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.

16. Part 16 - Calculated Risk

Dolphin Island
In the Coral Sea
Approximately 100 Kilometers from the East Coast of Australia

As he stepped back out into the tropical evening air, Commander Sean Kelso took in a long, deep breath, the subtle scent of the sea carried on the gentle breeze rustling the surrounding palm fronds calming him somewhat.

Much as he'd expected his exhaustive one-on-one meeting with President Bess had not been a particularly pleasant one. But with Macedo's discovery of Cylon programming in the Silicate transmission, and the decidedly alarming ramifications that discovery seemed to portent, the two of them needed to be on the same page in-so-far as how to respond.

Of particular concern to the both of them was the question of just how much they should tell IFOR about what Macedo had discovered.

As the two of them had grappled with the issue, with Commander Kelso providing his insights on the military side and the President his own on the civilian side, one thing had become all-to-painfully clear to both of them; with the suspicions of various Earth officials still high and their cooperative trade and defense agreements still rather embryonic in nature, divulging the information now could prove disastrous.

Worse still was the specter of how Macedo's discovery might be received by the survivors of the Twelve Colonies themselves. How much chaos would be sewn amongst those who'd escaped the Cylon Holocaust if they learned that their genocidal enemy may have known about Earth all along?

For a moment, he couldn't help but feel there was an almost nihilistic cruelty to all of it, be it because of fate or chance or the gods, one that left Kelso's blood almost boiling within his veins.

Nevertheless, Commander Kelso knew he had little choice but to come to terms with the situation for it imparted new urgency and clarity to his mission to assist IFOR in bringing the war with the Chigs to a close; if the Cylons were in fact a hell-of-a lot closer than any of them had suspected then Earth needed to be readied and focused for the far more dangerous conflict apparently lurking unseen amid the trackless depths of space.

As he made his way along the main thoroughfare through the settlement from the President's residence, the dim glow of the simple street lights lining the path casting almost eerie shadows around the area, Commander Sean Kelso tried to set aside the torrent of concerns racing through his thoughts if for no other reason than to avoid raising any suspicions amongst the myriad of people scattered throughout the area.

Quite simply, the last thing any of them needed to see was a brooding Colonial officer in their midst.

So it was that as he continued to amble along the main lane through the settlement, Kelso instead focused his mind quite deliberately on the ordinary, the seemingly mundane minutiae of a shattered culture working to reassert itself in the wake of incalculable loss.

Outside the recently consecrated temple, a group of worshipers waited to present their sacrificial offerings to the priestess, the rhythmic chanting of several laypersons offering up hymns to the gods adding a modicum of solemnity to the proceedings as those offerings were placed within the flames of the sacred hearth.

In contrast, on the opposite side of the street several kids in their early teens were involved in a particularly boisterous game of pyramid, each of them jockeying for position amid the dust being kicked up on the makeshift court, the shouts escaping them punctuated by the cheers for one side or another coming from the small entourage of parents watching nearby.

A little further along was a small market bazaar that had sprung into being almost overnight, a few particularly enterprising individuals fastidiously tending to a series of shanty kiosks, each offering a variety of rather ordinary fare that under the circumstances still held an aura of the extraordinary; clothing items, fruits, assorted sundry items, even some handmade jewelry.

As he came to the intersection with the path that would lead him back to the airfield, Commander Kelso casually glanced over, and to his genuine surprise, caught sight of a pair of crude yet quaintly appropriate signs marking the intersection and for a moment was somewhat disappointed in himself for not noticing them earlier when he'd arrived.

With a slight smirk, Kelso paused at the junction of Heracles Highway and Vanguard Way. Amid this conflux of visceral humanity, the blossoming maelstrom of his people making the transition from dejected refugees to budding community, he took a moment to absorb the undercurrents of hope engendered by the simple yet irrepressible life around him, savored it in order to fortify himself against the creeping uncertainties stirred by what he'd learned from Macedo.

As if to punctuate the thoughts coursing through his mind, the children back at the makeshift pyramid court let out another loud shout as one side scored while off in the distance, a soft melody carried on the breeze caught his ear; a mother's gentle voice singing a soothing lullaby to a crying infant.

For a moment, Sean Kelso considered taking a moment to visit with his father.

Despite the encounter with the enemy ship out near the moon, Adrian Kelso had been quite insistent with both Sean and the President that the plans to turn over command of Pacifica to Captain Cole go forward.

For his part, Sean couldn't really begrudge his father wanting to settle on the island. When cast in the light of his father's service during the Cylon War, and perhaps more importantly, because of his truly awe-inspiring conduct in shepherding tens of thousands of survivors away from the Cylon Holocaust, Adrian Kelso had more than earned his respite on this veritable paradise, the chance to do little more than savor his remaining days.

But with the Savitri and Enceladus being readied for their mission into enemy territory, Commander Sean Kelso resigned himself to the need to return to Galactica in order to coordinate the myriad of preparations that still needed to be made.

No, paying a visit to his father would have to wait for another time.

Taking in a deep breath as he cast one more look around at the miracle of utter normalcy surrounding him, Kelso slowly clasped his hands behind his back and began making his way once more towards the airfield at the far end of Heracles Highway.

As his thoughts drifted away towards the finer points of the preparations for the mission into enemy space, the implementation of new fuel and damage control protocols, the shifting of personnel, supplies and aircraft that would be needed for the mission, and about a thousand other such details that he doubted he could fully account for without an exhaustive ledger to catalogue them, Commander Sean Kelso hardly noticed the figure quickly cutting a path towards him.

"Good evening, Commander," began Captain Jordan Gaines evenly as she sidled up beside him.

"Captain," nodded Kelso as he glanced over at her, somewhat surprised at how she had seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

"May I have a word, sir?" muttered Gaines as she quite deliberately bumped her shoulder into his, a none-too-subtle nudge that Kelso instantly realized was an unmistakable attempt on her part to redirect him towards a nearby alleyway between a couple shelters.

Smirking slightly at her characteristic lack of nuance, Kelso more-or-less acquiesced, fairly certain that she'd likely just up-the-ante on her manhandling of him if he didn't.

As the two of them withdrew into the relative privacy of the shadows in the alleyway, Kelso let out a long sigh as he glanced over and noted the decidedly perturbed expression on Gaines' face.

"You know, us ducking into an alley like this is only going to fuel more rumors," muttered Kelso, the edge of his lips still curled in a wry smirk as he slowly leaned back against the side of one of the shelters.

Shaking her head slightly as she sucked in a deep breath, Gaines all but glared back over at Kelso for a moment, her agitation all but palpable.

"Permission to speak freely, sir?" she seethed through partially clenched teeth.

Taking in a long breath of his own, Kelso smirk slowly faded as he looked back over at her.

"Speak your mind, Jordan," he muttered, his tone almost resigned, mostly because he felt he already knew damned well why she was so pissed.

"Well then, with all due respect, sir, have you lost your fraking mind?" she sputtered, her voice almost squeaking at the end as she continued to fume.

"I take it word has already gotten back to you that you're being assigned to garrison duty here on the island," he sighed, for a moment unable to meet her fiery gaze.

"You're gods-damned right it has, sir," she began, taking half a step closer as she spoke, her body clenching up just enough that Kelso couldn't help but feel that she was a split second from throwing a punch.

Taking in another deep breath, Kelso reached up and gently scratched at an itch at the base of his skull, the delay giving him just enough time to glance either way off along the alley to ensure that no one was eavesdropping.

"I don't suppose it matters that the assignment includes a promotion to Major," sighed Kelso as he slowly looked back over at Gaines.

"I don't give a frak about a promotion, sir," fumed Gaines, her fingers continuing to clench and unclench as she took a few hesitant paces back and forth. "What I want to know is why my commanding officer is relieving me of fleet duties at the same time we are preparing an offensive…"

"Hardly an 'offensive'; it's just a reconnaissance run," countered Kelso lightly as he watched her continue to pace slightly. "Galactica isn't even going along…"

"My place is with my Marines, Commander," snapped Gaines as she came to an abrupt halt. "Did that bitch you call XO have something to do with this?"

"That 'bitch' is a Major in the Colonial Fleet," began Kelso evenly as he leveled a decidedly no-nonsense look back at Gaines. "And no, Major Burke had nothing to do with your new assignment; that was my call."

For a moment, Gaines' ire crumbled a bit into stunned silence.

"May I ask why, sir?" she muttered, her voice wavering ever so slightly, eyes wide with agitated confusion.

"Simple," he replied, his tone tantamount to a vocal shrug. "You are the most senior Marine officer left in the fleet, but more importantly, you have the expertise and experience needed to command the island's defense detachment."

"It hardly takes much expertise to write up a guard roster, Commander," countered Gaines flatly. "Hell, any NCO worth their salt can run a guard force…"

"This is more than just a guard force, Jordan," interjected Kelso flatly. "Vipers, Raptors, pilots, Marines; you'll have over two hundred military personnel under your command."

"Then might I suggest Lieutenant Attis?" sputtered Gaines.

"Attis may be proficient with the Drill Manual, but he still has a long way to go as a combat operator," countered Kelso evenly. "This detail requires quite a bit more than simply looking good in a set of Dress Grays. You'll be coordinating with the civilian police, fire services…this is an important assignment, Jordan."

Pausing, Kelso shook his head slightly as he struggled to divine a way to express obliquely what he hesitated to tell her outright. Although he'd been considering her transfer before Macedo's discovery, the information provided by the computer expert only punctuated the need in his mind to have someone of sterling competence at the reins of the island's garrison.

But while Kelso knew Gaines' sense of duty would compel her to accept the transfer, he also realized she deserved to know why he felt he needed her there.

Glancing either way off along the shadowy alleyway, mostly to assure himself once more that no one had begun to eavesdrop on their discussion, Kelso took in a long breath as he took a tentative step towards Gaines. Reaching out to her, Kelso gently slipped his arms in around her and pulled her close, Gaines herself offering little resistance in spite of her still simmering ire.

As her firm, fit body conformed against his, Gaines herself taking in a somewhat clipped breath of anticipation at the embrace, Kelso leaned in still closer, his lips poised by her ear.

While it was clear from the way she'd begun reaching up with her own arms to return the embrace that she perhaps expected something else from the moment, as Kelso began whispering in her ear, he could feel her body tense.

"Earlier today, Major Macedo informed me that he'd found Cylon programming imbedded in the Silicate transmission intercepted by Pacifica," began Kelso, his voice barely a whisper as his lips brushed gently against her ear. "Right now, only a handful of people are aware of this and the only reason I am telling you is so you'll understand just how much I need someone who'll take command of our forces here seriously."

"How the hell did Cylon programming get into the transmission?" muttered Gaines, her own voice barely a hesitant whisper as she reflexively held him just a bit tighter.

"Right now, we don't know," replied Kelso, holding her just a bit tighter as well. "But if the Cylons are helping the Silicates, we could all be in far graver danger than any of us thought. I need you here, Jordan."

With that, Kelso slowly pulled back just enough to look down into her eyes.

To his surprise, a lone tear had begun rolling down her cheek.

"Until the President decides otherwise, I need you to keep this to yourself," muttered Kelso as he reached up and gently wiped the tear from her cheek.

"I understand, sir," choked out Gaines, nodding slightly as she broke eye contact. "If they're out there, if they come, I'll make sure we're ready."

"I know you will, Major Gaines," muttered Kelso, the barest hint of a smile on his lips as he reached up and gently nudged at her chin.

Then, with very deliberate gentleness, Kelso leaned in and gave her a soft, tender kiss. For a moment, that kiss hung there between them, careful, absent of lust, yet warm, comforting, a fortifying affirmation of the long unspoken affection they each harbored for one another.

As their lips finally parted, Gaines sucked in a clipped breath, and without another word quickly turned and scurried out of the alleyway.

Lingering there for a few more moments, Kelso fought to reconcile the demands and uncertainties embodied by his role as commanding officer with the desires and dictates of his own heart.

For a man who'd spent the vast balance of his life dealing with the quantifiable, it was no easy task, and in the end all he could do was resign himself to following his own guiding principle; take everything one step at a time.

With the war, with the Cylons, and most certainly with Jordan Gaines.

Gods willing, when it was all over, maybe…

As his eyes once more wandered to the stars glinting overhead, the breadth of uncertainty encompassed by the word 'maybe' weighed heavily upon Sean Kelso.

Maybe one day he and Jordan would be able to put aside all the hindering pretenses and simply be together.

Maybe with the help of his fleet, the war with the Chigs and the Silicates could be brought to an end.

Maybe all those hopes would come to naught with the Cylons unleashing the same horror upon Earth that they had upon the Twelve Colonies.

So it was that as he stood there looking up at the twinkling stars overhead, all Commander Sean Kelso could think about was how much he was beginning to dislike 'maybe'.

---

Fleet Command Vessel
Orbit of the Blessed Homeworld
Fifth Planet of the Helios System

With an embittered sense of impotent humiliation coursing through his body, the Supreme Military Commander looked out at his remaining subordinate commanders trying to gauge their reactions to the orders he'd just relayed from their Silicate Overlords to pull the functional entirety of their military back into the home system.

Silicate Overlords…

The very title, an infuriatingly grandiose designation the artificial beings had chosen for themselves and imposed upon his people, was an anathema to him.

It wasn't simply that the artificial abominations had assassinated the Civil Leadership, or that they had seized effective control of the war by placing biological weapons on the crèche moon and then ordered hundreds of thousands of his warriors on suicidal attacks, nor even the abhorrent cruelty of having consigned thousands of innocent civilians to lingering death mining ore in the irradiated regions of Kazbek. No, the greatest, most potent and piercing betrayal was that they had done all these things after feigning to be their allies.

There were so many concepts the humans had that were so completely alien to the Supreme Military Commander and his people, most especially those regarding religion and the so-called life-after-death, but betrayal, something almost completely unknown amongst his people prior to the war was now something with which he had become all-too excruciatingly acquainted.

From the looks on the faces of his senior-most surviving commanders, it was a bitter elixir they too were choking down in copious doses.

"Did they give any indication as to the specific strategy behind such a move, Supreme Commander?" asked one officer, the respiratory membranes within his gills shuddering in agitation as he spoke. "Such a concentration of our forces here in the home system will not only allow the humans free reign throughout our territory, but it will compromise our defense in-depth strategy; the humans would only need to muster one massed assault in order to irrevocably cripple our ability to resist."

"The Overlords expressed no strategy to me," replied the Supreme Military Commander dejectedly. "And had I pursued the matter, I fear it might simply have provoked them to impose even harsher measures on our people then they already suffer."

"How much harsher could conditions truly be for our people?" spat another of his subordinate commanders angrily. "The Silicates abducted thousands of our people and transported them to work the mines of Kazbek, a slow and painful death from radiation exposure their only respite from the impossible procurement quotas."

"Yes, all this we know," seethed the Supreme Commander, as much because he didn't need the individual atrocities being committed upon his people itemized for him since they were very much already at the forefront of his thoughts.

"But what are we going to do about this, Supreme Commander?" shot back his subordinate, the act itself a decidedly uncharacteristic display of near rebelliousness.

"What would you suggest we do?" snapped one of the other commanders. "The devices the Silicates have placed on the crèche moon would ensure the genocide of our entire race were we to try and drive them from our territory."

"More to the point, in light of the catastrophic losses we suffered driving the humans from our territory, I do not believe we have the forces necessary to undertake such an action," interjected the Supreme Military Commander. "With the unfortunate sacrifice of so many of our warriors, the loss of so many ships, not only have we been left functionally defenseless against the humans, I fear we are now equally incapable of expelling the Silicates even without the threat of biological extermination."

"Supreme Commander, doesn't it seem likely this is what the Silicates intended all along?" began the most rebellious subordinate evenly. "Our own short-sightedness blinded us once to the depths of the Silicates' capacity for deception; it would be tantamount to suicide for us to believe they will simply leave now that they have stripped away our resources."

"Are you suggesting they will attempt to destroy us now that we can no longer effectively resist the humans?" asked one of the other subordinate commanders, his respiratory membranes shuddering with alarmed agitation.

"What reason do we have to believe otherwise?" countered the rebellious commander.

"Regrettably, I am forced to agree," muttered the Supreme Military Commander solemnly as he looked back over at his assembled subordinate commanders. "Although they have given us little information, it is clear the Silicates have been diverting our resources in order to assemble a fleet of their own. Worse still, if they have developed their own version of these faster-than-light engines the humans now have, we would have little to no warning if they launched an attack against our home world; we would be defenseless."

For a moment, a tense silence settled in over the assembled senior commanders as the sobering probability of their species' impending extinction hung over them.

"Supreme Commander, we cannot simply accept the destruction of our people," began the rebellious commander once more. "There must be something we can do."

As he slowly looked back over at the assemblage of commanders, the Supreme Commander's respiratory membranes rattled as he let out a long breath.

"My comrades, faced as we are with the possible annihilation of our species, as repugnant an option as it is I feel we have only one alternative."

---

Warstar Galactica
Commanding Officer's Quarters

Taking in a long, pensive breath, Commander Sean Kelso sat watching his two senior-most officers expectantly, gauging their body language and expressions for some hint of what was going through their minds over the information he'd just given them.

For her part, Colonel Brianna Webber simply sat there, silent, tensely massaging her right temple as she stared absently at the deck, the look on her face a cross between shock and nausea.

By contrast, Colonel Thadius Runel had very quickly popped up from his seat as though struck by an electric current the moment Kelso had fallen silent, his demeanor unmistakably agitated as he began pacing back and forth like a caged, quietly enraged animal.

"Is there any possibility Macedo's analysis is wrong, sir?" asked Webber, her tone clearly hopeful as she looked back over at the Commander.

"I'd be outright lying if I said there was, Colonel," replied Kelso, a long sigh escaping him as he spoke. "I spent over three hours going through the report with him piece by piece; I wouldn't have bothered telling the two of you if the evidence wasn't conclusive."

"How many others know about this, sir?" asked Runel as he continued to pace.

"So far we've been able to keep this information compartmentalized," began Kelso as he slowly lifted himself from his seat and began making his way around to the front of his desk, as much because his own simmering agitation was making it difficult to simply stay put. "The only ones who know are the President and Major Gaines. I'm sure I don't need to remind the two of you of the importance of keeping it that way until instructed otherwise."

Somewhat absently, both Runel and Webber shook their heads.

"Good," sighed Kelso as he leaned back against the front of his desk.

"When does the President plan on telling IFOR, sir?" asked Webber as she continued to eye the Commander expectantly.

Meeting her gaze, Kelso took in a slow, hesitant breath.

"For the time being, there are no plans to tell them," he finally said evenly.

At that, Webber simply stared over at him in wide-eyed shock as Runel's relentless pacing came to an abrupt halt.

"With all due respect, Commander, why the hell not?" sputtered Runel, his tone almost indignant as he met the Commander's gaze. "If the Cylons have been mucking around in Earth's affairs, they have a right to know what we've learned so they can better prepare for whatever's coming."

