Chapter Eleven

Other than a vague and inconclusive correlation that he could make with the Clavis, it really didn't make sense in any way that he could explain it to the Earthlings. Or to himself, for that matter . . . which right now was good enough for Starbuck.

The Wraith which had barely held together after taking a hit from a Cylon Raider was now seemingly intact, not a malfunction on record as Starbuck check his ship for the third time straight. According to the flight recorder she was a hundred percent, from nose to thrusters. The previously blistered and fractured fuselage appeared as good as the day she came off the assembly line . . . if that was how they built them on the Espridian planet. Colonel Katko and Jess Dayton were waiting for an explanation, and he really didn't have one to offer them. It made him a little nervous, knowing how volatile these Earthlings could be. If he acted nonchalant about it, would they try to burn him at the stake? If he didn't, would they waste more valuable time quibbling about it?

"Well?" Jess asked again as he climbed down from the cockpit. "Anything?"

"She's regenerated," Starbuck said, deciding after being thoroughly decontaminated inside and out, that further cleansing through burning would be entirely redundant, at least from his point of view. His shiny white uniform—courtesy of Baltar, no doubt—would attest to as much. "Good as new."

"This is normal with your ships?" Katko asked incredulously, climbing the Wraith to peek inside the cockpit, now that he was out of it. "Self-repairing to this extent?"

"No," he shook his head, rubbing the cloth of his tunic that covered the tingling scar on his chest. Meanwhile, a military vehicle raced down the runway towards them. "But it's one Hades of an idea. I'll have to pitch it to the Fleet Commander next time I see him."

"How do you explain . . .?" Katko pressed him.

"I can't."

"But you must . . ."

"Why?"

"There must be explanation . . ."

"Well, someone smarter than me will have to find it then," Starbuck shrugged insouciantly.

"Form a line on me," Baltar said with a smile.

Starbuck raised an eyebrow at him before turning away to look off across the blackness of the steppes. Drawn to the quiet and the solitude, he began slowly walking away, leaving Katko, Jess and everyone else behind for a few centons of precious peace. He could sense the WASA director's gaze on him. Needing a quiet moment, he bowed his head slightly, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples lightly. His lips quirked slightly, as he realized she would probably think he was praying again. If it awarded him a moment's peace, it would be worth the ruse. The warm wind blew gently through his hair as the cry of a bird pierced the darkness. Again, his gaze swept out over the darkness. It was so like his home world, yet so . . . so different. It looked so deceptively peaceful. A deadly calm. There were billions of people out there who had no idea that a deadly squadron of Cylons was Earthbound right now, intent on completing the annihilation of the human race.

"It's a desolate place, but with a strange beauty all its own," Baltar said beside him. "Rather compelling, is it not?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it is," Starbuck murmured quietly.

"It reminds me . . . reminds me of the Ossian Prairie, back on Piscon," the ascended man said slowly. "I played there often as a boy." Baltar's voice shuddered with sadness and yearning.

"You miss it."

"More than you know, Starbuck. More than I can find words to say."

Starbuck drew in another deep breath of fresh air, nodding. He glanced at the former traitor, finally having the opportunity to ask a question that had been bothering him since the guardian weevil had suddenly appeared. "What happened on Morlais, Baltar?"

Baltar looked at him in surprise.

"Llewelyn, Glynn, Eirys, Caradoc, the Oculus . . . what happened? I mean really happened?"

Baltar was silent for a long moment, before responding. "It is said in Morlais that when Count Iblis disappeared, he left his mark. The Oculus was already a revered icon, but its power and importance became legendary, Starbuck. Perhaps we were naïve, living in a society where spiritual values and wisdom, altruism, benevolence and kindness dominated, but it never occurred to us that a fellow Angylion would try to steal it." He sighed again. "Treason is not unique to mankind, my young friend."

"Someone stole the Oculus?" Starbuck echoed.

Baltar's silence spoke volumes.

"What about Eirys? She was the Keeper of the Oculus. What happened to her?"

"Yes. She was the Keeper of the Oculus. She was also my wife, Starbuck," Baltar replied sombrely.

