Spurred on by a few stories I've read in here thought I'd have a go! Be Gentle?

Battlestar is owned by RDM and SyFy. Stargate by MGM. I own nothing but the idea for the story!

Final Flight

Four years Ago

Battlestar Galactica Med Bay

Any medical section, hospital, life centre, call it what you will has a smell and a sound like no other place in the worlds. Disinfectant, life support machines etc etc. The Med Bay of a Battlestar is no different. The Med Bay of the Galactica, oldest ship in the fleet, however, has its own brand of smells and sounds. No computer networking meant that there were more than a few unique sounds and smells and Dr Sherman Cottle, Chief Medical Officer of the Galactica contributed more than his fair share! Smoking his ubiquitous cigarette and grumbling about hot shot pilots, a lack of stores and just about anything he could think of he now faced one of the 'Hot Shots'.

"Lt. You are godsdammned lucky to have just broken your leg! Of all the stupid irresponsible..."

He tailed off and walked away to his office leaving the aforementioned pilot sitting alone.

Lt Gregori 'Kickstart' Mallen. Pilot Primus Squadron, Viper! This was all he'd dreamed of as a kid, flying a Viper in the fleet. Now that dream was a day to day job. Greg had aced flight school and been posted to a holding unit. His dream posting had come a year later, the 1st Squadron. Unfortunately this was not the honour he'd thought.

The Squadron was based on BS 75, the Battlestar Galactica. The oldest warhorse in the group and no doubt the fleet! So for two years the squadron had been involved in flag waving around the colonies, the Galctica's swansong. It had though worked out pretty well. The CAG, Jackson Spencer, was a good stick and the squadron were good guys and gals. His flight leader though, boy, she was a different case entirely! Lt Kara 'Starbuck' Thrace!

She'd joined the ship about the same time as Greg, posted from Picon Fleet Headquarters flight school. She'd not taught Greg but her reputation preceded her! Hot headed, brash and some might say too cocky for her own good. But Greg liked her and she appeared to like him. He was assigned to her flight and flew on Jolly's wing. Well normally he flew on Jolly's wing. He was currently laid up on crutches after getting into a drinking game with Kara after a Triad game. Now he sat on a cot in Cottles med centre waiting a check up. Starbuck was in hack, again, and sat in the brig kicking her heels, something to do with a card game with Tigh. Well she will piss the XO off!

Gregori Mallen was born to a banker and a teacher from a small town near Argentum on Scorpia. Standing five feet nine in his socks, with light brown hair and hazel eyes he didn't look like a pilot. He'd hated school and was forever in trouble for playing hooky. He'd always preferred tinkering with his dad's old motor bike and could ride it before he was 16.

His saviour had come in the guise of his paternal Grandfather Peter. An ex-colonial pilot he'd noticed something of himself in his young grandson and every holiday and weekend Greg would stay with his grandfather in his cabin in the hills. Peter had told him the stories of the Cylon war, the fighting in bars, the flying and Greg was hooked. The final straw came in the form of an old friend of Peters, a Colonial Colonel, who had taken Greg up in a Raptor. The young Mallen was sold and vowed to be a pilot like pops. He knuckled down in school and finally graduated.

College was next as Greg didn't have enough credits to go straight to the academy. He put in two hard years at the Celeste University finally gaining a degree in engineering. He marvelled at how he'd managed to graduate at all, considering the amount of time he spent, still, tinkering with old cars and bikes, fighting, drinking and generally being a pain. At the age of 19 though, Greg Mallen was accepted into the Fleet Academy on Picon to train as a Viper pilot.

Basic had been a breeze as Mallen was incredibly fit due to boxing and playing pyramid in high school and college. It was the authority he had problems with, frequently coming to blows with drill instructors and teachers alike. By the time he hit basic flight though he was knuckling down as this was the only thing he'd ever wanted and, following a stern talking to by Peter, could see it slipping away. Despite this though, his rebellious streak and love of motor bikes got him the nickname of 'Kickstart'. Following the 'Talk' he would be found sat poring over flight manuals in his garage outside the barracks, covered in oil and normally munching on a sandwich.

