Once again, reader, I must take a moment to thank you for stopping by to evaluate the latest installment in the story of Mason, Emory, the Vigilantes and the Cathedral. If, by chance, you were waiting for this, I do offer my most humble apologies. I seem to be locked in a struggle to maintain a balance of sorts, with juggling life, work, and the story. As always, though, to provide the next segment in this saga gives me great relief, and moreover, inspiration to get working on the next part. As I keep promising you, dear reader, this story is a long way from over. To those who have taken their time to read and review this story, I offer my most sincere and humble thanks. It is you that I write for. Even if you are the one reader among thousands in this diverse and rich forum of imaginative and brilliantly written works to take your valuable time to evaluate my work - I will continue writing, just for you. You make it worth it. I respectfully submit now, for your approval, the next chapter in the story of the Cathedral.
10.
"I guess I'm just surprised to see you here," Bishop smiled over his cup of steaming black coffee.
"The Universal was just a temporary thing," Emory smiled, encircling her cup of coffee with both hands. The steam rising from both their cups went unusually high in the still air of the cafeteria. One of the hits taken from the engagement had somehow affected the ship's environmental controls. Parts of the Cathedral - such as the cafeteria - were freezing cold. Others - including the senior officer's quarters - were almost uninhabitable due to the heat.
"Well," Bishop said after a sip of coffee. "I'm surprised...but glad you're back."
"Why?" she smiled at him, fishing for a response.
"I guess I don't rightly know," the CAG said quietly, shrugging. "I just do."
Landry smiled again, the sides of her face reddening slightly.
Barely two days had passed since the incident. Bishop had been through two full debriefings, one for the Battlestar Group, and one over closed circuit satellite to Fleet, detailing the course of the engagement. The whole thing - a battle lasting hardly ten minutes - was dissected down by the second and analyzed closely. Most people around the ship and the fleet had agreed that Bishop's plan had been a resounding success. Admiral Schaeffer had sent his personal regards to the crew of the Cathedral and Bishop in particular for orchestrating such a vital blow.
However, Bishop still wrestled with the fact that he had lost pilots. He had been tested and prepared for such an eventuality back in War College, and had passed every exam with exemplary marks. But as he realized, just because he could organize a plan and execute it, did not necessarily mean that his conscience could do the same. He quietly wondered if this made him an ineffective - or worse - a weak officer.
"Bishop!"
The young Major lifted his head up, glancing toward the cafeteria's entrance. A large part of the air group stampeded in - lead by Angel.
The buzz of conversations died slightly upon seeing so many aviators in one place. Crew members looked on curiously.
"Hey!" Angel clambered up on a chair, trying to make sure he had everyone's attention. "Hey! Shut the frak up!"
Silence fell quickly. Crew members stared, some of them looking perturbed at having their chow time interrupted.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" Angel looked around, suddenly nervous. "If you'll please direct your attention to the Cathedral's CAG - Major Scott Mason. He's sitting right here!"
"What in the sweet chocolate frak are you doing, Angel?" Bishop muttered.
"Good news," replied Angel quietly. The Captain raised his voice again, "In the most recent engagement, Bishop scored three confirmed Cylon Raider kills!"
A smattering of applause and raised glasses was the reply.
"With those kills," Angel continued, his Caprican voice booming across the mess hall. "Brought his official kill count to sixty-eight separate kills. The previous record was sixty-six - fleet wide! Crew of the Cathedral - I give you the top gun of the Colonial Fleet - Major Scott 'Bishop' Mason!"
Bishop's mouth opened in shock. Landry beamed at him, clapping furiously. Quite suddenly, he was drenched in moderately priced beer. Cheers rose from the mess hall - crewmen and women raised their glasses and banged their fists on the tables, creating a din comparable to a game-winning goal at a pyramid game.
"Congratulations, sir!" Torro beamed, his olive-skinned face shining as he forced a massive stein into Bishop's hand. The young man turned, raising his own glass, "To Bishop!"
Bishop smiled slightly, taking a small sip of beer after toasting the room. The stein was a creative piece of art - crafted from the sheet metal of one of the very first Vipers to ever serve aboard the Cathedral. The aviator who held it in his or her possession always was the recipient of approving nods and smirks around the ship and her varying ports of call.
