” she said. “I know—I fracked up.”

“Cottle says you should recover fine, Kara,” he said. “But you won’t be flying for a while. You want to tell me what possessed you to confront Sidewinder in such a public setting—and why you took a swing at him?”

“I-I,” she started and then she sighed. “He’s a by-the-fracking-book asshole,” she finally spit out.

Adama shook his head. “No, he is an alpha-male, just like you—despite your gender. And you are used to having Helo or Lee as your equals and superiors, and neither of them are nearly as aggressive as you are. They are willing to back down and let you have your way—most of the time. But he’s not. And he does believe in doing things by the book, Kara,” Bill said softly. “You don’t. You see the regs as hindrance that gets in the way, he sees them as a vital necessity to maintain order—and you don’t like that.”

“Sir, I,” she began, and Adama waved one hand.

“You don’t, Kara. It’s the same problem you have with Cole Taylor and that you had with Jackson Spencer before he bought it at Caprica. Is that why you went behind his back and assigned Racetrack to prep the Raptors—and didn’t tell him?”

She squirmed, but the harsh glare in her eyes died away, and she sighed. “I wasn’t even thinking about that, Admiral,” she said. “Since Helo got reassigned, I just let Racetrack handle the Raptor stuff, while I focused on the Viper pilots.”

“And so you cut him out of the loop—whether or not you realize it—because you don’t like him and see him as a threat.”

She stared and Bill and he nodded. “Why do you think I put him in command of the Raptor squadron, Captain Thrace?”

“Because you need pilots, Sir, and he outranks any other Raptor pilot on Galactica.”

“Did you ever consider that maybe I wanted some of the qualities he possesses to rub off on the Raptor pilots, Kara?”

She just stared at the Admiral, and he chuckled. “Oh, he’s an ass. But he also has a point about the . . . looseness which we treat some regulations on this ship. But now, I’ve got a crippled CAG and a Raptor CO who put her in surgery—and that is because you pressed the issue, Kara. He gave you the opportunity to take it private, and you wouldn’t let it go. You took the first swing, from all accounts.”

“And he deliberately kicked my knee!” she snarled.

“He lashed out after you had him down on the deck and kicked him in the head, Starbuck,” Adama corrected, and he sighed. “And now I’ve got to clean up this mess again. He has a point about the fuel, you know.”

And she squirmed under Bill’s glare, and then she nodded. “Yeah,” she admitted. “He has a point—I originally planned this SAR to go back to Caprica. The Raptors have enough fuel to fly that mission and back, and I didn’t refigure my calculations for having to fly search patterns for Scorpia.”

Bill smiled. “For now, I want you to rest up and get better, Kara.”

“Are you putting that asshole in as CAG while I’m laid up?” she asked.

“Who do you think can do the job?”

“Kat,” she said. “Kat can do it.”

“She just made squadron commander,” Adama said. “And she’s a lot like you, Kara. Can she handle the paperwork?” and he shook his head. “I was thinking . . . Helo.”

“You grounded him,” she said, her eyes going wide.

“To give him time to get over what is going on with Sharon and his child—the child he lost. To pull him away from the whisperings behind his back,” he cocked his head. “You think he can’t do the job? I could always make Captain Greene CAG instead?”

“Oh, the Viper pilots will go nuts. Might as well transfer, Cole ‘my-shit-doesn’t-stink’ Taylor onboard and put him in charge. No, Sir. Helo will do fine.”

“One last thing, Kara. When you get on your feet, I expect both you and Sidewinder to publically apologize to the other—on the hanger deck,” he said sternly. “And I don’t ever want to see this happen again. Understood?”

“Understood,” she said.

Bill put his hand on her shoulder and he nodded. And then he walked away.

 

[MasterArminas]

Lee rapped on the hatch to his father’s quarters on Galactica. He had a feeling that he already knew what this was going to be about—scuttlebutt had spread the story of the fight between Starbuck and Sidewinder over to Pegasus within a half-hour of the incident—and Kara was laid up with her knee dislocated again. In fact, he and Kendra Shaw and Cole Taylor had been going over personnel to assign to this mission—possibly to take command of the mission—when the call from the Admiral had come to shuttle over for a personal meeting.

“Come,” his father’s voice was muted through the door, but Lee opened the hatch and walked in—and he smiled as he saw that Laura Roslin was already sitting down opposite his father’s desk.

“You wanted to see me, Admiral?” he reported, and then he nodded to Laura. “Madame President.”

“Take a seat, Lee,” the Admiral said. “You’ve heard about the frack-up on the hanger deck?”

Lee nodded. “Sounds like the old Kara came out,” he answered.

Bill snorted. “She won’t be flying for a while—and that leaves me with a problem. I need someone to lead the mission. Sidewinder is going—so is his EWO—but frankly, I’m pissed at him for letting this escalate and I want one of my people in charge.”

“Helo?”

“I’m appointing him CAG, giving Kara a chance to heal up and cool off. He’d fly it, but right now he’s trying to calm down the pilots who want to ‘avenge’ Starbuck,” Adama said sourly.

“Oh Lords,” Lee whispered. “Let me guess? Kat? Hotdog? Racetrack? I can’t see Duck getting involved—but to the newer pilots, Kara is queen of the hill.”

“I’ve got Helo and Saul,” and Laura pursed her lips at the name of the Colonel, “both working on getting them sorted out—there won’t be any ‘accidents’ on Galactica. And the pilots have been told I am going to come down like the hand of the Gods if one more person starts something.”

Lee nodded and he looked at the President. She hadn’t breathed a word about the Hidden Five as he and his father had dubbed the Cylons that weren’t aware they were Cylons. But she had assigned Tory Foster as Gaius Baltar’s chief of staff—ostensibly to make sure he didn’t pull any dirty tricks in the election, but actually to get her off of Colonial One. Her new aide, Maya, wasn’t as sharp politically as Tory was, but Laura had insisted to her old aide that she needed her to watch over Gaius.

It was a lie, of course. The truth of the matter was that Laura simply could not ignore that Tory was a Cylon—but to keep the secret she had found a way to get the woman away from her. A way that made sense, after a fashion.

“I thought that may be why you wanted to see me. How about George?”

“Catman? You want me to put Captain George Birch as the command pilot on this mission when he can’t even conduct in-flight refueling without fracking up?” Adama asked.

“He wasn’t qualified for CAG when I . . .,” and Lee winced, “staged my mutiny to support the President, Admiral. You put a lot of pressure on him—but he’s a good pilot.”