"And with our help, hopefully they will be," replied Kelso, his tone low but firm as he met Runel's unflinching gaze. "But the President feels, and quite frankly I agree with him, that telling IFOR about this is a potentially destabilizing complication we just can't afford right now."

As he and Runel continued to stare tensely at one another, Kelso took in a breath.

"Both of you have been heavily involved up here with completing repairs to Enceladus and the reorganization of the fleet so I can understand if you're a bit disconnected from the wider picture," began Kelso, his gaze falling away from Runel as he absently reached up and scratched his forehead. "Although our people have been allowed to settle on the surface in exchange for our help and technology, the open protests in the streets have only recently died down; there's still plenty of simmering tensions worldwide over our being here."

"I imagine an enemy ship outfitted with an FTL drive showing up so close to the planet hasn't helped matters any," muttered Webber.

"No, it has not," replied Kelso, his hand flopping back down against his thigh as he looked back over to Runel and Webber. "The only saving grace on that issue is that the general public hasn't been told about that yet. But with those who are in the know, the Security Council and the IFOR Combined Chiefs, there are a lot of uncomfortable questions being asked right now as to how they got that technology, questions we have no answers to. Quite simply, there are a lot of people down there who already think we have something to hide and revealing what we've learned could only hand them more fodder."

Pausing, the edge of Kelso's lip curled into the barest hint of a wry smirk.

"Truth be told, I can't really say I blame them for being suspicious," he sighed as he looked back over to Webber and Runel. "Considering our FTL technology was a complete unknown to them prior to our arrival, I find it hard to believe the Chigs or Silicates were able to cobble together an R'n'D program and develop a functional system in just a matter of weeks."

"In light of what Macedo found, isn't it likely the enemy got their FTL's from the Cylons?" asked Webber pointedly.

"It's possible," conceded Kelso with a slight shrug. "But if that's true, why did the Cylons wait until now to give them that technology? If the enemy had had FTL's from the start, their war against Earth would have been over long before we ever got here."

"More to the point, if the Cylons found Earth twenty years ago, why didn't they attack it?" began Runel, taking a few more paces as he spoke. "Instigating an uprising amongst the Silicates seems a bit superfluous considering they could have simply nuked it and been done with it; they certainly didn't pull any punches with us."

"And that's part of the problem," sighed Kelso. "Macedo's data aside, we still don't know how deeply involved the Cylons are, either on Earth or in enemy space."

"With the Silicates operating with Cylon programming code and the enemy suddenly getting their hands on FTL technology, they must be involved," muttered Runel as he scratched at the late afternoon stubble along his chin. "Granted, not their style, but they could just be biding their time behind the scenes."

"Not necessarily," countered Webber, canting her head slightly. "For all we know, twenty years ago some stray Raider simply got lost like we did and crashed here."

"Are you suggesting that the Silicate revolt might be have been caused by a couple stray Centurions?" muttered Runel as he cast a somewhat dubious glance over at Webber.

"Maybe," shrugged Webber. "It would certainly explain why the Cylons didn't attack Earth outright."

"If that were the case, then why does every record on the Silicate uprising place the blame for it squarely on Doctor Stranahan?" countered Kelso as he looked over at Webber. "The dossier IFOR handed over to us indicated he alone was responsible for inserting the 'Take-A-Chance' virus that caused the rebellion into the Silicate collective memory."

"Maybe they were wrong," replied Webber, again shrugging slightly as she let out a huffed breath.

"Or maybe they were lying," interjected Runel, shaking his head slightly. "According to the dossier, Stranahan committed suicide not long after the rebellion began; makes it pretty difficult to find out what really happened either way when your only suspect is dead."

"And that right there is the problem; right now, we don't know what happened, not definitively," sighed Kelso, his own frustrations bubbling up in his tone for a moment. "The harder we look for answers to the questions already in front of us, the only thing we seem to find are more gods-damned questions. This situation is riddled with contradictions on both sides, for us and for IFOR. There are too many discrepancies, too much confusion, and precious little time to sort the whole mess out since the enemy is clearly not sitting idle."

Pausing for a moment, Kelso took in a long, somewhat settling breath, his fingers drumming away lightly on the top of the desk.

"I still think we should let IFOR in on what Macedo found, sir," signed Runel as he looked back over at the Commander. "If the Cylons visited this planet twenty years ago, if they are somehow responsible for the Silicate uprising, the people of Earth might not react well if they find out later we were keeping this information secret."

"There's something else to we need to consider," interjected Webber, pausing as she looked back over to Kelso as well. "If the Cylons were able to corrupt the Silicates, how vulnerable is the rest of Earth's computer technology? With our forces and theirs starting to operate in combined groups, we would be in one hell-of-a dire position if the Cylons show themselves and are somehow able to neutralize the Earth fleet just as they did our own."

"Thankfully, Macedo used some of his back-channel contacts to look into that," replied Kelso. "Much like we did at the start of the Cylon War, Earth also took several steps backwards in terms of computer technology at the beginning of the Silicate uprising, put into place some rather exhaustive software security measures not unlike our own that are still employed widely throughout their fleet."

"Let's hope it's enough," sighed Webber, a slight shiver working its way along her spine as she recalled the utterly terrifying moments following the Cylon shutdown of the Savitri.

"What should we tell our crews, sir?" began Runel, his tone still simmering a bit. "To be blunt, I'm not happy putting them out there in harm's way without giving them the whole picture of what they could run into once they're there."

"Neither am I, Colonel," replied Kelso evenly. "But all things being equal, this mission is going to be hairy enough without our pilots fixating on phantom Cylon Raiders hiding behind every tumbling rock they come across."

"Sad to say, but I have to agree with that," sighed Webber as she glanced over to Runel. "Just muttering the word 'Cylon' still sends a cold shiver up my spine. If our people let their fears get the best of them, if they get tunnel vision looking for Cylons, they might just miss the Silicate or Chig that ends up killing them."

Looking back over at Webber, Runel took in a long, brooding breath, but at last seemed to relent a bit as he began ambling his way back towards his seat.

"Since the Raptor crews are going to be doing the heavy lifting on this mission, might I suggest we at least break out some appliqué weapons packages, sir?" asked Runel as he slowly lowered himself back into his seat.

"Might be a good idea, Commander," nodded Webber as she glanced back over to Kelso. "I know I'd feel a hell-of-a lot better about keeping this info from them if I were at least able to send them off Savitri's decks with a full load of firepower."

"Absolutely," replied Kelso instantly. "The President and the Citizen's Quorum finalized several supply contracts for new ordnance this week so go ahead and load out our birds with everything you can; drones, jiggers, air-to-airs."

At that, both Webber and Runel seemed to take at least some comfort; although a Raptor wasn't an ideal ACM platform, when outfitted with weapons they did at least have some formidable teeth.

"That being said, though, I want it clear to our pilots that combat is not their mission," began Kelso, pausing to take in a long breath as both Webber and Runel looked back over at him. "ROE's are simple and straightforward; do not fire unless fired upon, and if engaged, extricate as soon as possible; I want to be debriefing live pilots, not sifting through wreckage for black boxes."

"You and me both, sir," sighed Webber.

"Colonel Runel?"

"Understood, Commander," nodded Runel, pausing to lock eyes with Kelso for a moment later. "But what if our pilots do stumble onto something concrete out there, what are our orders?"

Pausing, Kelso met Runel's gaze.

"You are the two most experienced officers in this fleet," began Kelso slowly looked over to Webber. "I trust your judgment; operationally speaking you'll have a free hand to deal with whatever you find as you see fit. My only caveat is that you follow the principle of calculated risk; avoid exposing Enceladus and Savitri to attack by the enemy, be it Chig, Silicate or Cylon unless you are in a position to inflict significantly greater damage on the enemy than you yourselves will suffer."

At that, Runel and Webber glanced at one another. While it was clear that neither was happy about withholding information from their people, it was nevertheless heartening to know that Kelso was giving them veritable carte blanche to conduct the mission as they saw fit.

From his perspective, Kelso didn't really feel a need to put restrictions on the two Colonels; both had more than proved their mettle and sound judgment during the first brutal, harrowing hours of the Cylon assault on the Colonies.

"Whatever you do, though, just be sure to get your ships back here in one piece," continued Kelso, his shoulders slumping a bit as he let out a long sigh. "Because if you do find the Cylons out there, we'll need every ship on the line."

"If we do find Cylons out there…," began Runel, pausing as he slowly looked from Webber to the Commander. "…then may the gods have mercy on us all."

---

Earth Orbit
Intra-Solar System Carrier Vehicle
August 2065

For almost as long as there had been a Marine Corps, there had been an unofficial maxim amongst the grunts that you never volunteered. In fact, the murkier the mission, the less you generally wanted to find yourself a part of it.

But when weighed against the mind-numbing tedium of twelve-hour orbital deterrence patrols, accompanying the Colonial mission into enemy territory was an opportunity Captain Nathan West and the rest of the Five-Eight had practically jumped at.

So it was that as the ISSCV rapidly clawed its way out of the influence of Earth's gravity, Nathan West stood at the porthole looking out at the world of his birth with a somewhat detached wonder, the varying hues of ocean blues and puffy white clouds growing vague, indistinct as they extended off towards the distant curvature of the horizon.

"I remember Phousse saying that seeing Earth from orbit made her feel both insignificant and supreme at the same time," muttered Vansen as she sidled up beside West.

"I'm just glad to be getting a break from seeing it from inside a Hammerhead," replied West as glanced over at a large IFOR battlegroup patrolling nearby. "I was getting tired of having an almost perpetually numb ass from sitting in a cockpit for hours on end on those deterrence patrols."

"Tell me about it," smirked Vansen. "Twelve hours in a plane day after day, my rear was starting to get as flat as a pancake."

At that, West couldn't help but cast a bemused glance down at Shane's posterior.

"Looks pretty round and firm to me…" shrugged West, wincingly slightly as Vansen landed a firm but playful punch against his shoulder as the words left his mouth.

Smirking still wider, Vansen shook her head a bit as West chuckled.

"So what have they decided?" asked West as he motioned his head over at the rest of the Five-Eight sitting amid the large contingent of personnel aboard the ISSCV.

With Stone, Low, Keegan and Laturner all now permanently assigned to the Fifty-Eighth, as generally unorthodox as it was it nevertheless seemed appropriate that each of them to choose a new callsign to fit their new 'Wildcard' identity.

"Work in progress," shrugged Shane as she noted Laturner shaking her head somewhat adamantly at a suggestion offered up by Wang. "Keegan seems to have his mind set of Two of Hearts, something to do with an old British science-fiction show he watched as a kid. The others are gonna take more thought; not a whole lot of inspiration in a deck of cards."

"Well, we've got time," sighed West as he looked back out the porthole in time to catch sight of the massive Galactica. "We won't be flying again anytime soon except as side-seaters for the Colonials."

"Speak for yourself, Nathan," countered Vansen as she pointed out at a patrolling quartet of Colonial Vipers. "I don't know where, and I don't know how, but I have got to try out one of those Colonial fighters."

"And just how the hell are you gonna read the instruments?"

"I'm learning," replied Vansen as she gently held up the translator she'd been issued for the mission. "Couple more weeks, I might not even need this thing. Besides, rumor has it the Air Force is thinking about reverse engineering a version of their own soon; they do that, I might have to cross-deck."

"You wouldn't," scoffed West incredulously. "You're Corps to the core, Shane, through and through; the first time you saw some zoomie with his hands in his pockets and hair touching his collar, you'd lose it; remember how much crap you used to give Hawkes about his hair?"

"Well, it was ridiculously long," muttered Vansen. "Never did figure out why Bougus didn't just shave it off."

"He didn't want to look at the navel on my neck," replied Hawkes as he stepped up, the latest yet still clearly well-read issue of G.I. Geequed in hand. "He said it gave him the creeps to see it. Besides, I thought we were done with all that crap about my hair; I keep it low-reg now."

"You finally get caught up on all your 'important reading'?" smirked West as he pointed at the comic book in Hawkes' hand.

"Yeah, it was a pretty good issue, too," grinned Hawkes. "Next edition is supposed to start including stuff about the Colonials."

Just then, the hatch at the far end of the ISSCV compartment popped open with a loud thump.

"All right, look alive, we're on final approach and will be aboard the Colonial vessel Savitri in about ten mikes," snapped Colonel TC McQueen as he quickly looked around at the large assemblage of personnel aboard the ISSCV. "Start policing up your gear and get your translators out; I want everyone ready to move the moment the hatch opens."

"What about our weapons, Colonel?" asked Wang as he motioned his head down towards the sidearm hanging from his hip. "Has there been any word?"

"Colonials were very specific about that; all weapons are to be stowed aboard the ISSCV," replied McQueen, the barest hint of disappointment underlying his tone. "I don't expect you to like the order, but it will be followed; this is the Colonials' house, so we follow their rules."

"Sir, respectfully, what if the ship gets boarded?" chimed in Hawkes. "We're gonna be awfully deep in Chiggy-man's territory, and with these new Silicates out there…"

"All that has already been discussed at a pay grade much higher than yours, Captain," snapped McQueen, his tone becoming decidedly crisp. "But if the enemy does board, there'll likely be quite a few Colonial weapons lying around for us to defend ourselves with."

"Let's hope," muttered Wang as he reached down and pulled his sidearm from his holster, only a split second later seeming to realize how his statement might be misconstrued. "On second thought, let's hope not."

"Alright, enough gabbing, get you gear," snapped McQueen simply.

With that, both Vansen and Hawkes stepped away towards their gear as the rest of the personnel in the compartment began hefting packs up from the deck.

Cutting a path through the activity, McQueen casually reached out and took hold of West's arm as Nathan likewise set about gathering up his gear. Glancing over at McQueen, West watched as the Colonel let go of his arm and nodded his head slightly, indicating for West to follow him towards the aft of the compartment.

As the two of them reached the rear of the compartment, McQueen took in a deep breath.

"West, as you know, this mission was pulled together rather quickly," began McQueen as he slowly looked back over and met West's somewhat questioning gaze. "Now when they made me honcho for this detail I went over just about every intel brief we have on the Colonials, know them front and back, but you spent more time amongst them than any other human being…"

Pausing, McQueen's lips actually cracked the barest hint of a wry grin.

"…than any other Earth-born human being," corrected McQueen. "Is there anything you think I should know before we board Savitri?"

"I'm not sure what you're asking me, Colonel," replied West, shaking his head slightly.

"Intel briefs are great for facts and figures, West," began McQueen evenly. "But what I want to know are the things that might not be in a dossier.

"To be honest, Colonel, language aside being aboard the Galactica wasn't all that different from being aboard the 'Toga," replied West evenly. "A bit less cramped, but all-in-all it's still a familiar environment."

"What about the Colonials themselves?" prodded McQueen. "As a people, as a culture, what sense did you get about them while you were aboard?"

"Sir?" muttered West as he held McQueen's gaze, still a bit uncertain about what it was the Colonel was trying to ask him.

"You walked amongst them, slept there, ate their food, what does your gut tell you about them?" prodded McQueen, his tone just barely masking a subdued sense of urgency. "As you know, there are a lot of people who think they haven't been honest with us about who they are and where they come from, that it's a mistake to trust them."

"There are also a lot of people who feel the same way about, InVitros, Colonel," countered West flatly.

"I hardly need a lesson from you about prejudice against InVitros, Captain," muttered McQueen, his tone taking on a subtle edge of warning.

"No, sir, you don't," sighed West as he held McQueen's gaze. "Nevertheless, my point is the same; is there anything the Colonials have actually done that makes it rational to be suspicious of them?"

---

As he stood looking into West's eyes, read in them how fully the young man believed in what he was saying, Colonel Tyrus Cassius McQueen took in a long, contemplative breath.

To be sure, West was absolutely correct; examined in light of just their actions alone, there was no cogent reason to distrust the Colonials. Not only had their formidable warships done what Earth's entire fleet could not do, bring the Chigs' relentless advance to a grinding halt, they had also provided Earth Forces with the breathing room it needed to recover and the means of acquiring an incalculable tactical advantage over the enemy in the form of their faster-than-light engine technology.

Even Admiral Ross, for all the years McQueen had known him the very definition of pragmatic, seemed willing to set aside the contradictions and inconsistencies regarding the Colonials' explanations of who they were and where they came from in light of the sobering reality that Earth itself would have been annihilated were it not for their intervention.

Indeed, McQueen himself had always lived by the belief that a measure of a person lay not in what they said but in what they did. To him, concrete actions always spoke louder than abstract words.

Nevertheless, prior to embarking on this mission, Colonel McQueen had been called in for a compartmentalized briefing with some of the top brass in IFOR command. While a lot of politically-correct lip service had been paid to the idea that cooperation with the Colonials was the order of the day, Air Chief Marshal Howe and General Fournier had made it clear to McQueen that he was to use his time aboard the Savitri to look for some sign, any sign of duplicity on the part of the Colonials.

The sober silence he'd received from them in response when he'd asked what they would do if he found no such deception spoke volumes; clearly, they fully expected he would find something to justify their thinly-veiled paranoia.

For his part, McQueen was mostly prepared to accept that this was simply another order, and whatever the underlying motivation, one that wasn't entirely without place or precedent; spying on allies was as ancient and integral to the history of warfare as spying on one's enemies.

Still, as he stood there looking into West's eyes, saw in them an unwavering confidence and belief that the Colonials might just in fact be the answer to Earth's collective prayer to bring this war to an end, even the no-nonsense military man that McQueen was had to admit that he wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea of looking this particular gift-horse in the mouth.

"See to your gear, West," muttered McQueen simply.

"Aye, sir."

As West stepped away to gather up his gear, McQueen decided it best to set aside his discussion with Air Chief Marshal Howe and General Fournier and instead focus his mind on the tangible minutiae of getting his people ready to disembark.

Above all else, he still had a real mission to command.

As McQueen set about gathering up his own gear, he glanced up at the porthole in time to see the expansive interior of what he presumed was one of the Savitri's flight pods as the ISSCV made its final approach.

Although the Savitri still dwarfed every other ship in IFOR, according to the Colonials she was an older vessel whose elevators from the flight deck to the hangar level were too small to accommodate a full ISSCV.

So it was that as the assembled personnel made final adjustments to carrying straps and generally fidgeted away the last few minutes, the ISSCV flight armature detached from the container section, itself alone just small enough to be moved down into the hangar deck.

Within minutes, the container bearing the IFOR contingent had been pulled down, moved via overhead crane off the elevator platform, and staged off to one side of the hangar bay. Stepping up to the hatch, McQueen brought a firm fist down onto the actuator button, the side hatch popping open with an audible hiss.

As he stepped out onto the deck of a Colonial warship for the first time, McQueen couldn't help but agree with what West had said; although decidedly more spacious than anything in the Earth fleet, there was still a distinct sense of the familiar to the activity taking place around the hangar deck of the Savitri.

Flight deck crews moving aircraft about, mechanics working on various components, the air thick with the scent of lubricants, the sound of pneumatic tools and aircraft engines rumbling to life echoing off the bulkheads.

One odd thing he did note was how much thinner the air seemed to be.

Glancing back over his shoulder at the gaggle of personnel filing their way out of the ISSCV container, McQueen took in a somewhat labored breath.