The buzz died slowly, with many coming up to share a drink with the CAG and the pilots. Bishop was happy to see his aviators mingling with other members of the crew. He knew it wasn't always the case. On many other Battlestars, the pilots often hung out by themselves. While this was mostly true on the Cathedral, Bishop tried to remind the men and women under his charge that the primary function of the Battlestar - launching and retrieving strike fighters and other aircraft - was supported by an entire network of men and women aboard. If one portion of the finely tuned machine failed, the entire operation consequently failed. Bullets simply did not load themselves into the Vipers, and food did not magically appear on its own. Spare parts did not machine themselves.
The CAG drank slowly, accepting the handshakes and back slaps. Although his victory felt hollow to him, he allowed the cavorting to continue. A small part of him reminded him that such opportunities were limited in the times they bore witness to. His guilt silently ate at him as he watched his friends smile and converse with each other. They deserved better than their lot - even though they had signed up to serve with a clear conscience.
He smiled at Landry, who looked at him with a mixed expression of caring and admiration. He resolved, if nothing else, to attempt to give the people gathered around him another chance. Whatever their chance would lead to, Bishop couldn't fathom. But they deserved at least one more.
"Repairs are going as steadily as they can," van Buuren sighed. "Simply put, sir, there's just some things that are going to need dry dock to fix."
The air inside the conference room was almost difficult to breathe. Heat and humidity weighed heavily on the wool uniforms the senior staff wore. Weissbach sat at the head of the table, his top buttons undone on his jacket.
"We obviously can't retire and jump to dock," the Commander sighed. "That would leave only one Battlestar not committed to orbital defense. Commander Dillon, what's the status of the Common?"
Dillon looked as though he hadn't slept in days, "Honestly, it's pretty shitty. We've got a lot of the same problems. The crew is pushing through, but they're tired. As am I. And I daresay, the crew here as well."
"I have to agree, sir," Morrow said in a low voice, his face glowing with perspiration. "The crew is performing admirably, sir. But -"
"But this war has dragged on for long enough, and we're sick and tired of it," Weissbach finished. Silence fell heavily in the room. Broad shoulders sagged around the table as hardened, narrowed eyes stared downward.
"Let's not bullshit," the Commander continued. "If any one of us knew a way to end the war tomorrow, we would do it without a second thought. But I don't know. And none of you do, either. Hell, Admiral Schaeffer himself is fresh out of ideas, if I may say so myself."
Bishop swallowed somewhat hard. To hear the Commander speak of Schaeffer in such a way unnerved him slightly.
"If we're going to break this endless cycle of action and reaction, it's going to take something different. Gentlemen, I want to know who our enemy is. What are they thinking? What is their motivation?"
"Sir," van Buuren spoke, "The way you ask those questions almost imply that the Cylons are...well, personified."
"Indeed," Weissbach nodded. He glanced about the table as he wiped his brow. "Is it so hard to fathom? Their intelligence? We created them. Someone, something is calling the shots. They aren't simply a collection of machines programmed to kill. Sure, the chrome jobs and Raiders might be, but who over there is programming? Gods damn it, something is making them fight us. Major Mason, would you venture to guess that the Raiders are evolving?"
Bishop blinked and thought for a moment, "Evolving would be an accurate word, sir. If they didn't evolve - if they didn't learn - it would be easy for us to kill them. They would approach each tactical situation with the same strategy. I don't think it's a question of their intelligence, sir."
"Go on," the Commander cradled his chin in his hand.
"It's an over-simplification to simply look at the Cylons as a collection of spare parts programmed to kill," Bishop said, standing. His duty uniform was absolutely stifling in the hot room. He loosened the top button as he continued, "Like or not, they're an intelligent race. We're no longer alone in the universe. It's a concept that I struggle with, as I imagine a lot of you do, as well."
"It's something we all know, Major," Dillon nodded grimly. "Difficult, as you say, but a fact that we've known nonetheless for years. What do you suggest we do?"
"I trust that your question isn't Machiavellian in nature, sir," Bishop replied quietly.
"Certainly not," Dillon massaged his temples. "We're all out of ideas."
"As am I, unfortunately," the CAG relented. "I just can't help but think that there's a group - perhaps similar to the one we're in now - making decisions, calling shots, whatever. There has to be a command structure. And it would probably make us all lose more than a little sleep should we come to discover it, and how similar it probably is to our own."
"I think we already are losing enough sleep, Bishop," Weissbach cracked. Quiet snorts were heard around the table. The Commander looked up at the senior staff, "The young man's right, of course."
Sighs of frustration were scattered around the table as the tired minds attempted to make sense of the plight. Bishop folded his arms, leaning against a bulkhead. His gaze bored holes into the decking, mirroring the frustration shared by all.