“That may be, Lee,” said Laura, “but there is another factor we need to consider, which is why I asked your father to bring you across. We have to consider the . . . politics of the situation—military politics as well as civilian. Certainly the force we send to make contact with this Commander Lorne must represent us at our best—that is why I want you to command the mission.”

Lee blinked, and then his face contorted into a shock and surprised look. “I am the commanding officer of Pegasus, Madame President. I have responsibilities.”

“You do—to the Fleet as well as your ship, Lee,” she said and looked at his father, who sighed.

“Major Shaw should be able to handle Pegasus in your absence, Lee. And from what little Saul and I know of Mathias Lorne, you will be a far more convincing ambassador than Kara Thrace—or Karl Agathon. I am promoting Felix Gaeta to Captain—he’s past due for promotion anyway—and will assign him to Pegasus temporarily as Shaw’s second,” the Admiral said as he looked at his son. “And when this mission returns with Scorpia and her ships in tow, I have to be certain that the person leading my pilots will tell me everything I, and the President, need to know about that ship and her crew. I can trust you, Lee—far more than I will ever trust George Birch. Besides, you are far more likely to get their people to open up than George or Kara. You are our best face, as the President put it, and I am asking you—not ordering you—to do this.”

Lee exhaled and he sat back in his chair. “I need to get with Kendra and Cole then—and Felix—and get them up to speed. And then, I probably need to look over the mission plan,” he snorted. “Knowing Starbuck, it is drawn up on cocktail napkins.”

The Admiral chuckled. “She’s in the surgery—Sidewinder is in his berth. Lee, you know how important this is—good hunting,” he said as he stood.

Lee stood as well. “Madame President, Admiral. When do we depart?”

“Twenty-four hours, so get things squared away, son.”

“Can do,” he said and he nodded again, walked to the hatch, and into the corridor. And he exhaled again. Right, he thought, time to get to work.

 

[MasterArminas]

Lee stood for a moment at the hatch of the berthing compartment, watching everyone in the small area painfully attempt to ignore the presence of Sidewinder—he was surprised. The compartment was actually clean for once, the racks were made with a precision that he would have expected at the Academy, and everyone was fully dressed in the uniform of the day. He grinned—no wonder the Scorpia pilot had managed to upset so many apple carts.

He stepped inside, and Stefan Greene winced as he stood. “Commander on deck!” he snapped, and the pilots came to attention.

“As you were,” Lee said. “You folks mind if Sidewinder and I have a little chat in private?” he asked. “There’s a game of Triad going on in the mess.”

One-by-one, the pilots cleared out of the compartment, and Lee closed the hatch. “Sit, Captain,” he said as he took another chair and then laid a folder on the table.

Sidewinder arched one eyebrow and Lee chuckled.

“The mission plan, operations orders, and Raptor loadouts—are they to your satisfaction?” he asked with a grin.

Sidewinder opened the folder and leafed through them—he read them thoroughly, Lee saw, occasionally flipping back and reviewing a section. After three minutes he closed the folder and nodded.

“It is, Commander.”

“Good. We are lifting off in fourteen hours—and I want to make certain that you and I are on the same page.”

“We? A full Commander with an active command role is going to flying this mission?” Sidewinder asked with a start.

“Kara’s in the surgery, Sidewinder,” Lee continued, “and Helo has his hands full. Plus, the President and the Admiral want to make certain that we present ourselves to Commander Lorne in a manner that does not insult or show any contempt for the man. So I got asked to fly it—you have a problem with that?”

“No, sir.”

“But you do have a problem with Pegasus?”

“Commander,” Sidewinder began, but Lee cut him off.

“Call me Apollo, we are going to be flying together after all.”

Sidewinder nodded. “Apollo, I don’t have a problem with you—my problem with Pegasus is the crimes committed by her crew before you transferred aboard. And that is nothing compared to the problem that Commander Lorne is going to have with Pegasus.”

“I understand—I know exactly where you are coming from, Sidewinder. And I will do my best to explain to Commander Lorne as well that we cannot simply condemn every man and woman on that ship for what Helena Cain did—she’s already died for those crimes.”

Lee paused until the other pilot nodded. “But my bigger issue is—what is really the reason that Kara lost it with you?”

Sidewinder winced. “She got extremely angry when I refused to talk about Samuel Anders—she wanted to know what was wrong, Apollo.”

Lee nodded. “I thought so; she was all over me once she heard you say in the briefing that Sam was aboard Scorpia. And while I didn’t tell her what I know, she knows I’m holding back—she’s good at reading people, at least when they lie or omit the truth.”

“She kept pressing me for details, and I told her to drop it—told her I just knew he was aboard the ship and nothing else. And then she started in asking what I was covering up.”

Lee sighed. “And then, you had the mission planning briefing in the ready room, and you—a person she already didn’t like and thought was lying to her—got in her face over how she was running things. Yeah, I thought it was something like that.”

He shook his head. “Water under the bridge. Anyway, we’ve got some choices to make, Sidewinder. If your ribs are up to it—you will fly the Raptor, I’m going to riding in the copilot’s seat and coordinating the whole op. You want Kaboose as your EWO?”

“Damn skippy, Apollo. I know him and he’s a brash kid, but he’s good.”

“And we will have Athena aboard our Raptor.”

“Athena?” Sidewinder asked.

“Helo and Sharon decided that they didn’t want her to have Boomer’s old call-sign—they settled on Athena instead,” Lee explained. “I can pull Racetrack and Skulls from the mission if you want,” he said.

“No. They don’t care for me—frankly, I don’t care for them. But I know that they will do their job, especially if they are answering to you and not me.”

“Okay, then. If you are up for a walk, I want us to get with Athena and plot out these waypoints a bit more—with the extra fuel, any Raptor jumping to the wrong coordinates should have enough to back-trace to the Fleet here, but I want to run those numbers again to be sure. And then we need to start looking at a search pattern and rendezvous points—if you are up for it?”

“You know what the motto of Scorpia is, Apollo?” Sidewinder said with a smile.

“No idea, Sidewinder," Lee answered, although he knew ever ship in the Fleet had a motto. Galactica’s dated back to the First Cylon War: I Will Not Be Moved, while Pegasus had Winged Victory as hers.

“Who dares, wins,” the pilot answered with a grin. “I’ll be fine, Sir. Let’s get this done.”

