okay, listen...

I hate leaving something unfinished. But, I have to admit that the flame that was in me to write write write in the mid to mid-late 2000's just hasn't been there the past couple years...until now. I have no idea why. It's a dim flame, admittedly... but I needed this creative outlet. It's better to do this fueled by a little booze rather than dive back into other stuff. So, as they say, I'm gonna throw some shit at the wall and see if it sticks. If you've stuck with me thusfar, I promise you, reader, I don't deserve your eyes. And I'm not fishing for any bullshit compliments here. Reviews, subscribes, whatever, all are immaterial if you just enjoy what I've offered here. I know it's been awhile. I hope do shift to more of this style - and hopefully will find an appropriate ending for Cathedrals of the Gods here in a few. But for now, a brief story that I hope to finish in the next week or so, and maybe more of this style to come to supplement. Thanks, as always, for reading.

Cylon War Stories – Volume I

BSG 45 Cathedral
Picon System
2.5 Caprican months following Osceolan Nebula Raid

"I just miss pyramid, that's all," Angel sighed, his eyes boring holes into the coffee cup before him, which had long since gone tepid. He took a large gulp, regardless.

"Don't even start," Bishop nodded in agreement, his eyebrow twitching slightly as he examined the worn, most un-regulation Caprica Buccaneers t-shirt the assistant CAG wore. Not for the fact that Captain Emory was out of uniform, but for the simple fact that he had to look at a C-Bucks logo across the table from him. Bishop sub-consciously scratched an itch on his left ribcage – which bore a tattoo of the Tauron Bulls Pyramid Team hidden underneath his black-over-grey layered tanktops.

"I miss my dog," Torro said simply, his dark eyes sliding out of focus from the cards in his hand.

The Vigilantes gathered around the table were silent for longer than a moment, each with their own thoughts. They each took their thoughts on things they missed – things much bigger than Pyramid – and pushed them into places in their minds where they were safe. To harbor any of these feelings for longer than just a few precious moments would drive them into deep depression. Most of them knew that. Most wouldn't dare admit the slow, acidic erosion of their mental stability that happened because of this. They held onto the one well-known creed of all pilots – remember, you're already dead.

And it wouldn't matter how badly they felt anyway.

Bishop's mind wandered back to Pyramid, as he buried any remaining ties to life before the service – admittedly, few – back to the confines of his mind. He dwelled on a heartbreaking loss during the last wild card game the Bulls played before the beginning of the war. Momentarily, he considered what was more depressing – the loss or the fact that humanity was now committed as a whole to total warfare, struggling to survive. He shrugged inwardly.

"Sir," a yeoman approached the table with a brief salute with his free hand. With the other, he handed Bishop a worn inter-department mail envelope. "With the Commander's regards, sir."

Bishop returned the salute and accepted the envelope with a mumbled, "Thanks." Since becoming CAG, his day had been interrupted no less than fourteen times at the minimum with memos, deliveries, and orders presented in this fashion. During the overnight hours, busy couriers like this young airman simply stuffed them in the gap of the bulkhead door to the senior officer's quarters – often resulting in a crash of paper when anyone opened the door.

"Important stuff?" Angel yawned.

"Probably not," Bishop shook his head slightly as he opened the envelope. The rest of the Third remained in their jaded state, focusing on their coffee or cards. The CAG withdrew the papers.

TO: MAJ. S. MASON, CAG BSG45
FROM: COM. WEISSBACH, CO BSG45
RE: PICON FLEET HQ RECRUITMENT EXERCISES

Major Mason,

With the recent slowdown of Cylon hostilities reported in all theatres, FLTCOM has issued direction for BSG45 and BSG75 to take part in exercises at Picon fleet headquarters in the following week. The exercises are intended to be used in recruitment and retention efforts for new and existing CDF personnel.

The role of the air group will be to provide aerial demonstration of flight and air combat maneuvering, within a pre-defined area around the demonstration site. Further details and ROE to be provided upon arrival.

The air group shall prepare to participate fully in these games, with the end goal to represent BSG45 and the Fleet in the highest traditions.