Their sealing didn't surprise him. Eirys and Baltar had looked dang cozy when she had used the Oculus to cross dimensions one last time to the Endeavour's brig to take him back to Morlais. Admittedly, the strike captain of the Covert Operations Ship had been torn as whether to let a man who had betrayed the Twelve Colonies of Man have a complete chance at redemption in another dimension, instead of rotting in a prison cell for the rest of his natural life. At times Starbuck still had a hard time reconciling himself to the fact that he had let them go. Then again, if Baltar was standing here beside him as a Being of Light, perhaps he had made the right decision after all.

"Was," Starbuck repeated, noting the tense. "Go on."

"In an ironic twist of events, General Caradoc turned against us, Starbuck."

Caradoc had been Baltar's "doublewalker"—his twin spirit—in that other dimension. The general had been faithful and devoted to Eirys in every way when the Colonials had visited Morlais. For him to flip . . .

"Caradoc?" Starbuck said in disbelief. "But . . ."

"Jealousy is a powerful motivator."

"Ah . . ." he realized. Both Baltar and his doublewalker had loved the same woman.

"But I believe that somehow Count Iblis planted that seed. He introduced an evil that had never touched the Angylions before, in all their collective memory. Even as the rest of society continued to spiritually grow and develop, there was a secret segment led by Caradoc that devolved, that seemed to embrace jealousy, umbrage, arrogance, egotism, characteristics that simply weren't Angylion."

"Uh, no offence, Baltar, but that sounds like . . ."

"Yes, like me. I know."

"Are you saying that when Eirys took you back to Morlais, something . . ." He didn't really know how to voice it.

"A natural balance in the universe was interrupted, Starbuck. Two doublewalkers existing concurrently on the same spiritual plain for yahrens on end, it was never meant to be. There was a shift in the order of the universe, not that I claim to fully understand it."

"I'm not sure I get it either. I mean, Caradoc was so honourable . . ."

"Yes. But the very same general who would have once sacrificed anything for Eirys and Morlais, killed her to take the Oculus."

"Where were you?"

"Caradoc was a warrior in the truest sense of the word, Starbuck. I was no physical or martial match for him. My greatest personal failure is that I could not even defend my wife, the light of her people and . . . my joy." He closed his eyes briefly in grief.

"Sagan's sake, Baltar . . ." Starbuck murmured, feeling guilty at his treatment of the Being of Light. How quickly he had forgotten all the good Baltar had done while they were in Morlais and the reasons he had let the man go free. Forgiveness didn't appear to come naturally to him. "I don't know what to say . . ."

Baltar sniffed wryly, opening his eyes and smiling at the warrior. "Another imbalance in the universe, Starbuck?"

"Eirys was a fine woman, Baltar."

"The finest."

"Then Count Iblis . . ."

Baltar nodded. "His influence was felt even beyond his confinement. Even in his prison he did not cease nor rest from evil. His vile, diseased will seeped out to find footholds and willing tools everywhere. And the Oculus, the one thing that could free him and give him omnipotence even beyond the restrictions placed upon him by our kind, will soon be within his grasp."

Starbuck let out a ragged breath. "Oh, great! The entire universe hangs in the balance, and I'm right in the centre of it."

"You always did like to be the centre of attention." Baltar smiled. "But then I understand from Ama that when the Empyreans first found you on their planet that they referred to you as their Saviour. That there was a part of an ancient prophecy by the Great Kaula that said 'he will unite us and make us strong'. I'm sure you can see the relevance in that to uniting all of humanity now."

It had taken Starbuck sectars for his fellow warriors to stop ribbing him about him being some kind of Empyrean 'saviour' when their people had first joined the Fleet. He moved to face Baltar, before restraining the urge and again looking out over the steppes. "I'm only going to say this once, Baltar I'm just a warrior, not any kind of saviour. I'm here because of duty, not destiny. I reckon that you can find relevance in most scripture and prophecy if you search long and hard enough and really want to find it. As far as I'm concerned, it's all just a lot of mumbo jumbo."

"Is it?" the Being of Light smiled. "Humility is a great virtue, and admittedly, one that I never really associated with you until now."

"I try to tone it down; it wreaks havoc on my reputation," Starbuck replied, falling back on levity, knowing it would effectively end the discussion. "Anything else you want to spring on me?"

"I believe that will suffice for now."