"Alright, this isn't a sight-seeing tour; get in formation," snapped McQueen.

Bid by the command edge in his voice, the personnel, themselves likewise seeming to take somewhat deeper breaths than seemed normal, fanned out and began falling into neat formation beside the container. Although they made a decent show of dressing and covering their alignment, it would have been impossible to miss the awe and curiosity playing across the faces of most of them as they little more than gawked at some of the activity taking place around the hangar deck.

"Stand at ease," called McQueen as he stepped out in front of the formation.

The order itself was more-or-less a perfunctory one; most of the personnel in the formation hadn't exactly been at full attention anyways. Nevertheless, most of the personnel seemed to take it as a license to more fully indulge their barely restrained impulse to gape at all the activity taking place around the hangar.

"Are you Colonel McQueen?" asked a voice that filtered in through his translator's earpiece.

Turning around, McQueen found himself looking into the rather disarming eyes of a decidedly striking brunette woman.

"Yes I am," replied McQueen simply.

"I'm Colonel Brianna Webber," began the woman as she casually glanced over at the troops formed behind him. "I am the Commanding Officer of the Savitri."

Almost instinctively, McQueen snapped to attention and executed an about-face towards the formation.

"Detail, atten-hut," called McQueen.

In response, the personnel in formation snapped to attention, their heels making an audible collective click as their eyes focused in straight ahead.

Taking a subtle amount of pride in their brisk response, McQueen again faced-about and rendered a crisp salute.

"Request permission for myself and my people to come aboard, Colonel Webber," said McQueen evenly.

While it was clear from her expression that Webber was somewhat bemused by the crisp formality, she nevertheless came to attention as well and returned McQueen's salute.

"Permission granted, Colonel McQueen," said Webber as both she and McQueen dropped their salutes. "It's a pleasure to have you aboard. Do you mind if I address your troops for a moment?"

"Please," replied McQueen as he executed another smart about-face. "Detail, stand at-ease; eyes and ears, people."

Taking a couple tentative steps forward, Colonel Webber took in a deep breath.

"My name is Colonel Brianna Webber, I am the Commanding Officer of this vessel," began Webber as she took a couple pacing steps in front of the formation, their eyes following her as she moved. "I just wanted to take a moment to welcome you aboard the Savitri."

"Now, first thing you may have noticed, especially those of you coming up from the surface, is that it's a bit harder to breath," continued Webber, her statement eliciting a few subtle nods from a few of the personnel. "As a damage control measure against fire, we have reduced both oh-two content and atmospheric pressure, still within norms, but you might want to refrain from any heavy exertion for the next few days while you adjust."

"Second, while we have posted as many signs as possible throughout the ship to help you find your way, I ask that you keep your translators on you at all times."

"Lastly, while I understand some of you might be tempted to wander, I nevertheless expect you to understand that there are areas of this ship that are strictly off-limits," said Webber firmly. "This is as much for your own safety as anything. Am I understood?"

"Affirmative, Colonel Webber," answered McQueen evenly as he cast a stern gaze out towards his personnel, his eyes zeroing in on Hawkes most especially.

"Good," grinned Webber as she glanced over and waved another man over.

"This is Captain Golan, my Operations Officer," began Webber as the man stepped up. "He will take you and your people to your berthing area, Colonel."

---

Combatstar Savitri
Commanding Officer's Quarters
6 hours later

"Have you and your people settled in, Colonel McQueen?" asked Webber as she casually motioned over towards one of the chairs arrayed in front of her desk.

"Yes, they have," replied McQueen as he slowly lowered himself into the chair. "The thinner air is going to take some getting used to, but I must admit that the accommodations are somewhat more spacious than I'm accustomed to."

"I take it this isn't your first time aboard a warship, then?" grinned Webber as she casually unfastened the top button of her tunic and leaned back in her own chair.

"I've spent the better part of the last fifteen years aboard ship," said McQueen, his own lips curling into a subtle grin. "Have to admit, though, I'm having a bit of difficulty wrapping my head around the fact that the Savitri is one of the 'smaller' vessels in your fleet; she's certainly bigger than anything I've shipped out on before."

"Don't take it personal, Colonel," sighed Webber as she looked over and met his gaze. "From what IFOR has told us, your people only began fielding an interstellar fleet a little under two decades ago. Our people just have…"

Pausing, Webber's expression faded a bit.

"… just had more experience," continued Webber, a somewhat dejected tone creeping into her voice.

His curiosity somewhat piqued by the subtle change in her tone, McQueen watched Webber for a moment.

"Do you mind if I ask what they were like?" he asked simply.

"What, the Colonies?"

Gently nodding his head, McQueen continued to gauge Webber's countenance as her expression took on a somewhat distant quality.

"From what I can tell, the Twelve Colonies weren't all that different from Earth, really," sighed Webber, a somewhat whimsical grin curling the edges of her lips. "You have nations, we had entire planets or moons, but the principle is basically the same. Each had its own culture, its own traditions, its own beauty."

"Is it too personal to ask which of the Colonies you come from, Colonel?" asked McQueen evenly.

Glancing over at McQueen, the barest hint of smirk remaining on Webber's lips.

"Aerilon," she replied, the long breath she let out as she spoke the word making it sound almost poetic. "My family had a homestead near the city of Gaoth, dairy land mostly, but my parents were prosperous enough that they were able to scrape together my tuition for college."

"They were farmers?" muttered McQueen, genuinely surprised as he watched Webber nod slightly.

"Six generations," nodded Webber. "I was the first in my family to go to college, the first since the war to go into the military, and even then the first officer."

Her gaze once again dropping away from McQueen for a moment, Webber's voice softened a bit.

"I'll never forget the look of pride on my father's face at commencement," muttered Webber. "He'd been drafted as a deck-hand aboard a ship called the Brenik during the Cylon War, to the day he died he never once talked about it really, but I could still see the pride in his eyes when they pinned those Ensign pips to my collar."

Letting out a long sigh, her expression clearly somber over whatever memories were flowing through her thoughts, Colonel Webber slowly looked back over at McQueen.

"That's an interesting story," said McQueen, his tone somewhat questioning.

Canting her head slightly as she sat looking over at him, Webber took in a long, contemplative breath.

"Do you believe the Colonies are real, Colonel?" she asked pointedly.

Somewhat surprised at the directness of the question, McQueen sat up a bit in his seat.

"What makes you ask that, Colonel Webber?"

Sitting up again at her desk, Webber leaned forward a bit onto it, her fingers slowly interlocking as she held McQueen's gaze.

"I know there are a lot of people who have their doubts about us," began Webber, pausing to let out a long breath. "A lot of noise about how we're lying, or that we must be hiding something. To be honest, I can sympathize with that; before we found your world, Earth was just a myth that even some of the most die-hard religious zealots on Gemenon had trouble believing was real."

"I'm not sure where you are going with this, Colonel Webber," replied McQueen evenly as he looked back over at Webber.

"Colonel McQueen, this is an important mission, for your people and ours," began Webber as she continued to hold his gaze. "Whatever we find in enemy space could change the very course of this war; Commander Kelso believes it, I believe it. That being the case, with the survival of our two societies potentially in the balance, we cannot afford to be blinded by paranoia or prejudice."

Taking in a deep breath, McQueen continued to stare across at Webber, his conversation with Air Chief Marshal Howe and General Fournier, the underlying tone of suspicion in their voices playing through his own thoughts as he listened to her.

"Now you strike me as a pragmatic man," continued Webber. "I'd like to think I'm a fair judge of character, but I still want to put it out there so there's no confusion on where we stand with one another; once we're in harm's way, can I trust you?"

Somewhat taken aback at so direct a question, most especially one that seemed to verge on questioning his personal integrity, McQueen continued to meet her gaze with a determined countenance.

"I have been ordered to carry out a mission, Colonel," replied McQueen evenly. "And I will carry that mission out."

Taking in a deep breath, Colonel Brianna Webber held McQueen's unflinching gaze for a few moments, her eyes narrowing a bit as she digested his answer, refined it for whatever nugget of truth she felt she could glean from it.

Very quickly, however, the barest hint of grin returned to her lips as she slowly reached over towards the upper drawer of her desk.

To McQueen's genuine surprise, he watched as she produced two shot glasses.

"I hope you don't mind, but I contacted Admiral Ross a few days ago," began Webber as she slowly pulled a bottle from the drawer as well. "Since we're going to be working together, I thought it might help ease things a bit if I had a bit of 'home' here for you."

With that, Webber offered the bottle over to McQueen.

"Highland Twenty-Five," muttered McQueen, the barest hint of grin curling the edge of his lips as he held the bottle and read the label.

"He said it was one of your preferred brands," grinned Webber as she gently slid the glasses out towards him.

"That it is," replied McQueen as he eyed the two glasses.

"I think we spare one shot, Colonel," said Webber as she seemed to read the hesitance in McQueen's eyes. "Mission doesn't start until tomorrow morning."

Taking in a deep breath, McQueen gently rolled the bottle in his fingers as he met Webber's gaze. Then, with an almost quiet enthusiasm, he opened the bottle and gently poured two neat shots.

Taking up her glass as McQueen slowly set the bottle back down onto the desk, Webber casually rose to her feet, McQueen following suit a moment later.

"Forgive me, I've never been very creative when it comes to toasts," smirked Webber as she held up her glass.

"Then if I may, Colonel?" began McQueen as he likewise lifted his glass.

"Please."

"May noise never excite us to halt, or confusion reduce us to defeat."

Nodding her head slightly in approval, Webber clinked her glass gently against McQueen's, and then the two of them very quickly downed the shots.

---

Residence of Michael Lane
Queensridge Community
Las Vegas, Nevada

With a long, tired sigh, Michael Lane tossed his keys down onto the kitchen counter.

Glancing around his empty kitchen, his eyes quickly settled onto the well-stocked liquor cabinet on the far side, the deep amber liquids within the meticulously sorted bottles seeming to beckon to his frayed perceptions that they offered at least a moment's respite from the crushing frustrations pushing down upon his mind.

Reaching up, he tugged at his tie, loosening his businessman's noose enough to unfasten the top button of his shirt as he made his way across the kitchen, the heels of his Salvatore Ferragamo's echoing a bit as they hit the hard tiles.

As he arrived at the cabinet, Lane reached out and took hold of one of the fine crystal glasses, their gentle clinking echoing a bit off the walls. Retrieving one of his favored brands of bourbon, Lane eye-balled a shots-worth into the glass and then set the bottle down with a slight thump on the wooden surface of the cabinet top.

Gazing down at the glass for a moment, his mind weighed the measure of liquor, calculating from experience just how hard the alcohol would land on his empty stomach.

Taking in a deep breath, he then slowly rotated his head, the gentle cracks in his tension ridden neck echoing a bit within his own ears.

His gaze once again settling on the glass, Lane retrieved the bottle and poured still more bourbon into the glass until it was practically brimming with an amount sufficient to likely have him asleep within the hour when mated to his current level of mental and physical exhaustion.

Indeed, so engrossed was he with the mental calculations and recalculations of just how much alcohol he would need to little more than knock himself out for the night that Lane was completely unaware of the form slowly making its way up behind him.

So it was that as Lane was slowly lifting the glass to his lips, an icy chill started crawling along the length of his spine as he felt the cold touch of steel at the base of his neck.

"How the hell did you get into my house?" sputtered Lane as he fought to maintain at least enough control over his now-subtly quaking hand to keep from dropping his coveted glass of bourbon.

"I was skipping across fortified international borders on black-ops while you were still trying to get your first sniff of a girl's panties, Lane," muttered a hard-edged voice that at that moment did little to quell Lane's disquiet. "You think a six-foot stucco wall, some rent-a-cops at the gate and the glorified car-alarm you have on your house is going to stop me?"

Glass still locked within his grip, Lane very slowly turned around, doing his best to put up a façade of utter calm as he quickly found himself staring down the decidedly intimidating barrel of the pistol that only a moment before had warmed itself against his neck.

As he focused his eyes on the face on the other side of that weapon, Lane then made a very deliberate show of feigned nonchalance as he downed almost half of the contents of his glass.

"What the hell are you doing here, Dillinger?" wheezed Lane, the bourbon having burned more going down than he would have liked as he worked feverishly to save face.

Slowly dropping the pistol in his hand away from Lane's face, Dillinger took in a long breath, his eyes narrowing a bit as the edge of his lips curled into a smirk.

"You can save the bravado crap, Lane, I know you're on the verge of pissing your pants right now," said Dillinger, the smirk on his face widening a bit.

Then, without another word, Dillinger very deliberately reached over, took the glass from Lane's hand, and much to the muted consternation of Aero-Tech's CEO, downed the remaining liquor with hardly a noticeable flinch.

"Pretty smooth," muttered Dillinger as he somewhat unceremoniously shoved the empty glass back into Lane's still-outstretched hand.

"Glad you approve," groaned Lane as he set the empty glass down heavily onto the liquor cabinet. "But you haven't answered my question; what the hell are you doing in my home?"

Pausing, Dillinger looked over at Lane coolly, the smirk on his face fading quickly as he once again raised the pistol in his hand.

"Maybe I'm here to kill you," said Dillinger as he leaned forward, pressing the barrel hard against Lane's forehead.

"If you were here to kill me you would have simply shot me while my back was turned," countered Lane, closing his eyes to the pain elicited by the barrel pressing against his forehead.

"Honor amongst thieves," said Dillinger as his thumb gently cocked the pistol's hammer back, the metallic clicks of the action echoing a bit in Lane's ears. "Maybe I just wanted to see the look in your eyes as I splattered your brains all over the wall."

"I thought our 'benefactors' didn't want any uncomfortable questions being asked right now," sputtered Lane, his heart all but pounding within his chest as a bead of sweat crawled down the side of his cheek. "Don't you think my assassination will spark a lot of those uncomfortable questions?"

"Maybe they don't care anymore," countered Dillinger flatly as he held the weapon steady. "Or maybe they just don't like that you've continued to dig around in the UMO files."

Slowly opening his eyes again, Lane actually managed to smirk a bit as he looked over at Dillinger.

"Is that what this is about?" muttered Lane, his voice somewhat raspy from a dry throat. "Are the Silicates worried I might find something in UMO they don't want me to know?"

"At our last 'get-together' you were told to wait for instructions," countered Dillinger flatly. "UMO is a done deal; the Silicates have everything they need from those files."

"Maybe I'm not done with them," said Lane as he held Dillinger's gaze. "The information in those files…"

"Could cause a lot of 'uncomfortable questions' to be asked if any of a dozen agencies catch wind of what's in them," snapped Dillinger as he pressed the barrel still harder against Lane's forehead. "Part of waiting for instructions is keeping a low profile, something that you've failed to do by continuing to dig into UMO; I've read the files, I know what's in them."

"You've read them?" sputtered Lane, his brow furrowing a bit as Dillinger finally pulled back on the barrel a bit. "When did you read those files?"

"When you originally gave them to me for safekeeping, dumbass," smirked Dillinger. "What, you think I don't take a peek whenever the head of a multi-trillion dollar conglomerate gives me something to cache away?"

With a huff, Dillinger once again dropped the pistol down to his side as he stood gently shaking his head.

"So you know about…"

"Yes, I know about 'it'," muttered Dillinger. "UMO makes that crap you leaked out about the Chig crash at Roswell look like nothing."

"Then you can understand why…"

"What I understand is that the Silicates don't want to risk that information getting out," replied Dillinger evenly, the gun in his hand still very much the proverbial elephant in the room in Lane's mind. "It could throw a serious monkey wrench in their plans, and they just won't have that at this stage; you keep digging, someone's gonna take notice if they haven't already."

Letting out a long sigh, Dillinger actually turned his back to Lane and took a couple tentative steps towards the countertop at the center of the kitchen.

Reflexively, Lane began stretching his hand out, intent on slipping his fingers around the bourbon bottle.

"You try and hit me with that bottle you'll just be giving me a reason to put a bullet in you, Lane," muttered Dillinger, his back still to Lane as he reached into his pocket.

Pausing, Lane slowly withdrew his fingers from the bottle.

"Do yourself a favor, Lane," began Dillinger as he pulled what Lane quickly realized was a flash drive from his pocket and held it up. "Pour yourself another glass, then read what's on this drive."

Dillinger then tossed the drive down with a slight clatter onto the countertop next to Lane's keys.

"What if I don't?" muttered Lane as he continued to eye Dillinger's back.

"Our 'benefactors' were quite specific," began Dillinger as he held the gun up in the air, giving it a slight waggle as he did so. "If you don't follow their instructions on that drive then you are of no use; you're cushy life will be forfeit."

Then, without anything further, Dillinger walked off along the hallway towards the front door.

As the sound of the front door opening and closing echoed back along the hallway, Lane stood staring at the flash drive resting on the kitchen counter.

Letting out a long sigh, Lane reached out with his hand, retrieved the bourbon and glass, filled it once again to the brim, this time not turning his back to the hallway.

Then, glass in hand, he again eyed the drive warily, taking a tentative sip of bourbon as he did so.

---

Raptor Zero-Three-Seven
Joint Reconnaissance Mission
Chig Territory - Pegasus Sector
Day 7

Although taking in a deep breath served to quell the butterflies fluttering about in the pit of her stomach, Captain Shane Vansen doubted anything would wipe the grin from her face.

Settling back into the seat of the Colonial Raptor, she watched with barely restrained glee as the small ship ascended on the elevator pad from the hangar deck level to the vast flight deck.

Although they had been loitering about in Chig space for a week now, this was the first time Shane herself would actually be sitting side-seat on one of the recon sorties.

Fidgeting a bit against the restraints holding her firmly to the seat, just about every sense Shane had was drinking in the entirety of the experience; the rumble of the small ship's engines, the gentle rocking of the elevator ride, the feel of the Colonial-issue flight suit encasing her body.

For the first time in a long time, she was able to totally lose herself in the moment.

As her eyes continued to draw in every detail of the pilot's movements, Vansen listened through her translator earpiece as the pilot called for and received final clearance for departure.

With a slight hop, the Raptor popped up from its place above the elevator pad and began sailing off down along the length of the flight deck, within moments sailing clear into open space.

Savoring the feel of inertia pressing against her body as the pilot executed a wide turn to port, Vansen watched as it passed beneath a quartet of patrolling Colonial Vipers, then over top of the massive bulk of the escorting Colonial Battlecruiser Enceladus.

"You ready for the jump, Captain?" asked a voice filtering in through her translator earpiece.

Her lips locked in an almost permanent smile, Vansen glanced over at the pilot, Ensign Kendal Munez.

"Are you kidding?" chuckled Vansen. "I've been waiting all week for this."

Chuckling a bit himself, Munez returned his attention to the flight panel.

Realistically, Vansen knew she ought to be taking the mission a bit more seriously than she was; currently they were all very deep inside what had always been one of the enemy's most heavily fortified and contested areas of space. Any doubts as to the very real dangers they were potentially facing could be quickly dispelled by the impressive amount of ordnance strapped to the Raptor.