Weissbach

END MESSAGE

"An air show," Airgun's mouth was agape, his long features making his expression almost comical. "There's a war for the very survival of humanity going on, and they want us to go to Picon, and put on a frakkin' air show."

Angel and Torro were overcome with hysterics, with the former snorting coffee out of his nose. Gypsy and Aphro both rolled their respective eyes.

Bishop couldn't help but sigh inwardly. He agreed, secretly, with his squadron mates. To him, it seemed like a gross misallocation of resources. He simply couldn't see – on the first take anyway – the value of taking both Battlestars that hadn't been committed to orbital defense, and their air groups, and placing them on Picon – to do nothing except burn tylium and impress perhaps a thousand new recruits.

"Yes, that's true," Bishop had a sudden stroke of genius. "But going on liberty at Picon means certainly one thing –"

"Frakkin' Bent Bird, baby!" Angel cackled manically. It had been almost two Caprican years since the incident involving Angel, Bishop, and the ensuing brawl. Word had eventually spread around the fleet – and had been twisted just as much – that the quasi-famous pilots of the Cathedral's Third squadron were the clear victors. This stung the pride of the Fleet Marines who were in a position to care about such things. To the Cathedral's compliment of Marines, however, most did not care, and readily agreed that the Marines on Picon probably deserved to get their asses kicked.

Stories of the Bent Bird instantly began, and Bishop smiled at the prospect. I'll fly in their damn show, he thought, if it means one night of liberty on Picon. You're damned right.

"Hey, wait," Gypsy spoke up emphatically, taking over the proceedings at the table. "Wait a frakkin' minute. BSG 75, is that right, Bishop? That what it said?"

Bishop's mind snapped back to the present, and with a quick glance down at the order, he confirmed it.

"That's the Galactica," Gypsy said unnecessarily, but for effect. "You know who's on Galactica?"

"About five thousand people, give or take," Torro shrugged. Half a second later, he ducked a flying coffee mug propelled by the arm of Gypsy.

"Bill Adama," she continued. Somewhat of a hush fell around the table. "They say that he's the best pilot the fleet has ever seen."

"Well we know that not to be true," Airgun shook his head at the absurdity. "The fleet's top gun is sitting right frakkin' there" he pointed to Bishop "AND if that wasn't enough, the runner-up by two kills is sitting, right frakkin' there" he then swung his arm across the table and pointed at Angel.

"Well, Adama is technically tied with Angel," Torro said quietly.

"Yeah, but there's a few things that they didn't count," Gypsy said cryptically – citing the rumor mill swirling around Angel and Bishop's…absence.

"Look," Bishop held up his hands to restore order. "It's not about who's top gun or what. What matters is that we get there, do this dog-and-pony show for command, and we have a frakking night off for a change. It's been what – two years almost?"

There was a smattering of muttered agreements.

"So, let's just be ready to represent. If we're going by top gun numbers," Bishop continued thoughtfully. "We have the first, second place tie, fourth, seventh, eleventh, and nineteenth on the list. Making this squadron the most represented out of any Battlestar, or any air group, in all of the fleet. Plus, the prospect of a proper drink instead of that gut-rot that I know we've all had some of…"

Eye contact was averted by most members at the mention of the illegal consumption, and/or production of intoxicating beverage. Although most had paid a premium price in cubits or other tradable goods to the aircraft mechanic's secret guild of distillers located in the bowels of the ship.

"I mean, really. This is a minor deal. Few hours of seat time with hardly any chance of getting fragged? Sign me up," the CAG concluded.

Angel smirked in his characteristic fashion, "We're gonna be just fine."

The characteristic bosun's whistle jolted Bishop awake from his semi-reclined position in a ready room chair. Flight reviews poured form his lap onto the floor.

"Stand by for a word from the commanding officer."

"Good morning Cathedral – this is the commander – we're now just outside the orbital defense stations of Picon and the airspace of the Columbia. You all know by now the scheduled exercises on the surface tomorrow, and I expect our liberty to last about three days here –"

There was an audible cheer around the ship that shook the bulkheads.

