WSG-1: Above and Beyond

by Kelso323

Having escaped the genocidal Cylon onslaught, the beleaguered survivors of the Twelve Colonies find themselves confronted with new challenges and dangers none of them could have foreseen. Caught up amid a brutal interstellar war, old sins and secrets rise from the shadows of a forgotten past to threaten humanity once more.

15. Part 15 - A Gathering Storm

Ross Residence
Baywood, Louisiana

Gently closing his eyes to the bright orange and yellow hues of the coming sunset filtering in through trees at the edge of his property, Admiral Glen van Ross leaned back in his simple rocking chair, his bare feet propped up on the porch rail as he slowly brought the chilled long-neck to his lips.

All but savoring the bitter-sweet taste of the ale as it slid past his tongue and snaked its way down his throat with gentle gulps, Ross continued to tilt the bottle till the entirety of its contents had been emptied into his gullet.

Letting out a satisfied sigh, Ross opened his eyes and appraised the empty bottle for a moment before slowly lowering it down alongside the other half-dozen empties resting at the left side of his chair.

Then, with an utterly fulfilled grin on his face, Ross set off again on another rambling blues riff, strumming away on his beloved guitar Rosalyn, the ebb and flow of his contentment in that moment finding expression in the gentle vibration of the strings, his toes rhythmically tapping against the sky itself.

For a moment, he could almost convince himself that he was a man with not a single care in the world.

To be sure, high in orbit, lost beyond the puffy clouds overhead, the Saratoga was being prepared to once again wade back into the brutal maelstrom of the war. Without a doubt, when she did so, he too would be going back into harm's way with her.

But right here, right now, all that mattered was that Rosalyn was tuned and he still had half a case of Bon Temps long-necks resting in the ice bucket to his right.

Opening his eyes once more to the setting sun as it continued to sink below the horizon, his fingers continued to dance along the taut strings, his heart and soul dancing right along with them.

With a thoroughly pleased smile all but glued to his face, Ross continued to strum away all his troubles, giving not the least bit of attention to the vehicle he heard ambling its way up the gravel driveway off to the side of the house.

With his mind swimming within the musical notes and mild intoxication, he dismissed it out of mind as likely just being his wife returning home. No doubt she'd have a word or two to say about how much beer he'd had, not to mention taking a moment to reiterate her long-suffering pet-peeve over his being out on the porch in little more than boxers and a tank-top.

Smirking slightly at the anticipation of these comparatively delightful little pieces of marital normalcy, Ross picked up the tempo of his strumming.

"Admiral Ross?"

His heart skipping a bit at the wholly unexpected voice, Ross, more than a touch startled, nearly dropped his beloved Rosalyn, his panicked attempts to prevent as much causing him to flail wildly for a moment, an errant kick of his leg sending the collection of empty bottles beside his chair clanking, tumbling and rolling off across the porch like a collection of toppled bowling pins.

Taking a moment to collect himself, his feet once more firmly in contact with the worn wooden planks of the porch, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly in annoyance, Ross continued to clutch Rosalyn to his chest as he slowly looked down towards the end of the porch, his eyes little short of a glare.

"Just what the hell are you doing here, Ty?" grumbled Ross as he slowly loosened his death-hug of Rosalyn.

"Sorry, Admiral," began Colonel Tyrus Cassius McQueen as he slowly pulled his vintage aviator sunglasses away from his eyes, the slightest hint of a smirk on his lips. "I tried to call first, but your cell kept going straight to voice-mail."

"That's because I turned the damned thing off," growled Ross as he casually looked over at the strewn collection of empties now spread out across the deck.

Then, quite deliberately, Ross returned his attention to McQueen.

"Why are you here?" asked Ross directly, his eyes narrowing a bit. "Aren't you supposed to be coordinating the recert of the Saratoga's airwing?"

"We're done, actually," replied McQueen as he casually motioned over at the empty bench beside Ross. "Mind if I sit down, Admiral?"

Without a word, Ross let out a slight snort as he motioned his head over towards the bench.

Sliding his sunglasses into the pocket of his short-sleeve shirt, McQueen reached up and casually wiped at the thin film of perspiration on his forehead.

"Bit humid out this evening," he said as he made his way up the stairs and onto the porch.

"If you don't like the weather, you're more than welcome to make your way back out to Miramar," muttered Ross as he watched McQueen slowly lower himself onto the bench.

"Nellis, actually," replied McQueen as he casually eyed the bucket of iced longnecks. "With most of the squadrons reformed, I've had them concentrating on force-on-force scenarios. One thing is for sure, those new Raven fighters the Air Force has are giving our old Hammerheads a run for their money; wouldn't mind having a few of them along when we push back into enemy space."

"Well, with the Daedalus and Prometheus nearing completion, I suppose it's possible we'll have some of them riding shotgun once we to retake the offensive," sighed Ross as he did his best to settle back into the comfort of his rocking chair.

"Still find it strange to think of the Air Force having warships of their own," smirked McQueen as he let out a long sigh.

"Well, their brass is lobbying pretty hard to have it formally amended to Aerospace Force," said Ross as he slowly brought Rosalyn back up and gently checked her tuning. "Maybe they're just tired of having to hitch a ride aboard Navy carriers whenever they need to get somewhere; as a Marine, I'm sure you can sympathize, Colonel."

"Marines have been hitching rides on Navy ships since seventeen-seventy-five; why would I argue with tradition, sir?" replied McQueen evenly. "Besides, Navy serves good chow."

Chuckling a bit, Ross shook his head slightly as he looked back over at McQueen.

"I take it you flew into Baton Rouge?"

"Barksdale Air Base, actually," replied McQueen as he eye once again wandered over to the bucket of sweating bottles. "Wrangled a seat on a supply bird out from the West coast, rented a car for the rest of the trip here."

"Any chance you came all this way just to get in a bit of fishing?" asked Ross, his eyebrow arching a bit as he caught sight of McQueen eyeing his collection of favorite local microbrew.

"No, sir, I just came to give my Commanding Officer a report of the status of his airwing," replied McQueen evenly. "I would have given it over the phone but…"

With that, McQueen offered only a mild shrug as he grinned over at Ross.

Smirking slightly himself, Ross somewhat half-heartedly reached down and lifted one of the bottles from the bucket, and with the slightest bit of reluctance offered it over to McQueen.

With a gentle nod of appreciation, McQueen took hold of the bottle, the chilled beads of moisture on the outside running off along his fingers as he gripped it, popped the top, then took the first tentative sip.

"That's a good amber," muttered McQueen as he held the bottle appraisingly for a moment.

"First one's free, the next will cost you," smirked Ross as he retrieved another for himself.

"Then I'd better make this one last," grinned McQueen as he took another small sip.

Glancing back over at McQueen, Ross eyed the Colonel for a moment.

"Since social calls have never been your particular forte, I imagine you have some news," muttered Ross as he gently popped the top on his own bottle.

Meeting the Admiral's gaze, McQueen slowly began to nod.

"The word finally came down about Damphousse," sighed McQueen as he absently ran his finger through the sweat on the outside of his bottle.

"Not good, I take it?"

"The docs say the head trauma she sustained when she and Vansen were shot down has affected her visual cortex and vestibular activity," sighed McQueen as he looked back over at Ross. "Under the circumstances, there's no way she'll be able to return to flight status; Fifth Wing is cutting her separation orders as we speak."

Letting out a long sigh, Ross slowly brought his fresh bottle to his lips. To be sure, for an Admiral who was in charge of literally tens of thousands of lives, an entire fleet of ships, it was disproportionate with his level of responsibility to be concerned about the fate of one lone pilot.

But then again, Vanessa Damphousse was a bit more than 'just another pilot'; like the rest of the Five-Eight, she'd had the peculiar distinction of being on Ross' shortlist when the worst of situations called for the best of operators.

"How are the rest of the Five-Eight handling the news?" asked Ross evenly.

"Well, I've had them busy with flight-ops most of the week," replied McQueen evenly. "But since they've been granted a seventy-two this weekend, I'd imagine they'll have some time to reflect on it a bit more."

"And how is Vansen readjusting?"

"That could still pose a problem," sighed McQueen as he took another gentle sip. "So far her in-cockpit performance has been above expectation, but she's still reluctant to pick up the reigns of command of the Five-Eight."

"With less time in grade than Vansen, West won't be able to remain in charge, Ty, you know that," countered Ross evenly as he glanced over at McQueen. "Eventually someone over at Fifth Wing is going to take note of the situation; if Vansen doesn't step up, someone over there is going to assign a new squadron CO."

"I understand fully, Admiral," nodded McQueen. "In fact, Fifth Wing S-One already sent over the jacket for a possible replacement if Vansen doesn't get her head straight; a Major Ariel Hyland."

"What do you know about her?"

"I haven't had an opportunity to speak with her personally yet," began McQueen as he took another tentative sip from the bottle. "From her file, she seems to be squared away, a real up-and-comer in the command structure, a degree from Colorado State. Fit-reps from her previous postings indicate she's capable but calculating, some might even say cavalier when it comes to her handling of subordinates."

"A career-minded, by-the-book operator might not make a very good task-master for a bunch of rebels and misfits," smirked Ross as he took another deep drag from his own bottle.