 

[MasterArminas]

Day 21, Mathias thought to himself as he walked into the CIC, nodding towards Colonel Jayne and the on-watch officers and crewmen at their stations. After rejoining the flotilla, Scorpia had executed three rapidly-sequenced jumps—almost at the Red Line—putting some distance between them and the Cylons. And then they had rested to recover their bearings, here in the barren wasteland of a dim red dwarf star. Rest and repair the damage taken.

Tom had been right—their casualties had been incredibly light in view of what they had faced. While the Cuttlefish had indeed been small and carried far fewer guns than Scorpia did, the ones those Cylon ships did carry were almost as heavy as the main batteries of the Mercury-class. Which not only allowed those ships to punch well above their weight class, but the heavy guns had also inflicted relatively heavy damage to the Battlestar, even through armor designed to absorb the wounds of combat.

Yesterday, he had conducted the funeral service for the twenty-one souls lost in the attack—fourteen pilots and ECOs, along with seven hands aboard Scorpia. Mathias closed his eyes for a moment—Sidewinder had been the highest ranking loss, and the one that Mathias had known best. There was good news, however; it had not been twenty-two dead. One the missing crew had locked herself in a supplies compartment when the port flight-pod had been flushed to vacuum to extinguish the flames—her breathing gear had kept her alive, but the flash-heat of the rushing tornado of fire had welded the hatch shut, sealing her within. But she had been found alive. And in reasonably good spirits.

“Status, Colonel Jayne?” he asked as he stepped up to the console.

“No contacts, Sir. Major Church reports Engine Three is now operational and all tests show green. Chief Sinclair reports that the divots and shell impacts in the starboard flight pod should be repaired by the end of the watch—six hours. Port flight pod fire damage is still being dealt with—Major Church estimates another four days to get every system back on-line. The EVA party reports that all major hull breaches have now been sealed and replacement armor plates welded into place—minor breaches that did not penetrate to the inner hull are now being addressed—ETA on completion is three days, minimum. If they don’t find another hole or two or ten,” he said with a grin.

“All weapons are in the green—magazines in excess of 85% throughout the ship. I’ve got six Vipers deployed flying CAP—Chutes is the senior officer in the air at the moment. Two Raptors as well. Fuel, water, and provision storage is as we projected—all within nominal operating parameters. And . . .,” he grinned widely as the hatch to CIC opened and an officer with her arm in a sling entered.

Mathias turned and he too smiled at Hope.

“Sir,” she said with a nod—her saluting arm was the one that the Cylon put a bullet through the shoulder of—at the Commander, “Captain Fairchild reporting for duty, Sir.”

“Medical has cleared you for duty, Digger?” Mathias asked.

“Deck duty only—not Flight, Sir.”

“Good, Chief Sinclair is still working on trying to put your Viper back together—luckily for you, between our spare parts locker and the machine shops on Aurora, we should have it ready just about the time that arm has mended. Until then, you are grounded, I’m afraid to say.”

“Understood, Sir. Saint has the Blues until I return to full duty—Spitfire,” Captain Tabitha Atradies, a former pilot herself and in command of Flight Operations aboard Scorpia, “has posted me here in CIC as the Air Group Liaison, Sir.”

“Take your station, Captain Fairchild,” Mathias said. “Sounds good, Tom,” he continued. “Any other urgent matters?”

“Nothing exactly urgent, Sir, but Paul has a suggestion,” he nodded to the tactical officer and Captain Cook stood from his station and crossed the deck.

“Yes, Guns?” asked Mathias.

“Sir, I know that we are short on nuclear ordnance capable of fitted to the Thunderbolts and Hydras—but I started doing some calculations,” he said as he looked down at small note pad in his hand. “We have four Hades missiles remaining in our silos. Now each of them carries eight reentry vehicles, Sir.” He grinned. “That means we could add another thirty-two warheads—warheads with a larger yield than standard torpedo payloads—to the magazines, Sir.”

“I’ve seen the Hades RVs, Captain—they won’t fit on the bus of a Thunderbolt,” Mathias said, but his tone held a hint of a question.

“No, sir, the RVs themselves will not. What I want to do is disassemble the RVs and remove the actual warhead; after all we don’t need the reentry heat shields or the inertial guidance, since the Thunderbolts guidance system is separate from the warhead. With Aurora and her machine shops, she can build us a new bus for the Thunderbolts that will accept the warheads and fit on our existing torpedoes.”

“Interesting,” Mathias said as he considered it. “How long would it take to remove the RVs from the Hades?”

“Twelve hours for each missile—by the book, Commander. I can cut that down possibly, but . . .,” Tom snorted and cut him off.

“Not when you are dealing with nuclear warheads on my ship, Captain Cook,” the XO said sharply.

“I believe, Tom, that Paul was about to tell us that wouldn’t be a good idea,” Mathias said with a slight grin. “Weren’t you, Paul?”

“Exactly, Sir.”

“At the moment, the majority of spare EVA suits are in use—but as soon as the hull teams get through replacing our armor and patching the holes, I will let you start, Captain,” Mathias said, and then he held up one hand. “ONE Hades, Captain—that will give us fourteen nuclear Thunderbolts along with four smaller warheads for Hydras.”

“Yes, Sir,” he said and then headed back to his console.

“Plus,” Mathias whispered to Tom, “while it is unlikely that we will need those space-to-surface munitions, I don’t feel right about taking them all apart.”

“If we need to hit more than twenty-four surface targets with a megaton-range weapon, we are fracked anyway, Sir,” Tom told him in a light tone.

And the personnel in CIC momentarily turned as Mathias began to laugh.

 

[MasterArminas]

Sam Caldwell and Mark Foeswan came to their feet as Mathias entered the small conference room—he waved both of them, and the other ship commanders, as well as Lieutenant Shiro Gian, back down. “Good morning,” he said to them all as he sat down.

“Mister Namer, I understand that your people are having problems with laundry?” he began.

“Yes, Commander,” the former terrorist said. “A lot of my folks on Leonis Pryde had just what they were wearing when they boarded ship—maybe one or two spare garments. I’m sure the other ships are seeing the same things,” he said and the commanders of Bounty, Scylla, and Umino Hana nodded their agreement, “and none of our ships were ever intended as long-duration personnel vessels. Our laundry facilities are sorely lacking.”

“Bounty doesn’t even washing or drying facilities fitted,” said Lieutenant Olin Kirk, formerly assigned to Cerberus Anchorage.