Weissbach laughed over the PA in spite of himself, "with that in mind, I expect us all to represent the Cathedral well, and represent the fleet well while we're on Picon. Our first priority will be to make sure that we put on an impressive show of force down there – we're going to be under the microscope, lots of brass will be there, along with the Minister of Defense, several members of the quorum, and the like. So let's make sure this ship is ready for inspection – take your cleaning stations seriously, let's get the ship looking good and feeling good. That is all."

"Well then," Angel spoke up from the coffee machine. Bishop turned, slightly surprised he didn't hear his friend enter.

"Three days," Bishop sighed, sinking back in his chair. "Gods know that we all need it."

The inter-ship phone rang with its telltale squeak. Angel shifted a step to the right, shouldering the phone while pouring a mug of coffee, "Briefing, Captain Emory… Yes, sir, one moment." He cupped the phone in his free hand, "It's for you."

Bishop shoved himself out of the stuffed leather chair, working the kinks out of his knees as he took the phone, "Mason."

"Bishop, Weissbach."

"Sir," Bishop acknowledged.

"We'll take a low orbit around angels one-hundred – this should make it pretty easy to get in. No need for a steep descent, I think. Slow burn your birds and take a tour. Get some fresh air and land those things at headquarters at your leisure, son."

"Understood, sir," Bishop wordlessly accepted a mug offered by Angel. He nodded briefly to Captain Greene, commanding officer of Raptor Fighter Squadron Ten, who had just entered the briefing room.

"Good. We'll meet up on the surface. Who's got the first watches up here?"

"I believe we'll put Captain Dunlop and the Fourth up here, and then give you Shelton with the Eighth as well, at least for the first few days. They have the newest folks who could use some non-combat seat time," Bishop replied.

"Outstanding. Make it happen."

Bishop hung up the phone. Greene and Angel turned to him.

"You guys ready to get feet dry?" Bishop smiled slightly.

"Gods yes," Greene closed his eyes and tilted his head toward the harsh fluorescent lighting at the ceiling, relishing the thought.

"Alright. Let's get everyone but the Demons and the Aces in here, we'll brief quickly, and then get the frak off this ship."

"Zero-zero-one, Marshall, cleared departure, tube zero-five, caution traffic from outbound and orbital CAP."

Bishop hardly blinked in his autonomous reply, "Zero-zero-one, roger, tube zero-five, roger traffic."

Bishop tightened his gloves as a young man, Tiberious Redmond, an airman from Aerlon, drove the motorized push cart toward tube number five, nosing Bishop's Viper into the lighted tunnel. Another airman, a young man but eighteen years of age, Paul Camrow, directed the nose forward, perfectly in line with the launch track. He crept under the nose of BSG 45 Viper 001 – with the triangle stack of tylium engines burning loudly – forcing the launching arrestor onto the catapult hook with the heel of his boot with a satisfying "clink." He ducked out carefully, bringing his arms out with dual thumbs-up, signifying that the rail was clear, and that Airman Redmond had detached the push cart. Camrow sprinted around the rising blast deflector and through the closing airlock doors.

Bishop looked to his right, holding his hands up off of his controls, as he had done now nine hundred and ninety six times prior. Lieutenant Ambrose Miller, a young but capable officer, looked left then right out of his shooter's nest, ensuring all personnel were clear. The airlock doors closed with a deep bass rumble, hardly heard over the roar of Bishop's engines. The very second after Miller had visually cleared the airlock, he gave a brisk thumbs-up and salute to Bishop, which was returned.

The CAG tightened his core muscles and held onto the handholds built into the metal cockpit window rails. Lieutenant Miller flicked the safety cover off the "LAUNCH" button under his index finger, and mashed it down.

The electromagnetic launcher, freed by the field interrupters, grabbed hold of the catapult hook and immediately began hurling Bishop and his Viper forward from zero to two hundred and fifty kilometers per hour in three seconds. For Bishop, it was now just a momentary discomfort as his Viper escaped the Cathedral's gravity well and was launched into the low orbit around Picon.