By the time graduation was on the horizon though, Greg nearly blew it. Whilst returning from a solo sortie in a Viper he buzzed his on-off girlfriend, Penny, as she rode home on her pushbike. Unfortunately her father, the commandant of the academy, spotted him hotdogging and almost ended his career before it had begun. A chewing out of monumental proportions closely followed by lots of hard calsthenics ensued and Greg was informed that he may fail flight and get reassigned to the Marines or worse! Luckily his grandfather again stepped in and saved the young Mallen's bacon. He was allowed to finish flight school and was posted to the holding squadron at Picon Fleet Headquarters.

During this time he learned to fly the Viper Mk VII and waited onward posting to one of the Battlestar Groups. About six months into the posting however, his parents were killed in a car crash. This devastated Greg and he almost went off the rails. He was once again saved, by the timely intervention of a fellow pilot, Mack 'Kicker'Thomsen, who'd taken him under his wing, guiding him through his depression and anger and by many visits to his Grandfather, sharing the grief.

Six months later Greg got his posting to the Galactica as a Viper pilot. He'd made it and was initially slightly underwhelmed. The Galactica was due to retire and the post would be short. It was only made bearable by the fact that Peter had flown from the ship in the war alongside the Commander, Bill Adama, and also because the squadron would be moved en masse to its next vessel. So here he sat, leg in a cast as the Primus Squadron flew past in review order, the old man's son in the lead, at the retirement ceremony.

'Frak!'

The soft outburst caught the ear of the Med Tech, Ishay. Who grinned and shook her head at Greg.

'Well, you'd be up there too Lieutenant...if you hadn't had one too many ambrosia's with Starbuck that is!'

She giggled and went about her work, Greg smiling at her as she went. Doc Cottle wandered over, his cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth as usual and a grimace on his face.

'And what are you grinning at? Gods dammed pilots! No respect for anything anymore!'

He flicked the sheet on his clipboard over and looked at Greg with disdain.

'You're fit to transfer with the rest of the support crew Lieutenant. You can report tomorrow for the shuttle. What are you grinning at! Get the hell out of my life station!'

Greg smiled and hopped down from the gurney, moving as fast as his crutches would carry him!

"Thanks Doc. For everything.'

He delivered the line over his shoulder, winking at Cottle who grumbled, turned and ambled off hiding a smile and flicking ash into a bed pan.

CIC

Battlestar Galactica

Midwatch

The ceremony was over. The ship would now turn for Caprica and its final destination. Geo Synchronous orbit over the capital as a museum. Not the fate she deserved, or that's what Petty Officer Dee Dualla thought at least. She'd just handed off the final Viper squadron to Boomer's control and was finishing up her last pieces of work before going off shift, hopefully to track down that young aide she'd bumped into...

'ALL COLONIAL FLEET UNITS THIS IS PICON FLEET HEADQUARTERS! ATTACK WARNING!'

The wireless began to scream in her ear. Paling, she listened. Looking up she waved the officer of the deck, Lt Gaeta, over. He took the comm and also visibly paled. Without a word he lifted the 'growler' phone and called the commander.

'Yes sir, very well sir!'

Looking at Dee he paged the entire ship

Pilots Ready Room

Greg had been sat playing triad with himself when the ship went to condition one and had almost killed himself trying to run to the briefing room. He was brought up short when the comm. crackled to life again.

This is the commander. Moments ago, this ship received word of a Cylon attack against our home worlds is underway. We do not know the size or the disposition or the strength of the enemy forces. But all indications point... to a massive assault against Colonial defenses. Admiral Nagala has taken personal command of the fleet aboard the battlestar Atlantia, following complete destruction of Picon Fleet Headquarters in the first wave of the attacks. How, why ... doesn't really matter now.

What does matter is that, as of this moment, we are at war. You've trained for this. You're ready for this. Stand to your duties, trust your fellow shipmates and we'll all get through this. Further updates as we get them. Thank you.