Of course their system would be redundant, Mason thought to himself. Angel and I take out a major command ship, and that pokes their eye for maybe a day or two, but to think that it would be the deciding factor...Scott, you idiot...
"Action stations! Action Stations! Set Condition One throughout the ship! This is not a drill! Action stations!"
The gathering of officers stood immediately, sprinting for the door.
"Raider squadron closing! Mark two-seven-three, Carem three-four-one, range twenty five, CBDR!"
Bishop arrived on the flight deck in time to see the Demons launch out of the tubes. He nodded to himself, knowing the Eighth and the Fourth were now in the airspace dealing with the threat. He made way to his Viper, zipping up his flight suit and donning the flak jacket as he jogged.
He leaped up the ladder much the same way Wire had done on his second day on the ship - barely touching the rungs and landing quickly into the ejection seat. He strapped himself in as he ran through start-ups.
"-coming about-"
"-on your six, Hallsey - your six!"
"-frakkin' beautiful shot!"
"Aria, Pogey - they're cuttin' out!"
Mason smiled slightly before keying his wireless, "Pogey, Bishop, pursue and destroy what you can, then get home - break - Gypsy, Bishop, Viper Tac."
"Bishop, Gypsy, go ahead sir."
"Gypsy, I need the fourth to assume CAP duties for the Eighth. They'll be bingo by the time they're done," Bishop ordered quietly, knowing that the Fourth would now be loosing out on perhaps half an hour's rest. However, to land the Fourth only to re-launch them minutes later would be terribly inefficient. He also knew that the Eighth would be exhausted on fuel, ammo, and pilots, having drawn the long CAP.
"Understood, sir," Gypsy replied, her voice nonchalant.
"Roger. You'll have the Vigilantes on alert three," Bishop replied, slowly powering his Viper down and unstrapping himself.
"Bishop, Pogey, they've jumped away."
"Roger that, Pogey, let's get the Aces on the deck," said the CAG before switching off the auxiliary power on his Viper. He clambered down, rubbing his face violently to keep himself awake. Just have to make it to my bunk...
Forty-three minutes later
"Action stations! Condition One throughout the ship - all hands! Action stations!"
Bishop's eyes snapped open as the red emergency lighting flooded the stifling hot bunk room. He rolled out of bed, yanking the door open with force, his heart pounding.
"What's going on?" Angel yelled, meeting him at a corridor intersection and falling in step with the sprinting CAG.
"I was hoping you could tell me!" Bishop smirked.
"Nobody ever tells me anything!"
Mirroring his actions he took forty-three minutes prior, Bishop jumped up and landed in his seat with speed. He crammed his helmet on his head quickly, flipping the power on.
"-roger, tally two squadrons! Where the-"
"-breaking low-high! Split and scatter, guys!"
"Let's move guys! Get me out there!" Bishop barked over the side of his Viper. Knuckle draggers scrambled, hooking up the Third's Vipers and pushing them with haste to the launch tubes.
Bishop keyed up, "Gypsy, Bishop, what do you got?"
"It could be worse, sir!" Gypsy's voice replied. "Two squadrons - contact in ten seconds!"
"We're on our way," the CAG replied coolly, saluting his shooter. Five seconds later, he was launched into the fray.
Bishop's mind snapped a quick picture. Just as someone had aired on the wireless, two Raider squadrons were hauling ass toward the wounded Cathedral and Common, splitting their paths of attack low and high to the nose of the Cathedral.
van Buuren's voice cut over the wireless, "Bishop, Cathedral actual."
"Go, sir," the CAG replied.
"Let's bring 'em in close, we'll open up the net and rig some close-detonating heavy shells for you - think you can clean up the rest?"
Bishop shrugged to himself, "I don't see why not, sir."
"Roger, standby."
"Okay, people, you all heard it, the net's going to be delayed slightly, but it'll be fast and loud, wait for the stragglers and pick 'em off. No need to get salty here," Bishop said, easing his Viper over the top side of the Cathedral. Below him, the massive ship-to-ship guns rattled out of their beds, pointing their barrels forward.
Double-clicks across the wireless acknowledged the orders as the Demons and Vigilantes lined up aft of the bow of the Cathedral, taking a noncommittal stance.
Bishop pondered momentarily on the fact that his people were being remarkably calm in the face of two Raider squadrons. He wondered if perhaps they, as a group, were growing slightly complacent - having taken on so much more than their present challenge and emerged unscathed. He feared this perhaps more than anything. Complacency was an attitude that got pilots killed.