Starbuck rubbed his eyes, guessing it must have been almost thirty-six centars since he'd had a decent sleep. He didn't include the drug-induced coma they had put him into. Jess had tried to pump him full of consumables and had recovered his pressure suit and uniform, attempting to make up for his previous treatment. Truth be known, he'd barely touched the Earth food, eating more to keep up his energy than because of hunger. Far behind him, Russians were muttering to each other in their own language as they discussed the Wraith. Lords, there had to be a couple dozen pilots ogling the recon ship. He didn't know whether to crow with pride or to tell them to get their paws off his bird. He did neither as Jess nudged him.

"Are you finished your prayers?" she asked hesitantly.

"Prayers? Uh . . . yeah. For now, anyhow."

"You're very devout, aren't you?" She looked a little surprised by that.

"Aren't we all before combat?" he replied, smiling at her.

She smiled uncertainly. "I don't quite know what to make of you, Starbuck."

"I'm a simple guy," he shrugged. "What you see is what you get."

"I'm not sure I believe that," she replied, turning as the military transport stopped near them. "Are you sure about all this?"

"Absolutely," he nodded, crossing his arms over his chest.

Soldiers dropped the tailgate of the vehicle and a moment later Lucifer hit the tarmac in front of him, his Cylon EMA-controlled micro-gyros correcting an imbalance that would have sent a human tumbling to the ground. Since using the Earth 'taser' to disable him, the Cylon had evidently reinitialised its systems.

"Now, what was that you were saying about 'it would go better for me if I showed a little respect', Lucifer?" Starbuck needled the IL. In a moment of accord, Baltar laughed aloud behind him.

"Where is Director Borodin?" the IL demanded. "What has become of him?"

"In the Brig, Lucy. You didn't really believe that these fine people would take the word of a Cylon over a hot shot Colonial Warrior like me for long, do you?"

"Every additional moment I spend in your company, the more I realize that you are more like Baltar than I had first estimated," the IL returned.

"Really?" Starbuck drawled. Oddly, that didn't bother him as much as it might have at another time. "Well, Bub, you and I are going to take a little trip together to bring your Cylon friends into a perfectly planned trap."

"Ah, they have arrived." The lights in his 'head' seemed to speed up for a moment. "I will not cooperate, Captain. Even a cretinous human like you must realize that."

"Well, fortunately for cretinous little ole me, your presence is the only cooperation necessary."

"Excuse me?"

"Strap him to the nose of my Wraith," Starbuck directed the soldiers, Colonel Katko translating the directive and backing it up with her own authority. "When the centurions figure out that one of their ILs is being waved in front of their Cylon 'noses', they'll accept it as a challenge. Ten to one, they'll follow us back here to wreak their revenge. Hmm, I can see it now. An entire squadron of Cylon Raiders bursting into flames and exploding. Gotta admit, it makes me feel all warm and tingly inside."

"The indignity!" Lucifer protested.

"Yeah, I know. If he gives you any trouble, hit him with that stun baton again," Starbuck directed the soldiers, reminded of his own recent predicament. Metrons away, Baltar was chuckling richly. "Bet you never thought you'd end up as a Colonial hood ornament, huh Lucy?"

"Oh, the pain . . . the pain!" the IL protested as he was led towards the Wraith.

xxxxx

His stomach heaved once again, and he spat the acidic contents from his mouth into the toilet bowl, running a trembling hand over his sweaty face. He had to get it together. Now! But the horror of the situation was hitting him like a battering ram, over and over again, paralysing him. When President Gibson should have been in the Oval Office making command decisions, he was in here, puking like a furtive teenager who'd just tried his first cigarette. He'd almost made a fatal mistake. He would have gone down in history as the President who had enslaved the United States of America.

To aliens.

If, for that matter, there was anything left of the United States or rest of the world to enslave. He'd been mentally prepared to sign an allegiant treaty with a cybernetic race of beings from across the galaxy, more than willing to open relations with them, in good faith, knowing nothing of their true nature. He'd followed the recommendations of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Director of National Intelligence and the Secretary of Defence, even when his gut instinct had been telling him to believe the renegade General Roach. Why? Because he didn't want to believe the truth. Face it, lies in this case were so much more palatable.

Then a Cylon fighter had gunned down an unarmed supersonic jet over Kazakhstan, killing every civilian aboard. Not five minutes ago Samael Asar, the Secretary-General of the United Nations, had actually tried to convince him that it was all a hoax devised by WASA to get Britain and France to back off their military initiative against the Guiana Space Centre. But he'd seen the raw intel. This was no scam, no attempt by WASA to do anything. WASA, so it seemed, had been telling the truth all along! What kind of idiot did Asar take him for?