Nevertheless, much as she had during their flight training stint at Nellis, Shane was surrendering herself a bit to the simple joy of just being in the air again, perhaps even more-so now since she was not in command but little more than an observer out on a proverbial joyride.

"How we doing back there, Athari?" called Munez as he looked back out at the endless sea of stars beyond the canopy.

"Coordinates set, jump drive is spooled," replied Athari from her station aft.

"Copy that, initiate jump," sighed Munez as he settled back into his seat a bit.

"Clock is running; jumping in three, two, one…"

As everything beyond the canopy in front of her disappeared in a bright flash of light, Vansen blinked her eyes a couple times to readjust as she took in a few deep breaths to quell the hint of nausea that momentarily gripped her. According to the Colonials, it was a normal physiological reaction, one that abated over time as the body became accustomed to the experience of a faster-than-light jump.

For her part, in spite of the unpleasantness of nausea, Vansen almost hoped she never got 'used' to jumping; she hated the idea of the whole experience losing its luster of excitement.

Nevertheless, with the surrounding space now devoid of the relative protection of the rest of the group and its fighter cover, Vansen wrangled together some measure of control over her excitement; in very concrete terms, Shane and her two Colonial compatriots were very much on their own at the ass-end of harm's way.

"Jump complete," muttered Munez as he too blinked his eyes rapidly a couple of times.

"Beginning DRADIS sweep," called Athari.

Taking in a long breath, Munez casually motioned over at the display screen at the center of the Raptor's flight console.

"Time to see if anyone is out there," he muttered as Shane likewise began watching the screen expectantly.

Although the Savitri and Enceladus had quite deliberately jumped feet first into an area of space that was practically the doorstep of the Chig home system, most of the recon missions conducted over the last few days had turned up very little in the way of enemy activity; a few enemy fighter patrols, a lone transport, but not much else.

It wasn't for lack of trying; Colonial Raptors had been staking out just about every major wormhole and enemy supply route mapped out by IFOR military intelligence over the course of the war.

Still, for all the helter-skelter chaos the Chigs had sewn throwing the IFOR fleets out of their territory only a couple months back, it now seemed as if they had virtually abandoned most if not all of their forward positions.

So it was that as several icons appeared at the edge of the screen, Vansen couldn't help her heart leaping a bit into her throat.

"Contact," snapped Athari, her tone just a few excited octaves higher than it had been a moment ago. "Correction, multiple contacts, bearing three-two-zero carom two-two-five, range twenty-two hundred."

Reflexively looking up from the screen, Vansen's eyes probed out into the inky depths of space beyond the canopy. Rationally speaking, this deep in space, this far from an illuminating star it was unlikely she'd see much if anything with the naked eye; Chig warships and fighters had little in the way of exterior illumination that might be seen at this distance, still, it was a primal reflex that was hard to suppress.

For his own part, Munez continued to watch the screen, his fingers gently flexing themselves around the flight stick and throttle as he watched the screen continue to isolate each individual signature.

"What are we looking at, Athari?" he called, his own tone betraying a bit of tension.

"Signatures read as a dozen enemy capital warships, about four-dozen transports, destroyers, bombers, several squadrons of fighters," replied Athari evenly. "Looks like a convoy of some sort."

"Any indication they've turned to intercept us?" snapped Vansen, her eyes continuing to scan the depths of space beyond the canopy.

Objectively speaking, it really wasn't her place to ask that question; officially, she was an observer. Nevertheless, if Munez or Athari had any sort of objection to her making the query it didn't come through in their tone.

"I'm not reading any changes in course on any of the contacts," replied Athari evenly. "Either they don't see us or they don't really give a frak about us."

"Or maybe they're vectoring in some of the nasty stealth ships of theirs," countered Munez as he cast a glance over at his radiological detection meter.

"Nothing showing up so far on rad-sensors," said Athari. "But wherever they're heading, they're moving at a pretty good clip."

And it was at that moment that something happened that Shane hadn't in any way expected.

"Orders, Captain?" muttered Munez as he looked across to Vansen.

Her voice catching in her throat somewhat, Vansen slowly looked back over to Munez, the barest hint of dumbfounded smirk on her face.

The question held a twinge of utter absurdity for her; there she was, outfitted in a Colonial flightsuit, admittedly sporting her actual Marine Corps rank insignia on the collar, but nevertheless still aboard a ship with which she had about as much familiarity as a passenger on a rollercoaster has with the car they're in, and he was asking what her orders were?

Hell, part of the reason she had jumped at the chance to accompany the Colonial mission into Chig space was to stall for time against all the pressure she was getting from Colonel McQueen about resuming her former place as leader of the Five-Eight, a mantle of responsibility she was loath to take back up from West.

And yet, in that moment, with Munez's simple query, Shane couldn't help but feel as though fate itself was hell-bent on putting her back in command.

Taking in a deep, steadying breath, Vansen slowly looked back down at the myriad of icons on the screen.

"Well, we're out here on a recon mission," she muttered as she once again met Munez's gaze. "I say we risk it and see where they're going."

---

Boeing Aerospace Assembly Complex
Everett, Washington

Odd as it seemed, former United States Marine Corps space aviator Vanessa Damphousse had always disliked travelling by air.

It wasn't that she was afraid to fly, far from it; she just preferred to avoid the intrusive rigors of airport security if she could.

So it was that she could hardly miss the irony that her new position with Boeing required her to endure something tantamount to an electronic colonoscopy every morning, an experience that made airport security seem like clumsy teenage foreplay by contrast.

"Morning, Bob," muttered Phousse as she cast a sardonic smirk over at the decidedly stern looking private security contractor manning the full body scanner.

Bob didn't say anything in reply.

Bob never said anything in reply.

In reality, she didn't even know 'Bob's' real name, she'd simply started calling him that when he'd laconically refused to offer up his real name when she somewhat naively asked him what it was on her first day.

Letting out a slight huff, Damphousse stepped into the security scanner, to her mind's eye, a device that looked like nothing so much as a microwave oven on steroids.

It took about a minute for the device to scan her, the stale warmth of the air and the droning hum of the machinery as it operated only deepening Phousse's suspicions that she was being surreptitiously cooked alive a few cells at a time.

More than just a scan to screen for weapons, the device was measuring a wide variety of biometrics; heart rate, body dimensions, retinal patterns, just about anything and everything up to and including a chemical analysis of the perfume she was wearing and checking those readings against her profile in a database, all to make sure she was who she said she was.

The only bright spot to the whole affair was that she had very quickly caught on to the general practice of many other employees of not bringing anything along with her to work; abandoning the use of a purse had cut her time going through security in half.

"Done," snapped 'Bob' tersely as the hum of the machinery abated.

Emerging out the other side of the scanner, Phousse stepped over and retrieved her security pass and credentials from one of 'Bob's' equally brusque cohorts and set about the rest of her day.

"Have a nice day, Bob," called Damphousse.

As always, 'Bob' didn't acknowledge the pleasantry, instead merely casting a stern glare over to the subsequent victim waiting in line behind her.

"Next."

Shaking her head slightly, Damphousse reached up and reattached her credentials to her blouse as she blended back into the small throng of people making their way deeper into the facility.

In reality, the security measures weren't unwarranted; in spite of Aero-Tech's predominance in the aerospace market over the years, Boeing was still involved with many highly sensitive military projects. As a result, anyone attempting to enter the facility was one way or another forced to contend with what amounted to a private army covering the grounds.

A heavily-armed, highly-trained private army.

For her part, Phousse was somewhat ambivalent about private military contractors. On the one hand, the industry gave a lot of grunts coming home from the front a very well-paying job once they transitioned out. The military had provided them with a skill-set; she could hardly begrudge veterans finding a way to continue exercising that skill-set without the brutal necessity of pitting them against a Chig or Silicate.

But what she was somewhat less comfortable with, indeed what remained the predominant controversy with most people these days, was just how many PMC's were staffed by InVitro's cached out into the world when the InVitro platoons were dissolved near the end of the A.I. War.

The InVitro platoons as an institution had helped solidify a truly global and enduring undercurrent of prejudice against InVitros as a whole because, in the end, a vast majority of them had refused to fight against the Silicates. They'd refused to fight for abstract ideas like patriotism and loyalty, but a good many of them now seemed to have embraced the less-noble principle of fighting for money.

For Phousse, it was a somewhat bitter pill to swallow after having spent most of the last two years fighting alongside Hawkes and Colonel McQueen, two men who to her mind would always represent some of the best of what InVitros, what people in general, could be.

Hawkes, McQueen.

West, Vansen, Wang.

It didn't take much for Phousse's mind to wander back to her old friends, she missed them all dearly.

It had been well over a week now since she'd last heard from any of them; hardly required much puzzling on her part to figure out they'd likely accompanied the Colonials on their mission to, well, wherever it was they'd gone; deep into Chig territory most likely.

Information about the war was sketchy at best here on the homefront, conjecture mostly. All anyone like her, anyone outside 'the know', really knew with any certainty was that two Colonial warships had departed from Earth orbit.

Considering the fervor it had raised world-wide when the UN decided to grant the Colonial petition to settle, one could hardly blame anyone in the government for remaining tight-lipped about anything regarding them. Everything about the Colonials, who they were, where they came from, had a tendency to stir some very deep passions in a great many people.

For her part, Phousse did her best to steer clear of all the controversy, most especially the proverbial water-cooler debates, because in the end she felt she had a perspective many others didn't, a perspective most people had trouble taking at face value as she did; if it wasn't for the arrival of the Colonials, she would still be trapped in that hellish POW camp on Kazbek.

In so many ways, both figurative and concrete, if it wasn't for the Colonials she wouldn't be where she was now.

"Morning, Vanessa."

Grinning slightly, Damphousse glanced back over her shoulder as one of her co-workers, Leonard Sheldon, jogged the last few steps to catch up to her.

"How're you today, Leonard?" asked Damphousse simply as she watched him take a sip from the Tulley's coffee cup in his hand.

"Good, real good," grinned Leonard. "You?"

"Warm bed, full night's rest, breakfast that didn't come cold out of a can, can't complain," replied Damphousse evenly.

Although Leonard seemed to nod a bit at her reply, it was clear from the somewhat quizzical expression on his face that he didn't fully understand why those things had any particular importance.

Civilians often didn't.

Then again, Damphousse had to remind herself that inspite of the oft-quoted mantra 'once a Marine, always a Marine', she was in reality a civilian now too.

Then again, she'd also fudged a bit about getting a full night's rest.

Truth be told, no matter how comfortable the luxuriously fluffy mattress was in her new apartment, Phousse knew she'd likely never be able to get through a night again without waking up from some Chig-inspired nightmare. Treatment of post-traumatic stress may have come a long way, but fighting seven-foot tall aliens who made a habit out of hacking apart the dead bodies of your friends and comrades was the kind of experience that tended to leave a permanent impression on the psyche.

Glancing over at Leonard, Phousse knew it was the kind of experience he would simply never understand by explanation alone. For a moment, she couldn't help by envy that experiential naiveté.

"Today's an exciting day, huh?" beamed Leonard, a touch of barely restrained glee in his eyes as he took another sip from the cup in his hand.

"I suppose it is," muttered Damphousse as she glanced over at him.

And for a man like Leonard Sheldon, it most likely was. Leonard was a theoretical physicist recruited away from a cushy experimental grant project at Caltech. Having spent years working on long equations the likes of which made Damphousse's head hurt, Leonard had been sniped away by Boeing to work on the company's reverse engineering project of one of the ships turned over by the Colonials.

Today was the first day they were actually being granted access to the craft itself.

Although Damphousse was by no means an intellectual slouch, her undergraduate degree in Nuclear Physics and Masters in Engineering easily attested to that, there was a whole new school of physics that had sprung into being quite literally overnight with the arrival of the Colonials that for guys like Leonard Sheldon was as titillating as having a 'sure thing' with a supermodel on prom night.

So it was that as the rest of the team assembled in their work area, Leonard kept pacing, his excitement about as restrained as that of a child waiting outside the gates on their first trip to Disneyland.

For Damphousse, the grand moment when they finally made their way into the restricted hangar space where the vessel was being kept was somewhat more akin to an anticlimax than she'd expected.

While Leonard stood beside her, an almost infantile squeal escaping him as he first laid eyes upon the craft, Damphousse couldn't help but note how particularly ordinary the ship actually looked.

The general layout of the craft was certainly different enough; a long, generally pear-shaped cylindrical body with a large sail-like projection at one end and large articulated clamshell vanes at the other, and yet the craft looked exactly like what the Colonials described it to be; a civilian passenger liner.

With windows arrayed along the hull, brightly colored livery along the length of the craft, even the simple stairwell leading up into the ship, all of it reminiscent of any of a dozen commercial aircraft designs churned out by Boeing from this very facility over the last century.

Nevertheless, however ordinary the craft looked on the outside, Damphousse knew its real secrets were within; the faster-than-light drive system that offered the peoples of Earth not only the means to definitively end over two years of brutal interstellar warfare, but beyond that the promise of truly probing out into the greater mysteries of the galaxy.

As that thought passed through her mind, the idea of not just what the ship's secrets might yield in war, but perhaps offer in peace, that Phousse finally felt the tantalizing tingle of excitement creep along her spine.

---

Warstar Galactica
Junior Officer's Quarters

As the credits began to scroll across the screen, Lieutenant Daren Cortez tapped the eject button on the side of his personal laptop. As the disk carrier popped open with a slight audible click, he removed his well-worn copy of The Tauron Line and gently placed it back in its place next to the three dozen other movies he'd been, in retrospect, foresighted enough to bring along when he'd been assigned to Galactica for her shakedown.

Although at this point he'd watched them all enough times to practically recite every line from memory, considering the relative dearth of other recreational activities available, he considered himself lucky to have something to do with his off-time other than lie in his bunk staring at the bulkheads.

For a few minutes, he lay there in his bunk flipping through the other movies in his truncated library, a long sigh escaping him as he decided he wasn't in the mood to watch any of the others for the hundredth time. Closing his disk carrier, he set it down on the deck beside his bunk and simply stared at the screen.

At one point he'd tried his hand at writing, typing up a number of short stories, even some fanfiction to shows that with the destruction of the Colonies would now have no end. What he soon realized, however, was that writing about the things he knew about, life in the fleet, back on the Colonies, even in a fictional sense, only served to remind him quite acutely of what had been lost.

Boredom was bad enough, but boredom mixed with lament was a recipe for misery.

With a resigned sense of finality, he closed his laptop and gently set it down on the deck beside the disk carrier and simply lay there staring up at the ceiling.

Lacking any distractions beyond the gentle rumble of the ships engines, it wasn't long before his thoughts settled in on the one longing more intense than his boredom; sex.

The one great benefit of being aboard a ship as large as Galactica was that as a member of the senior CIC staff Cortez didn't have to bunk with other junior officers and was thus able to avoid the embarrassment and social derision that usually accompanied being caught engaging in some self-love.

Closing his eyes to the sound-dampening tiles arrayed overhead, Cortez took in a deep breath as he reached down and unbuttoned his trousers.

But before Cortez had settled on which member of the crew he was going to fantasize about this time, his attention was called back to reality by a low alarm. Letting out a frustrated sigh, he kicked his feet over the side of his bunk and looked over at the source of the alarm; the computer terminal mounted against the bulkhead.

Curious, Cortez fastened back up his trousers and stepped over to the panel, at first uncertain what the alarm meant.

Although it had been several months now since the Cylon genocide against the Colonies, Commander Kelso had opted against having the ship-wide computer network aboard Galactica reconnected, thus most panels like the one in his quarters didn't have access to most of the core systems. One thing the Commander had allowed him to do, however, was reconnect his particular terminal to a few non-essential systems in order to continue his work on locating the Twelve Colonies.

In conjunction with Major Macedo's team, Cortez had cobbled together a program which had spent most of the last six months automatically analyzing the copious astrometric data being taken in by the ship's various x-ray and optical telescopes.

While Cortez had initially been quite hopeful that the program would be able to identify any number of known pulsars or other navigational markers and triangulate their position, thus far the effort had come to naught, so much so that he'd quite literally left the program to run on its own several weeks ago and pretty much forgotten about it.

So it was that as Cortez stepped up to the panel he was genuinely surprised to see that the program had apparently identified enough known objects to return a rough positive solution for the location of the Colonies.

For a moment, Cortez felt a rush of excitement.

It was hardly pin-point; from the number of digits in the position solution it could still be off by as much as a sector or two, but it was still a hell-of-a-lot better than nothing.

But as he continued to stare at the position solution, Cortez noted something particularly, even distressingly odd about the result.

In order to facilitate the location of known stellar points, the program had been designed to account for stellar drift, the measureable movement of stars and other phenomena over time. By essentially rewinding that movement, the program had apparently lined up enough stellar markers to finally spit out the solution.

What Cortez was having trouble wrapping his head around, however, was just how much time the program had calculated as having passed since Galactica's original charts were generated back on the Colonies; over one-hundred and fifty thousand years.

"That has to be a mistake," muttered Cortez, shaking his head in utter disbelief as he scowled at the results. "That just can't fraking be right…"

---

Dolphin Island
Office of President Paul Bess

"Thank you, Sal," said President Bess as he hung up the landline receiver.

Looking out past the not-so-insignificant accumulation of reports, official memoranda and other assorted bureaucratic detritus on his desk, President Bess was somewhat bemused to see Commander Kelso leaning back comfortably in one of the relatively plush chairs, his eyes closed.

"Commander?" he muttered simply.

"I'm awake, Mr. President," replied Kelso, opening his visibly bloodshot eyes just enough to glance back over at Bess.

"I take it you haven't been sleeping well?"

Slowly straightening back up in his seat, Commander Kelso let out a long sigh from the effort as he reached up and massaged the knot in his neck.

"I've got over sixty-four hundred men and women loitering deep behind enemy lines right now," muttered Kelso, as he glanced over and eyed the bowl of fruit resting amid the piles of paperwork on the President's desk. "Sleep is a luxury until they come back."

Noting the attention Kelso was giving to the bowl, the President cracked a wry grin as he reached over and nudged it closer to the noticeably tired Commander, Kelso in turn offering the slightest nod of appreciation as he retrieved an apple and took a loud, crunchy bite from it.

"Don't make it last," muttered Bess as he looked back over at the landline receiver. "Our 'guest' just touched down over at the airfield; car will be bringing him over shortly."

"When did we get a car?" snorted Kelso, casting a somewhat curious glance back over at President Bess.

"Two days ago," replied the President simply as he absently sifted through a few reports.

"Then with all due respect, Mister President, any particular reason I still had to walk in from the airfield this morning?" smirked Kelso as he took another bite.

"Don't take it personal, Commander," chuckled Bess. "It's a surplus military utility vehicle; functional, but not exactly luxurious."

"Still, this 'guest' must be pretty important to rate riding in our one and only car," muttered Kelso as he finished off the apple with a few quick bites. "Any idea who they are?"

"Not exactly sure, defense contractor of some sort I think," replied Bess as he began affixing his signature to several of the pages before him. "Whoever they are, though, they must have some clout; Secretary General Hayden herself contacted me about meeting with him."