The guns opened up with fury - momentarily filling the inky blackness of the space around them with fiery orange-yellow light of the muzzle flashes - each the size of a Viper.
"Wait for it..." Bishop said slowly.
The Raiders had fired their first salvo of missiles just prior to the responding salute from the Cathedral and Common. The Colonial shells burst open in front of the massive ships - intercepting the missiles perfectly. The follow-up shells burst through the defensive net and detonated promptly - sending shock waves across the respective bows of the ships and rattling the fighters around them.
The Raiders had little time to react. Their tight formations were scrambled like an egg in a matter of seconds. The Third and Fourth didn't give them a chance to reorganize.
"Nice," Angel's voice came over the wireless. Bishop glanced over to see the Third's captain loose a missile that punched completely through the center of a Raider before detonating.
Bishop slammed his throttle forward with the rest of his pilots, picking out his target.
"Actual, Bishop, looks like that actually worked out," Bishop reported as he fired quick bursts at the retreating Raiders.
"Despite popular belief, I still can come up with some good ideas," van Buuren's voice had a hint of a smile in it.
"Roger that, sir. We're pursuing."
"Carry on, Major."
As they had done countless times before, the Raiders began an unorganized and hasty retreat in the form of quick FTL jumps. Bishop disengaged his pursuit, slowing his Viper and allowing his course to drift slightly.
"Cathedral, Bishop, Raiders are out of here," Bishop sighed, resting his head against his ejection seat.
"Cathedral copies, Bishop."
"Gypsy, Bishop," the CAG spoke next over Viper Tac.
"Bishop, Gypsy."
"Get home, Fourth, get some rest."
"Don't have to tell us twice, sir."
Bishop nodded to Gypsy as the older pilot flew by. Gypsy nodded in return, thanking the CAG silently for letting the squadron go home a few minutes early.
"Alright, Third, you heard that, hope everyone used the head before they joined the party..." Angel cracked.
"I didn't. Son of a bitch."
"Your loss."
"Oh you shut up-"
Bishop smirked slightly at the banter. At least the pilots hadn't descended to the point of losing their sense of humor. The CAG almost shuddered to think about what it would take to do that.
"-cause you don't know where it is."
"You couldn't find your ass with both hands and a map!"
"-wait a minute-"
Bishop glanced down at his dradis as the last phrase sounded over the wireless. Blips appeared suddenly.
He glanced up through his windscreen, his heart skipping a beat.
"Cathedral, Bishop! Dradis contact! Mark a baker's dozen! CBDR!"
"Bishop Cathedral we see them!"
"Show some hustle, people - get after them!" Bishop ordered over the wireless, horsing his Viper around, pointing his nose at the twelve or so Cylons who had arrived in his airspace uninvited.
"What the hell is going on? We just dealt with these bastards!" Angel snarled over the wireless.
"I have no idea," replied Bishop, the rail of the Cathedral speeding by his port window. "We don't even know if these guys are the same ones."
Torro, clearly the one who had not hit the head before hopping in his Viper, lead the pack. He opened up with a withering burst of fire, which was not well-received. Fire was returned, scoring a direct hit on Torro's dorsal fin.
"Torro!"
The Viper containing the brash, dark-skinned pilot spiraled quickly to the left, hitting the side of the Cathedral with force. Mercifully, it bounced off the meter-thick metal of the outer hull, gyrating wildly into open space.
"Keep after them, Angel, I'll go for Torro!" Bishop screamed over the wireless, instantly altering course.
"I got him, Bishop! He's my pilot!"
"He's mine, too, Angel, keep us alive!"
Bishop glanced over his shoulder, seeing Angel peel off the pursuing course of Torro and back into the engagement. The CAG whipped his head back to the front.
"Torro! Get control! Get control, Torro!" he pleaded, hoping Torro was still alive to hear him.
"That hurt," the young lieutenant managed to groan over the wireless. Bishop saw him fire his thrusters sequentially, stopping the violent roll of his nimble craft and righting it.
"You ok, Torro?" Bishop asked as he came quickly upon his pilot. He swung wide around the wounded Viper, looking intently down into the cockpit as he did so.
"I'm banged up pretty good, boss, and my bird is pretty bent," replied Torro through gritted teeth. Bishop didn't need to ask for an explanation. He knew the young man was hurt badly. "I can get home, I think."
"Get outta here," Bishop promptly ordered. "You did a good job, Torro - break, Cathedral, Bishop - got a bent bird and her driver coming in, request priority land."