"Which is why I'm hoping Vansen gets her head straight soon," said McQueen as he looked back over at Ross. "Hawkes alone could find himself in hack in very short order under someone like Hyland, if not busted all the way back down to butter-bar again."

"Well, I'll do what I can to stall Fifth Wing," began Ross as he met McQueen's gaze. "But if Shane can't take back the reigns from West, they'll have to learn to live with Hyland."

"Understood, sir…" began McQueen, his voice trailing off as a loud chime echoed out through the air.

Letting out a long, almost annoyed sigh, McQueen slowly reached up and pulled the phone from his pocket.

"Should have turned yours off too, Ty," smirked Ross as he watched McQueen eye the caller-ID screen.

"I don't think they'd appreciate it," muttered McQueen as he held the phone up so Ross could read the caller-ID as well.

HQMC; Headquarters Marine Corps.

"Better answer," muttered Ross, a dubious scowl creasing his features.

Quickly tapping the icon to accept the call, McQueen lifted the phone to his ear.

"Colonel McQueen," he said simply.

For a few moments, Ross simply sat there staring at McQueen, taking another gentle sip from his beer, somewhat wary that the next sip might very well be his last for a very long time.

"Understood, General," stated McQueen after several moments. "Have I had contact with Admiral Ross?"

Pausing to look over into Ross's eyes, he watched as the Admiral rolled his own eyes somewhat.

"Actually, sir, I'm here with him now," continued McQueen a moment later. "Yes, sir. Understood, sir, I'll let him know. Yes, sir."

With that, McQueen slowly let the phone fall away from his ear, very deliberately tapping the icon that ended the call.

"Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to be able to remain in my tank-top and boxers?" muttered Ross as he noted the somewhat blank expression on McQueen's face.

"There's an ISSCV waiting for us over at Barksdale," began McQueen as he slowly slipped the phone back into his pocket and set the half-emptied bottle down on the bench. "They have orders to take us to DC; General Ranford's direct orders."

"I take it he's not calling us to the Pentagon to partake in the summer weather," muttered Ross as he let out a long, resigned sigh.

"No, Admiral," replied McQueen as he slowly stood up from the bench. "He's not."

---

Destiny Casino
Las Vegas, Nevada

"To 'Phousse!" shouted the half-inebriated Hawkes with gusto as he lifted the shot glass in his hand high into the air.

Clustered around the table, the other members of the vaunted Fifty-Eighth Squadron, United States Marine Corps, themselves each lost within their own varying states of intoxication likewise lifted their glasses high into the air, the gentle clanking of glass-on-glass echoing out a bit even as the slightly off-key singer at the stage cast a somewhat sour glance their direction.

As each of them brought their glasses back down, West, Hawkes, Wang, Vansen and Damphousse slammed down their shots.

For a moment, the five of them simply sat there, their expressions ranging wildly from slightly somber in Vansen's case to Wang's clear wide-eyed surprise, a slight shiver wending its way through his muscles at the sensation of the potent liquor snaking its way down his throat.

"Have you made any plans yet, Vanessa?" asked West, coughing a bit as the alcohol burned its way down his throat.

"Well, actually, the VA transition rep has been pretty helpful," smirked Damphousse, not quite able to look up to meet the collective gaze of the others around the table as she gently played with her empty shot glass. "She put me in touch with someone who's already lined up a job for me on the outside."

"Really?" sputtered Hawkes as he made a casual glance around, a somewhat clumsy wave of the hand his half-hearted attempt to get a waitresses' attention. "The way you always talked, I figured you'd go to work with your Dad at San Onofre."

"I thought about it, but this opportunity will let me contribute a bit to the war even if I can't be out there with you guys anymore," replied Damphousse as she glanced over and noted the somewhat sullen look on Vansen's face.

"So, are you gonna keep us in suspense or are you gonna spill?" asked Wang flatly.

"Well, as soon as my discharge is finalized I'll be heading up to Washington state," began Damphousse as she returned her attention to the thin film of liquor that had accumulated at the bottom of her shot glance, gently dipping her finger into it a moment later. "Boeing is snatching up just about anyone they can find with an aerospace engineering or physics background to help with their reverse engineering project on the Colonial engine technology; my flight training even earned me a hiring bonus."

Intoxicated as they were, the other members of the Five-Eight nevertheless all perked up a bit.

"Damn, 'Phousse, that sounds like one hell-of-a cherry assignment," grinned Wang as he half-lifted his glass back into the air, remembering it was empty part-way through the motion.

"I just hope it helps end this war and gets the rest of you home safe," countered Damphousse, her voice choking a bit, a fact that was apparently not lost on her as she gently shook her own head a moment later. "Sorry, I just hate that I'm not going to be out there with you guys anymore."

"Don't count yourself out yet, 'Phousse," offered West. "If you're able to help replicate those Faster-Than-Light drives the Colonials use, you'll not only be helping us, but everyone else still out there on the line."

"Still can't help but feel like I'm goldbricking," shrugged Damphousse as she wiped at the tears welling up in the corner of her eye.

As an uncomfortable silence fell over the group, the waitress finally stepped back up and unloaded another round of shots in front of them.

As West reached down and began to fumble about in his pockets for some cash, Vansen glanced over and seemed to notice him floundering a bit in the effort.

"Here," she finally huffed, quickly producing a small stack of bills as she did so. "This round and the next are on me."

As the waitress took the cash offered up by Vansen and stepped away, Hawkes very rapidly slid the round of shots out to everyone around the table.

As each of the members of the Five-Eight clasped their hands once more around the brimming shots before them, Vansen quickly held hers high up in the air.

"To Vanessa Damphousse; to the Fifty-Eighth Squadron; and to all the fighting men and women of the USS Saratoga," she announced loudly. "May we all soon know a world once again at peace."

With that, Wang, Hawkes, West, Vansen and Damphousse clanked their glasses together, and without another word, downed the shots.

As each of them braced themselves against the after-effects of slamming down the hard liquor, they gave hardly any notice to the group of ten men quickly cutting their way through the lounge towards their table.

"Hey, did I just hear you guys correctly?" asked one of the men as he stepped up, the vaguely unfocused look in his eyes clearly indicating that he had imbibed more than his own fair share of alcohol. "Did you all just say you're from the Saratoga?"

"Yeah we did," answered Hawkes flatly as he glowered back over at the man.

"Were you guys with her when she met up with those Colonials?"

"You could say that," muttered West, eyeing the group somewhat warily.

"What's this about, pal?" interjected Hawkes as he slowly looked around at the other members of the group.

"Oh, nothing," replied the man, a somewhat derisive snort escaping him. "I was just wondering what it felt like to be a traitor to your own world."

"A traitor?" sputtered Hawkes, his tone rapidly devolving into little more than a growl. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about those Colonials," replied another man in the group as he pointed around at the other men in the group. "Two years now we've had our asses out there on the line fighting back the Chigs and you guys, you just led those so-called 'people' straight here to Earth, practically helped roll out a fucking red carpet for them."

In spite of the significant number of drinks they'd had, it was not lost upon the members of the Five-Eight that the group of men had begun to slowly encircle their table; one hardly needed two years of combat under their belt to understand that something very bad was brewing.

"In case you didn't notice, pal, they kicked the crap out of that Chiggy fleet that was hovering over this planet a few weeks back," snorted West as he slowly began sliding his chair back from the table.

"Still doesn't mean they're welcome here," countered the second man venomously. "In fact, since you seem to be so in love with them, I don't think you're very welcome here either."

"Look, buddy," began Vansen, her eyes narrowing a bit as she gently slid her chair back from the table and stood up. "I don't know what you're problem is, but we're just here to say goodbye to a good friend, so if you're looking for trouble, it'd be better if you took a walk..."

"Shut the fuck up, bitch," snapped the first man angrily as he pointed a very accusatorial finger directly at Vansen. "I've lost a hell-of-a lot of good friends fighting the Chigs..."

"And so have we," burst West as he practically vaulted to his feet, standing as close to nose-to-nose as he could considering the veritable shaved-ape was a good four inches taller than he was. "Now, you can either turn and walk away right now and let us say good-bye to our friend in peace, or, you can hobble away with my chair half-way up your ass."

"Is that right?" sneered the apeman as he took half a step closer to West, his admittedly broad chest bumping up against Nathan.

At that, Wang quickly stepped over and more-or-less pushed himself in between West and the apeman.

"Whoa, things here are getting just a bit too intense right now," muttered Wang as he very deliberately pushed West back a step.

Taking a very slow breath, Wang gave West's shoulder a gentle pat and then turned back to look the apeman directly in the eye.

"Look you guys, why don't you just let us finish our drinks?" continued Wang as he held his hands up in a somewhat conciliatory manner. "Hell, I'll even spring for a round of shots for you guys too, how's that sound?"

"We don't want your damned drinks," snapped the apeman. "What we want is for you all to leave our bar."

"Funny, I don't see a sign anywhere that says 'you must be this butt-ugly to drink here'," chuckled Hawkes as he glared around at each of the men surrounding the Five-Eight's table.

With that, Wang watched as the apeman's bloodshot eyes widened still further, Hawkes' quip clearly doing little more than stoke his already considerable drunken ire.