"Cathedral air, zero-zero-one," Bishop keyed up over the departure frequencies.

"Zero-zero-one, Cathedral air, go ahead, sir."

"Request holding pattern twenty klicks, angels ninety eight, hold for remaining traffic before entry."

"Pattern approved. Twenty klicks, angels nine-eight, hold for remaining traffic, good day."

"Roger, good day."

Bishop punched in a brief flight plan into his auto-pilot and relaxed slightly in the cockpit chair – as much as the five-point harness would allow.

"Man, what a sight," Angel's voice crackled as his Viper sauntered up slowly on Bishop's wing. "Clean air. Non-recycled water. Amazing."

"Long overdue," Bishop nodded towards his wingman. "Shall we?"

As the rest of the Third formed up behind Bishop, the series of double-clicks on the comm was enough. The young Major nosed his Viper down and began the slow descent.

"Welcome to Picon, sir!" a young airman saluted crisply from the narrow ladder he had pushed up to Bishop's cockpit. His eyes grew wide surveying the space superiority fighter's nose – emblazoned with dozens of small, red images of Cylon Raiders. Underneath the edge of the cockpit, the announcement needed no introduction – "MAJ. SCOTT 'BISHOP' MASON - CAG" – was stenciled in glossy black outlined in shining bronze – with the whole Viper repainted in show regalia coloring – the standard light grey on the body with bold, blood-red striping down the fuselage and wings. Bold lettering on the lower pair of the triangle stacked engines announced "BSG 45 – CATHEDRAL" – all of which brought the war, the reality, and the unquestionably valiant service of this particular squadron – right to the humid, tropical tarmac at Picon fleet headquarters. It was awe-inspiring for the mostly green ground crew, many of whom had never been involved in combat operations.

"Thanks," Bishop smiled politely, checking off his post-flight and signing it with little ceremony. He quickly stood up and hopped out – enjoying the feeling of the humid air and the blazing sun on his flight suit.

He paused momentarily to take in the sights of the large majority of the Cathedral's air wing lining up – all of the Vipers freshly painted in the same motif as his own – the Raptors thundering down, looking menacing and large, their hulls painted in a flat, deep green, thick with radar-absorbing and deflecting properties, their guns bristling fore and aft.

Another resounding, rumbling boom shook the air around them. While most experienced airmen and aviators wouldn't look twice at sonic booms, this was different. The trained ear knew this was a capital ship dropping from FTL directly above fleet headquarters – and all heads turned skyward.

"That'll be the Galactica," Angel muttered from the ground, donning a pair of sunglasses and shading his face. Bishop nodded, the shape of the capital ship unmistakable as it hovered in the high atmosphere, clearly visible to the naked eye.

"We just can't frakking resist showing off when we get together, can we?" smirked the CAG.

Angel simply took in the dozens of Cylon Raiders stenciled on the nose of his friend's Viper, and smirked deeply.

Bishop's eyes carefully witnessed the impeccable launch of the Galactica's air wing, mirroring the same from the Cathedral moments earlier. Bishop then guessed, correctly, that Commander Silas Nash had ordered just the opposite of what Weissbach had ordered. Apparently, showmanship to Nash was a little more important than wear and tear on the birds.

"Comin' in a little hot, aren't they?" Airgun asked, his head cocked to one side as the first sonic booms of the Galactica Vipers began to rattle the ground. Many trailed small wisps of smoke as they tore through the lower atmosphere – the sight of air condensing around them into steam, plus the smoke, was visually stunning.

The rest of the Third gathered up around Bishop's Viper as they watched the Galactica's fighters land in perfect order – lead by their First Squadron – Primus.

The noise levels began to drop noticeably as the last of the Galactica's Raptors cleared high atmo, and their first fighters taxied slowly to their respective parking spots. Perhaps by fate, but probably by design, a Viper from Galactica's Primus squadron slowly came to a halt just feet from Bishop's. The CAG couldn't help but laugh.