"Seems like a bit of a security risk to agree to a meeting without vetting his credentials, Mister President," noted Kelso lightly as he casually tossed the apple core into a nearby trash can.

"Granted, but pragmatically speaking, unless the Secretary General is in the habit of vouching for assassins we should be okay," countered Bess as he slowly leaned back in his seat. "But back to our own people for a moment, unless I miss my guess, the courier Raptor ought to be checking in soon, shouldn't it?"

"Came in around twenty-two hundred last night, actually," replied Kelso as he casually massaged the bridge of his nose. "Recon birds have tracked a few convoys so far, including some pretty significant enemy hardware, but the picture on what they're up to is still far from complete."

"Have we suffered any casualties?" asked the President evenly.

"Thankfully, no," replied Kelso, his tone genuinely grateful.

"And what about Code Blues?" asked Bess as he very deliberately held the Commander's gaze for a moment.

"None," sighed Kelso as his hand dropped back down with a slight thump on the chair's armrest. "According to our onboard guests, everything they've tracked so far belongs to the Chigs. If 'they' are out there, they're still sticking to the shadows."

"I don't know whether I should be comforted by that, or concerned," muttered Bess as he resumed scrawling his signature onto the pages before him.

For his own part, Kelso knew exactly how he felt on the matter, and it was anything but comforted. All the evidence they had in hand, the computer code in the Silicate transmission, the enemy obtaining FTL technology, even the 'evolution' of the Silicates to a more Centurionesque form, all of it seemed to scream that 'they', the Cylons, were most definitely out there.

But where?

As his tired mind continued to churn with that foreboding, almost repressively omnipresent question, the droning sound of an approaching vehicle outside drew Kelso back to the moment.

Considering how thin the walls actually were on the prefabricated shelter being used as the Office of the President, very little going on outside went unheard, especially not the sound of a vehicle's tires crunching along gravel or the gentle squeal of its brakes as it came to a stop.

As he straightened up a bit more in his seat, a somewhat self-conscious attempt to look more like the commanding officer of all Colonial military forces that he was, Kelso listened to the faint sound of footsteps on that same gravel coming closer to the entryway, muted voices exchanging words followed a moment later by a series of hard knocks at the door.

"Enter," called the President simply as he set his pen down on top of pages in front of him.

"Sergeant Bowman here, Mister President," stated the Marine in full combat gear as he stepped in. "I have a Mister Michael Lane here to see you, sir."

"See him in, Sergeant," replied President Bess as he slowly rose from his seat, slipping the ear piece for a translator into place as he did so, Commander Kelso in turn taking the President's lead and following suit.

As Bowman stepped back outside, he casually waved his hand bidding a man in a finely cut suit in through the doorway.

In spite of his lingering fatigue, Commander Kelso focused his attention on trying to get a sense of the man, to gauge him. Although he was sporting a smile that seemed genial enough, there was something about the way he moved, how he carried himself that seemed to be telegraphing some underlying intent, a thinly veiled impatience and haughtiness that prompted, however subtly, an immediate sense of unease in Kelso. The fact that the man seemed somewhat obliquely oblivious to Kelso's presence as he made an immediate beeline for the President, avoiding even the most cursory eye contact with him, didn't raise the quality of that appraisal either.

Then again, maybe his own tension and weariness was just making him a bit paranoid.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mister Lane," began President Bess evenly as he extended his hand.

"I'm just glad you were able to meet me on such short notice," replied Lane, his voice actually managing to sound a bit genuine as he clasped on to the President's hand in a brisk shake.

"This is Commander Sean Kelso, commanding officer of our military forces," continued Bess as he motioned over at Kelso.

"Commander," muttered Lane simply as he likewise exchanged a somewhat more perfunctory handshake with Kelso.

"Please, take a seat, Mister Lane," said Bess as he motioned over towards the other seat arrayed in front of his desk.

"Thank you," muttered Lane simply as he set his briefcase down beside the chair, reached up to gently adjust his own translator earpiece, and slowly lowered himself into the seat, a long breath escaping him as he did so.

"Well, Mister Lane, since you are the one who asked Secretary General Hayden to arrange this meeting, I'll let you start," said President Bess as he settled back into his own chair.

"Well, simply put, I've brought something I'm certain will be of great interest to you," replied Lane, his genial grin devolving somewhat into a subtly conceited smirk as he spoke.

"We were told you work for a defense contractor, Mister Lane," began Commander Kelso evenly, as much an attempt on his part to force Lane into more fully acknowledging his presence as anything. "Are you here to negotiate some sort of procurement contract?"

"I'm the Chief Executive Officer of Aero-Tech, Commander," countered Lane, his tone taking on a peculiar edge. "We're a bit more than just a 'defense contractor'; my company designed or built most of the warships and stations orbiting this planet."

"I'm sure Commander Kelso meant no offense, Mister Lane," muttered President Bess, his expression indicating that he too had picked up on the subtle edge in Lane's tone. "I'm sure you can understand, we've been fairly busy as of late, and Secretary General Hayden didn't give many specifics when she spoke with me about meeting with you."

"Then no offense taken, Mister Bess," replied Lane evenly as he reached down and picked up his briefcase. "But to be clear, no, I am not here to negotiate any sort of contract with your government."

"Then why are you here?" asked Bess simply as he watched Lane set the briefcase upon his lap and open it.

"Well, as I said, Aero-Tech has been leading the way over the last few decades advancing Earth's aerospace capabilities," began Lane as he reached into his briefcase and retrieved what appeared to be a compact laptop computer. "Not only did we develop most of the capital warships currently operated by IFOR, but prior to the war we were also responsible for Earth's colonial program."

Pausing, Lane opened the laptop and set it down onto the President's desk.

"As part of that effort, Aero-Tech launched a number of deep space probes," continued Lane as the laptop went through its boot cycle. "Regrettably, the Chigs made it a point of chasing most of them down in order to deprive us of intelligence early in the war, but they didn't get to all of them."

Pausing once again, Lane quickly tapped a few keys on the laptop.

"A few days ago, we received a data package from one of those probes," said Lane as he turned the laptop screen so both Kelso and the President could see it.

"What kind of data package?" asked Kelso evenly as he leaned forward a bit in his seat.

"This," sighed Lane as he slowly sat back in his seat, a plainly self-satisfied smirk creeping across his expression as the laptop began emitting a series of garbled voices.

At first, both the President and Commander Kelso were unclear about what it was they were supposed to find so intriguing about the recording. Taken at face value, it seemed to be nothing more than routine wireless traffic; overlapping voices relaying ship status reports, resupply requests, flight vector instructions, even some innocuous pilot banter.

But then, like a bolt of lightning out of a clear blue sky, the true underlying meaning behind the garbled voices struck the two of them. As both the President and the Commander began staring intently at one another, Kelso slowly reached up and removed his translator earpiece.

With a cold tingle crawling its way along his spine, Kelso realized that even without the translator he was able to completely understand every voice, every word on the recording.

"Colonials," muttered President Bess, the barest hint of a grin curling the edges of his lips. "Those are Colonial transmissions."

"Are you saying your probe has picked up another Colonial fleet out there?" asked Kelso pointedly, slipping his earpiece back into place as he looked Lane directly in the eye.

"Yes," replied Lane evenly.

As if to punctuate the point, both President Bess and Commander Kelso listened as one transmission in particular seemed to scream out for their attention from amid all the chatter.

"…Pegasus, this is Galactica-Actual…"

At that, Kelso practically leapt to his feet.

"Oh, my gods," muttered Kelso, a half-chuckle escaping him as he leaned in over the laptop. "I can't believe they fraking made it."

"Did your probe send back any data on how many ships are out there?" asked President Bess as he continued to listen intently to the recording.

"Analysis suggests at least three or four dozen," replied Lane. "We can't really be sure; our probe was still outside of direct LIDAR range with them when it sent back the data package."

"But was it able to get a position fix on them?" asked Kelso, a touch of impatience slipping into his tone.

With his smirk widening ever so slightly, Lane casually slipped his hand inside the breast pocket of his suit and withdrew a simple sheet of paper.

"The probe was surveying HD-One-Zero-One-Five-Three-Nine, an unexplored planetary system along the far side border of the Ceres region when it picked up the signals," stated Lane as he handed the paper to Kelso. "I've taken the liberty of having my people translate the position to your coordinate system."

"How much do you know about that star system?" asked Kelso evenly as he glanced at the coordinates.

"Like I said; unexplored," replied Lane. "The data package included some information though; a single Class K star, half a dozen planets, mostly barren rocks from what we can tell, not much of significance."

"Well, the star system may be insignificant, but that area of space is," began Kelso as he glanced over to President Bess. "The Ceres region is well within enemy territory"

"Which means they could be on the verge of stumbling into a possible hornet's nest of enemy activity," noted Bess as he met the Commander's gaze.

"Not if I have anything to say about it they won't," muttered Kelso resolutely as he glanced once more at the coordinates.

---

Without so much as a glance over at the driver, Michael Lane hopped out of the vehicle and began making his way back towards the Aero-Tech corporate jet waiting for him on the tarmac.

Noting his approach, the pilot set to preparing the plane for takeoff, the gentle wind-up of the engines echoing out across the area as they built to a high-idle whine.

Reaching inside the breast of his suit, Lane pulled out his phone and tapped in the code to access his hidden directory and selected the number he needed. As the phone connected the call, he slowly brought it up to his ear.

"It's done," he said simply, terminating the call a moment later with a brusque tap on the touch screen.

Slipping the phone back into his coat pocket, he then reached into another and pulled out the translator device and earpiece he'd used during his meeting with Bess and Kelso.

Pausing for a moment at the bottom of the stairs leading up into the plane, Lane glanced down at his expensive shoes, and then alternately tapped his feet against the side of the stairs, almost contemptuously knocking loose the thin layer of dust on them.

Then, with a decidedly self-satisfied smirk on his face, Lane dismissively tossed the translator and earpiece down onto the tarmac and entered the plane.

---

"When he contacted me about arranging a meeting with you, I had no idea this is what it was about," began Secretary General Diane Hayden, genuine surprise evident in her tone even over the speakerphone. "I suppose my first question is how do you gentlemen know the transmissions are authentic?"

"The data Mister Lane brought was more than just audio recordings, Madame Secretary," replied President Bess evenly. "Included were numerous automated registry beacons and transponder codes; we've already had Galactica run a check against our records, they would appear to be genuine."

"But I thought you said the rest of your fleet was destroyed," interjected IFOR Supreme Commander, General Pugachyov, on another line.

At that, President Bess looked over to Commander Kelso.

"Prior to our escape from the Colonies, we did have some information to indicate other ships survived the initial assault," began Commander Kelso, his eyes wandering down to the simple sheet of paper with the coordinates resting in his hand. "Mostly a rag-tag collection of civilian ships, transports, a few industrial vessels; they jumped away from Colonial territory before we could make contact, but at last report they were under the escort of at least one Battlestar."

"So you're saying there are more of your military vessels in this second fleet as well?" asked Hayden pointedly.

"From the transmissions and transponder codes at least two, actually," replied Kelso evenly. "Galactica and Pegasus."

"Galactica?" muttered Pugachyov, his tone clearly a bit puzzled.

"The immediate predecessor to my own command, General," said Kelso. "She was about to be decommissioned when the attack hit, my ship was to be her replacement."

"And this 'Pegasus'?" prodded Pugachyov.

"Another Battlestar," answered Kelso simply. "Mercury Class, though; newer, more powerful."

"In any event, I'm sure we can all agree that having them at our disposal will be invaluable if the Chigs or Silicates attack," interjected President Bess. "I've ordered Commander Kelso to go out, make contact with this fleet and escort them back here to Earth."

At that, there was a definite pause from both Secretary General Hayden and General Pugachyov.

"About that, President Bess," began Hayden, her voice slow, hesitant. "I have some concerns; how many more of your people could we possibly be looking at?"

"Between the two Battlestars, about five thousand, Madame Secretary," answered President Bess evenly. "As for the civilian ships with them, it's hard to say; double that number easily, probably more."

"Not to put too fine a point on it, gentleman, but world opinion might not react too well to more of your people settling on planet," said Hayden, her tone plainly wary. "However inaccurate it may be, it won't take much of a leap of logic for some to see this as potentially opening the floodgates to still more of your people settling on Earth."

"With respect, Madame Secretary, this is the first solid evidence since our escape that there are in fact any other survivors," countered Kelso flatly, impatience creeping into his tone as he looked reflexively looked over at the speakerphone with disdain. "I for one am not of the mind to let them continue to just drift along in space, especially not that damned close to enemy territory."

"Strictly speaking, Commander Kelso, neither am I," replied Hayden, her own tone taking on a firm edge in response. "But the decision to allow your people to settle on Dolphin Island was predicated on not only the material and military support you have offered to the war effort, but also on the belief that no others would be coming; this will be a tough sell to the hardliners who objected to allowing your people here in the first place."

At that, an uncomfortable tension settled in. As his gaze slowly settled on President Bess, noted the unreadable countenance on his face, Commander Kelso wondered for a moment if he had perhaps overstepped his bounds by being so brusque with the Secretary General. But what Kelso had at first interpreted as ire he soon realized was in fact resolve.

"Madame Secretary, there is another side to this issue I was reluctant to bring up, but will if I must," began Bess evenly.

"And that is?"

"Under the terms of our alliance with your government, we are, in fact, still a sovereign nation, Madame Secretary," said Bess as he casually reached over and retrieved one of the apples from his fruit bowl and began to casually roll it in his fingers. "Geography has us on the same world, but we are not politically subordinate to your authority. Strictly speaking, this is a courtesy call; I'm not asking for your permission to bring our people home."

"That's a rather bold position to take, President Bess," said General Pugachyov, a long sigh escaping him as he spoke. "One that could produce a backlash, people who'd use this as an excuse to call for your ouster from Earth; are you prepared to take your people back out into the depths of space over this matter?"

"The better question, General, is would those same people be as eager to see us take back the ships we've given you to reverse engineer in order to effect such an expulsion?" countered Bess. "Or perhaps more importantly, is your military prepared to see our warships go and continue this war on its own?"

"Is that a threat?" asked Secretary General Hayden flatly.

"Not a threat, Madame Secretary, just a reality," answered Bess evenly. "Our involvement in this war is based on protecting this world because we are also protecting our own people who live here. If we go, our people will still need protection from the Chigs and Silicates. We can't risk that they will simply ignore us if we leave, and we won't be able to spare any of our ships to help defend Earth."

"I see," muttered Hayden laconically.

As another uncomfortable pause settled in over the conversation, Commander Kelso continued to watch President Bess, gauging him, searching for some hint as to whether or not he was simply putting up a front on the issue, making a bluff.

If he was, Kelso certainly couldn't tell, moreover, he earnestly hoped the President wasn't just bluffing.

Perhaps even more so than the President, Kelso understood all too plainly the ramifications if the Colonials were forced to leave; simply put, it would be an unmitigated disaster if the Cylons showed their hand, both for Earth as well as for their own people.

But, he was also not content with letting the Battlestar Galactica, Pegasus or any civilian vessels with them to continue wandering the endless tracts of open space, or more importantly, to simply sit idle while they sailed unaware into enemy space.

"We are going to get them, Madame Secretary," interjected President Bess, finally breaking the silent stalemate.

"Then go get your people, President Bess," replied Secretary General Hayden evenly. "We'll deal with the ramifications as they come. I just pray they don't undermine the efforts we have put into this alliance."

"Nor I, Madame Secretary," sighed Bess. "I will keep you informed."

With that, President Bess hung up the line with a simple press of a button.

"Well that sounded promising," muttered Kelso sardonically. "You don't think they'll actually press for us to leave, do you?"

"Gods, I hope not," replied Bess evenly as he continued to roll the apple in his fingers. "In any event, as you are so fond of pointing out, all we can do is take this one step at a time."

Then, taking in a deep breath, President Bess looked back over at Kelso with the barest hint of a grin.

"Go get our people, Commander."

---

Tired, yet imbued with fresh determination, Commander Kelso made his way along Heracles Highway towards the airfield, his pace but a few brisk steps short of a jog. And just as the path's namesake had when he temporarily took over the duty from Atlas, Commander Sean Kelso felt as though he carried the weight of the worlds, or one world at least, on his shoulders.

Much as it seemed to have become his curse as of late, the more he searched for solutions to the abundant problems they already faced, all he seemed to find were more complications. This time, mercifully, the situation also seemed to come pre-packaged with a potential solution; the Battlestars Galactica and Pegasus, two warships whose presence would tip the scales more in favor of their survival against the Chigs, Silicates, and more importantly, the Cylons.

But even as he continued to mull the situation over in his mind, Kelso also couldn't help but notice a distinct change in the general mood of the people milling about the area, a hushed undercurrent of whispers and sideways glances, hesitant but still clearly charged, and the attention was clearly aimed at him.

In spite of their best efforts to keep the information compartmentalized, had the people learned about the possible Cylon threat? If so, how badly had the facts been distorted as they made their way through the proverbial grapevine?

So palpable was the change in the community's overall mood that Commander Sean Kelso was in no particular way surprised to see the two individuals who'd emerged from another side street and were making their way towards him.

"Dad, Major Gaines," muttered Kelso as he came to a slow stop.

"Is it true?" asked Adrian Kelso simply, his tone borderline breathless as he stepped up to his son.

Pausing, Sean Kelso quickly glanced over at Gaines, for a moment uncertain whether she had in fact kept what he'd told her about the suspected Cylon activity a secret. For her part, Gaines' expression gave up nothing to convince him either way.

"Is 'what' true, Dad?" asked Sean somewhat hesitantly.

"Is it true there's another fleet of Colonial survivors?" prodded Adrian, his tone clearly hopeful.

Pausing, Sean Kelso looked back over towards the people around the area. With the arrival of Adrian and Major Gaines, most had entirely given up the slim pretense of not paying attention and were now quite blatantly watching him intently.

"Is that what this is about?" he muttered, the slightest hint of a smirk crossing his lips as he met the expectant gazes of a few of the people around the area. "My gods; it amazes me how fast the rumor mill runs around here."

Looking back over at Adrian and Major Gaines, Sean found them still waiting anxiously for a firm answer.

"Wait, how the hell..?" blurted Kelso, his voice trailing off with a slight chuckle as he internally deduced the most likely source of the information leak. "No, let me guess; Sergeant Bowman."

"You know better than most how thin the President's office walls are, sir," smirked Major Gaines. "If it helps, he was merely passing the information on to me as his…"

"Save it, Jordan," interrupted Sean, holding up his hand for a moment as he let out a long, though still somewhat bemused sigh.

Shaking his head slightly, Sean couldn't help the wry grin that soon curled the edges of his own lips as he continued to look into the expectant eyes of his father and Jordan Gaines.

"Well?" prodded his father impatiently.

"Nothing is confirmed yet," answered Sean evenly.

"Well, can I assume you're sending someone out there to get confirmation?" asked Adrian.

"Well, not to put too fine a point on it, but right now the only things standing in the way of me doing precisely that are the two of you," replied Sean as stepped off again towards the airfield by very deliberately walking right between the two of them.