"Bishop, Cathedral air, we copy all - Torro, deck is yours, get back here!"
"Sorry I gotta duck out, boss," Torro said as he nosed his Viper around toward home, increasing his speed as he did so.
"Don't worry about it, we'll cover you, you really frakked them up good," Bishop nodded, flying past Torro once more. He breathed a quiet sigh as he saw Torro flash him a thumbs-up as he passed.
"You frakkin toaster headed, clanker assed, oil-blooded, shit-frakking-poor excuse for a machine, get the frak back here!" bellowed Angel over Viper tac as he gave hot pursuit to one of the Raiders who had broken away from the squadron. The young Caprican had always demonstrated a gift for colorful, profane language. Bishop watched in amazement as Angel literally sideswiped the Cylon with his own Viper, shearing off the sleek, domed head of the Raider with his own fuselage. The Raider spiraled away, blowing sparks and some foul-looking frozen trail of smoke.
"Guess you showed him, Angel," Bishop almost had to laugh.
"No one fraks with my pilots! No one!" snarled the Caprican, his voice dripping with accent. Bishop was taken aback. Angel was showing a fire known to only a few people - Bishop being one of them. Underneath a relatively calm demeanor laid a fiercely protective, and emotional, soul. Torro was a good friend of Angel's and Bishop's, to see him injured in action had sent Angel off the deep end.
Scattered flashes of light popped like a dozen camera flashes as the Raiders began to jump away. One unfortunate machine didn't make the jump, instead colliding headlong with a defensive flack shell launched a second prior by the Cathedral.
"What the frak are they doing," Bishop whispered to himself. "Ah, Cathedral, Bishop, Raiders are headed out...um, again."
"Roger, Bishop, we see it, too."
"Any ideas, Cathedral?"
"Bishop, Cathedral actual," van Buuren's voice came over the wireless again. "As soon as we know what to make of it, we'll let you know, but for right now we don't have the first damned clue, either. Keep sharp out there, son."
"Aye, sir," Bishop acknowledged, rolling his eyes slightly. Of course they would keep sharp.
"Frakkin' Cylons. I'll kill 'em all. Every last one of the sonsabitches, I swear to every single one of the gods above," Angel muttered darkly as he formed up next to Bishop.
"Go easy, there, Angel," Bishop smirked, glancing to his right, seeing Angel shaking his head violently back and forth.
"First Airgun, now Torro's down for the count. When's it going to end?" Angel sighed, mostly to himself.
"We'll be ok, Angel," a pilot named Jess "Aphrodite" Henderson replied as she swung wide around the engagement zone, her head swiveling, looking for Cylons.
"Aphro's right," Bishop nodded, using the pilot's abbreviated callsign. "Just keep cool, keep steady. Everyone take a second, I want damage assessments and ammo count..."
Thirty-seven minutes later
"-complete lack of coordination."
"Random, you mean. Most un-Cylon."
"Look, people, it's possible, let's not discount it-" Bishop wished again he could rub his eyes through his helmet. The chatter had been speculating on how and why two engagements had happened in such a short span of time.
"Dradis contact! Cylon Raiders! Bearing one-one-five, carem nine-six-one, mark ten. Ten bandits - inbound CBDR!"
Bishop's heart skipped a beat as he confirmed the contacts on his dradis. What the frak is going on?
"Move, people, ricky-tick!" the CAG barked unnecessarily as the Third slammed their throttles down in unison, speeding toward the new threat.
"Bishop, what is this shit?!" Angel asked. "This is something new!"
"I don't know," he retorted, spewing bursts of fire from his guns. "At all. I'm out of ideas!"
"On your six, Bishop!"
Bishop wheeled around, annoyed that a Cylon had taken residence up behind him. He juked deftly, making a direct line of fire difficult. The machine fired, nonetheless, spraying bullets wide.
"Oh I know you didn't just do that," Bishop muttered to himself, snapping a hard six and pulling up hard, effectively reversing his direction of travel and changing it ninety degrees in less time than it took for his heart to beat.
The Cylon overshot slightly before snapping the larger craft around, appearing almost angry that the human pilot had temporarily bested it. The machine quickly and efficiently scanned the space forward of it, looking for the target it had acquired and determined to be tactically vulnerable.
The target was gone. The Raider instantly performed over three thousand calculations of possible trajectories according to logical human reactions, learned behavior, and programmed limits of space flight. The options were numerous. The Raider chose one. It was wrong.