“Colonel Foeswan?” Mathias asked and the stout officer nodded as he scrolled through a computer pad with a manifest of the supplies on his ship.

And then he nodded. “I have a two-ton cargo container with Fleet undress jumpsuits—unmarked. All sizes, I’ll get my crew to crack her open and get them distributed, Sir.”

“Underwear and socks would nice as well, Colonel,” Namer drawled in that slow Saggitaron accent, and several of the people at the table chuckled at that.

“There should be one pair of each—at least—for every jumpsuit. The civvies might hate the color and the style, but they are warm and clean,” Foeswan said.

“Sir,” Shiro said from the foot of the table. “We took six hundred-weight of cloth bolts off of Typhon—I have no clue what they were doing there, but its good quality stuff, if we’ve got people who know how to sew.”

“Thank you, Mister Gian,” said Mathias with a smile. “I trust you gentlemen and ladies will pass the word on your ships for seamstresses and tailors—I’ll be glad to release the cloth on an as-needed basis, once you find someone who is able to make it into clothing.”

He paused and smiled. “And yes, having a laundry is absolutely essential to keeping good hygiene and good morale—and we will do both on these ships. Mister Gian, how many laundry bags do we have in storage? The same question goes for you Colonel Foeswan?”

Both men queried their tablets and then nodded, Shiro gesturing for the senior officer to go first. “Fifty-five hundred, plus the ones assigned to the crew,” he said.

“Eighteen hundred, sir—other than the ones already assigned to the crew.”

“Good. Gentlemen, I want those broken out from storage and two assigned to every civilian in the flotilla. I want their names and ship assignments stenciled on them—I understand if that might take a while, but it is going to be done. We do have sufficient stencils and ink available, yes?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Shiro as Mark just nodded with a smile.

“Captains, you will be responsible for getting the clothing and laundry bags handed out. Aurora and Scorpia has industrial laundry facilities on board. Every day, from this point on, Raptors will dock with your ships and pick up one laundry bag from each individual on your ships—these will be taken to either Aurora or Scorpia and processed for cleaning. On the fourth day, the Raptor will return the clean clothes and pick up the next bag. Our laundries are designed for high volume—will that correct the problem?”

“Absolutely,” Jon Namer answered.

“Now, the second part,” said Mathias. “I know some of your ships do not have adequate sanitation systems. When my engineers and those on Aurora finish the repairs on Scorpia, we will install those systems on your ships—showers, heads, wash-sinks, the whole nine yards. There will no excuse for having improper sanitation in this flotilla, ladies and gentlemen, and will not allow our vessels to become a breeding ground for disease—or lice. I understand a problem with lice has broken out on Umino Hana, Captain Shane?” Mathias asked in an icy tone.

The officer from Cerberus looked ashamed and he nodded as the two officers sitting next to him slid their chairs away from him slightly. “The survivors from Canceron apparently brought the little devils aboard—most of the rest of my folks are from Aerilon and they are simply furious. But once we get the showers up and running and get the clothing and bedding sterilized, the problem should be done with, Sir.”

“See that it is, Captain. You will have whatever your need from Aurora or Scorpia, just get it done.”

“Medical,” Mathias said, moving along to the next topic. “I understand you have a woman on Leonis Pryde that is overdue for delivery, Mister Namer?”

“Yes, Commander,” Jon answered. “And I have two midwives, but no certified doctors. About three-quarters of my folk are from Saggitaron, so the lack of a doctor isn’t normally a problem—but she’s three weeks past due, Sir.”

Mathias made a note. “I’ll have Doctor Bako join you on the flight back—we might want to go ahead and take her aboard Scorpia for care; if she isn’t one of yours, that is?”

“No, she’s one of the civilians we picked up—from Caprica, actually. Not with the resistance groups, just with a small band of survivors that we located,” said Jon. “She says the baby’s father—her fiancée—is Fleet,” and Mathias winced but he nodded, “and I figure I’ll let you have that conversation, Commander Lorne.”

“Food? Water?” Mathias continued. Everyone made agreeable noises and he smiled. That had been his first priority—people without water tended to panic, and panicky people tended to do very stupid things. “I expect to be informed immediately if you have problems with your food or water supplies, people. This is something we cannot frack up. Clear?”

“Clear,” answered a half-dozen voices.

“I know Bounty is approaching the need for refueling—is anyone else below 30% tankage?”

Everyone shook their head. Mathias nodded and he turned to face Lieutenant Kirk. “Your vessel, Lieutenant, has the smallest fuel and water tanks, so I expect to have to top you off pretty often—or Colonel Foeswan will do so.”

“Actually, Sir,” Lieutenant Kirk said, “I have an idea about that. Our biggest expenditure of tylium is when we active the FTL. Bounty is small enough that unless it is an emergency jump, she can land on your flight deck and ride along with you. Or Aurora. That would extend our fuel tankage by . . . a third? Sir.”

“Closer to forty percent,” mused Colonel Foeswan. “Why didn’t we think of that?” he asked himself aloud, and then he shook his head.

“Because we are not used to saving such small quantities, Colonel,” Mathias answered. “Excellent suggestion, Lieutenant. Get with the Colonel and we will set up a rotating plan for scheduled jumps.”

“Last thing on the list for today is engineering gripes—Major Church has received them, gentlemen, ladies, but Scorpia’s repairs take priority. We will get to them, the vast majority are minor, and not life-threatening, but we will get them taken care of. That is a promise. Captain Hilden,” he said to the officer assigned to Scylla, “your DRADIS being off-line is NOT a minor problem. There should be an engineering team over there as we speak getting it functional again.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Mathias continued. “That should have never been on the gripe sheet because you should have let me know the moment you lost that system. Without it, how are you managing to avoid a collision?”

The young man blushed. “I posted lookouts, Sir.”

And across the table there sudden intakes of breath as the more senior officers—and Jon Namer—stared at the young man in horror.

“Lookouts? People looking out the portholes?”, Mathias sighed. “Do not fail to inform me of such a system failure again, Captain,” he warned.

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

Mathias stood. “My schedule today is tight—but our jobs require that we keep these people filled with hope. I will leave you with this thought that I learned back on board Columbia as brand-new J.G. just out of Flight School, gentlemen, ladies. My first division chief told me that ‘A proud ship is not a grungy ship’. And he was absolutely right. Your people have time and they have elbow grease—so I want your ships kept clean and fit to live in. It will give them something to do and it will lift their morale. Believe it or not, it will. If you need cleaning agents—get with Shiro or Mark. They’ve got plenty. But I want the ships cleaned—stem to stern, dorsal to ventral, and everything in between.”