"You're taking the Galactica?" asked Jordan, a twinge of concern creeping into her tone for a moment.

"You know what they say, whenever you can, wherever you go, go heavy," replied Sean. "Besides, we have no idea what they've gone through since the Colonies fell; might be a nice boost for their morale if they see Galactica instead of just a Raptor."

"Maybe, but if I know you, this is about more than a simple show of force for the benefit of their morale," countered Adrian as he fell into step beside his son.

"The fleet, if it is out there, was positioned along the border of enemy controlled space," began Sean as he glanced over Adrian. "Most of the reports coming in from Runel's mission seem to indicate the enemy is cutting back on their activity, but I'd still like the deck stacked in our favor in case something does happen while we're out there."

"Makes sense considering," muttered Gaines.

"Considering what?" asked Adrian as he cast a sideways glance over at Gaines.

Looking over at Jordan as well, Sean gave her the slightest shake of the head, a subtle signal but he hoped still clear enough of an admonishment to keep her from revealing what he'd told her in confidence about the Cylons.

"I was just thinking of a very unpleasant possibility," began Gaines, her tone cautious, hesitantly gauged as she held Sean's gaze. "What if the Cylons are trailing this other fleet?"

Coming to an abrupt halt, Sean Kelso continued to hold her gaze, on the one hand silently fuming at her for voicing the statement so openly in public, but conversely struck by the fact that she may very well be right.

"I hadn't considered that," conceded Sean evenly.

And truthfully, he hadn't.

Phantom Cylons pulling strings behind the scenes with the Chigs and Silicates was frightening enough; the idea that a bonafide Cylon task force might in fact be just a jump's-distance away from Earth itself was downright bone-chilling.

Was this the reason the Cylons hadn't yet shown their hand? Had they simply been waiting for this second fleet to arrive, somehow calculating that their presence could fracture the alliance with Earth's forces? Earth and the Colonials were certainly stronger together than they were apart; driving a wedge between them would make fending off a Cylon assault near impossible.

Was this a gambit to wipe them all out in one stroke?

Second guessing; the potentially fatal scourge of a combat commander.

No, he couldn't allow fringe possibilities, no matter how terrifying, to influence or dissuade him from the more critical imperative; Sean Kelso was going to bring the Battlestar Galactica, Pegasus and any civilian ships with them back to Earth.

"One step at a time," he finally muttered as he started off again towards the airfield.

As the three of them reached the edge of the tarmac, the engines of the Raptor that would be shuttling him into orbit whining at high-idle as the pilots prepared for departure, Sean Kelso paused and looked back over to his father and Jordan.

"Just be careful out there, Son," said Adrian, concern creeping into tone.

"You know me," replied Sean, a strained smirk creasing his lips as he held his father's gaze.

"Wouldn't feel the need to say it if I didn't," countered Adrian, his own grin every bit as anxious, awkward.

Beside him, Gaines was every bit as worried as Adrian, but not knowing how much the elder Kelso had discerned of the simmering attraction between her and Sean, all she could do was stand there in silence.

Letting out a long sigh, Sean looked over to Gaines, silent as she was but still clearly tense, apprehensive. In a deliberate bid to abate the moment's tension, however abrupt it was, Sean simply turned and stepped off again towards the Raptor.

"I'll see you both soon," called Sean over his shoulder, his voice barely audible over the Raptor.

As Adrian Kelso and Jordan Gaines stood there watching, Sean quickly stepped up into the Raptor, the side hatch closing behind him as he moved up and settled into the seat beside the pilot.

Within moments, a gust of wind washed out across the tarmac as the Raptor clawed its way into the air, rapidly climbing away with a roar as both Adrian and Jordan watched it disappear into the sea of powder blue sky overhead.

"So, are you going to tell me what that was really about back there?" muttered Adrian simply, his eyes still lost in the skies overhead.

"Sir?" muttered Gaines, looking over at him in slight surprise.

"You know as well as I do that command is about people, Jordan," sighed Adrian as he slowly met her eyes. "Reading tones, voices, body language; they're skills that never really go away. You hesitated before mentioning the Cylons; tells me you know something more than what you actually said outright. And as much as Sean might think he's got me fooled, I can see there's more going on in his mind as well. Add those two things together, there's something the both of you don't want to talk about in front of me."

As she continued to hold Adrian's gaze, Gaines couldn't help but feel a growing sense of unease.

"Not 'don't', 'can't'; we can't talk about it," she finally replied. "Orders."

"Whose orders?"

"Your son's," answered Gaines, her tone almost apologetic. "What he told me, he did so in confidence, asked me not to tell anyone else, so I won't."

Letting out a long sigh, Adrian slowly looked back towards the sky overhead.

"Then at least tell me he's not in over his head," muttered Adrian, his voice heavy with worry.

"No, sir, I don't think he's in over his head," replied Gaines as she looked out towards the puffy clouds on the horizon. "But, if you're a praying man, then please, pray for him."

"Why?" asked Adrian as he glanced back over at her.

"Because if anything does happen to him out there," began Gaines as her eyes once again met his. "I'm gonna kick his ass."

At that, Adrian broke out in a burst of genuine laughter.

"I bet you would, too," he chuckled.

---

Battlecruiser Enceladus
Joint Reconnaissance Mission
Chig Territory - Pegasus Sector
Day 17

"No matter how we look at it, this makes absolutely no sense," muttered Colonel Thadius Runel as he leaned in over the stack of reconnaissance reports lying on the Combat Operations Center table.

"It may not make sense, but the evidence is fairly conclusive," sighed Colonial Tyrus Cassius McQueen as he slowly thumbed through a stack of reconnaissance photos. "Near as we can tell, the Chigs have abandoned all of their forward positions. Planets that used to garrison entire divisions are now little more than ghost towns, strategically critical airfields entirely devoid of activity, not so much as a paperclip left behind."

"Every convoy our birds have sighted was churning up space at flank speed for the nearest wormhole," sighed Runel. "They're acting like a force in full retreat."

"Maybe they're concentrating their forces as a measure against our FTL ability," offered Colonel Webber evenly. "Ever since we learned they'd acquired FTL's we've pretty much done the same thing around Earth, thrown up just about every bit of hardware we can to encircle it, maybe this is a similar strategy."

"Concentrating ships and planes is one thing," began Runel as he continued to peruse the reports from the recon Raptors. "But pulling out every last grunt, leaving behind not so much as a single listening post? If this is some sort of new strategy, it's a piss-poor one."

"Agreed," muttered McQueen as his attention settled in on an image of the abandoned enemy airstrip on Demios. "Time and again, the enemy exacted heavy tolls on our forces in exceptionally fierce fighting for just about every one of these rocks; abandoning them when we're nowhere near ready to resume the offensive is irrational."

"Well, the first recon sortie into the enemy's home system should be skids up by now," sighed Webber as she glanced over at the clock on the wall. "Hopefully they'll find something."

"If we can at least confirm that the Chigs have pulled back into the Helios system, it could go a long way towards shedding some light on the situation," muttered McQueen as he let the photos fall back down onto the tabletop. "We're certainly not getting much out of these at this point."

"Well, let's hope we do learn something useful," smirked Runel as he glanced over to Webber and McQueen. "Gods know, at this point even bad news would be better than no news at all."

---

Raptor Zero-Three-Seven
Joint Reconnaissance Mission
Chig Territory – Helios System
Day 17

Although she had been itching for an opportunity to fly one of the Colonial ships, this wasn't exactly what Captain Shane Vansen had had in mind.

"Oh, frak!" snapped Ensign Athari. "Rad-sensors say we've got four more coming in at one-four-five carom…"

"I need you to break it down a bit simpler," burst Vansen as her eyes snapped frantically back and forth.

"Low to our forward starboard," replied Athari frantically.

With her fingers clasped like steel clamps around the controls, Vansen very consciously allowed her mind to devolve a bit and reacted on instinct, absorbing as best she could the 'feel' of the craft as she threw it into a violent evasive turn.

Beside her, Ensign Munez's dead body flopped over against the retaining straps of his seat from the turn, the significant holes riddled across his body heavily encrusted with crystallized blood.

Up to a few moments ago, everything had seemed to portend another fairly routine mission; they'd jumped into Helios, home system of the Chigs, in order to confirm that the various enemy fleets and convoys picked up by recon flights over the last two weeks had in fact concentrated themselves within the system.

But a split second after they'd activated the Raptor's surveillance package in order to get photos of whatever they were about to see, the forward canopy had splintered apart from enemy fire, the blasts explosively venting the craft's atmosphere out into space while peppering Munez in his seat, momentarily leaving the Raptor pilotless.

For Shane Vansen, that was the moment when instinct had kicked in; without thinking, her hands had lashed out and seized hold of the throttle and control stick of the nimble craft.

In spite of her efforts to learn the Colonial language on a much more natural, fluent level, under the sudden flood of adrenaline, her conscious mind became utterly incapable of going through the mental motions of translating Colonial to English, thus most of the instruments, signals and alarms on the panel before her were still very much unreadable to her.

"Can we jump back out of here?" snapped Vansen as she threw the Raptor into another hard evasive turn.

"It'll take a few minutes to spool…"

"What about weapons?" burst Vansen as she caught sight of another pair of craft careening in from eleven o'clock high, guns blazing. "If we can't flee, we're gonna have to fight!"

"Large red icon, top center of the screen above DRADIS!" answered Athari, the strain Vansen's latest hard turn was putting on her body evident in her voice.

Glancing down, Vansen caught sight of the icon and lashed out with her throttle hand.

In response, the computer generated image of the Raptor on the screen highlighted several areas in red; quite absurdly, Vansen's mind flashed back to a simple ditty from Basic, 'red means dead'…

"Weapons are hot!" snapped Athari.

"How do I know when I have weapons lock?" burst Vansen as she brought the nose around towards a pair of attackers.

As if in response, Vansen heard what she hoped was a good missile tone echoing inside her helmet.

"We've got a lock!" called Athari. "Center panel, large button, between the status screen and DRADIS!"

Lashing out again with her hand, Vansen slapped the button she thought Athari was talking about. To her profound relief she felt the small ship rock slightly as a missile streaked out from underneath, slamming headlong a moment later into one of the assailing craft off their nose, the other craft accompanying it turning away as the breathless void swallowed the fireball that had been its companion.

But even before Vansen had a chance to savor even so momentary a victory, a stream of weapons fire erupted across the Raptor's nose from the right prompting her to again yank the vessel into a violent turn.

Truth be told, the whole experience was a bit more disorienting for Vansen than she might have guessed. Beyond the daunting prospect of learning the ship's flight and combat systems in the midst of a hairy dogfight, there was an added surreal quality to the situation. With the Raptor cabin's atmosphere gone, so too were the sounds of the craft's engines and equipment, the ambient noise she'd become accustomed to without realizing it until it was absent.

With her visceral reality robbed of everything but the sounds of her own panicked breathing, Athari's frantic voice, the feel of the controls in her hands and the rapid shifts of inertia that accompanied their manipulation, Vansen found it difficult to retain full situational awareness.

But in spite of the perceptional distraction she was enduring, Vansen knew she had to focus in on one essential truth; unless she kept pushing, pulling, twisting and pressing every control and button she could while traversing along this truncated real-world learning curve, she and Athari were going to die.

Testing the fuller effects of the pedals underneath her feet on the attitude of the craft, Vansen began to get a better sense of how to coax a little more nuance out of her rough maneuvers; sliding the tail a bit during one turn, banking just a bit tighter in the next. The pilot in her couldn't help but be impressed, even fully laden with ordnance the Raptor wasn't appreciably less maneuverable than a Hammerhead, a bit slower perhaps, but still quite agile.

Any doubts as to how much she cherished those attributes were easily dispelled as she banked to avoid the dozen or so lines of enemy fire crisscrossing her field of view.

Another thing that quickly found its way into her field of view was the sight of the Chig homeworld itself, the somewhat ashen appearance of its methane-dominated atmosphere making it seem almost sickly by comparison to the stark blue and green hues of Earth.

Still, one thing this grayish backdrop did do was clearly highlight what Vansen's widening eyes quickly discerned as being a decidedly ominous collection of enemy military might. All around were ships of every shape and size; confirmation that the entire Chig fleet had indeed come home. But as much as she might have wanted to, with at least a dozen particularly vicious enemy fighters all vying at that moment to gun her ass into the next life, Vansen didn't have the luxury of leisurely taking in the sights.

"Please tell me that jump drive is just about ready," groaned Vansen through clenched teeth as she manipulated the control stick, throttle and foot pedals into a particularly punishing high-G turn.

As if to emphasize her already keen sense of peril, Vansen felt the ship shake violently; although she couldn't hear anything, she'd had her own plane shot up enough times to recognize weapon impacts. Reflexively looking down at the panel, Shane didn't note anything new flashing and tried to take that as a good sign.

What she couldn't take as a good sign, however, was the abrupt absence of one of the few sounds she had been able to hear in the hard vacuum environment; Athari's voice.

"Athari, sound off!" snapped Vansen, unable to spare even a momentary glance aft. "Athari!"

Nothing.

"God dammit, now what am I supposed to do?" sputtered Vansen as she continued to jink, bank, spin and turn.

Glancing over at the screen at the center of the panel, Vansen was shocked to see that it had been shattered, apparently by weapons fire; now she couldn't even tell if she still had the ability to fire back.

"Oh, fuck me!" she burst angrily.

Try as she might not to, Vansen's mind nevertheless took stock of the situation as she continued to maneuver the Raptor like a drunken banshee, and understandably, she was not heartened; one confirmed dead pilot, one probable dead co-pilot, no way to tell whether or not she could still shoot back, or even the knowledge of how to do so even if it were possible, and about zero chance under the circumstances that she'd be able to take a moment to saunter aft and puzzle through how to operate the ship's jump system.

No doubt about it, her day had turned to complete shit.

So it was that with all possible options beyond simply being shot to pieces or maneuvering wildly until her fuel ran out and then being shot to pieces seemingly cut off to her, Vansen was startled to her absolute core as Athari's body burst into her field of view, slamming down hard onto the center panel.

No, not Athari's body, just Athari.

In vacuum silence, the most-decidedly alive woman flailed one hand widely to find purchase against the maneuvering of the Raptor as her other hand slammed down on a control button on the console.

Nothing happened.

Again, Athari slammed her hand down.

Again, nothing.

Reaching out with her free hand, Athari braced herself between the seats, then landed a hard, swift heel-kick against the panel.

Outside, everything disappeared in a blinding flash of silent light.

Reflexively, Vansen's eyes peered out into the depthless sea of black beyond the shattered canopy, hunting for some sign, any sign of their attackers. To her profound relief, she found none; near as she could tell surrounding space was now blessedly empty.

As she listened to the rapid, ragged sound of her own breathing, Vansen slowly looked back over at Athari as the woman lifted herself more fully onto her own feet.

After a few moments, Athari looked directly at Vansen, her mouth clearly moving, but no sound coming in over the speakers in Vansen's helmet.

"I can't hear you," muttered Vansen, shaking her head as she pointed up at the helmet.

Her expression clearly exasperated, Athari began motioning with her hands, apparently bidding Vansen to relinquish the co-pilot seat. Not particularly keen on the idea of trying to navigate the wounded Raptor herself while there was someone with more experience available, Vansen did so.

As she and Athari switched places, the woman very quickly took control of the Raptor and slowly brought the nose of the wounded bird around. Looking out past the jagged remains of the canopy, Vansen was more than a touch relieved when the Enceladus and Savitri swung into view.

"Thank god," muttered Vansen, as she absently glanced down at the unmoving body of Munez still strapped into the pilot seat. "Take us the hell home."

---

Sound.

Loud and chaotic.

With their damaged Raptor having limped its way back to the relative safety of the Savitri's hangar deck, a small army of personnel in protective gear had descended upon the ship, making near-frantic circles around it as they checked for fires or sparks while others hurriedly unloaded the remaining ordnance.

Nevertheless, as she sat with her feet dangling over the winglet edge another nearby Raptor, Vansen was simply grateful to hear sound again, the cacophony as beautiful to her as a world-renowned orchestra for it meant they'd made it back alive.

Well, she and Athari had at least.

Glancing up, Vansen took in a deep breath as she watched a medical team wheel away Munez's shrouded body.

"There but for the grace of God," she muttered somberly.

"Vansen!"

Bid by the curt edge in the voice, Shane looked over and saw Colonel McQueen, accompanied by Colonel Webber, cutting a path through the chaos of the Savitri's hangar deck.

With a slight hop, Vansen dropped off the Raptor winglet and came to a tired approximation of attention as McQueen stepped up to her.

"What happened out there, Captain?" asked McQueen flatly as his eyes panned over to the visibly shredded Raptor.

"Ambush, sir," replied Vansen simply as she watched Colonel Webber step over to the visibly shaken Athari slumped down against a nearby bulkhead. "They hit us right after we jumped in."

"Are you all right?" asked McQueen, his tone softening somewhat as he looked back over to Vansen.

Meeting his eyes, Vansen could see in them that he was asking about more than just her current physical well-being.

Objectively speaking, McQueen had every reason to be concerned; with everything else she'd been through, most especially the months-long horror of being a POW in Silicate captivity, Vansen was already considered borderline by some when it came to her psychological fitness. Tiptoeing as close as she apparently just had to the proverbial abyss could easily be the event which nudged her beyond that border.

"I'm fine, sir," she answered, her tone somewhat detached.

Watching her silently for a moment, McQueen was clearly trying to gauge her response.

"Seriously, sir," reiterated Vansen, the barest hint of a smirk creeping onto her lips. "I'm fine."

"Very well, Captain," sighed McQueen, his tone nevertheless still somewhat dubious. "You say you were ambushed; how many ships?"

"At least a dozen, sir," replied Vansen as she looked back over at the riddled Raptor.

"I guess the Chigs aren't quite out for the count after all," muttered McQueen as he too eyed the damage once more, silently impressed that it had absorbed so much punishment and still returned.

"Sir, I'm not entirely sure the ships that attacked us were Chigs," countered Vansen, her statement immediately drawing McQueen's attention back to her.

"What makes you say that, Captain?"

"Two years fighting of them, sir," replied Vansen, groping a bit to coherently express the jumble of observations in her mind. "It's like…dancing; when you're with the same partner for a while, you learn which moves they prefer, where they're weak…"

"I'm listening."

"Their behavior," began Vansen, pausing as she collected her thoughts a bit more. "The ships that hit us weren't flying in Chig standard triple formation; they came at us in pairs."

"Pretty weak evidence, Vansen," replied McQueen evenly.

"Well, as you know, sir, Chigs prefer swarm tactics, large groups attacking from the same approach angle," continued Vansen. "The ships that hit us, there was a lot of them but they didn't all pounce at once from the same direction; each of the pairs hit us from completely different vectors, worked to envelope us, collectively cut us off or corral us. It was much more…methodical."

"Anything else?" prodded McQueen.

"The ships themselves, sir," replied Vansen evenly. "I didn't get a good look, but the design was something completely different from the standard Chig fighter; no tri-wing, more like a flying wing configuration."