"Behind you," Bishop whispered to himself before pulling the trigger on his joystick, filling the enemy craft with bullet holes with a vengeful, three-second burst.
The CAG shrugged almost casually, "Seventy-one."
"Oh horse shit!" Angel yelled over tac. "That one was a gimmie!"
"Still counts," Bishop smirked. The smirk didn't last long, as his deeply blue eyes scanned the airspace, watching the scattered Raiders make a hasty retreat.
"Cathedral, Bishop, they're outta here again," sighed the CAG as small flashes of light filled the airspace.
"Bishop, Cathedral actual," this time Weissbach's voice rang over the wireless. "We see it. Status on your pilots?"
"We're all okay, for the most part, sir," Bishop replied, peering intently out of his cockpit, counting the number of Vipers scattered around the Cathedral and Fairwood Common. "What's the status on Torro, sir?"
"He's in sick bay getting worked on - he's banged up, but he'll be okay," Weissbach replied.
"Acknowledged, sir, thank you," Bishop sighed deeply, glancing to his right where Angel had pulled up beside him. The sweating face of his wingman smiled grimly, nodding. "The Third's going to be low on gas, sir."
"And you're overdue back, Major."
Bishop glanced quickly at his watch. The Commander was right. He, and the Third, had been out twenty minutes past what was called "pumpkin time" - or in plain language, the predetermined time when a combination of pilot fatigue, equipment maintenance, and fuel dictated the need to land and take mandatory rest time.
"Copy, sir, we're on our way - break with Actual, Cathedral air, Viper Zero-One, Bishop," the CAG sighed, feeling fatigue wash over him.
"Air boss, go ahead, sir."
"Who the hell do we have up?"
"Primus is in the tubes, sir," the air boss replied. Bishop could only immagine the chaos in air traffic at the moment. The CAG assumed, correctly, that the air boss, a grizzled old Warrant Officer named Jeffery Coffin, was chain-smoking cigarrettes and guzzling coffee by the gallon just to keep an even keel. "Waiting on your go, sir."
"Send 'em, Third's coming in, and so am I, thank the gods," Bishop said, swinging wide behind the loose formation of the Third. The landing pod yawned before them.
"Roger that, sir, maintain current vector, speed is yours, checkers are red, niner for land, good frakkin' job out there."
"Roger speed and course, and good frakkin' job to you and your boys and girls."
Twenty-nine minutes later
"Action stations! Action stations! Condition one throughout the ship - this is not a drill! Action stations!"
Bishop awoke with a start, having fallen asleep in his cockpit. He recalled landing his Viper, the elevator ride down to the hanger deck, the tow to his parking spot, and signing off on post-flight. Sixteen minutes had passed.
"What the frak?" he asked rubbing his eyes quickly, flipping the wireless on.
"-again! Is that a Basestar?!"
"Cathedral, Bear - enemy Basetar just jumped in! Ooooooh frak!"
"Bear, actual, we see it!"
"Where the hell is the Fourth?!" screamed Bishop over the din in the hanger bay. He jumped down directly from the edge of his Viper, landing awkwardly.
"They're on their way, sir!" Neilson roared back, his face covered in soot and grime. He looked exhausted. "Just threw them in the tubes!"
"What about the Eighth?" pressed the CAG, looking around wildly for any available pilots on the hanger deck.
"Fueling now - four minutes, sir!"
"Neilson, I need as many birds in the air as we can get! Anything that flies, get it fueled and ready!" Bishop barked as he ran for a communications phone.
"I gotta ask the deck boss, sir!" Neilson pleaded.
"I just made you deck boss, get on it, I don't care what it takes!" the Major yelled over the deep booms of the Cathedral's opening salvo. He punched in a quick extension.
"Senior officers - Emory!"
"Garrett, are you listening to this?" Bishop pressed the phone into his ear forcefully, covering his other ear with his hand.
"Yeah, we're definitely frakked again."
"Get anyone you can and get down here, Angel, we need to get going!
"Bishop, I don't know how effective we're gonna be. Hell, you've hardly slept in a day!"
"Grab some coffee and stims on your way, then!" Bishop yelled before slamming the phone back down. He sprinted back to his Viper, ignoring the protests from his aching muscles as he climbed the ladder back up to his cockpit.
He landed rather ungracefully in his ejection seat. Looking quickly around, he was momentarily taken aback. The exhausted, haggard looks on the faces of the people running about on the deck troubled him. The young men and women - many of them younger than Bishop himself - hustled to load missiles, bullets, and fuel into Vipers. All of their faces told a story of exhaustion. The on-and-off engagements with the Cylons had now stretched into its twentieth hour. And, as every person aboard the Cathedral knew, it was hard to sleep through condition one alerts.