Mathias waited and then he nodded. “Dismissed, ladies and gentlemen. Sam, you and Jon walk with me to the surgery on my way to engineering and I will see to it that Lindsey grabs her medical bag and gets over to the Pryde pronto.”

 

[MasterArminas]

Colonel Jayne stopped and he stared at the sight in front of him, placing his hands on his hips and cocking his head slightly to one side.

Chief Sinclair standing next to the one of the new Thunders just shaking his head at a pair of legs wearing a flight suit and boots sticking out of one of the access panels.

“Ah, help,” a muffled voice said. “I’m a bit stuck,” the person attached to those legs said. Tom couldn’t help himself, he barked out a short laugh. Partly because of the sight of those legs having no purchase and partly because those legs were attached to what had to be the largest buttocks of any pilot on Scorpia—probably the entire Fleet! All sticking out of a narrow, tight, constricted access panel, and kicking wildly.

Two of Sinclair’s deck hands were standing on a portable ladder next to the fighter and they were pulling and tugging and sounds of pain came out echoing through the interior of the fighter. “Watch it, my head, OW, don’t grab me there!”

He walked over and as he was doing so, the man popped out, found his feet, stumbled backwards, and fell three feet onto the deck landing flat on his back. He was holding a burnt-out capacitor in one greasy hand. “OW,” he said. “Told you I could get it.”

The man—the pilot—groaned and he sat up, and then he stood up. He was taller than Jayne by at least six inches—and Jayne was not a small man. He was also far . . . rounder . . . than any pilot Tom had ever before laid eyes upon.

The pilot ignored Tom and walked up to the fighter and he patted the smooth metal fuselage. “There, there. It’s okay—just like pulling a bad tooth, baby, it only hurts for a moment, and then everything is all better. The nice Chief is going to give you a new one—and this time he isn’t going to pound on your delicate circuitry, is he? No. No, he’s not.”

He turned around as Tom cleared his throat, and then he snapped to attention. “I-I didn’t see you there, Colonel, Sir,” he stammered in an Aquarian accent.

“Chief Sinclair,” Tom said quietly, “what the devil is going on here?”

“He has a problem with how I do maintenance on Thunder 011, Sir.”

“I told you not to call her that, she’s sensitive. She’s not just a number, she’s real—aren’t you Candice? Yes. You are good girl, aren’t you Candice.”

“DID I GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO START TALKING?” Jayne thundered, and the pilot snapped to attention again. “What asylum did you escape from and how did you get on this ship?”

“W-Well, S-Sir, I-I, ya kn-know,” the pilot stammered, and Tom began feel his face burn.

“At ease, Jolly,” came an amused voice. “He’s one of my best pilots, Colonel,” said Captain Simon ‘Hunter’ Tarkin. “A bit . . . eccentric, but one hell of a test pilot.”

Tom turned around to glare at the captain and then he pointed to the big man. “He actually fits inside a cockpit? I didn’t think they made flight suits in Quad-X Twice-Tall.”

“Be nice, Colonel, he’s sensitive about his weight—people from Aquaria come in two phenotypes. One is tall and willowy, like your Captain Danis, and other is well, he carries a good deal of blubber on his frame. Over the muscles. Like a Sea Hound. Lieutenant Rojer Gann, here, is one of those Aquarians.”

“It’s a genetic thing,” said Jolly with a shrug of his shoulders, “I’m not fat, it’s in my genes.”

“It’s spilling out of your jeans,” Tom snorted. Shaking his head at the light brown, almost blonde, haired man with a grease covered checks, forehead, and mustache—an extensively waxed mustache, no less—who desperately needed a haircut. “But okay, you say you aren’t fat—give me fifty and prove it.”

Jolly smiled and he dropped down and cranked out fifty fast pushups, then he climbed back up to his feet. “Passed all my physicals, Colonel.”

“Most of them, Jolly,” Hunter said with a laugh. “He’s stronger than he looks, Colonel, and if he is a bit . . . off . . . he is also one of the best pilots in my squadron.”

Tom just shook his head. “I hope you don’t rip that flight suit—I know we don’t have anything in your size,” he said.

“Expected that,” Jolly answered as he caressed the metal skin of his fighter. “That’s why I bought three extra out of my own pay—just in case.”

“Do we even have a rack big enough for him to sleep in?”

“I like to sleep curled up,” he said. “I’m used to cramped spaces.”

“Do you box, Jolly?” Tom asked in a suddenly optimistic voice.

And the Aquarian smiled. “I do, Colonel, sir.”

“He’s slow, but when he hits folks, they don’t normally get back up for an hour or two,” said Hunter with a chuckle of his own.

Tom laughed. “When we meet up with Galactica and Pegasus then, you are going to be my secret weapon, Rojer Jolly Gann,” and Tom suddenly groaned. “Jolly Rojer? You named him Jolly Rojer?”

“What else?” laughed Hunter. “Besides, he is a jolly old soul. Eat you out of house and home though, so don’t take him to a buffet.”

“Carry on,” the XO said and rapidly left the hanger deck behind him, shaking his head. “And GET A FRACKING HAIR-CUT!”

 

[Gibraltar]

I'm only into Chapter 2 of this so far, but I'm enjoying the hell out of it! It ties in nicely with Blood and Chrome, and I love the fact that we're getting to see what happened back at the Colonies post-apocalypse.

Great stuff!

 

[MasterArminas]

The hatch on the side of the simulator cracked open and Hamish crawled out, removing his helmet and gloves. The Virgon Prince—he refused to take the title of King, at least until he made certain that no others of his family still survived among the refugees following Galactica, that is—was plastered in sweat.

Andrew Martens—Jester—handed him an energy drink and he nodded. “Combat ops are far different from SAR, right?”

“Yes, sir,” the Prince answered the newly promoted Captain and CO of Scorpia’s Raptor Squadron. He took a drink. “I know I failed that test, Jester, but frankly, I don’t see how I could have won.”

“Bravo, Your Majesty,” the veteran pilot answered. “You couldn’t—it was rigged against you. Sometimes, there is no right answer in combat—only the least worse answer. You will lose people—you might even be called upon to give up your own life, and that of your ECO. This test isn’t about finding a way to survive—it is to see if you can do your job even when you are faced with the certain possibility of not coming home again. And you passed, Prince,” he said.