As McQueen took in a deep breath, digested what Vansen had just told him, Colonel Webber and Ensign Athari made their way towards them. Noting their approach, Vansen reached up and reinserted the earpiece for her translator.

"Are you alright, Captain Vansen?" asked Colonel Webber as she stepped up.

"Yes, ma'am," replied Vansen simply, fiddling a bit with her earpiece, but nevertheless still able to hear her.

"Ensign Athari says you took control of the Raptor after Munez was killed," began Webber evenly, her statement eliciting a somewhat surprised glance from McQueen.

"You forgot to mention that part, Captain," muttered McQueen, his tone taking on a token amount of indignance.

"It was going to be in my after-action, sir," replied Vansen weakly. "But yes, ma'am, I did; I know I was just supposed to observe but it was reflex, I didn't mean…"

"Oh, no, no apologies are necessary, Captain," countered Webber instantly. "Frankly, I'm rather impressed; takes some remarkable skill to fly an unfamiliar ship, especially when you can't even read the instruments."

"Captain Vansen has always been an exceptional pilot, Colonel Webber," interjected McQueen evenly.

"Of that I have little doubt," muttered Webber.

"Colonel Webber, Captain Vansen just told me they were ambushed by what she believes to be some new type of enemy fighter," began McQueen evenly. "Might be the same type of enemy bird the Pacifica picked up near the moon; do we know if the ship's surveillance cameras were able to get any images of the craft?"

"Deck Chief says the ship took one hell-of-a pounding," sighed Webber as she glanced back over at the Raptor.

"Actually, Colonel, the FTL and surveillance systems were about the only things that didn't get torn up in the fight," interjected Athari, a long sigh escaping her as she wiped the sweat on her forehead back through her hair. "As long as the hard drives weren't fouled by fire retardant, we should have some images of the ships that hit us."

"Chief!" barked Webber instantly as she looked over to the myriad of crewmembers gathered around the Raptor.

"Sir?"

"Pull and download the surveillance package ASAP."

"Understood, Colonel."

Letting out a clipped breath as she turned back towards them, Colonel Webber casually glanced over at Vansen's helmet sitting on the Raptor winglet, then back over at Vansen.

"Why don't you go down to medical and get checked out by the doc, Captain," said Webber as she glanced once more over at the helmet.

"I'm fine, Colonel," replied Vansen evenly.

Pausing, Webber held her gaze, then, very deliberately, reached over and picked up the helmet. Holding it appraisingly for a moment, she then rotated it slightly, just enough for the not-so-insignificant damage on its side to be easily seen by both Vansen and McQueen.

"A few millimeters the wrong way, this could have violated the integrity of the helmet," began Webber as she absently fingered the damage, from the looks of it, a grazing shot from enemy weapons fire. "Not to put too fine a point on it, Captain, but it would seem the gods were certainly watching over you today."

Slowly reaching over, Vansen took hold of the helmet, her eyes transfixed by the damage she hadn't even realized was there when she removed it.

"Guess that explains why I couldn't hear Athari," she muttered absently. "The impact must have knocked out the speakers inside."

For a moment, Vansen simply stood there, detached uncertainty creasing her features as she regarded the damage to the helmet, a peculiar sense of belated panic sending a cold chill along her spine.

For his part, McQueen could hardly miss the sobering change in Vansen's demeanor.

"Colonel Webber's right," interjected McQueen flatly as he reached over and took the helmet out of Vansen's hand. "You're going to see the doctor."

---

Warstar Galactica
Combat Information Center
Earth Orbit

"Commander on deck," called Lieutenant Cortez evenly as Commander Sean Kelso stepped in through the entryway and began making his way towards the center table.

"Are we ready to get underway, Major?" asked Kelso as he looked across the table to his XO.

"Affirmative, Commander," replied Burke as she casually handed the watch logbook over to him. "IFOR Orbital Control has acknowledged our departure notification; Adroa and Ikenga have formed up and are ready to jump with us on your order."

"And Proteus?"

"As ordered, they've deployed additional Vipers to augment the CAP while we're gone," replied Burke as she reached up and gently brushed aside a lock of hair. "Major Tyle finally seems to be pulling it back together over there."

"Let's hope so," muttered Kelso as he casually began a new entry in the logbook. "Until we get back, she's the senior officer."

Letting out a long sigh, Commander Kelso finished making his entry, then slipped the pen back into his pocket as he closed the logbook.

Glancing across the table to Major Burke, he couldn't help but notice a hint of anxiousness in her normally serious eyes as she watched him finish.

"Something on your mind, Major?" asked Kelso casually. "You seem a bit more restless than normal."

"Just hoping we find them out there, sir," replied Burke as she held his gaze. "I…have a cousin…she was supposed to report aboard Pegasus the day of the attack; I guess I'm just a bit eager to know if she made it."

"Were the two of you close?" asked Kelso as he leaned in a bit over the table.

"Her mother spent a lot of time away on government business of one sort or another so she spent a lot of time with us," replied Burke, a hint of a grin creeping across her lips at whatever memories were flooding through her mind. "Growing up in a house with three brothers, Kendra was the closest thing I ever had to a sister."

As he continued to look into her eyes, Kelso couldn't help but grin a bit at the decidedly uncharacteristic vulnerability in Burke's demeanor. In some very concrete ways, it was heartening to be reminded that his tough-as-nails Exec had a decidedly human side as well, no matter how well she normally hid it.

"Then let's go find them," muttered Kelso evenly as he reached down, toggled the switch for the One-MC, then lifted the handset on his side of the table to his ear. "Crew of Galactica, this is the Commander. As many of you already know, information has come our way regarding the possible location of a second fleet of Colonial survivors."

Pausing, Kelso looked once more across to his XO.

"I know many of you will be tempted by the hope that there may be family, friends amongst this fleet," continued Kelso, his eyes wandering away towards the rest of the crew around CIC. "Frankly, I share that hope. Nevertheless, we will be jumping into an area of space at the razor's edge of enemy territory; it is critical that each of you keep focus and tend to your duties."

Pausing once more, Kelso let out a long, steadying breath.

"Gods willing, we will find our brothers and sisters, and bring them safely to their new home," said Kelso as he once again met Burke's gaze. "For now; all hands, Action Stations."

All around CIC, the atmosphere was instantly charged as the crew, bid by his call and imbued with purpose, mentally shifted gears. Placing his handset back in its place on the side of the plot table, Kelso listened as Major Burke dutifully repeated his call to Action Stations over the One-MC. Waiting patiently, he took mental note as one-by-one the various department heads reported in from around the ship.

"All decks, all departments report Action Stations manned and ready, Commander," said Burke evenly a few moments later as she set her handset down onto the plot table.

"Jump coordinates set, sir," stated Lieutenant Cortez. "Drives have been spooled and synched; our board is green."

"Adroa and Ikenga report ready as well, Commander," called Petty Officer Rocca.

"Very well," replied Kelso as he slowly lifted his eyes to the DRADIS displays overhead. "Start the clock, Lieutenant Cortez; let's go get our people."

Cast against the infinite enormity of the universe, the departure of the three Colonial warships, finite and ephemeral as they were by contrast, went largely unnoticed by the greater portion of creation.

But not unnoticed by all.

Resting undetected amid the endless seas of grey regolith which dominated Earth's only natural satellite, two ships observed the departure with purposeful interest.

Moments after the departure of the Colonial vessels, the two ships, their clandestine mission now complete, slowly came back to life in a manner akin to predatory beasts awakening from a long winter's slumber, the thin particulate layer that had settled upon their exteriors following their initial arrival now falling away as they slowly lifted themselves up from the surface.

With none of the remaining human ships hovering protectively around the beautiful blue and green world in any way aware of their presence, the two ships then jumped away.

---

Fifth Planet of the Helios Star System
Orbit

"Our scout ships have returned, your Excellency," began Cain Six-Zero-Seven evenly as it and the other Silicate leaders knelt before the aged figure seated before them. "Our operative reports that Michael Lane turned over the data we provided to the Colonials; three of their vessels have departed Earth."

"Which Colonial vessels?" muttered Cavil, his voice heavy, infinitely tired.

"Galactica, Adroa and Ikenga," replied Elroy El Three-Eight-Seven. "Only one Combatstar, Proteus, remains as an effective combatant."

"Galactica," seethed Cavil, his tone taking on an edge of visceral malice that belied his advanced age as he leaned forward a bit in his seat. "I really hate that fraking name. Are your forces in position?"

"Yes, your Excellency," answered Cain Six-Zero-Seven.

"And what about the operative; are his compatriots ready to carry out their assignments?"

"They are, your Excellency."

Taking in a deep, ragged breath, Cavil grinned slightly in spite of the coughing fit that momentarily seized him.

"I have waited a hundred and fifty millennia for this moment," wheezed Cavil as he looked over at each of the kneeling Silicates before him. "You may proceed."

"By your command," the Silicates replied in unisons.

---

Combatstar Savitri
Infirmary

"Well, I could run a CT scan, but frankly I don't think it will turn up anything," began Doctor Digaetano evenly as he casually slipped his penlight back into his smock pocket. "Her pupil response is good, no slurred speech, no altered mental state or any others signs of concussion or head trauma."

Watching Vansen intently as she sat on the edge of the gurney, McQueen continued to gauge her, uncertain.

"Thank you, Doctor," he finally sighed.

With the barest hint of a nod, Digaetano turned and stepped away.

Taking in a deep breath, arms folded, McQueen simply stood there as Vansen looked up, her eyes meeting his.

"I told you I was okay, sir," muttered Vansen, a hint of a smirk on her lips.

"Don't butter me, Captain," countered McQueen. "This is about more than a simple bump on the head, and you know it."

Letting out a long sigh, Vansen's eyes dropped away from McQueen's steely gaze, settling at last on her own dangling feet, her bare toes looking oddly small to her for some reason at that moment.

"Permission to speak freely, sir?" asked Vansen as she continued to stare at her own toes.

"Granted."

"Are you afraid I'm losing it, sir?" she asked flatly, her eyes snapping back to him as she spoke.

"Thought crossed my mind," conceded McQueen.

"May I ask why, sir?"

Pausing, McQueen held her gaze.

"The look in your eyes, the way you sat on the wing of that plane like a sullen child while they were removing that pilot's body on the hangar deck."

For a moment, Vansen's blank expression wavered; she hadn't realized he'd been watching her.

"Your psyche evals following your rescue from Kazbek were marginal at best, Vansen," began McQueen, his tone softening a bit even if his overall demeanor didn't. "Truth is you were a hairs-breadth from being sidelined right along with Damphousse."

"Are you saying you pulled some strings to keep me, sir?"

"I'm saying you've always walked a fine line in life, Vansen," replied McQueen evenly. "Ever since you were a child, when you watched the Silicates murder your parents, you've struggled to answer the question, 'who am I'; the Corps was the first place that helped you to definitively answer that question."

Pausing once more, McQueen slowly stepped over and leaned back against the gurney beside Vansen as her eyes once again fell upon her dangling bare feet.

"But ever since you came back from Kazbek, you've resisted fully taking back that identity," continued McQueen. "You may have climbed back into the cockpit, but you still haven't really climbed back into being who you really are."

"You mean command," muttered Vansen, her voice barely a whisper. "Sir, respectfully, the last time I was in command, I got myself and two of my team captured, almost killed and that was a good day; Winslow, Lindon, Gordon, Nelson, Sterling, Woodyatt, Pagodin…all of them died while I was honcho."

"I lost the entire Angry Angels squadron, men and women I'd served with for years," countered McQueen flatly. "This is war, Vansen. Sometimes you can do everything right and people, good people, still don't come back."

Taking a deep breath, Vansen slowly looked back over to McQueen.

"You have a choice to make, Captain," prodded McQueen as he noted the lingering vacillation in her eyes. "And frankly, I need to know what your choice is, right here, right now."

"Do I take command again or not," she muttered, nodding her head slightly.

"No, a much more fundamental question," countered McQueen curtly. "Will you be true to who you really are, who I've always known you to be, or will you continue to hide from it like the scared child you were the night your parents were killed."

As she stood looking at the hatch leading into their assigned berthing space, Vansen took in a deep, steadying breath, hesitant, still a bit uncertain, but bid by McQueen's characteristic brand of brutally tough love into making a choice.

"Here we go," she muttered as she reached over and undogged the hatch.

With a loud thump followed by the high-pitched creak of the slightly rusty hinges, she pulled open the hatch and made her way inside.

"Shane!" burst Hawkes as he hopped down from his bunk and quickly made his way over to her.

"We heard you guys got ambushed out there," muttered West as he too sidled up to her.

"Bad guys have some particularly nasty new toys out there," replied Vansen evenly as her mind's eye conjured up the image of the damage to her helmet. "Got pretty hairy."

Pausing, Shane looked over into the expectant eyes of Hawkes and West, then over at the empty bunks around the berthing space.

"Where's the rest of the squadron?" asked Vansen evenly as she eyed the empty bunks.

"Where else; chow," replied Hawkes. "Not a whole lot to do other than sit on our hands right now."

"When word got out that your flight had been hit, higher-ups scrubbed the rest of the missions scheduled for today," said West as he continued to watch Shane. "Are you alright?"

Caught by the sincere concern in her friend's voice, Shane slowly met West's gaze.

"I need to talk to you," she replied simply, motioning her head back over towards the hatch.

"Okay," said West, his tone somewhat quizzical.

"Hawkes, stay here for a second," muttered Vansen as she and West stepped out into the corridor.

Letting out a somewhat miffed snort, Hawkes watched as Vansen began closing the hatch.

"Oh, sure, leave me out of the loop," he sputtered somewhat indignantly as he ambled his way back over towards his bunk. "Not like anyone ever tells me nothing around here anyways."

Smirking slightly at Hawkes' all-too-Hawkes-like reaction, Vansen secured the hatch.

Then, taking in a deep breath, she turned towards a visibly expectant West.

"What's on your mind, Shane?" he asked, his expression clearly concerned.

Meeting his eyes, Vansen hesitated.

"There's something I need to tell you," she began tentatively. "I don't know how to put it…"

"Just spit it out," muttered West.

Meeting his eyes, Vansen let out a long sigh.

"I'm taking back command of the Fifty-Eighth, Nathan," she said simply.

As the words left her mouth, all Shane Vansen felt was an acutely pensive uncertainty over how Nathan West, her friend, would react. While there were a lot of things in her life she could compartmentalize away behind the façade of being a Marine, her friendship with Nathan West was dear enough to her that no veneer of professional detachment would ever be authentic. In very plain terms, his opinions and his camaraderie were things that truly mattered to her. The last thing she wanted was to betray that friendship in his eyes.

Unfortunately, from his expression, completely blank as it was, she couldn't help but feel that that was exactly what she had done. Indeed, he seemed utterly flabbergasted by her statement, so much so that an uncomfortable silence hung there between them for an excruciatingly interminable amount of time.

"And?" he finally prodded, his tone entirely nonchalant, much to Vansen's surprise.

"And what?" she countered, for a moment wondering if he had in fact heard her. "Nathan, I just told you I am taking command again…from you."

"Well what were you expecting from me, a temper tantrum?" he chuckled.

Almost instantly, a wave of warm relief passed through Vansen.

Ever since the Colonel's terse pep-talk had nudged her into making the choice, Shane had been fretting about how much damage might be wrought upon her friendship with West by her taking back command. From the expression on his face, it was clear the answer was negligible if any at all.

"For a minute there, Shane, you had me scared," muttered West, another half chuckle escaping him as he reached over and nudged Vansen's shoulder. "From the look on your face, I thought you were going to tell me you were pregnant or something."

"What?" sputtered Vansen, eyes wide with shock, her voice literally squeaking a bit. "What the hell would make you even think such a…when would I have had time to…don't even kid about something like that, Nathan West."

In spite of, or perhaps more accurately because of her utterly flummoxed reaction to his outrageous statement, West broke out in complete laughter, Vansen herself following suit a moment later.

"So we're good?" she asked simply.

"Yeah, we're good," he replied.

"Good," she grinned. "Because you're not exactly off the hook, my friend."

Pausing, he glanced over into her eyes, a slight chuckle escaping him as he noted the mischief in them.

"Let me guess…" he muttered.

"Turnabout's not only fair play, it can also be a bitch," nodded Vansen, savoring the moment of good-natured payback. "You're going to be my XO."

"You sure you don't want Hawkes?" asked Nathan as he casually pointed over towards the hatchway. "He's right inside, we can let him know right now."

In response, Vansen began slowly but adamantly shaking her head.

"Nope; Hawkes is a good stick, but I'm not about to spend the rest of the war unfucking his paperwork."

---

Combatstar Savitri
Commanding Officer's Quarters

"Well, you were the one who said that even bad news would be better than no news at all," sighed Colonel Webber as she continued to thumb through the reconnaissance photos in her hand.

"This isn't just bad news," groaned Runel as he massaged the bridge of his nose. "This has the makings of a fraking catastrophe."

"If you believe that, why haven't you sent a Raptor back yet to advise the Commander?" muttered Webber as she glanced across to him.

"Because bad news doesn't mean imminent danger," began Runel as he looked back down at the photos in his hands. "And resemblance doesn't mean definitive proof."

Trouble was, as much as Runel wanted to believe what he had just said, the cold tingle crawling along his spine as he looked at the images of the ships which had hit the Raptor seemed to leave little wriggle room for doubt.

Wide, flying wing design, generally ovoid in appearance from above; the photos could almost be any of a dozen gun-cam images taken during the First Cylon War. Almost, but not quite exact; there were some visible differences.

Curiously, that was almost part of the problem for him.

"Athari didn't seem to have any doubt," countered Webber. "When I spoke to her, she was pretty clear they'd been hit by Cylon Raiders."

"But they didn't show up on DRADIS," interjected Runel. "None of the Cylon ships we encountered during the attack had stealth characteristics."

"And that is enough for you to discount what's plainly before your eyes?" sputtered Webber, her tone utterly skeptical as she absently held up one of the images.

"Brie, I'm not saying these don't look like Cylon Raiders," began Runel as he let out a long, frustrated breath. "What I'm saying is that these aren't the same type of Raiders that hit us during the destruction of the Colonies; hell, they're not even the same models they used during the First Cylon War."

"Maybe they're using multiple types," shrugged Webber as she looked over to him. "But let's say you're right, and by some miracle those aren't Cylon Raiders, then how the hell do you explain these?"

With that, Webber tossed down a wide image captured of the fleet around the Chig homeworld. Most were readily identified by the IFOR Intel team aboard Savitri as being standard Chig craft; bombers, transports, capital ships.

But set apart from the recognizable enemy ships were four other vessels; much larger, circular dual hulls connected at a central axis, long spire arms extending out from the disks; frighteningly evocative, but still not technically definitive.

"Again, these aren't the types of Baseships that we encountered during the destruction of the Colonies," replied Runel evenly, the cold tingle still working its way relentlessly along his spine.

"My gods, how much more fraking definitive does the proof need to be?" sputtered Webber. "What do you want, a fraking Centurion to walk up and shake your hand?"