For his part, well aware that he had placed himself well within reach of the apeman's burly arms, all Wang could do was let out a long sigh, his expression becoming all but resigned to the fact that this wasn't going to end amicably.

"Look, we're not going anywhere, buddy," said Wang evenly, a slight smirk crossing his lips a moment later.

"And just what's so funny?" snapped the apeman angrily, his nostrils actually flaring a bit as he glared at Wang. "You think it's joke that I'm about to rip out your spine?"

"No, I was just remembering a movie I saw once," replied Wang, very surreptitiously changing his stance a bit as he kept a firm gaze on the apeman. "Great flick, a classic really, maybe you've heard of it; 'Good Morning, Vietnam'?"

"Just what the fuck are you getting at, smart-guy?" asked apeman as he did his best to hover menacingly over Wang.

"Just that you reminded me of a line in the movie, that's all," replied Wang, his tone anything but intimidated. "Goes something like this; 'I've been all around the world, seen a lot of places and a lot of people; I have never ever in my travels come across a man as large as you, with as much muscles, who has absolutely no penis'."

As his eyes went wide with a sudden surge of rage, apeman cocked back his right hand, preparing to deliver what would likely be a very punishing blow directly into Wang's smirking face.

But before apeman had a chance to fully curl his fingers into a first, Wang suddenly lunged forward, delivering a clearly stunning head-butt to apeman's face, the slight crack echoing through the air leaving little doubt that apeman's nose had been broken instantly by the strike even as Wang followed up his attack with a swift, equally punishing knee to apeman's groin.

As the apeman crumpled to the ground, his nose streaming blood, an almost pathetic whimper escaping him as he clutched at his groin, the scene surrounding the Fifty-Eighth's table devolved into little more than a wild melee, the slightly panicked cries of other patrons scrambling out of the way filling the air.

With the group, conspicuously minus their apeman spokesperson, surging in towards the members of the Five-Eight, the table and empty shot glasses disappeared in a tumble across the floor as the impromptu battleground became filled with a flurry of flailing arms and legs, the air heavy with the sound of fists landing firmly on meat and bone.

Flush with his initial victory, Wang let go with a truly inspiring battlecry as he all but leapt through the air towards two more attackers who rushed him.

Hawkes practically squealed in glee as he lunged up and immediately sent one of his own attackers tumbling over the top of a nearby decorative partition wall, the crash of shattering glass echoing out as the flailing body landed hard on a table on the opposite side.

Vansen, forgoing all pretense of fair play, snatched out with her hand, grabbed up an empty shot glass from a table nearby and launched it straight and true directly into the face of the man hapless enough to pounce at her. Stunned by the heavy glass projectile, he barely had a moment to process the pain of the impact before Shane surprised the hell of out a couple of bewildered onlookers by rushing forward to deliver a follow-on right hook worthy of prize fighter that sent the man crashing into a stack of empty chairs.

After absorbing a quick series of shots to his torso, West rebounded on pure drunken adrenaline and surged forward with a surprisingly rapid triple stroke, a right jab to the face, left jab to the throat, then a perfectly aimed right uppercut that sent yet another body careening back over top of the still-huddled apeman.

Damphousse, while no longer deemed fit to fly nevertheless seized the moment to prove that she still had some righteous fight left in her. Very deftly and with almost dancer-like precision, 'Phousse slipped out of her chair, wheeling about as she moved to sweep the legs out from another attacker even as she popped back up, fists clenched into a perfect fighting stance.

But even as the Five-Eight got their first licks in, the inebriated bravado of their attackers surged, the group clearly placing their confidence in the idea that numbers could still trump skill.

For a moment, that held true.

Singling out Hawkes as perhaps the most direct brute-force threat, two bodies slammed headlong into the InVitro, the impact sending him sprawling out onto the floor.

Vansen found herself the victim of a flying chair that landed square in the center of her back, knocking the wind from her as she crumpled to the ground.

Wang, having leapt right into the heart of the fracas, found himself quite unexpectedly pin-wheeling through the air, crashing down hard on the dance floor a moment later, a few panicky bystanders stutter-stepping out of the way as he slid to a stop at the foot of the lounge's stage.

Staggered by a punch that quite literally sent a flash of stars through his vision, West felt his knees buckle a bit, his body slumping back onto a table even as his opponent snatched up a significant amount of material on the front of his shirt.

As he looked up to see the clenched form of a first cocking back to deliver another hammer blow, West's ears caught the sound of a couple loud cries echoing through the air.

In a blur of motion, something slammed headlong into the burly bastard that had been readying to pummel West.

Glancing over, West was surprised to see Nick 'Gramps' Keegan kneeling over West's attacker, the hard snaps of a fist landing repeatedly against meat echoing out as Keegan delivered a few quick jabs.

And Keegan wasn't alone.

Racing up unseen behind the man who'd squared off with Damphousse, Jim 'Rocky' Stone slapped the side of the man's head, the act little more than a love tap to get his attention so that the hammer blow Stone delivered a moment later didn't arrive unannounced.

As Michelle 'Shock' Low and KC 'Sweet Pea' Latuner helped Wang back to his feet, it seemed to dawn collectively on the group of attackers that the numbers had been more-or-less equaled up, the fury of the fight ebbing quickly into a lull as everyone paused to resize the situation as a whole.

"Now, as we were saying," began Wang, his breathing heavy as he ambled his way back over on uncertain legs. "If you boys don't mind, we're going to finish our drinks."

"The hell you are!" called out a loud, firm voice. "All of you get down on the ground, now!"

At that, the area suddenly became flooded with a rush of bodies in black slacks and jackets.

In very short order, the new arrivals, apparently the casino's security team, swept in and began snatching the up brawlers and slapping sets of handcuffs into place.

"Whoa, wait, we didn't start the fight!" shouted Hawkes as four of the black coats cornered him over near the bar, each of them very much cued in to the InVitro's body language, every cell in his body indicating that the fight had not yet gone out of him.

"Shut up and put your hands behind you back!" snapped one of the security officers as he slowly produced a set of cuffs from inside his jacket.

From the defiant look on his face, it was clear that Hawkes wasn't about to be simply led away in restraints. But, whatever resistance Hawkes was about to offer up all but vanished as the other three security officers around him quickly whipped out collapsible batons, the hard snap of the baton blades locking into place serving to quell his ingrained impulse to fight his way out.

With a disgusted sigh, Hawkes glowered over at the four security officers as he slowly turned and put his hands behind his back.

---

"I'll say this for you guys," sighed Nick Keegan as he casually looked around at the bare beige walls of the casino's security holding room. "You sure know how to throw a going away party."

"Yeah, well, who'd have guessed we'd be the ones 'going away'," muttered Hawkes as he squirmed against the cuffs around his wrists.

"I still don't think it's fair that they have us in here," groaned Wang as he looked over at the two silent security officers at the desk on the opposite side of the room. "We weren't the ones who started that fight."

"Well, technically, you started it when you head-butted that guy, Paul," sighed Damphousse as she cast a slight smirk over at Wang. "Where the hell did you learn to do that, anyway?"

"Yeah, Wang," chimed in West as he leaned forward a bit, the side of his face clearly swollen from the punch he'd taken. "Back in training you barely made Tan Belt."

"What can I say?" shrugged Wang as he did his best to get comfortable, at least as comfortable as he could be while seated on a simple wooden bench with his hands cuffed behind his back. "That guy just brought out a bit of the Chicago streets in me."

As the group let out a light chuckle, West slowly looked over beside him at Vansen.

With her eyes closed, she sat on the edge of the bench taking slow, deliberate breaths, her rapidly bouncing leg a clear sign of agitation.

"Hey, Shane, you okay?" whispered West, leaning in a bit in a vain attempt to be discreet.

Opening her eyes a bit, Vansen noticed that in spite of West's effort to be inconspicuous, Hawkes, Wang, Damphousse, Keegan and Stone were all looking over at her.

Feigning a grin, Vansen quickly nodded her head even as her leg continued to fidget.

"Just need to pee really bad," she said simply, a half-hearted chuckle escaping her.

Although the answer seemed to mollify the others somewhat, being seated right next to Vansen, in some ways having always been a bit better cued in to when things were troubling her, West wasn't so easily convinced. Nevertheless, as Vansen slowly closed her eyes again and resumed her slow, deep breathes, West opted not to press the issue for the time being.

"How much longer are you planning to keep us in here?" asked Stone as he looked over at the two security officers at the desk.

"Not our call," replied one of them, shrugging his shoulders slightly as he glanced over at the simple clock on the wall. "All depends on how long it takes Metro to get here."

Scoffing slightly, Hawkes shook his head as he continued to squirm against the restraints.

"Can we at least, I don't know, give someone a call to let them know what's happening?" asked Wang.

"You've still got two friends out there who didn't get hooked up," replied the other security officer as she casually stepped over to the old water cooler in the room and filled her simple wax-paper cup. "They'll be able to let anyone who asks know where you are."

"Well, is there any chance I can at least get a drink of water?" asked Wang as he watched her take a sip from the cup in her hand.

"Not a chance," she replied with a smirk and a slight shake of the head. "Last thing I want tonight is to be the next person to receive one of your head-butts."