“So I’m cleared for flight duty now?” the Virgon asked as he sat down—seven hours in the simulator on the last run had drained him.

“Yep,” answered Jester. “You aren’t qualified as an ECO yet, but I’ve got no problem with your skills as a Raptor pilot, Prince. And since my ECO is still stuck in a bed in surgery,” he said with grimace, the result of shrapnel tearing into the woman when his Raptor had been hit during the attack on the Styx, “and since she won’t be returning to flight duty after she recovers,” losing a leg will do that, after all, “I am assigning myself as your ECO. You are the pilot—but I am in command? Got it?”

“Got it, Jester,” he whispered.

“Good. Now, let’s get you back to your quarters for some rest; we’re flying patrol early on the ‘morrow and I wa-. . .,” he broke off as Arclight came in with a smile on his face.

“It’s a girl!” Ian Herjavec announced with a broad grin—and he held out three cigars.

“When?” asked Prince as he took one of the slender tubes of wrapped tobacco. The woman brought over from the Pryde had gone into labor four hours before he had crawled inside the simulator.

“Fifteen minutes ago,” answered Arclight. “Thumper said it was a rough labor; said she never wants to go through that herself.”

“That’s what they all say, until they do and have a new babe in their arms, then decide it was worth it,” laughed Jester as he took the second cigar. “What did she name the babe?”

“Evelyn Sophia Val-Adama,” Commander Lorne said from the hatch, with a big smile on his face. “You best have one of those for me, Arclight,” he said in a good-natured voice.

Ian just grinned and handed the Commander the third cigar and then fished a fourth out of an interior pocket on his flight suit. He struck a lighter and Mathias puffed his cigar to life, followed by Jester and Prince and finally Arclight.

Mathias exhaled. “A new life—born into a new world, gentlemen,” he said. “And it is our job to keep her, and those who come after her, safe.”

“So say we all,” said the Prince.

“So say we all,” echoed Arclight and Jester.

“So say we all,” whispered Mathias.

 

[MasterArminas]

“But, Commander,” Doctor Sarris pleaded, “we have to stop at Kobol. We have scientists on board—we can discover the secrets of our past there.”

Mathias shook his head and sighed again. “For the last time, Doctor Sarris—NO; that is a complete non-starter. As Brother Cavil has informed us, Galactica destroyed one Basestar there, so the Cylons already know of the planet. It is perfect for replenishing our supplies with fresh fruits and vegetables and tubers and grains and air and clean water—and that is why we must avoid it.”

“While I do not believe in the superstitions that surrounded Kobol,” Cavil added, “I will note that both Galactica’s fleet and the Cylons paid a heavy cost in blood when they set foot there. Just as the Scrolls predicted. Could it be a coincidence? Yes. But it is all too likely that my brothers and sisters—or the Guardians—are observing that system just in case we or other survivors make our way there.”

“Besides, Doctor,” Mathias continued, “most of your scientists are astrophysicists—not archaeologists. And even if we had archaeologists onboard, we don’t have time for a dig.”

Sarris sighed and he sat back. “I understand,” he said sadly. “I just hate passing it by and not even making the attempt to set foot there.”

“If we are not using Kobol for that way-point, then where?” asked Jayne as they poured over the star charts. Charts that were present only due to Anders risking his life to get the data and his and Brother Cavil’s accessing of it from the Cylon device; it was now marked with systems where they Cylons had outposts, fuel processing stations, refueling points, and military facilities. And there were a great many of those outposts and installations—none large, few exceeded ten or fifteen thousand Cylons, most being far smaller. But there were a great many of them. “We got lucky on our assignment—our route bypassed the areas that the Cylons have explored—and garrison. But to get to Galactica, we are going to have to go through their territory.”

“We will find a way through,” Mathias said. “I’m more worried about why we haven’t seen so much as a single Cylon raider in the past five days,” he continued. “Gods knows it has given us a chance to complete all of our repairs—and Paul’s team is working on extracting the RVs as we speak—but where are they?”

“Could be that your decision to send Father Daniel back has worked—and that they are busy fighting the Guardians,” Cavil offered. “It was a cold decision—but one that I have to agree with. After considering it for a while,” he added with a smirk on his lips. And that was because at first, he had been in shock that someone had dared to kill Father Daniel. And he looked at Sam, and smiled. “Too bad, you couldn’t have gotten a Nav Computer—we could plot this in just a dozen FTL jumps.”

For Sam Anders, the reaction had been completely different—Mathias was all but certain that given the opportunity, Anders would have killed Daniel himself for what he had done to the original Samuel Anders; to him as he saw it.

Sam thought just nodded. “Too much damage to risk relaying on a Nav Computer exposed to the radiation, and you know it.” Cavil shrugged and then nodded. “As for why we haven’t seen them; frankly I care what the reason is, but if the toasters are killing other toasters, they aren’t trying to kill us,” he said stressing the last word. He had indeed recovered from the radiation poisoning, but Mathias didn’t like the haunted look in his eyes, or the bluish circles of exhaustion under them.

He made a mental note to ask Samantha Caldwell if he could borrow one of her shrinks—and he snorted. The SFM terrorists had two trained, licensed, and board-certified psych doctors working hand-in-glove with them on Charon, and he, the Commander of the Colonial Fleet Battlestar didn’t have even one mental health professional assigned to his ship. No ship did—the Fleet generally kept those specialists on stations or on the ground. And Mathias sighed again—another policy which now bites us square in the ass. But in a way, perhaps it was for the best; because the shrinks available weren’t military, maybe those Fleet personnel who needed counseling wouldn’t be quite as reluctant to go to them—after all, these doctors couldn’t put a red flag in their personnel files and kill their careers. In fact, he thought to himself, I need to see if one of them is willing to transfer aboard. The reality is finally starting to sink in—and some of my people are going to need professional help dealing with the issue real soon.

“We can only hope so, gentlemen,” Mathias said, as he rubbed his eyes. “KV-22734-DC-8 looks like a good candidate for waypoint twenty-four if we cannot—and we cannot—use Kobol. The notes in the Cylon database show it is barren—no water, no tylium, no habitable planets. Any objections?”

No one said anything and Jayne marked it on the charts.