The news washed over him like a wave. Greg sat down heavily on a packing crate in the corridor, crewmen who had stopped to listen ran off as the broadcast finished. He was left sitting looking at his feet, thoughts of his Grandfather filling his head as people ran about.

It was a group of pilots headed by Starbuck that woke him from his despair.

'Kickstart! Get yer ass into gear! Can you fly still?'

He looked up to see Starbuck, still in her utility uniform without a shirt, sweat stained tanktop and tee shirt, staring at him. He stared back, face a mask, into Kara's deep blue eyes, her defiant look told him all was well, at least in the short term. He pulled his head up and straightened.

'You try and frakkin stop me Starbuck!'

Pulling a knife out he slit the cast from his leg, joining the race for the hanger deck.

Now

CIC

Battlestar Galactica

'Negative, she, she went in.'

Major Lee Adama's voice filtered through the comm. His father, Admiral Bill Adama, deflated on the spot. Kara, gone. Lost again, this time though it seemed for good. NO! NO!

'We're sending in the search and rescue birds right now. We'll find her.'

The CIC crew looked to him, Gaeta, Dee, Saul, Helo.

'No dad it's no use, her ships in pieces, in pieces, no ship. We lost her'

The feeling of loss that Adama, all of them, felt at this point was palpable, CIC felt like a weight had dropped on it.

Later Bill Adama sat in his quarters, his model ship on the table, trying to fix the figurine Kara had given him to its prow. The tears came, Kara, almost a daughter to him. No, definitely a daughter. Gone. He lashed out, the ship smashed into pieces, tears rolling down his face. We'll find it Kara. We'll find Earth. For you.

Pilots Bunk

Galactica

Captain Greg Mallen sat at the small table in the centre of the room. Bottle of Ambrosia and two glasses before him. Memories whirled in his head. Dead parents, his grandfather, a hundred dog fights with the toasters. Kara Thraces blue eyes boring through his sould that day a million years ago. Now she too was gone. His friend...

'Frak, sorry Kickstart!'

Looking up Greg saw Brendan Costanza, Hotdog, standing in the doorway. His hair plastered to his head, flight gear around his waist. He'd been out with the CAG, Lee, when it had happened. Through tears and an ambrosia enduced haze Kickstart smiled crookedly and winked.

'She finally did it Hotdog! Kara Frackin Thrace finally did it!'

Costanza shifted awkwardly in the doorway. Greg was his friend and he knew how much Starbuck had meant to him. Not in a sexual way, gods no! What with Lee and now Sam and pythia only knew who else...Greg had always been the Brother Lee could never have been and Kara was the closest thing that Greg had to family left.

'Frak it Greg. Nothin we could do. She just went in. One minute the Major is screaming at her on the wireless, next...'

He let the words hang in the air, arms gesturing helplessly. Greg was drunk and getting maudlin and Costanza, tired as he was, had yet to feel the loss that he knew was coming. He pulled up a chair and moved for the glass next to Gregs. A hand shot out, grasping his wrist.

'NO! Thats Starbucks.'

Hotdog paused, leaned back and pulled a mug from his bunk. The hand retreated. Placated, Greg poured a generous measure and raised his own glass.

'To Kara Frackin Thrace. Starbuck. Best Viper Jock in the worlds!'

The shot was gone in a second, he coughed and refilled. Its going to be a long one! Thought Hotdog and swallowed his own drink.

Hanger Deck

Galactica

The next day

'Captain? Captain Mallen?'

The voice called. Greg heard but ignored it. His head splitting with the hangover

'Godsdamn it! KICKSTART!'

Head whipping up Greg stared into Chief Galen Tyrol's face

'Frak Chief! I can hear you!'

He all but snarled at the tall Chief of the deck. Tyrols face softened a little.

'I know sir. We all miss Starbuck but on top of Anders falling off the Viper, Major Adama stalking around and the old man in a funk I now have the XO on my back and I need you to focus!'

Greg had been assigned to the training staff and was running through the checklist for simulated lessons that could be run on the newer Vipers with Tyrol, rated as he was as an Instructor Pilot on the bird being one of the only original 1st Squadron pilots remaining in the fleet.