Pilots began jogging onto the hanger deck, their hair askew and their eyes blurry. Angel awkwardly trotted up to Bishop's Viper as the opening salvo from the Basestar impacted the Cathedral. He was trying vainly to zip up his flight suit while carrying two spill proof coffee cups and a handful of stims.
"Let me guess, we're all about to die," Angel said sardonically as he leaped up the ladder on Bishop's Viper, handing him a couple of stimulation pills and a cup.
"Pretty much, yeah," Bishop took the stims, chewing them quickly. They tasted bitter and metallic. He grabbed the coffee, guzzling the scalding liquid as quickly as he could. "Let's get to it, then."
"Right," the young Captain nodded to the CAG, smirking slightly. He jumped from the ladder, running quickly towards his Viper, downing coffee as he ran.
Bishop turned his attention back, going through pre-flight for what felt like the millionth time that day.
"-salvo coming in - watch it!"
"-watch yourself! Squad at point oh-six!"
"-where?!"
"-with me, Factor?!"
The stims didn't take long to kick in. Bishop felt his veins dilating. The stims had flooded the adenosine receptors in his brain - telling his adrenal glands to produce more adrenaline. His heart rate increased as a response. His internal temperature began to climb in response to the heat being released from increased blood flow around his skin. His fingers began to tingle slightly. His breathing quickened, his blood demanding more oxygen as it rushed through his body. The young CAG instantly felt more awake and more alert. However, it was artificial. A chemical substitute for the natural adrenaline he preferred. It was hampered by the fact that he knew exactly what the stims were doing to him. All of this was on his mind as he launched out of the tube again, back into the fray.
The scene of furious fighting played itself out in a masterful display of chaos once again as the side rail of the Cathedral disappeared behind Bishop. Tracer rounds spat across the sky, adding thousands of bright specks to the already countless stars. Explosions fueled by the very oxygen and fuel carried by the combatants lit the scene about every thirty seconds or so - all of which was being illuminated by the rounds of the two capital ships exchanging furious ship-to-ship rounds. The heavy shells exploded on the defensive flak nets around the perpetually dancing and circling ships.
"Common, Cathedral, can you get an angle?"
"Working in it, Wiessbach! Give us three minutes!"
Bishop glanced to his side, seeing the heavily damaged cruiser take a wide circle around the engagement. Pieces of the Common's hull peeled off the outside of the ship as she absorbed strafing punishment from the superior force of Cylon Raiders.
CDF Heavy Cruiser Fairwood Common CIC
"Decks seven, nine, ten, and eleven venting, sir!"
"Fire, fire, fire on gun deck! Fire, fire, fire on weather deck all hands lend assistance!"
Commander Dillon scowled mightily, taking a long drag on his cigar. The aromatic tobacco smoke floated lazily around him, mixing with the slight haze generated by electrical systems shorting out. Sparks flew across the CIC.
"Commander! Engineering reports critical failure in engines one and two! Tyllium reactor at redline!"
"Fire control, automated salvo fire - launch all remaining missiles with spread target package! I want the forward batteries spitting with all we've got!" the Commander growled.
The heavy cruiser lurched again, a haunting moan echoing around the ship as the superstructure flexed well beyond its designed load.
"Casualties reported all decks!"
Dillon sighed deeply, staring at the CIC deck under his booted feet momentarily. He stuck his cigar firmly between his teeth.
"Helm, make your course zero-three-three degrees, ahead flank. Sound collision alarm. Mr. Williams," Dillon turned to his executive officer, a young Major. "All hands will abandon ship and make for the Cathedral."
Alarms blared and blue strobes flashed as the collision alarm was sounded.
Williams quickly gave the order, "All hands, all hands abandon ship. All hands abandon ship and evacuate to the Cathedral - this is the XO."
"Sir, I do hope you will be joining us on the Cathedral," Williams said quietly.
"Absolutely not, son," Dillon smirked.
"Request permission to stay aboard, sir," Williams asked, drawing himself up and setting his jaw.
"You will do no such thing," Dillon growled. "You will lead the crew over to the Cathedral and see to their safety."
"Commander, I must -"
"Get on it!" barked Dillon, his eyes flashing.
"Aye, sir," Williams relented, staring at the deck. He paused momentarily before whispering, "Thank you, sir."
"Don't thank me just yet, this isn't over, son."