Maybe the kind that hid in the bathroom while real men were out dealing with a crisis?

Gibson took a deep breath, standing up and running cold water over his hands. In the mirror he looked pale and shaken, just the way he felt. He leaned down, splashing the water on his face, rinsing out his mouth, willing himself back under control. Were there any other world leaders losing their stomach contents right now? He doubted it. He wiped his face once again, taking a deep breath and assessing himself in the mirror. How many of his critics had accused him of being light on brains and political backbone? He'd show them. He'd show them all.

"You're the President of the United States, Jackass. Now get out there and act like it."

xxxxx

Dayton had begun to fear that the entire pyramid was going to come down around them, the structure had shaken so hard when the secret door had begun to open. His first thought was that it was a fluke "Mars-quake", his second, a surprise Cylon attack. Then the tremors had stopped as suddenly as they had begun. He coughed and choked as he took a look around through the haze of dust at the mysterious opened passageway, unable to see anything through the choking miasma except an eerie glow from within. Apparently, the dirt theory was alive and well, at least in accumulated crud that could come down on a guy after several thousand years.

"Is everybody okay?" he called out, hearing echoing coughs and murmurs of agreement as he climbed to his feet. "Cassiopeia?" he gasped, not seeing her and fearing the worst. "Cassiopeia? Cass . . ."

"Does anyone need a med tech?" Cassie called out simultaneously in a muffled voice from beneath a human blanket. Ryan and Baker had managed to be in the right place at the right time, protecting both her and Dietra from any falling debris. Once again, Dayton's men were looking out for him and his.

"Llyr! I am here! Llyr!" a faint voice cried from deep within the hidden chamber. "I have brought what you desire! I am your humble servant!"

"What the frack! That voice!" Apollo gasped, choking on a lungful of airborne filth. "It can't be! Commander!"

"Baldric?" Ryan sputtered. "Jaysus Murphy!"

"What the hell is happening?" Curtis called out as Johnson suddenly darted into the chamber. "Johnson! Get back here!"

"He has my talisman!" Lia shouted, lunging forward only to be hauled back by Jolly. "Let me go!"

"Just wait!" Jolly warned her, physically restraining the young woman. "Commander?"

"Mal? What you got?" Dayton asked, looking over his shoulder, half expecting that Ama would be there. Usually, only when the Empyrean necromancer was around did the unlikely and the unknown become part of his reality, or maybe that was just when he was willing to take a close enough look to notice it. He'd certainly become more . . . aware of the metaphysical, the unseen, since meeting her. Maybe, in some strange way . . . Hell's bells! In any case, the mystical woman was nowhere to be seen, which was a real downer in this instance. He took a step closer to the secret chamber, his stomach doing flip-flops at the thought of actually entering it. Every instinct was telling him to run the other way, which wasn't exactly the way that Mark Dayton operated. Still, it was probably worth noting in a cosmic sort of way.

"The phenomena mimicked seismic activity, Commander, but intriguingly, my harmonic oscillators didn't detect any acceleration in any geological waves of force before it hit," Malus explained. "In fact, none of the waves I detected match known natural parameters. The waveforms of the compression, as well as the surface waves, are quite unlike what I have in my data files."

"What then?" asked Ryan.

"The speed of the waves through the granite is off. Nowhere near the five thousand metrons per micron that is typical. It would seem . . ."

"Mal!" said Dayton crisply.

"To be more concise, Commander, what we just experienced was artificially produced, but by a technological mechanism unknown to me." He looked down at the floor and scanned once more as deeply as his instruments would go, running it through his processors several times. He looked back up at them. "When I correlate existing data in my memory banks, it more closely resembles wavelons from alternate energy sources that we've come to know, such as the Dynamos or even the Oculus."

"What the hell did he say?" Commander Curtis asked..

"That it wasn't a natural quake," Dayton explained, while a strange and vaguely familiar litany began from the internal chamber. A strong foreboding filled him, and he hesitated at the mouth of the passage as a hand tugged sharply on his arm. Lia had a death grip on him.

"Let me go first, Commander," she insisted. "There is something . . . evil in there."