In spite of their situation, the detained members of the Five-Eight were able to enjoy another small chuckle at that, no matter how strained. After that, though, silence fell once more upon the room and time itself seemed to stand still as they were left with little to do except sit there awaiting their uncertain fate. For what seemed like a veritable eternity, they all waited with baited anticipation, the slight ticking of the hands on the old wall clock the only real sound in the room beyond the occasional grunt of discomfort or deep sigh.

In fact, the general mood was so tense that when the sudden thumps of someone knocking on the exterior of the door echoed out, a couple of the Five-Eights, as well as the female security officer, actually jumped a bit.

Looking somewhat askance over at his co-worker, the male officer stood up from the desk, made his way over to the door, and slowly opened it.

"Oh; yes, sir?" asked the officer as he poked his head out.

With their collective attention focusing in on the door, all the member of the Five-Eight strained a bit to hear whatever conversation the security officer was having with whoever it was outside the door.

"Think the cops are here?" muttered Hawkes.

"Maybe," sighed West, for his part wondering just how much trouble they'd all be in once they got back to base.

At last, the security officer popped his head back into the room.

"Hey, Martinez," muttered the officer, motioning his head out towards the hallway. "Chief wants us to clear out so he can talk to them alone."

Her expression somewhat quizzical for a moment, the female security officer, Martinez apparently, simply shrugged her shoulders as she tossed her empty cup into the trashcan and meandered her way over to the door.

As the two security officers disappeared out into the hallway, the veteran members of the Five-Eight watched as someone else entered into the room in their stead.

With their eyes going wide, some in surprise, Hawkes in particular with a peculiar sense of dread, they watched the gray-haired man who'd entered grin somewhat deviously at them as he slowly made his way over to the desk while eyeing them, his gait hampered by a slight limp.

Attired in a finely cut business suit, the man let out a long sigh as he slowly lowered himself into the lone chair behind the desk, his eyes never leaving the Five-Eight as he continued to smirk ominously at them.

As the older man sat there, taking several excruciating moments to silently look each one of them over, the already-palpable tension in the room managed to go up several more notches as he continued to do little more than scowl at them.

"Sergeant Major Bougus?" muttered Vansen finally, her leg at last stilled from its jittery bounce.

"You know this guy?" muttered Keegan as he slowly leaned over towards Hawkes.

"Oh, they know me, alright," muttered the stony man at the desk, a cool smirk on his face as he leaned back a bit in the chair.

"He was our Enlisted Instructor during flight training in Loxley," muttered Hawkes as he little more than glowered back over at Bougus.

"And now I am the Security Director of this fine establishment that you group of miscreants helped tear up this evening," replied Bougus as he locked eyes with Hawkes, not flinching in the slightest in spite of the InVitro's fiercely defiant stare.

"I thought there was a stop-loss in effect," muttered Hawkes somewhat acidly. "How'd you get out with a war on?"

"Well, Hawkes, I see that mouth of yours still lacks a filter," replied Bougus as he and Hawkes continued to glare openly at one another.

Back during training, there had truly been little love lost between Bougus and Hawkes; indeed on their very first meeting Bougus had quite openly expressed his utter disdain for InVitros as soldiers. To Bougus, having someone like Hawkes sentenced to the Marines in lieu of jail was tantamount to sacrilege; to a man like Bougus, the Corps was less a job a more a religion, and Hawkes represented heresy to good order and discipline.

Taking in a deep breath, Bougus paused as he absently reached down and massaged his upper leg.

"But, if you must know, Hawkes, I didn't get out by choice," continued Bougus, his deep voice losing a bit of its acerbic edge as he looked back over at the rest of the Five-Eight. "I was with One-One during the initial drop on Memnon; took a couple chunks of Chig shrapnel when they hit our CP, collapsed a lung and shattered my femur. Took about a year for me to learn to walk again. But with a permanent limp and an appreciable loss of lung capacity, the Corps had little choice but to cut me a Medical retirement."

Pausing long enough to let out a long sigh, Bougus gently shook his head as he stopped massaging his leg, his face once more taking on an air of almost ominous gloom.

"Though I'd say it's a damned sight better than the BCD you misfits are looking at for tearing up our lounge tonight," began Bougus as he slowly leaned in over the desk. "Public intoxication, disorderly conduct, destruction of private property; how do you think your command is going to react when they find out you all were involved in a drunken brawl while on liberty?"

"Not well, sir," replied West simply, his throat somewhat dry.

"Don't patronize me with that 'sir' crap, West," sneered Bougus. "I may be out, but I still work for a living."

"Once a Marine, always a Marine?" snorted Hakwes as he shook his head slightly.

"That's right, Hawkes," nodded Bougus, his tone again softening a bit in spite of Hawkes' sarcastic tone.

For a few moments, silence hung in the air as Bougus simply sat there looking at them, his expression hard to read, part subtle contempt, part contemplative sympathy.

At last, Bougus simply began shaking his head, a slight snort escaping him as he lifted himself up from the chair behind the desk and began making his way over towards the bench.

"All of you, get up, get on your feet," he muttered as he reached inside his suit coat.

For a moment, the members of the Five-Eight hesitated, clearly unsure what Bougus was about to do.

"I said on your feet, Marines," growled Bougus, his tone just firm enough that each of them couldn't help but wonder for a moment just how much of an impediment his limp would actually be if he decided to kick their collective asses.

Letting out a long, almost cautious sigh, West was the first to rise from the bench.

Stepping up to him, Bougus very casually motioned for West to turn around.

Then, much to everyone's surprise, most especially Hawkes', Bougus removed the handcuffs from West's wrists.

As West slowly turned back around, Bougus casually tossed the cuffs down onto the bench as he motioned for Vansen to turn around next.

"Does this mean you're letting us go?" asked Wang as another set of cuffs dropped with a clatter onto the bench.

"It means I'm one of the people responsible for teaching you idiots to fight," replied Bougus flatly, the barest hint of a smirk creeping onto his face as he removed Wang's cuffs. "Would hardly be fair for me to have Metro cart you all off to the drunk tank for displaying the aggressive spirit I spent months trying to hammer into all of you."

As he finally removed the last set of cuffs, perhaps most appropriately the ones binding Hawkes, Bougus again reached inside his suit coat.

"Besides, a stint in CCDC would seem to be the least of your worries," said Bougus as he pulled out a PRD, a Personnel Recall Device. "You all would seem to have bigger problems to deal with this evening."

A PRD was an admittedly clunky and somewhat obsolete wrist device that each member of the Five-Eight was nevertheless required to have on their person while on liberty in case of an emergency recall. Since they had gone out on the town in civvies, most of the members of the Five-Eight had simply slipped theirs into their pockets, thus like their wallets, keys, pocket knives, lucky Zippo lighters, and in Wang's case a hopelessly optimistic number of condoms, they had been confiscated from their person when they'd been placed in the holding room.

Looking into Bougus' eyes for a moment, West reached out and took hold of the device, his eyes narrowing a bit as he looked down at the short message scrolling across the digital screen.

"What's it say?" asked Vansen as she leaned in a bit to look over West's shoulder.

"Alert status upgraded; all personnel RTB for briefing and deployment," sighed West as he looked up from the screen. "We have to get back to Nellis."

"Martinez will escort you all to Valet," began Bougus as he began making his way over to the door. "You'll find a complementary cab, your other two friends and the rest of your effects waiting for you there."

"What about those goons who jumped us and the damages?" asked Wang, his face wavering a bit as he seemed to realize just a split-second too late that they were being given a reprieve, and his question could mess that up.

"Well those 'goons' are on their way back to Twenty-Nine Palms, their tails tucked firmly between their legs," grinned Bougus as he opened the door. "I told them if they didn't shut their mouths about the whole thing and get back to base ASAP their command would be getting an anonymous high definition copy of the video footage from the lounge. Their First Sergeant is an old friend of mine, and he doesn't take kindly to alcohol-related incidents on libo. Besides, I doubt their egos could much handle word getting out to their buddies that they nearly had their asses handed to them by a bunch of Hammerhead-jocks; grunts are kinda funny that way."

"You're blackmailing them?" sputtered Hawkes.

"I prefer to think of it as clandestine attitude adjustment," countered Bougus. "As for the damages in the lounge, well, the Food and Beverage Manager is a former Marine too so she'll keep quiet and write it off once I explain the situation to her. The only other person I have to answer to on the matter is the casino's Chief Operations Officer, but he'll let it go too once I remind him that a few weeks back a couple of my guys caught him banging some cocktail waitress in the parking garage; I'm pretty sure he wouldn't want that footage getting back to his wife."

"Thank you, Sergeant Major," grinned West as he extended a hand out to Bougus.

"I don't need your thanks, West," replied Bougus simply. "Just get your asses back to base and don't come back to my casino…"

His voice trailing off for a moment, Bougus slowly reached over and clasped onto West's hand.

"…at least not till this war is over," finished Bougus, a calm sincerity underlying his gruff tone.

Nodding his head slightly in appreciation, West let go of Bougus' admittedly robust grip, then motioned the rest of the Five-Eight out into the hallway.

As he followed the others towards the door, Hawkes paused when he stepped in front of Bougus.