It was an impressive machine, mirrored almost identical to Bishop's, minus two Cylon Raider stencils, and the aft tylium engines declaring "BSG 75 – GALACTICA." The name under the cockpit declared "CAPT. BILL 'HUSKER' ADAMA"

Bishop wasted no time exiting his space superiority fighter, planting his boots firmly on the ground and looking up at this fellow pilot from across the fleet. The man, roughly his age, doffed his helmet and environmental control cuffs quickly – much as Bishop and his own pilots did – and hastily scribbled on the post-flight. So far, this pilot from Galactica did almost everything identical to the Cathedral's pilots. He had a shock of jet-black hair that stood tall, moist with perspiration. His dark brows furrowed over darker eyes, all enveloped by dark olive skin, a chiseled face, and an angled jaw. He was the picture of a Colonial Defense Force aviator.

"Hey there," Bishop smiled genuinely, hoping to make a positive impression. "Scott Mason."

"Bullshit," Adama said, taking Bishop's outstretched hand and shaking it warmly. "You're Bishop, and everyone here knows it. Bill Adama. But I prefer 'Husker.'"

"I prefer Bishop," nodded Bishop, shaking Husker's hand warmly. "And this here-"

"Captain Garrett 'Angel' Emory," Adama nodded. "We're tied. Well…except, y'know…"

"Say no more," Angel nodded appreciatively, shaking Husker's hand.

More pleasantries were exchanged as the rest of Galactica's air wing shut their engines down and began to mingle on the tarmac. If anyone had been expecting any sort of heated rivalry or animosity – it was absent as the two crews mixed and began swapping stories and networking connections. Although it perhaps didn't make for the narrative that the event organizers were going for, most everyone agreed that just being alive on the surface of a heavily guarded Colony was reason enough to be happy, with no further hostility needed.

Bishop found Husker to be a well-spoken, introspective man. His dark eyes were constantly analyzing, searching, and seemingly at ease with everything he interpreted around him. The CAG knew that this pilot was aware of everything about himself, and everything around himself, and was completely in control of everything around him. Just as he was. Bishop knew that this man's mind ran at the same speed his did. It was taxing, but also rewarding.

"Attention air wings of Cathedral and Galactica, briefing to commence inside terminal alpha in one-five minutes. Repeat. Briefing for all air wings in one-five minutes, alpha terminal."

Collective groans went up from the gathered pilots and ground crew as they shuffled reluctantly inside, all of them looking longingly over the fence, where The Bent Bird still stood, in all of its glory, although scantly populated. Transport trucks were parked three deep in the parking lot, offloading product.

"Good. Someone told them we were comin'," Angel nodded, pleased.

"I'd pay fifty cubits for a beer. I'm not frakking kidding," Bishop sighed deeply.

"Alllllll-right!" yelled a Captain through a megaphone as several hundred pairs of boots shuffled into the air-conditioned terminal. "Let's get this over with!"

"So," Angel had drained his first beer in about three seconds, and was on to his second. He had been second in line behind Bishop at The Bent Bird immediately following briefing. "Stay above angels five, full klick out from shore, full on formations, and then some twirly shit. Easiest job I've ever had."

"Pure vanilla," Bishop agreed, savoring the taste of his own beer as a young man opened the doors to The Bent Bird, dressed simply in denim pants, a plain shirt, and an apron. Bishop was suspicious, "Hey…where's Enoch?"

The young man paused momentarily, "Dad died maybe a year ago. I'm Evan."

"Well," Bishop sighed deeply. "That frakkin' blows. I'm sorry. My name is Bishop. I started a fight here awhile ago. I wanted to apologize to him but never got the chance."

Evan's eyes brightened, "You're Bishop? That means you're Angel! Come on in! First drink is on me! Dad wouldn't shut up about the most epic fight that's ever happened out of here."

"Better pour the second on us," Bishop said, striding in. It was almost exactly as he had remembered from years before. Music boomed, and the air was instantly hazed as Bishop and his wingman lit thickly rolled fumella leaf cigars.

..tbc - thedandersen ...