Dayton paused for a moment, absorbing the information as a waft of stale air filtered out to him. It wasn't just him sensing something amiss. "That just wouldn't be very chivalrous of me, Ensign. Stay here. That's an order." He gave her a firm push back as he entered the passageway, Apollo, Ryan, Baker and Malus on his heels. A dim light from a chamber about forty feet away lit their way. Once again, hieroglyphics covered the walls and he felt a strong compulsion to drag Mufti in to help him decipher them. As he looked, he could see that some were in various stages of carving, some unfinished. But he had no time to stop and pursue the inscriptions just now. It would have to wait. A sudden scream from within filled the air. Dayton lunged forward.

He stumbled to a halt at the unbelievable barrier before them. Nine feet tall and just as wide, it was a wall of gold, inlaid with hieroglyphics and scenes depicting the shield and spear, which it occurred to him were associated with the Roman god, Mars.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, reaching out a hand and stroking the cold, solid surface. He was no expert, but it seemed to be solid gold, and not just gilded, which would have been more typical of Egyptian antiquity. Fleeting memories of images of King Tut's shrine, which housed not only three additional shrines, but also the sarcophagus of the young king, came back to him. He also couldn't help but think of another ancient astronaut theory Ryan had mentioned about how the Anunnaki had come to Earth to mine their gold for use back on their home planet, Niburu. Another distorted legend? Were they merely raping the planet for their own hedonistic rituals? "I think we just found the burial chamber. Mal?"

The IL came forward, and scanned as directed. He confirmed Dayton's suspicions. The wall was indeed of solid gold and was just over four inches thick!

"Bloody hell!" Dayton muttered again, looking from the wall, to Malus, then back. "How in God's name . . ."

A guttural cry came from beyond. A second later, Apollo was squeezing past the golden wall. Dayton quickly followed. The huge solid gold structure was a shrine, about fifteen feet long. He stumbled over something, almost falling as Apollo hastily grabbed his arm, righting him. Along the perimeter of the burial chamber were the skeletal remains of bodies which had been laid out, lying on raised stone platforms. In the walls themselves, deep niches held other departed attendants, some still holding banners or standards, their once-sumptuous clothes still showing signs of jewels and gold. Several wore the headdresses of semi-precious stones, as well as had fine jewellery adorning their remains. Others appeared to be warriors, armed with spears and shields, perhaps more symbolic than a reflection of what weaponry these ancients had actually used. Next to each corpse was a small cup, apparently of silver, some still grasped in the dead hands. Just like the Royal Death Pits of Ur,Dayton told himself. It appeared as though this particular ancient lord had taken attendants with him to the hereafter. But all that was nothing compared to what was happening with the living.

The Angylion general, Caradoc, stood on a dais at the apex of a triangular-shaped room, the symbol of the All-Seeing Eye on the wall above it. Johnson was on his knees at the Angylion's feet, a light trail of blood trickling from his throat as he looked up at Caradoc in some kind of paralysed horror or reverence. Caradoc's bloodied sword was in one hand. He thrust it high above his head gazing upward as Lia's Empyrean talisman dangled from his grip. In his other hand was the Oculus, also held high in the air. A hundred feet or so above him, the walls of the room triangulated in another apex which they couldn't see the limit of. Dayton quickly surmised that at one time, before the cataclysm that once buried this city, it would have been a type of lucinatus, a window to the stars.

"Gogyfur y'awdurdod o sanctaidd Llyr!Gogyfur y'awdurdod o sanctaidd Llyr!" Carodoc chanted ritually, the Angylion aura that surrounded him growing brighter with each repetition of his incantation.

"I'm getting a bad feeling about this," Ryan said behind him.

"Which part? The sudden transdimensional appearance of Caradoc, the weird ritual or the blood and skeletons all over the place?" Dayton returned.

"Yeah. That bit," said Baker.

"I'm more concerned that Caradoc has the Oculus," Apollo inserted, pulling his weapon.

"Then you need help," Ryan surmised.

"What are we supposed to do here, exactly," Apollo asked his commander.

"Ahem." Baker pointed to a shimmering light that was forming around the Angylion, as if by extension of his aura. Abruptly, the light exploded, blinding them all.

Dayton flinched, raising an arm to shield himself from the glare as he closed his eyes, seeing stars. Then a low, malicious laughter reverberated around the room.