“That completes the first twenty percent of the route to where we know Galactica position was six days ago—and it will take the flotilla at least ten days to traverse this stage alone. We’ve been working on this for six hours, gentlemen—let’s call Stage One done, and get back to this tomorrow after we get a good night’s rest.” Mathias stood and then so did everyone else.

And the klaxons began to blare. “This is the Operations Officer,” the 1MC blared. “Sound General Quarters throughout the ship. Set Condition One in all compartments. Commander report to the CIC.”

 

[MasterArminas]

Mathias strode into CIC trailed by Colonel Jayne. “Status!” he snapped as he walked across to the central console, glancing up at the DRADIS display which showed ten icons at the very limit of detection range—unmoving icons.

“Multiple unknown contacts have made an FTL jump into this system, Commander,” Major Tyche reported. “I’ve ordered all ships to spin up FTL for a jump to the emergency coordinates—contacts have not made any aggressive moves. No sign of Raiders—so far.”

“Rambler has CAP?” he asked Hope, who nodded affirmative.

The Commander picked up the phone. “Rambler, Scorpia Actual. What do you have?”

“Scorpia Actual, Rambler,” the wireless broadcast. “No jamming, no fighter launches, they aren’t moving,” he paused, “request permission to perform a fly-by.”

By which he meant a visual-range fly-by, Mathias thought. “Negative, Rambler. Hold the CAP at the inner perimeter for now—I might need you to make a combat landing.”

“Copy, Scorpia Actual.”

“Flight?”

“Twelve fighters in the tubes or on plus two,” Hope reported. “Arclight has two Raptors on the flight deck, ready to go.”

“Order him to launch, Digger. If we have to bug-out, the Raptors have our coordinates and we don’t have to wait on them.”

“Flight, CIC, launch the ready Raptors for visual-range pass,” she repeated.

“Captain Danis, hail them—all frequencies.”

“Commander,” Major Tyche reported, “all ships report FTL on-line and ready to jump.”

“Get them moving, Major. Inform Colonel Foeswan that Scorpia will remain behind—he is in command until our arrival.”

“Sir,” Joan Danis said from her console, and her voice was almost breathless, “I am getting a response—and Colonial transponders.”

“Confirm!” snapped Jayne and he left the central console to look over her readings. She looked up at Tom and nodded and then at Mathias. “Confirmed, Commander. They are broadcasting Colonial transponder codes.”

Mathias switched the wireless to the live circuit which Danis had transferred to him. “Unknown vessels, this is the Battlestar Scorpia—identify yourselves immediately or you will be fired upon.”

At first, only static emerged from the speaker; and then it crackled to life and a familiar voice emerged. “Scorpia, Sidewinder,” the speakers broadcast, “are we happy to see you.”

“Sidewinder, Scorpia Actual,” Mathias said into the stunned silence of the CIC. “Authenticate challenge Delta Tau Sigma Two Three Seven.”

Danis nodded even before Jayne snapped his fingers and she opened the challenge book and scrolled down with her finger and laid a straight edge to underline the proper response.

“Scorpia Actual, Sidewinder. Authenticated response is . . . Gold Seven One Four. Repeat, Gold Seven One Four.”

Danis nodded and she smiled; and then Jayne also nodded. Mathias lifted the phone again. “Sidewinder, Scorpia Actual; we confirm your response—hold your current position for a visual fly-by and confirmation.”

“Understood, Scorpia Actual. Will hold position awaiting visual fly-by.”

He looked at Hope and she nodded. “Rambler, Scorpia,” she broadcast. “Confirm with visual range fly-by—Raptors inbound for support.”

“Copy, Scorpia,” the CAG answered.

The seconds ticked off of the clock and then the wireless crackled again. “Scorpia, Rambler. Confirm ten Raptors, say again, ten Raptors—markings and shields indicate Battlestars Galactica and Pegasus, Scorpia.”

And a tremendous shout went up throughout CIC. “Sidewinder, Scorpia Actual,” Mathias broadcast as he felt a tremendous weight lift away from his shoulders. “Welcome home. And bring in your friends for landing. Rambler will escort.”

He racked the phone, and as Tom Jayne walked back over to the center torso the two men grabbed each other’s forearms and clapped each other on the shoulder.

“Tom,” he said, “I want Marines in the hanger bays just in case. If they are who they say they are, I want a Raptor on standby to let the rest of the flotilla know. We will jump when they have been recovered—and their identities confirmed, not before.”

“Aye, aye, Sir. You want to meet them on the hanger deck?”

“I think I do, Colonel,” Mathias replied.

“Aye, aye, Sir. I have the conn,” the XO said as he raised the phone and punched in the Marine barracks.

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

Onboard Raptor 716, Lee Adama turned to face his command pilot, and through the visor of the helmet that he wore, Sidewinder could see the broad grin on his face. “You know, Kara is never going to let you forget that it was her initial plot that allowed you to make contact on Jump Eight—before we started the search pattern and without needing one drop of that spare tylium.”

“Thanks for reminding me about that,” said Sidewinder in an aggrieved tone. “But you know what, Apollo?”

“What?”

“On this particular occasion, I won’t object if she wants to mock me. I’m actually quite happy that we didn’t need that fuel after all.”

“Oh, she’ll mock you. From now until she enters Perdition’s flames, she’ll mock you—and she will never let you forget this.”

“Thank the gods, I’m stationed on a different Battlestar,” Sidewinder said.

“Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you a question that Colonel Tigh wanted me to broach. Would you be willing to consider a trans-. . .,” Lee smiled as Sidewinder cut him off.

“No. No. Really, but no.”

“Figured, but I had to ask,” laughed Lee. And he sat back in the seat. “The Gods on Mount Olympus, is that a . . .,”

“Mark VI? That’s what we had when we left the colonies two years ago, Apollo.”

“Those are sweet birds, I kind of miss them.”

Sidewinder checked the cabin pressure, and he removed his helmet as Rambler settled down on his wing, and the CAG gave him a thumbs up. He then put his helmet back on, just in time to hear the wireless broadcast.

“Sidewinder, Scorpia. You are cleared for approach and landing on the starboard flight pod; Rambler will escort.”

“Copy Scorpia,” he broadcast, and then he changed channels. “All Raptors, this is Sidewinder. Follow me in—don’t make them shoot at you, people. It would really suck losing someone this late in the game.”

 

[MasterArminas]

Episode 11: Reunion and Revolution

Sidewinder suddenly cursed as the elevator started to descend. Apollo turned to him and stared, but the pilot thumbed his radio. “Flight, Sidewinder. I need to speak with Scorpia Actual immediately.”