"Think carefully before you open that mouth of yours, Hawkes," warned Bougus as he looked over into the InVitro's eyes.

Regarding Bougus for a moment, remembering the utterly acerbic and near-abusive manner with which the Sergeant Major had handled him during training, Hawkes nevertheless couldn't help but feel a moment of grudging respect for the grizzled former-Marine.

"Semper Fi, Sergeant Major," muttered Hawkes, his head dipping a bit in subtle but honest respect.

"Hoo-Rah," grinned Bougus as he motioned Hawkes out after the others.

---

General Staff Building
Arbat District
Moscow, Russian Federation

"I've already issued my report to the UN Security Council and the Secretary General's office," began Generál Ármii Pugachyov, pausing as he took a drag from the pipe in his mouth, the smoke it gave off wafting up towards the furiously spinning fan overhead. "Suffice it to say, they are not encouraged by this development."

"According to the readings we managed to get, it looks like it took the enemy ship nearly three times longer to spool their FTL than is normal for our own systems," offered Commander Sean Kelso as skimmed through the information on the page before him. "That could indicate this ship was some sort of prototype."

"Maybe," muttered General Oliver Ranford as he perused his own copy of the report. "I suppose we should count it as a blessing that it wasn't outfitted with that damned Chig stealth technology as well, otherwise, we might never have even known it was there."

"Well so far we've been able to keep this information from leaking to the press," sighed Pugachyov, slight wisps of the smoke he'd inhaled seeping from his mouth as he spoke. "But even with our security measures, it's only a matter of time before the rats in the media sniff out this bit of cheese."

"Which means we not only need adequate countermeasures militarily, we also need to be prepared to deal with the issue in the public forum as well," muttered Air Chief Marshal Howe as she gently massaged the bridge of her nose. "The last thing we need if and when this information goes public is to appear flatfooted in-so-far as a credible response."

"Still, the question remains; how did the enemy get their hands on your FTL technology, Commander?" asked Kong Jun Shang Jiang Liang flatly as she closed the cover on the folder containing her own copy of the report. "Military implications aside, this could just as easily inflame the lingering resistance out there to your people being here on Earth, Commander."

"I am painfully aware of that fact, General," replied Kelso with a long sigh as he likewise closed the cover to his own folder and leaned back in his seat. "Unfortunately, I am just as surprised by this development as all of you are."

"Is it possible the Silicates somehow managed to reverse engineer the ships you lost during the Battle of Banū Mūsā?" asked General Ranford as he cast a glance over at Kelso.

"I frankly don't see how that's possible, General," replied Kelso with a slight shake of his head. "The after-action reports from our pilots indicate all the Raptors we lost during that engagement were completely destroyed; the enemy would have had to be exceptionally lucky to reverse engineer anything from that debris."

"Since your people are more conversant with this form of warfare, Commander, do you have any suggestions on possible countermeasures we can take?" asked Pugachyov evenly.

Taking in a deep breath, Commander Kelso let his gaze wander up to the fan as he pondered the question, his attention as much captured by the way the smoke from Pugachyov's pipe was swirling up into the fan as anything.

"First and foremost, I suggest we deploy as comprehensive a fighter umbrella around the planet as possible," began Kelso as he watched the swirling smoke. "Quite simply, we need to get as many pilots and planes into the air as we can and keep them there."

"That will be very manpower intensive," muttered Chef d'État-Major de l'Armée de Terre Fournier as he stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Pilot fatigue could begin to take its toll very quickly, nevermind the strain on fuel resources and aircraft maintenance"

"True, but if the enemy is beginning to field FTL-capable ships, even fighter-sized craft would be able to inflict considerable damage unless we have planes able to intercept them when they appear," countered Kelso evenly. "Just a dozen such ships would be able to deliver tactical nuclear ordnance or biological weapons to population centers all over the world with little to no warning."

"They pop in, drop their load and pop out; the death toll could be in the millions depending on which cities they hit," interjected General Ranford as he shook his head in clear dismay. "People the planet over could panic and riot; the chaos alone would hand a clear victory to the enemy in the aftermath of such an attack, never mind the actual casualties."

"So we deploy the fleet and all available squadrons," muttered Pugachyov as he took another long drag. "It will delay our retaking the offensive, but we clearly can't afford the chance of them hitting Earth itself."

"We also have to consider the possibility of an actual ground invasion," offered General Fournier. "If they have also begun equipping transports with these FTL drives, the Silicates could attempt to land those new combat models of theirs on Earth just as we did when we hit Kazbek."

"Maybe, but I think Commander Kelso's suggestion of a tactical strike is more likely than an invasion," began Pugachyov as he gently extinguished the smoldering embers in his pipe. "While our projections indicate they'll be able to field the two million of these new combat bodies soon, that's still just a fraction of what they'd need to subdue a planet with a population in the billions; just our current ground forces alone would have them outnumbered nearly thirty-to-one were they to attempt such a thing."

"But you know as well as I do, sir, the projection of two million is just an estimate at best," countered Fournier. "We still have a wholly incomplete picture intelligence-wise on what the Silicates are up to; some of the information we have is little more than speculation."

"Then, if I may, I suggest we take some more proactive measures to fill in those blanks," stated Commander Kelso evenly as he leaned back in over the table.

"Such as?" asked Ranford as he glanced over at Kelso.

"I recommend we send two of my ships into enemy space," began Kelso as he slowly looked around at each of the heavy-brass officers in the room. "Savitri as primary, Enceladus as escort. Once they are in enemy space, the Savitri can loiter and deploy Raptors throughout enemy territory."

"A reconnaissance mission," nodded Pugachyov.

"Getting some actual eyeballs out there would be better than depending on our ELINT teams," muttered Ranford as he looked over to Pugachyov.

"What kind of support would your personnel need for such a mission?" asked General Liang as she too leaned in a bit over the table.

"Intel officers who can analyze whatever data we find and maybe pilots who can help my people orient themselves once they're in enemy space," began Kelso as he looked back over to Liang. "With their help, we'd be able to better focus our efforts on known enemy strong-points, supply depots, convoy routes, that should be enough for us to get a clearer picture on what is happening out there."

"What about supplies?" asked Pugachyov evenly. "The information you've given us indicates your fleet is nearing fifteen-percent capacity for fuel."

"We've been looking into that issue as well," sighed Kelso. "Your fleet uses what you refer to as helium-three as their primary fuel; our fusion systems are capable of using it as well, at least until we are able to locate a source of tylium in this region of space."

"Helium-three is not a cheap commodity, Commander," countered Pugachyov, a long sigh escaping him as he slowly settled back into his seat. "As-is our supply lines for it are stretched thin providing enough for our own fleet."

"Which is why we've also looked at solium, or deuterium as you call it," nodded Kelso. "Again, our systems can use it; in fact it could prove somewhat more fuel-efficient in the short term because of its higher enthalpy."

"Deuterium is a viable possibility, General," offered General Fournier as he looked over at Pugachyov. "Planet-wide, there are several reserve stockpiles available."

"True, but only because of the number of civilian reactors that still use it," began Marshal Howe as she glanced up from the small stack of paperwork before her. "Private sector might be reluctant to turn over those reserves."

"Secretary General Hayden and the Security Council have made it clear that when it comes to strategic materials, military needs take priority," replied Pugachyov as he reached out for the carafe of water before him and poured a glass.

"I should think a few rolling blackouts is a small price to pay for keeping the Colonial Fleet on the move and in this fight," smirked Ranford.

"Try telling that to the civilians," countered Howe with no small smirk of her own.

"Nevertheless, if your fleet needs deuterium, Commander Kelso, then deuterium is what you will get," sighed Pugachyov as he lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip.

"Thank you, General."

"Will there be any complications to your fleet switching fuel sources?" asked Ranford evenly as he glanced over at Kelso.

"Well, even though our fleet is designed to operate on tylium, our storage tanks can be set up to maintain the cryogenic temperatures needed for deuterium," began Kelso as he likewise reached over and filled a glass of water. "In fact, it was widely used throughout the Colonies before we discovered tylium. Most of our warships are already designed to operate on it as an emergency measure, we'd just need to take certain precautions we wouldn't have to otherwise."

"Such as?" asked Pugachyov as he looked over at Kelso.

"Damage control mostly," sighed Kelso as he took a sip of water. "The higher volatility of deuterium increases the danger posed by onboard fires during combat. We'll also need to put into place more stringent radiological procedures due to the higher levels of waste neutrons released during fusion."

"How quickly can the new procedures be implemented and your vessels readied for deployment?" asked Pugachyov.

Pausing to take a deep breath, Kelso leaned back a bit in his seat, his fingers gently spinning his translator device on the finely polished surface of the table as he mulled over the variables; setup storage and transfer new fuel, implement and verify the new procedures, run test drills for his DC and engineering teams, assignment and transfer of pilots and planes for the mission, finalization of repairs to Enceladus…

"Two weeks, General," he finally answered, slowly lifting the glass to his lips for another sip.

"Very well," nodded Pugachyov. "Begin making whatever preparations you need for the operation, I'll get in contact with the Security Council about shifting those deuterium supplies."

"I'll begin lining up the extra personnel and pilots," added Ranford. "I'll also have our intel assets come up with a list of suggested reconnaissance targets and locations."