"And so we meet again."

xxxxx

A freshly printed collage of degraded photos and old newspaper articles that she had retrieved from archives littered the table. LM Dayton spread them out once again, picking up another as she reached for her standard bottle of antacid, gulping it down to quell the annoying fire in her stomach. How many connections were out there that she hadn't yet found? Finding the being known as Count Iblis at Roswell, 1947, stunning as it had been, had only been a gateway to even more intriguing discoveries. 1840-Albert Pike, notable Freemason, writer, attorney and soldier; 1891-Cecil Rhodes, William T. Stead and Reginald Brett, founders of the Round Table Group; 1904-Aleister Crowley, "the Beast"; 1913- President Woodrow Wilson; 1914-Winston Churchill; 1921-Paul Warburg, founder of the Federal Reserve and director of the Council on Foreign Relations; 1919-Adolf Hitler; 1941-Jack Parsons, principal founder of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory; 1968-David Rockefeller; 2005-Paul Wolfowitz; 2010-Nursultan Nazarbayev, President of Kazakhstan; 2010-Charles Bolden Jr. and Lori Beth Garver of NASA . . .

She narrowed her eyes, picking up yet another. With all but two of them, she had found a photograph or piece of film with the seemingly ubiquitous Iblis somewhere in the background, if not specifically exerting his control on these influential individuals, then perhaps subtly influencing them. The ramifications made her skin crawl. Abraham Lincoln's second inauguration in 1865, there he was, just visible among the assembled. An old snap of Rhodes from the 1890s, with the mysterious being just visible. Woodrow Wilson before signing the Federal Reserve Act, Iblis not a foot away from him. Hitler—the twentieth century's icon of evil incarnate—ranting, raving, spitting out his genocidal vitriol to roaring crowds, with the same impassive face, this time in Nazi uniform, behind him on the podium. Parsons at the test site where JPL now stood, there Iblis was. Nazarbayev at the Opera House in the Pyramid of Peace in Astana, Kazakhstan, Iblis was only seats away. Even, faintly visible in a recently discovered piece of film, Iblis smiling benignly, on a sunny day in Dallas in 1963. On a more personal note, she had found yet another snap of Iblis with the two administrators who had permitted the vilification of the Endeavour crew and had facilitated the dismantling of NASA. Although she had searched long and hard, so far she couldn't link the being to the terrorist organization that had claimed responsibility for destroying the International Space Station, but somehow she knew that he had been pulling those strings too.

A girl didn't have to be a journalist to see it was a road map for the "New World Order". She closed her eyes, taking another gulp of Gaviscon. How had a century-old conspiracy theory transmuted into the age-old battle between good and evil? Why hadn't she seen this coming? For over two thousand years, apocalyptic millenarian Christian theologians and laymen had feared a globalist conspiracy as the fulfilment of prophecies about the "end time" in the Bible. They had asserted that human and demonic agents of Satan were involved in a primordial plot to deceive humanity into accepting a "Satanic world theocracy". And here she was staring at proof that Iblis—an Islamic name for the Devil—had met with world leaders, politicians, industrialists, freemasons, scientists, NASA administrators, known Occultists and Luciferians, spanning a time period of at least the last couple hundred years.

Was Count Iblis responsible for the rise of the powerful and secretive elite conspiring to eventually rule the world through an autonomous, and doubtlessly oppressive, world government? Conspiracy theorists had been saying for decades that democratic nations were in fact comprehensive systems of social hierarchies supported by a minority to dominate the blissfully unaware majority. In this hierarchy, an elite few imposed its laws, arrogate to them. They were the big bosses of banks and industry. Their power was money and its manipulations: through it they exercised control over people and resources. Some traced their origins back through ancient bloodlines, all the way to ancient Egypt. Could the immortal Count Iblis be traced there as well?

What was the ancient being really after? What was his purpose? Had he spent thousands of years moulding and shaping humanity to once again face divine retribution? Was this the apocalypse before Armageddon? Were the Guardians who had warned them of the Cylons' coming really angels of God? Were the Cylons the instruments of God's wrath? Wasn't there supposed to be a Messiah returning to Earth to conquer the Antichrist? One of their Colonial brethren, perhaps? Surely, not her father!