"Bishop - look! The Common!" Angel bellowed over Viper tac.
Bishop's mouth opened in horror as the mortally wounded Fairwood Common fired her two remaining engines, making a hard run toward the Basestar. Even the uninitiated eye knew what this meant.
"Cathedral, Bishop, priority traffic! The Common's making a run at the Basestar!"
"Let her go, Bishop."
The simple reply laced Bishop's guts in acid. The heavy cruiser, which had stuck with them loyally through the first engagement Bishop had gone through with the Cathedral, was now literally disintegrating before his eyes. Dillon was making a final run toward the Basestar, attempting to save the Cathedral, and his crew. Escape pods launched haphazardly from all around the ship.
"Good luck, sir," Bishop whispered. Explosions violently rocked the cruiser, tossing it about. However, its determined trajectory towards the ship who finally killed her remained true.
Until the Basestar jumped. The Cylon capital ship waited until the Common was danger close before making an abrupt and violent jump. The force of the jump was enough to toss the Raiders attempting to land across the sky in chaotic fashion. The Fairwood Common wasn't as lucky. The pull of the FTL jump on the bow of the cruiser ripped it from its stern with acute and brute force.
Debris scattered across the sky as the main structural supports finally failed. What was left of the solid portions of the ship were alight with raging flames as the oxygenated atmosphere burned away. In the course of three minutes, the proud and mighty form of the Fairwood Common was reduced to flaming hulks of twisted metal.
Bishop's jaw quivered as he looked on. He tried to keep himself from shaking. He knew the loss of human life aboard the Common would be in the hundreds - even with the numerous escape pods launching away. However, it was the futility that felt like an ice-cold metal spike through his very heart. Commander Dillon had made the ultimate sacrifice - pointing his ship toward the Basestar with every intention of ramming it into oblivion. The Cylon ship, however, had displayed a very human emotion. Cowardice. It had indeed sensed the impending impact, and in the interest of machine-logical self-preservation, it had jumped away, leaving dozens of Raiders behind to be picked away by the Cathedral and her air group. The Common's sacrifice was for absolutely nothing.
"NO!" Angel screamed over Viper Tac. "NO! YOU FRAKKING SONS OF BITCHES! NO!"
"-FRAKKIN' COWARDS! YOU FRAKKING-"
"Oh, gods no! No!"
"Pull it together, guys!" Bishop barked, trying to hide his own rage. "I want coverage on those escape pods! Right the frak now! Nothing gets through, I don't give a frak what it takes!"
"Aye, sir!"
Vipers began forming up. Bishop knew that he needed to give the pilots an assignment, lest their rage would get the better of them. Better to allow focused anger, than to try and quell it. The CAG didn't blame them. He felt the fury burning inside of him as he also pointed his Viper towards the scattered escape pods, pushing the fighter as fast as it would go. The air group quickly formed up, re-focusing their objective. The Vipers formed a protective line around the unarmed pods - almost like a collection of she-wolves over their collected cubs, daring anyone to take a shot. If Cylons could process fear, they certainly would have felt it.
But they didn't. They knew only machine-perfect logic. Logic dictated to retire from the engagement - facing down several squadrons of Vipers and a Battlestar proved to be a numerical disadvantage. The Raiders began a hasty retreat.
"Gypsy, Bishop - get after them!" Bishop snarled on the wireless. He wished he could go chase them personally. Fuel, fatigue, and ammunition said otherwise.
"With pleasure, sir!" Gypsy replied in a low, dangerous voice. He, and the rest of the Red Aces broke away from their defensive positions around the pods and pursued the Cylons vengefully.
"Bishop, Cathedral actual," Weissbach's tired voice sounded off in Bishop's ear.
"Bishop, go ahead sir," the CAG replied promptly, his voice still icy.
"As soon as those pods are aboard, I need all those birds back in the nest as fast as you can land them."
Bishop was confused slightly, "But, sir, we have these Raiders on the run - I was about to send the Fourth after them as well."
"No time, Major. We've got a bigger problem. Priority one distress signal from a Colony."
"...which one?" Bishop asked slowly.
Static and silence answered Bishop momentarily before Weissbach spoke, "It's Tauron, Bishop. The Morado has been destroyed. Three Basestars, at least, and no CDF forces in the area. Tauron is under seige."
Bishop's face turned as white as a cloud. He turned slowly, making eye contact with Angel, who's face also displayed a story of shock and horror. His friend spoke, snapping the CAG out of his terrified trance.
"Let's go."