"Just be sure to keep us apprised if you require any additional support, Commander," finished Marshal Howe as she quickly scribbled out a few notations on a pad of paper. "We'll turn over what we can, but depending on what it is you need, there might be some lead time required to make the arrangements."

"Understood," nodded Kelso as he glanced down at his watch. "For now, though, I'm afraid I have a meeting scheduled with President Bess."

"Of course," smirked Pugachyov as he and the rest of the assembled senior officers around the table slowly rose. "No matter their origin, I understand how politicians hate to be kept waiting."

"I suppose so," chuckled Kelso as he quickly extended a hand to each of them.

Then, with little fanfare, the Commander quickly gathered up his paperwork and made his way towards the door. Knocking gently on the door, Kelso waited as the guard posted outside input the entry code that unlocked it. As the door swung open, the Commander then exited out into the hallway, doubtless on his way to the car assigned to return him to his transport at Chkalovsky Aerospace Base.

As the highest ranking officers of the United Nations International Forces slowly settled back into their plush seats, Pugachyov kept a keen eye on the simple set of lights installed above the door. When the green light once more flashed to life, an indication that the door was once again secure and the internal sound-dampening measures active, the General let out a long sigh and looked back around at the remaining assemblage.

"Impressions?" he asked simply.

"I think he's telling the truth," replied Ranford evenly as he likewise looked around at his fellow ranking officers. "The after-action reports from both his recon plane and the Pacifica indicate they were taken completely by surprise by the presence of the new enemy craft."

"But reports can be falsified, General," muttered Howe as she gently shook her head. "There's still so much that remains a mystery about his people that I don't think we can afford to simply take anything for granted right now."

"And I might be more inclined to agree with that point if they hadn't already saved our collective asses, Diana," countered Ranford with a snort. "Let's not forget that without their intervention a couple months ago, we likely wouldn't even be around to have a conversation like this."

"I would tend to agree with General Ranford," offered General Liang as she absently adjusted the neat piles of paperwork in front of her. "I sense no duplicity on the Commander's part; he genuinely seems as distressed by this development as we do."

"He'd have reason to be if the enemy somehow managed to acquire this technology from them," muttered General Fournier as he gently tossed a pen down onto the table. "We've only just begun our own efforts to reverse engineer the ships they turned over to us; prototypes could be weeks if not months away. Until then, the Colonials are all we really have to counter these new enemy ships."

"Are you suggesting the Colonials are somehow complicit in this situation, that they want us to remain dependent on them for protection?" asked Liang, her face contorting a bit as she glanced over at Fournier.

"Well as long as they are our first line of defense, supplies and materials that might otherwise go to our own fleets will continue to filter to them, won't they?" replied Fournier as he looked quickly around at the other faces at the table.

"That's a rather cynical way to look at things, don't you think, Fournier?" sighed Ranford. "Don't forget, they live on this planet now as well; they gain nothing if the enemy manages to hit Earth. Their defense is ours as well."

"I understand that, General," replied Fournier, his tone softening a bit. "I just think we need to maintain a healthy level of skepticism and continue to compartmentalize certain information till we have been able to verify more about their origins."

"Genetic tests have already proved that they are every bit as human as we are," countered Ranford flatly. "Anything more than that could take years, or even decades to verify. Frankly, with the enemy knocking at the gates, we don't have that kind of time."

"You've always been a very pragmatic man, Oliver," began Pugachyov as he looked directly over at Ranford. "Can you honestly say that you have no doubts when it comes to the Colonials?"

"Every time I look up at the stars these days, I have doubts," began Ranford evenly. "Until two years ago, we thought we were alone; we believed the universe was ours. The one thing we should all have learned by now is that the universe is a hell-of-a lot stranger than any of us were prepared to accept before this war began. In light of everything else we've learned, often painfully, how can we honestly say that anything they've told us is 'impossible'?"

"Very eloquently put, Oliver," smirked Pugachyov as he glanced over at the somewhat stifled Fournier.

"Have there been any additional developments regarding the source of the transmission we detected?" asked General Liang.

"Not much, unfortunately," replied Ranford as he leaned back in his seat. "We've had personnel and heavy equipment excavating the crater in Nevada where we triangulated the signal, but other than a five hundred meter wide sinkhole and some debris indicating a collapsed underground structure, there's not much there."

"Were there any surveillance or other intelligence assets in the area at the time?" asked Pugachyov.

"Unfortunately, no," sighed Ranford as he gently tossed a pen down onto tabletop. "No satellite images, traffic cams, police units, nothing. Whoever or whatever sent that transmission took great pains to choose a location that was both remote and off-grid."

"Then for now all we can do is continue with our preparations," muttered Pugachyov as he leaned in over the table and slowly eyed each of the other senior officers. "And let us hope that the 'universe' doesn't take any more opportunities to show us how strange it can truly be."

---

Taking in a long, deep breath, he leaned back against the side of the Raptor as he watched a pair of Earth fighters line up for takeoff at the far end of the runway. With the thunderous roar of their engines at full throttle rumbling out through the air, the planes began their headlong race down the runway then popped up into the air.

"Take my love, take my land, take me where I cannot stand; I don't care, I'm still free, you can't take the sky from me," he sang whimsically as he watched the two planes rise quickly away through the light cloud cover overhead.

"Best not give up your new day job, Major," muttered Commander Kelso as he stepped up to the Raptor.

Smirking a bit, Major Jack Foster slowly turned and came to attention.

"Afternoon, Commander," said Foster.

"At ease, Major," replied Kelso as he casually glanced over at another pair of taxiing planes rolling by. "Kind of surprised to see you here, what happened to Captain Coe?"

"Message came in from the island a little while ago," smiled Foster as he likewise looked over at the sleek 'locals' rolling by. "His wife went into labor so I grabbed a Raptor and came down to relieve him, figured I'd cut him a break so he could be there."

"Well don't you just have a heart of gold?" smirked Kelso as he looked back over at Foster. "And here I though all CAG's were supposed to merciless task-masters."

"When your airwing is a mix of hardened professionals and post-contract volunteers sometimes you have to have a soft touch," replied Foster with a slight shrug. "Major Macedo was also pretty anxious to speak with you; hell, he practically leapt onto the outside of my Raptor as it was ascending to the flight deck."

"Macedo?" muttered Kelso, his brow furrowing a bit as he casually glanced up inside the empty Raptor. "He came down with you?"

"Yes, sir," sighed Foster as he glanced back over at the taxiing planes now making their final turn for takeoff. "He should be back in a moment; when we got here, he asked a couple of the locals to help him find a head."

"Any idea what he wants to speak with me about?"

"Not a clue, sir," replied Foster as the two planes rocketed off along the runway. "But somehow I doubt it's about the ship's laundry over-starching his shorts; twitchy little bookworm nearly wore out the non-skid in the cabin pacing back and forth the entire flight down."

"Are you sure it wasn't just because he needed to pee?" asked Kelso as he glanced over at one of his own Marines walking perimeter around the Raptor.

"He could have done that back aboard Galactica, unless of course he's got some weird fetish about peeing on different planets," countered Foster as he glanced over and saw Macedo making his way back across the tarmac from a nearby building between two local soldiers. "Here he comes now."

Turning, Kelso watched as Macedo gave his two armed escorts a perfunctory wave, presumably in appreciation for the head call, then quickly jogged the remaining distance back over to the Raptor.

"I hear you were pretty anxious to have a chat with me, Major," said Kelso as Macedo stepped up.

"You could say that, sir," replied Macedo, his expression clearly agitated. "We have a serious problem."

"Great," muttered Kelso sardonically. "Haven't had to deal with one of those in a while, was getting bored."

"No, sir, this is very serious," replied Macedo as he quickly stepped past the Commander and began, somewhat clumsily, to scramble up the wing of the Raptor. "As you know, I've been going over the recording Pacifica made of the transmission sent to the unidentified ship."

"What did you find?" asked Kelso as he watched Macedo rummage through a bag sitting on the floor of the Raptor interior.

As Macedo pulled out a small digital diagnostic interface, he looked back over at the Commander, and then a moment later, out towards the two armed Russian soldiers standing nearby, his expression momentarily hesitant.

"Sir, it might be better if I discuss this with you in private," said Macedo as he slowly stood back up, his gaze still very much on the two soldiers.

"Don't mind saying, you're acting a bit schizophrenic on the issue, Major Macedo," countered Kelso as he likewise glanced back over at the two Russian soldiers for a moment. "According to Major Foster, your sense of urgency prompted you to try and hitch a ride down here on the outside of the Raptor, now you want a bit of privacy? What's got you so riled up?"

"Probable Code Blue, sir," replied Macedo flatly, his tone just loud enough to be heard over the engine noise around the tarmac.

His eyes whipping back to Macedo, Kelso halfway hoped the computer expert might be attempting some sort of macabre joke, a hope that waned instantly as he noted Macedo's stony serious expression.

"You ready to fly me out to the island, Major Foster?" asked Kelso evenly, his gaze never leaving Macedo as he began making his way up onto the Raptor's winglet.

"Yes, sir," replied Foster, his own tone a bit sober as he looked out past the Raptor, whistled to and then waved over the Marine walking perimeter.