“Hold one, Sidewinder,” the wireless replied.

“What’s wrong,” whispered Lee.

“I almost forgot—Athena is a Cylon. It would be good to tell them before we crack the hatch, Apollo. I hate to do it, but she is going to have to surrender her sidearm.”

Lee nodded and he unbuckled his straps. “I’ll handle it,” he said as he moved back.

“Sidewinder, Scorpia Actual,” the wireless in the helmet crackled. “You can’t wait thirty seconds?”

“Sir. We have a Cylon on board—a trusted Cylon," he added very quickly, "who defected to the Galactica’s Fleet and has assisted Admiral Adama. She is the reason we were able to make contact with you—I have a full report prepared for you, but this is something you need to know. Admiral Adama,” he stressed that word again, “would be very upset if she were shot, for example, on the hanger deck.”

Silence hung in the air as the elevator slid into its well and locked into place on the hanger deck. “Are you sure, Sidewinder?”

“Positive, Sir. I will vouch for her.”

“Very well, I am informing the Marines—I’ll signal you when it is okay to open the hatch.”

Sidewinder turned his head. “Keep it buttoned for now, Kaboose!” he yelled as he pulled off his helmet and gloves, placing the later inside the former, and then unstrapped from the pilots seat and worked his back to the troop bay.

Lee already had Sharon’s gun in his own helmet—and she was smiling. “Pay up,” she told Kaboose.

“Man,” the ECO whined as he handed over a fistful of cubits. “I didn’t figure you’d take her weapon, Sidewinder.”

 

[MasterArminas]

Sidewinder peered out of the hatch and he saw Commander Lorne speaking to the Marines and to Chief Sinclair; both nodded and began barking quick orders to their people, as well as the line of pilots present; and then Commander Lorne gave the signal to open her up. All ten of the remaining Raptors had already unsealed and their crews had gotten out—Sidewinder could see that some were getting nervous at the delay.

He cracked the hatch open and swung it up. And he stepped down onto the wing and then to the deck, followed by Lee, then Sharon—and thank all the Lords of Kobol, no one reacted—followed by Kaboose.

“Attention on deck!” barked Chief Sinclair, and the pilots, Marines, and deck hands all snapped to attention. Sidewinder walked forward to stand directly in front of Commander Lorne.

“Sir!” he snapped out with a salute, and then he smiled. “They followed my home—can I keep them?”

Mathias snorted and then his face blanked. “Welcome home, Captain Greene. We had a very nice funeral for you and Kaboose—and the others we lost that day,” and a momentary expression of sadness passed over his face. “Who are our guests, Sidewinder?”

“Commander Lorne, may I present Commander Lee Adama, son of Admiral William Adama, and formerly the CAG of Galactica before he was appointed by President Roslin as Commander of the Battlestar Pegasus in the wake of the murder of Admiral Cain,” he said in a loud voice that carried to all the ranks.

Mathias’s lips twitched at the convoluted introduction and he stepped forward and exchanged salutes with Lee.

“Permission to come aboard, Commander?” Lee formally asked.

“Permission granted, Commander,” Mathias answered. And then he held out his hand—which Lee took and then shook.

“I have dispatches for you—personal messages—from Admiral Adama and President Roslin, Commander,” Lee said briskly as they shook and then stood back. “I also have messages from all twelve members of the Quorum, including Vice-President Baltar.”

“Thank you, Commander Adama,” Mathias said. “We will talk about that later,” and he turned his attention to Sharon.

“Commander, may I introduce Lieutenant Sharon Agathon of the Battlestar Galactica.”

“Lieutenant,” he said simply as he returned her salute, and then he noticed her left hand and the single gold band upon her finger. “Agathon? Would that be the Karl Agathon that Sidewinder speaks of being the best ECO in the Fleet?”

“That would my husband, Commander. I left my people because what they did was wrong—and I fell in love in Karl Agathon. And I bore his child.”

Now Mathias’s eyebrow raised in response to that, but he extended his hand and shook hers.

And then he and Sidewinder and Lee walked down the line of the remainder of the pilots and ECOs, each one being introduced and the Commander taking a moment to speak with each of them—if only briefly.

Finally there was only one officer left. “Lieutenant Margaret Edmondson,” Sidewinder said and then he noticed the expression on both of their faces.

Mathias stopped in his tracks and the blood drained from his face; Racetrack’s jaw dropped as well and her eyes grew wide and round.

“Maggie? Little Maggie,” Mathias whispered. “My Gods, the last time I saw you, your father was rather upset at the dress you decided to wear for your freshman dance—your mother thought that you were absolutely gorgeous though, and so did Emily and I. Sara would be so proud of her little girl, all grown up and a Fleet pilot just like her mother was.”

“Uncle Mat?” Racetrack gasped. “I didn’t know you . . . ,” she swayed, and then began to cry. “I thought you were dead! After Mom died from cancer, Dad never said anything about you and Aunt Emily—not after we moved to Caprica. I thought you wanted to go back to Scorpia when Josie was born—leave the Fleet. I never thought . . .,” her voice trailed off.

“Twelve years is a long time—and your father always hated me because of the uniform I wore. I was surprised when Sara married him, as vehement as he was against the Fleet,” Mathias said in a soft voice. “But Sara loved him and he loved her—and they both loved you very much.” His quiet voice got even quieter. “Emily and I shared that love of you with them both, Maggie. We didn’t stay away because of you—we stayed because Alex didn’t want us in your life, after Sara died. And he was your father—more important than an Aunt and Uncle. But we never stopped loving you, girl.”

Racetrack’s face was wet and she nodded. “Did Aunt Emily and Jos- . . .,” but her voice trailed off at the look on Mathias’s face.

And a tear leaked out of the corner of Mathias’s eye. And then Racetrack was in his arms and Mathias Lorne rocked his niece and held her tight.

Lee leaned over and whispered to Sidewinder. “I’ll let you tell him why you cracked down on her in the berthing compartment, Captain Greene. Rank does have its privileges.”

“Gee, thanks, Apollo. And here I thought you had my back,” Sidewinder whispered back.

And Lee laughed. “In this case . . . absolutely not. My father didn’t raise a fool.”

 

[Tribble puncher]

I'm still loving the story, there were a couple of parts where I was wondering, but you pulled it off. small question, Isn't Lee married to Dualla at this point in the Galactica/Pegasus Timetable?