Or was she taking all of this just a little too literally? A girl could go nuts trying to make sense of what seemed so . . . nonsensical. She pushed aside the bottle of antacid and poured herself a scotch, trying to decide exactly how she was going to break this to General Roach. Any headway she'd made with him was in danger of being destroyed. But then again, so was humanity.

xxxxx

Due to some weird phenomenon that he couldn't explain, the Wraith's systems were now nominal, as unlikely as that was after being hit in Earth's orbit by a Cylon salvo and almost losing his life support on the way down to Kazakhstan. However, considering that

Starbuck was flying over Earth with Lucifer strapped to the nose of his fighter, the IL's arms splayed to the sides, well, apparently this was the day for long-shots to come in. On his main scanners, Starbuck checked the position of the Cylon task force, now a mere five centons from entering Earth's orbit. Right now he was running full electronic countermeasures, which would normally make him invisible, but Baikonur Control had reported they had picked up telemetry of something that resembled an IL-class Cylon soaring through the air.

Astrum backwards and "naked".

A patrol of six Cylons broke off, heading towards his position, investigating the mysterious flying cyborg. He picked up their communications, listening in on the Flight Leader. The greater part of the task force was holding course. It just wasn't good enough. He needed them all to follow him. He increased velocity, a centon later dropping his ECM and showing them just what they were really up against. Like their counterparts the day before, these Cylons would have never seen the likes of a Wraith, so their war books wouldn't be much help in identifying the Espridian craft. And with Lucifer on his nose like some kind of a perverted figurehead, he could only hope that some sense of Cylon "honour" would be insulted.

"Doesn't it just rust your articulated joints?"

Apparently not, he realized after no response. He increased speed, getting the most out of his bird as he screamed towards the Cylons. The Wraith began to shake ever so slightly, and he checked his instruments. He'd never pushed her this hard before, but then again he'd never ascertained her actual limits. And he wasn't talking about her recommended limits. No time like the present to find out what she can really do, Bucko. "C'mon, baby," he coaxed her, an old academy mantra running through his head. Observe, predict, manoeuvre, react. He targeted the closest Raider, discharging the dynamo weaponry.

The Raider shuddered and then started a downward spiral, its systems paralysed by the dynamo's blast as he blew past her. He grinned, slicing a path through the patrol as the others fired their salvos, but he was already out of range. He pushed the stick down hard, cringing as a sudden pressure in his face and ears made him gasp from the sudden pressure. Even with the pressurized cockpit, it still felt like a solenite charge was about to blow the front of his face off. That damned Earth virus . . .

Abruptly, he banked port, increasing altitude and feeling the pressure in his head ease off as he took a wide arc around them. For once, he didn't worry about turn rates or radii, just letting the throbbing of his head recede into a bad, but distant memory. Note to self, no sudden descents. As luck would have it, now he had their full attention. Every Cylon Raider in the vicinity was on an intercept course with him and drawing closer to Kazakhstan's surface-to-air missiles, and in reserve, Colonel Katko's squadron of PAK-FA fighters.

"Pays to be popular, eh Lucy?" he murmured, mindful of the IL on the Wraith's nose. He checked his scanner while a sea of Raiders pursued him. A few fired salvos, but he was just beyond their range and he knew it.

An old flight instructor had once advised him to keep the enemy on one side of him in a one-versus-many engagement. He'd also pointed out that the nature of air combat hadn't changed for centi-yahrens. Just rove your allotted area, Cadet, find the enemy and shoot him down . . . beyond that it's all rubbish. So Starbuck had skipped Air Combat Tactics the rest of the secton and had instead worked on staying off the colonel's scanner while dating his daughter. But that was another story.

A corner of his faceplate display flickered wildly, then Baltar's face suddenly appeared, much as John's had once over Terra. He startled, finding it unsettling to have the image so close that it seemed to burn into his brain.

"Set in your course, Starbuck. Engage the autopilot. Now!"

"Wh . . .?" he began to ask, even as he innately started to follow procedure, responding to the clipped authoritative voice of the former Base Ship commander and member of the Quorum of the Twelve.

"Just do it, Captain!" Baltar ordered, more sharply that John had ever spoken to him. "I have no time to explain!"

Starbuck drew in a slow breath, punching in the last of the sequence, wondering what was coming. The air seemed somehow drier, as though a spark could suddenly ignite it. He rubbed his thumb against his fingers as a strange tingling began to spread from their tips right up into his arms. His hand felt increasingly wooden and useless, his grip on his stick clumsy. Nauseatingly, his mouth began to water and his head began to swim. The readouts started to blur at about the same time as a bilious taste seared his throat. His body felt strangely weightless, then his faceplate display went a sinister black.

"Fra-ack!"