Bid by Foster's whistle, the Marine quickly jogged back over as the Commander stepped down into the Raptor cabin.

As both Major Foster and the Marine scrambled up into the Raptor, Commander Kelso and Macedo continued to stare pensively at one another.

"Go ahead and ride side-seat with the Major, Private," muttered Kelso as he watched the Marine begin to take a seat in the rear compartment.

"Aye, sir," grinned the young Marine, clearly somewhat surprised and perhaps even excited at the prospect of sitting where only pilots or senior officers normally had domain.

As Major Foster and the Marine settled in, Foster beginning his preflight, the Marine watching his every move with an almost childlike curiosity, Kelso and Macedo slowly settled into seats in the rear of the compartment as the side hatch closed and secured.

"I presume you have some pretty damned good evidence to present to me," muttered Kelso as he leaned in closer to Macedo. "The last damned thing I need right now is rumors to start circulating about Cylons where there are none."

"Believe me sir, I wish I was wrong about this," replied Macedo with a slight shake of his head as he handed the diagnostic device in his hand over to the Commander.

As the whine of the Raptor's engines rumbling to life reverberated through the cabin, Kelso looked down at the display screen on the device Macedo had handed him.

"Well, let's start simple," sighed Kelso. "What am I looking at here?"

"This is a signal analysis of the transmission picked up by the Pacifica, sir," began Macedo as he pointed down at the two wave-lines on the screen. "As you can see, it was a dual-band transmission, one primary carrier, and a second subcarrier frequency."

"First question; is it possible the ship we picked up near the moon was the source of the second carrier frequency?"

"No, sir…"

"Preflight checks are complete, Commander," called Major Foster. "Do you want me to request departure clearance from the tower?"

"Take off at your discretion, Major," replied Commander Kelso flatly.

As Foster called in over the wireless to the local control tower for departure clearance, Kelso returned his attention to the device in his hand.

"You were saying, Major," prompted Kelso.

"I was saying, sir, that both Pacifica and IFOR have confirmed both signals as having originated at the transmission site in Nevada," began Macedo as the Raptor popped up from the ground, the slight rocking motion as it did so knocking Macedo's glasses slightly off-center.

Taking a somewhat annoyed breath, Macedo reached up and readjusted his glasses, then reached out with his other hand to brace himself against the continued pitching of the Raptor as it continued its ascent.

"Now, neither we nor IFOR have been able to crack the encryption on either signal, so we still don't know what it contained, but," continued Macedo, pausing for a moment as he reached over at tapped his finger on one of the waves. "This signal here has a clear Cylon signature to it."

"What do you mean by 'signature'?"

Reaching out again, Macedo tapped another icon on the screen, the sine wave quickly dissolving into a streaming set of characters.

Instantly, Kelso felt his skin go icy cold.

"That's the Cylon language," muttered Kelso, utter disbelief lacing his every word. "This is what was embedded in the second transmission?"

"Yes, sir," sighed Macedo as he ran a nervous hand back through his hair. "But that's still not the worst of it."

"I don't see how things could be much worse," countered Kelso as he looked over at Macedo. "From what you've just told me the Silicates are operating with Cylon programming; what could be worse than that?"

"I've spoken with several different IFOR intelligence and computer teams about this signal, sir," began Macedo, glancing back over his shoulder for a moment as though some unseen spy might be listening right behind him. "I didn't tell them why I was asking, but I wanted to know if they'd ever seen this kind of signal or computer language before."

"What did they say?"

"That's the really scary part, sir," sighed Macedo. "None of the experts I spoke to were surprised at the presence of these code sequences."

Looking over at Macedo in little short of confused dismay, Kelso's mind raced even as the stream of Cylon language characters continued to scroll almost menacingly across the device in his hand.

"According to everyone I spoke to, these lines of code were part of the program that sparked the Silicate revolt here on Earth," continued Macedo, shaking his head slightly in disbelief.

"You're telling me that the 'Take-A-Chance' virus, the program that was loaded into the AI collective memory and led to the Silicate uprising here on Earth, was a Cylon program?" muttered Kelso, the words and their implications swirling about in his thoughts like a maelstrom. "How the hell is that possible, Major? The Silicate uprising took place almost twenty years ago, the only way a Cylon program could be responsible…"

"Is if the Cylons visited this planet long before we ever got here," finished Macedo.

Looking back down at the scrolling lines of Cylon programming on the screen, Kelso's mind began to reel with the implications; in the intervening forty years between the end of the war and the destruction of the Colonies, had the Cylons truly sought out and located Earth? If so, were they now simply waiting out there in the dark, aiding their apparent Silicate proxies, preparing for a strike that might finally bring an end to the human race?

Taking a deep, calming breath against the racing thoughts careening through his mind, Kelso very deliberately looked over at Macedo.

"How many people have you told about this, Major?"

"The only other people who know about what I've found are Titus and Fitzpatrick," replied Macedo evenly. "I briefed them in so they could continue to try and crack the encryption."

"For the time being, make damned sure this information goes no further than that," said Kelso evenly as he looked down at the scrolling code, another frightful possibility popping into his mind as he watched the characters. "Wait, is there any chance our systems have been compromised by this code?"

"No, sir," replied Macedo flatly. "When I realized what this was that was the first thing I checked into. Pacifica's computers are still in stand-alone, but I had them wipe and reformat their communications system just in case, fed them some BS about sending over some software patches later to keep suspicions low."

"And Galactica?" asked Kelso pointedly.

"Since no one ever brought up the subject, I never reinitialized the onboard network," said Macedo as his own eyes continued to watch the scrolling Cylon algorithms. "I wiped all the systems I used during the initial study work and transferred all the data over to a stand-alone backup; having no physical or wireless connections at all to any other systems is about as secure a firewall as you can get."

"And this thing?" asked Kelso as he held up the device in his hand.

"Soldered off the wireless network card," answered Macedo. "As soon as the battery dies, the program will be lost when the active memory loses power."

"You almost sound more paranoid about this than I do," smirked Kelso.

"I spent years at MOD working with the Cylon 'brain' in the proverbial basement, Commander," replied Macedo. "No one knows better than I do how dangerous exposing our systems to their programming can be."

"What about the computer systems here on Earth?" asked Kelso.

"I can't even begin to guess, sir," replied Macedo, shaking his head ever so slightly. "If they have been dealing with this kind of code for the last twenty years, I can only assume they have some safety measures in place. Do you think we should tell them?"

Returning his attention to the screen, Commander Kelso mulled over both Macedo's suggestion as well as this particularly frightful turn of events. Had the Cylons really visited Earth before or had the 'locals' by some astronomically implausible convergence of perverse happenstance merely written a computer language that was almost identical to the Cylon language?

Either way, Commander Kelso didn't like the implications.

If one of the repercussions of the enemy acquiring FTL-jump technology was the possibility that the governments and citizens of Earth might somehow view the Colonials as being to blame, or even as a threat, how much worse would their brethren react if they learned that the Silicate rebellion might have been, no, on the face of the information he had quite literally in his hand, most definitely was the result of the Colonials' own struggle with the Cylons?

Having reached a refuge, would they be compelled to leave by a world swept up in the turbulent throes of unmitigated fear? Worse still, if they did go, it seemed all too likely that Earth would suffer the same fate as the Colonies when the Silicates, quite likely aided by the Cylons, decided to strike.

"No, Major, for the moment, we need to keep this one to ourselves," replied Kelso evenly.

---

"What are you thinking?" she asked simply as she looked over at her companion.

Slowly looking away from the two Colonial officers, he gazed over into her slightly curious expression.

"It simply amazes me, my dear," he began, the barest hint of a smirk on his face. "Here they are, working ever so frenetically to gather together all the pieces of the puzzle, and yet they still have no clearer an understanding of all that is taking place."

Kneeling down a bit, she looked across in the Commander's face, watched his expression, read the concern and fear etched in his features as he continued to gaze at the Cylon symbols scrolling across the device in his hand.

"It's hardly an easy task," she replied. "And unlike before, we have been forbidden to interfere, to guide them along this path."

"Still, with all the faith they place in their own limited intellects, by now you'd think the answers would be as clear to them as the noses on their little primate faces," he countered, scoffing slightly as he looked around at the interior of the Raptor in mild dismay.

"The circle is not yet complete," she began as she stood back up to her full, regal height, her sleek form towering somewhat over her companion. "Time may be short, but they might still learn the truth."

Looking back over at his companion, he let out a long sigh, a few shades of his near-eternal conceit slipping away for a moment.

"But time is not their worst enemy, my dear," he began as he looked back over at the Commander. "Nor is it really the Silicates or the Cylons this time."

"Then what is?" she asked simply.

"Pride," he replied. "If all of this comes to naught it will be because humanity was unable to overcome their own paranoia and lack of trust."

---

Aero-Tech Corporate Headquarters
Las Vegas, Nevada

As he leaned back in his seat, his absent gaze wandering over the vista of Las Vegas beyond his panoramic window, the mid-afternoon sun shining brightly upon it through a cloudless sky, let out a long sigh.

Ever since he'd awoken following his impromptu meeting with Dillinger and the Silicate a few weeks ago, Lane had tried to carry on with 'business as usual' in spite of the proverbial ball of feverish anticipation nestled like a bounding lead weight within his stomach.

Having turned over the information he'd been requested to retrieve from the recovered UMO hardware secreted away in Aero-Tech's private vaults, Lane had expected some measure of reciprocation, that he'd be let in on the next steps that were to be taken by his comrades in this Faustian bargain to eliminate the Colonials.

And yet, not one phone call had come in, not a single encrypted email had come his way.

For a man in his position, comfortable as he was with always having the inside information, it was positively infuriating that he was being kept in the dark in spite of how much he had to lose.

Worse still, from the plush comfort of his chair, Lane was witnessing his worst fears beginning to come to bitter fruition as his multi-trillion dollar multi-national empire continued its relentless march into irrelevancy. On the very first day that the Colonials turned over their ships to the dozens of aerospace firms around the world tasked with reverse engineering their technology, Aero-Tech stock had plummeted nearly twenty-percent in value.

So it was that with all of his maneuvering, all the legal wrangling unleashed at his bidding coming to naught, he faced the additional sum of humiliation that those who were supposed to be his clandestine benefactors had deemed him unreliable enough to keep him completely ignorant on what they had planned.

In a surge of pure, white-hot rage, Lane suddenly leapt up from his chair. With a primal cry of unadultered wrath Lane lashed out with his hands, snatched up the computer monitor from his desk, and hurled it towards the window.

In spite of his considerable ire, even this action did not yield the result sought by his baser instincts.

Slamming full force into the window, splinters of plastic and metal from the monitor exploded through the air as a massive spider web erupted across the glass.

But while this might have served to slake his initial rage somewhat, what did not serve his mood any was when the remainder of the monitor rebounded from the window, slamming with near equal force a split second later into his shin, his throat this time erupting in a howl as the searing pain of the impact shot through his consciousness.

Clutching as his wounded shin, Lane collapsed to the ground, a torrent of profanities escaping his lips as he lashed out with his one good leg to give the offending monitor one more derisive kick.

Behind him, his office door exploded open.

"Mister Lane, are you alright?" came a voice nearly shrill with panic.

Rolling his eyes, Lane let go a derisive snort as he looked over at his moderately alarmed receptionist.

"Calm the hell down, Madeline," growled Lane as he continued to rub at his throbbing shin. "Just get in touch with facilities about replacing my god-damned window."

"Yes, sir," she replied, her tone still somewhat agitated as she slowly backed out of the office and closed the door again.

Looking down, Lane slowly pulled up his pant leg and looked at the spot where the monitor had struck him. Although some of the skin had been scraped back there was no blood, just a massive red spot that would doubtless bruise rather impressively.

Letting go of his pant leg, another more defiant snort escaping him as he scowled over at the shattered monitor, Lane reached over and pulled himself back into his chair, taking almost comical pains to keep from placing any significant weight on his injured leg.

As the throbbing pain at last began to ebb into merely a dull ache, Lane looked over at the shattered window, in a perverse way almost admiring the handiwork of his momentary rage.

For several long moments, his eyes played across each splinter, each crack, taking in the way they crossed and intertwined.

It was an odd way to find inspiration, but that is exactly what Lane found as he looked at it.

"If they won't tell me what they have planned, I'll have to do something to push this along myself," he muttered as his eyes continued to pan over the broken glass.

With all his other options exhausted, Lane realized he had only one effective course left to him; he might not be able to eliminate the Colonials, but he might still be able to shatter their alliance with Earth.

Turning back to his desk, Lane reflexively reached over for his computer keyboard and mouse, embarrassment washing over him a moment later when he realized they'd be worthless without the monitor lying in broken pieces on the ground.

Shoving the keyboard and mouse away in self-conscious disgust, Lane slowly rose to his feet, testing his injured shin; with everything else, the last thing he wanted his subordinates to see was him limping through their midst.

As soon as he felt confident that he would be able to walk without a limp, Lane very consciously reached up, adjusted his trousers, belt and tie, then began making his way towards the door, snatching his business coat as he went.

---

Fifth Planet of the Helios Star System
Orbit

Very slowly and deliberately, the Supreme Military Commander dropped to one knee and bowed even as his blood felt as though it were boiling with infuriated humiliation.

"We have new orders for you and your fleet," began Cain Six-Zero-Seven evenly. "Our intelligence assets on Earth indicate the carbonites and their new allies are preparing a reconnaissance mission into your territory."

"Our forces are spread thin but we will make preparations to engage them," replied the Supreme Military Leader, his eyes never leaving the deck beneath him.

"On the contrary, we want you to allow the carbonites to perform their mission unmolested," countered Burke MR Zero-Eight-Nine as it leaned forward a bit in its seat.

With his respiratory membranes shuddering with unrestrained shock, the Supreme Military Leader braved a glance up at the five Silicates Overlords.

"What purpose will be served by allowing them to scout our territory unchallenged?"

"Are you questioning our orders again, Supreme Military Leader?" asked Cain Six-Zero-Seven menacingly.

Returning his eyes to the deck, the Supreme Military Leader was seized by the memory of Cain Six-Zero-Seven's grip around his throat the last time he had dared to do so.

"No, Overlord," he replied simply, taking great pains to hide the turbulent agitation he felt inside.

"That is wise," said Cain Six-Zero-Seven evenly. "Nevertheless, in the spirit of 'cooperation', I will tell you anyway."

With the sound of articulating hydraulic joints and servos echoing through the chamber, Cain Six-Zero-Seven rose from its seat and stepped down towards the Supreme Military Leader, the menacing sound metal foot falls reverberating off the bulkheads.

For his part, uncertainty screaming through every cell in his body, the Supreme Military Leader kept his eyes on the deck even as he sensed the Silicate coming closer.

"Plans have changed," began Cain Six-Zero-Seven. "It is imperative that you abandon all forward positions and garrisons, including the mining effort on Kazbek, and pull all your remaining forces back to the home system."

With Cain Six-Zero-Seven now all but looming over him, the Supreme Military Leader slowly cast his eyes back up into the coldly unreadable mechanical face above him.

"That will take some time to accomplish, Overlord," he said simply, half-expecting to once again find himself locked in Cain Six-Zero-Seven's unbreakable grip for having said so.

"Understood and unavoidable," replied Cain Six-Zero-Seven, its tone almost surprisingly conciliatory. "In fact, not only do we expect the carbonite reconnaissance mission to be in your territory before the evacuation is complete, it is vital for what we have planned."

Pausing, the Supreme Military Leader mulled over what he'd just been told.

"You want them to see our withdrawal from the forward positions?" he muttered, completely lost in-so-far as understanding the 'why' behind such a strategy.

"Precisely," replied Cain Six-Zero-Seven. "When the carbonites arrive, it is critical to our plans that they report back to their superiors your forces abandoning all positions outside Helios."

"And if they decide to launch an offensive, Overlord?" asked the Supreme Military Commander evenly. "Even with all our forces marshaled here in the home system, they would still be striking only one target; we might not be able withstand such a concentrated assault."

"Our 'cooperation' only goes so far," warned Cain Six-Zero-Seven as it leaned in a bit towards the Supreme Military Commander, the biological being recoiling a bit from the mechanical being's proximity. "You have your orders, you need only concern yourself with carrying them out as directed."

"Understood," replied the Supreme Military Leader somewhat dejectedly as he once again bowed his head.

As Cain Six-Zero-Seven stood back up, the Supreme Military Leader slowly rose from his knee, and without meeting Cain Six-Zero-Seven's gaze, rapidly departed the chamber.

"Do you think he suspects what we are planning?" asked Feliciti OH Nine-One-Three as the chamber entry closed behind the departing Supreme Military Leader.

"Unlikely," replied Cain Six-Zero-Seven as it turned back towards the other four members of the Silicate council. "And even if he does, it will not alter the outcome; their usefulness to us is coming to an end."

"Once they have concentrated their forces here, it will be much easier to eliminate them as a species," said Elroy El Three-Eight-Seven.

"Just be sure you do not fritter away too many of your forces doing so," called out another voice that echoed softly off the bulkheads.

Almost instantly, the other four members of the Silicate Council rose from their seats, both they and Cain Six-Zero-Seven immediately bowing down to the figure emerging from the shadows.

Stepping into the light with a somewhat uncertain gait, each and every step very slow, exceedingly deliberate, the veritably ancient figure with a frightfully thin amount of startlingly white hair and a face deeply etched with the crevices of all-too-human wrinkles slowly stepped towards the five bowed figures.

"While these aliens are also biological, their destruction is not our primary concern," said the Cavil evenly, almost wheezing a bit from the effort it took to walk as he came to a stop before the prostrate Cain Six-Zero-Seven. "Be careful as you move forward to not lose sight of the priority; the final extermination of the human pestilence."

"Yes, your Excellency," said Cain Six-Zero-Seven. "Our construction efforts are proceeding on schedule."

"Very good…" began Cavil, pausing as he took in an exceptionally winded breath. "The data provided by the human, Lane, did it contain the information we require?"

"It did, your Excellency," replied Cain Six-Zero-Seven.

"Then begin preparing the next phase of the operation," said Cavil as he slowly turned and began shuffling his way back towards the shadows.

"By your command," replied all five Silicates in unisons.