"Fine, you think this is proof?" burst Runel as he met her angry glare. "Then explain this…"

With that, Runel tossed a report generated by the IFOR Intel team, a summary of their analysis of the surveillance images.

Snorting, Webber snatched up the report and began to read it.

"I'll save you the trouble, Brie," snapped Runel impatiently. "According to them, the actual materials used to build those 'Raiders' and 'Baseships' are of Chig origin."

"What?" muttered Webber, scowling a bit as she came to the passages Runel had so brusquely summarized.

"That ELINT pod they asked us to tote along aboard the Raptor apparently did its job," continued Runel, the anger abating a bit from his tone. "LIDAR refraction patterns, Sewell fuel signature…a whole laundry list of tech-talk, but the conclusion they came to is that these ships were built using Chig materials and techniques."

"They look Cylon, but are locally made," muttered Webber as she continued to peruse the report. "Hybrids?"

"There's also the signals intelligence," sighed Runel. "Dual carrier wave wireless transmissions."

"Silicates," seethed Webber as she let the report fall back down onto the tabletop. "Son-of-a-bitch; this is the fleet they've been building."

"Looks that way," muttered Runel as he leaned in over the tabletop, his eyes falling back down onto the copious images spread out before him. "The Silicates may have a powerful need to emulate the Cylons, but these are still 'locals'."

"It has to be the programming code Macedo found," began Webber as she looked across at his hunched shoulders. "However it was introduced into them, it's driving their actions now."

"Which means your theory about some lost Raider crashing here twenty years ago may be gaining credence," smirked Runel as his eyes continued to pour over the images. "But this also means we're in for one hell of a nasty fight."

"How's that?"

"Just think about it, Brie," began Runel, his tone heavy, wary as he met her eyes. "How hard is it going to be to tangle with a vessel that has the striking power of a Cylon Basestar mated with stealth characteristics of a Chig stealth ship; by the time our rad-sensors pick up the Sewell fuel signature, they'll already have us at point-blank range."

"My gods," muttered Webber as the horror of that plausible ramification sank in.

"Gets worse," continued Runel as he slid the image of the orbital fleet towards her. "Remember, there's already more than one out there."

As the two of them paused, their minds all but reeling from the frightful conclusions and copious contradictions offered up by the reports and images laid out before them, a firm knock came at the hatch.

"Who's at my hatch?" called Webber evenly.

"Corporal Donnovan, Colonel," came the somewhat muffled reply. "Colonel McQueen is here to see you, sir."

Again pausing, Runel and Webber locked eyes.

"Let him enter, Corporal," called Webber, a long sigh escaping her.

As the sound of the hatch opening echoed off the walls, Colonel McQueen made his way over towards the desk as both Runel and Webber reached up and inserted their translator earpieces.

With his eyes falling down towards the images spread out on the desktop, McQueen took in a long breath as Corporal Donnovan closed the hatch.

"How's your pilot, Colonel?" asked Webber evenly.

"Resting, but fine," replied McQueen as his eyes continued to scan across the images. "I take it these are the images from the Raptor mission?"

"That they are," sighed Runel as he glanced over at Webber. "According to your intel team, not only have we located the entire Chig fleet, we seem to have stumbled across some of the new ships the Silicates have been working on."

"That could be good news or bad depending on how this all works out," muttered McQueen as he slowly picked up one of the images showing the orbiting fleet. "Are these them?"

"Yes," replied Webber simply. "Image analysis suggests they are approximately fifteen hundred meters across, height of three-fifty, multiple offensive and defensive missile batteries, hangar spaces for several squadrons of Raid…of fighters, rather."

Noting the vocal hiccup, McQueen glanced over at Webber.

"Sorry, force of habit," she muttered.

"They certainly didn't take moderation into consideration while building them," began McQueen as he held her gaze.

Breaking eye contact with McQueen, Webber glanced over to Runel, the action deliberate enough, subtly evasive enough that McQueen couldn't help but notice it.

"Is there something else here I should know about?" asked McQueen evenly as he watched the two, noted the way they continued to hesitantly peruse the images.

"These new fighters are fast, and maneuverable," sighed Runel as he casually handed McQueen one of the gun-cam images of the ships. "The capital ships are heavily armed and likely pretty well armored based on their size. Worst of all, neither DRADIS nor LIDAR can pick them up, at least not at a distance that would make a difference."

"Stealth?" muttered McQueen, his brow scowling a bit as he took the image. "How the hell did they manage to build ships that large with stealth capabilities?"

"Don't know, but they did it," replied Webber, a long sigh escaping her as she leaned in over her desk. "There's a Sewell fuel signature, but by the time it registers on our radiation detectors the bastards are already on top of you."

As one of the few human beings alive who could say they'd tangled with a ship equipped with Chig stealth, and survived, McQueen was all too aware of just how formidable and dangerous it was; the idea that not just a fighter-sized craft but a full capital ship could be so equipped was terrifying beyond coherent words.

"We need to advise IFOR," stated McQueen evenly. "Unless a countermeasure can be found, we might as well drydock our ships and throw rocks at the bastards."

"I've been thinking about that, and there may be another possibility," muttered Runel as he looked over to McQueen. "Commander Kelso brought it up with the IFOR Combined Chiefs, but he was, shall we say, tersely rebuffed."

"And that is?" asked McQueen as he slowly met Runel's gaze.

"The Chigs," replied Runel. "If we could somehow bring them over to our side, they might be able to help us develop a countermeasure."

"It is their technology after all," interjected Webber.

"Are you seriously suggesting we make contact with the Chigs?" scoffed McQueen.

"What I'm saying, Colonel, is that in the face of untenable options, we might just have to consider the unthinkable," countered Runel evenly. "The Silicates overthrew their government, ordered their military into suicidal assaults that have killed scores of their warriors; I sincerely doubt that's a yoke they wouldn't be willing throw off if given the chance."

"IFOR will never go for that," replied McQueen flatly as he let the photos in his hand fall back down upon Webber's desk. "The Silicates may have hijacked the war, but prior to that the Chigs spent the better part of two years at the helm doing their damndest to wipe us out. Frankly, I doubt many tears would be shed on Earth if the Silicates did use their bioweapons to eradicate the Chigs; I certainly wouldn't shed any."

For a moment, an uncomfortable pause hung in the air.

"You obviously have very strong opinions in this matter, Colonel McQueen, I can sympathize with that," began Webber, an icy edge creeping into her tone. "However, aliens or not, you might have a different opinion on the merits of genocide if you'd already lived through one."

Meeting her eyes, McQueen found himself looking into cold fire.

To say he had strong opinions about the survival of an alien species that had brutally slaughtered more friends and comrades than he ever cared to count was an understatement.

Nevertheless, even his depthless enmity towards the enemy was bluntly tempered the moment Webber invoked the phrase 'genocide', a term that with all its visceral and historical connotations, never had any credible justification.

Simply put, even amongst the darkest of enemies there were still innocents.

"I suppose I would, Colonel Webber," muttered McQueen, his voice taking on an almost shamed tone. "Still, as you yourselves have noted, the Combined Chiefs have rejected the idea."

"New facts on the battlefield routinely shift the parameters of what is and is not reasonable, Colonel," replied Runel as he nudged the image of the ships back towards McQueen. "Now I've read some of the history of your world, and not unlike the Colonies, Earth has had moments where implacable enemies came together to oppose larger, graver threats; this is no different."

Taking in a long, deeply contemplative breath, McQueen stared at the photo of the massive Silicate warships, the threat they represented to the very survival of the human race all too clear in his mind.

"What exactly do you have in mind?" asked McQueen evenly.

---

Fleet Command Vessel
Orbit of the Blessed Homeworld
Fifth Planet of the Helios System

"Are we certain the information is accurate?" asked the Supreme Military Leader evenly as he made his way along the corridor.

"The information is from a Silicate reconnaissance craft," replied his Subordinate as he kept pace. "Our own ships have not been able to confirm it."

"Our own ships cannot confirm it," hissed the Supreme Military Leader indignantly. "The Silicates have decreed that none of our forces are allowed to leave the home system now that they are here."

"Then with respect, I do not understand how you expect to be able to accomplish this," began the Subordinate. "Certainly, they will be able to observe the departure of your shuttle."

"Perhaps, but there will never be a better opportunity," countered the Supreme Military Leader, his respiratory membranes shuddering with repressed agitation. "The Silicates are positioning more of their new warships in our system with each passing day; they already have the bulk of our forces blockaded in low orbit. If we wait too much longer, it may be too late; I am convinced the Silicates will launch an assault against us soon."

"And what if your departure prompts them to release the toxins on the crèche moon?" asked the Subordinate flatly. "Even if they don't attack outright, our race might still perish for your treason against them."

Pausing, the Supreme Military Commander looked over at the Subordinate.

"And if I do nothing, we are likely to perish anyway," stated the Supreme Military Commander dejectedly. "We must take the risk."

---

58th Squadron
Helios System
Celestial Body 2064-K
IFOR Codename 'Anvil'

"Any chance we can go look for that copy of G.I. Geequed I lost last time we were here?" asked Hawkes lightly as his eyes scanned back and forth over the terrain.

"Is he kidding?" muttered Low as she too scanned across the terrain. "We're humping fifty pound rebreather packs through the dark in the middle of triple canopy jungle on a chunk of rock just a stone's throw from the Chig homeworld and he's worried about a stupid comic book?"

"It was a special edition," replied Hawkes defensively.

"Sorry, Hawkes, no time on this trip," answered Vansen. "We're here on a different scavenger hunt."

"I'm just glad we managed to land in one piece," muttered Wang as he scanned high in the trees overhead. "Pretty nifty trick the Colonials have, being able to jump down inside the atmosphere like that."

"Unfortunately we still had to set down a good distance from our target to avoid detection," countered West as he pulled out the radio locator and activated it. "Humping it through this crap jungle is gonna take a while."

"How far?" asked Vansen simply as she watched West manipulate the locator.

"About twelve clicks," sighed West. "Seven hours easy in this terrain, maybe eight."

"Let's just hope we don't run into any enemy patrols," replied Vansen as she looked over at the two Explosive Ordnance Disposal techs assigned to accompany them. "You two ready to move?"

"Affirmative, Captain," replied Chief Warrant Officer Harriet Gerrity evenly.

"Ready as I'll ever be," grunted Gunnery Sergeant Adam Rakunas as he hefted up his gear.

"Okay, we'll keep this simple," began Vansen as she performed a quick brass check on her rifle. "Column formation, ten meter spread; terrain's gonna be a bitch so watch your intervals; Hawkes, you're on point, Wang second, West, you're navigating, then me, EOD, you two stay at our center, Laturner, Low, Stone, you three are my maneuver element if we walk into an ambush, and Keegan, you're tail end Charlie."

"Gee, thanks, appreciate it, Captain," muttered Keegan sarcastically.

"Just be sure to watch our six," smirked Vansen as she glanced over at Keegan. "Shouldn't be too bad; first sign of trouble you can just light'em up with that fancy new grenade launcher there."

"As if you really needed to tell me," grinned Keegan as he opened the breech and slipped a HEAP round into place. "Ever since we passed quals, I've been itching a bit to try this out in the field."

At that, several of the Five-Eights let out a chuckle, Vansen included.

Truth be told, Vansen was more than a bit curious herself to see how the new weapons they'd been issued would stand up under the test of combat.

While the Five-Ninety had overall proved itself durable and reliable since the beginning of the war, at just under thirteen pounds it was a bit of burden in relation to the firepower it brought to the battlefield. Moreover, except for the rare few which had undergone an unauthorized 'field modification' by some grunt, they were locked into semi-automatic fire, a feature which proved problematic during sustained actions where a high volume of suppressive fire was needed.

These new Five-Ninety-Five's, however, promised to bring a new level of pain to the enemy. Not only was the new bullpup configuration lighter, but the reintroduction of the three-round burst and the integration of a forty-mike-mike grenade launcher into the system more than doubled the effective firepower the team would be able to lay down in a pinch.

And here on the enemy's home turf, it was heartening to know that they'd be able unleash a little squad-level 'rapid-dominance' if they came under fire.

"Okay, people, final gear check, no dangles or jangles, we move in five mikes."

With that, everyone set about making final adjustments to straps and equipment, more than a few rolls of electrical tape and some zipties quickly passing hands as the process was completed.

Within minutes, the line of Marines set off through the jungle, climbing and snaking their way through undergrowth that appeared to have been thriving since time immemorial. All around were thick exposed roots and branches, vines running across the ground, dangling from overhead; it would have been formidable terrain to cross unladen, but with the added complication of being a poisonous methane environment, each of the Marines was forced to contend with carrying not only the accoutrements of combat, but the vital equipment of respiratory survival as well.

The one thing that seemed to work in their favor is that having spent the better part of the last three weeks in the relatively low-oxygen environment of the Savitri the full oh-two support of the rebreather pack was a bit invigorating.

In spite of the fact that they were so deep within enemy territory that with but a glance overhead one could actually see the pin-points of moving lights that were the enemy's ships overhead, the movement through the triple canopy nightmare went largely without incident, save one particularly embarrassing moment when West, his attention of the radio locator, snagged a foot on an exposed root and took a tumble down the anterior side of the slope.

Fortunately, neither he nor the locator suffered for the experience and the patrol was able to continue.

As West had predicted, it took just under eight hours to reach their objective rally point.

"Okay, circle up, take a knee," huffed Vansen as she waved her hand in a circular motion overhead.

Tired as they all were, the members of the Five-Eight nevertheless complied, pulling into a tight defensive circle, eyes and muzzles outboard, around Vansen, West and the two EOD techs.

"How much farther?" asked Chief Warrant Officer Gerrity through heavy breaths.

"One hundred meters," replied West as he pointed off towards a thick growth of underbrush. "Thataway."

"How long do you think it will take?" asked Vansen, her own breathing a bit more labored that she would have liked as she looked over at Gerrity.

"Honestly, your guess is as good as mine, Captain," replied Gerrity as she wrestled more control over her breathing. "Have to see what I'm working with first."

"Right," nodded Vansen as she glanced out around the area. "Okay, take a good look around, if we get hit, this is our rally point."

"With all due respect, this crap all pretty much looks the same, Captain," muttered Low. "We get hit, disoriented, how are we going to find it?"

"We're too close to risk cracking any IR beacons," replied Vansen evenly as he eyes continued to scan the area, her eyes finally settling on two particularly large trees poking through the upper canopy. "Okay, go ahead and shoot a resection off those two trees over there, you get cut off, just follow them back to this spot."

Accordingly, each of the Marines did exactly that, taking a compass bearing off of the only potential terrain features that stood out amid this homogenous environment of insanely overgrown vegetation.

"Okay, everyone got their bearings?" asked Vansen as she glanced around to each of the Marines, a quick of thumbs-up from each signaling they had. "Okay, Hawkes, Wang, you two give me a box recon out to the objective; we'll move up the center."

With crisp nod, both Hawks and Wang hopped up and moved off in divergent directions, one to the left, the other to the right.

"Laturner, Low, move up front," continued Vansen as Hawkes and Wang disappeared into the surrounding jungle.

As Laturner and Low set off at the head of their column, the Marines very cautiously covered the last hundred meters, very much cognizant that while contact during the movement in had been possible, as they neared the source of the radio beacon they were tracking it became damned near likely.

So it was that with an uneasy sense of surprise, Hawkes, Wang and the remainder of the patrol all converged on the objective with not a single shot fired, not a single sighting of the enemy.

"Okay, is it me, or does it seem strange that no one is around?" muttered Wang as his eyes and muzzle scanned out across the surrounding jungle.

"They may not be here now, but that doesn't mean they can't show up at any moment," countered Vansen. "Spread out and keep your eyes and ears open."

As the members of the Five-Eight fanned out into a tight perimeter, Vansen glanced back over to Warrant Officer Gerrity and Gunny Rakunas as the duo slowly dropped their gear packs onto the ground and began cautiously making their way towards the objective, in this case, the long metallic cylinder lying on its side in the middle of the underbrush.

"Please tell me it looks familiar," muttered Vansen as she eyed the cylinder warily.

"Well, at first glance it kinda looks like my water heater," quipped Rakunas as he knelt down beside the object.

"As much as I appreciate a good joke, Gunny, that's a Silicate bomb which is supposed to contain enough bio-chemical agent to wipe out every living thing for hundreds, maybe thousands of kilometers," began Vansen evenly as she watched him begin passing a detection device along the exterior of the cylinder. "I'd really kind of appreciate it if you focused in on not pissing it off."

"Relax, Captain," began Gerrity as she likewise passed another device over top of the cylinder. "Only one of two things are going to happen, either it will go off, or it won't; at least we know it doesn't have a proximity detonator."

"Swell," muttered Vansen as she very consciously turned away to look out into the jungle.

For the next several minutes, the two Explosive Ordnance techs continued to run an assortment of electronic devices across the exterior while the members of the Five-Eight tried to keep their focus on the surrounding jungle and not on the fact that they were sitting uncomfortably close to toxin-bearing high-explosive device.

"I still think it's strange the Silicates put a radio beacon on the thing," sighed Wang as he glanced back over his shoulder at the work taking place.

"Certainly made it easy enough to find," muttered Low.

"That's probably the point," interjected Keegan. "You don't have to bother showing the Chigs each and every device if you can just show them the transponder signals."

"Maybe they're a relay of some kind, some sort of dead-man's switch," offered Laturner. "If one shuts down, then the others go off; you might be able to deactivate one, maybe a dozen, but you'd never be able to get to all of them at the same time."

"Talk like that isn't making us feel the love over here," muttered Gerrity sardonically as she scowled slightly at the readings on the device in her hand. "Gunny, are you picking anything up?"

Pausing, Gunny Rakunas silently held the device in his hand up so Gerrity could see the display.

"That makes absolutely no god-damned sense," muttered Gerrity as she looked at the readings.

"I ran it twice," shrugged Rakunas.

"What's wrong, Gerrity?" asked Vansen, her brow furrowing a bit as she watched Gerrity and Rakunas simply stare blankly at the cylinder for a moment.

"Just give me a second, Captain," replied Gerrity as she motioned for Rakunas to stand back up.

"Well, what do you think, ma'am?" muttered Rakunas as he looked over at a somewhat ruminating Gerrity, then back down at the device.

"Only one way to know for sure," replied Gerrity simply.

Then, with the two of them leaning in over the cylinder, Gerrity reached a tentative hand out towards the Silicate bomb and unfastened the series of simple butterfly locks on the casing's exterior.

"Hey, whoa, aren't there a few steps you're skipping?" sputtered Wang as he heard the slight metal ring of the butterflies flopping down against the metal casing.

"No, need," replied Gerrity as she rather unceremoniously yanked a cover plate free. "Captain Vansen, you're gonna want to take a look at this."

Releasing a breath she hadn't realized she'd sucked in while watching Gerrity and Rakunas, Vansen slowly made her way over towards the cylinder, still very much wary that her entire reality might still vanish in a blinding flash at any moment.

But as she stepped up, noted the utterly unconcerned, perhaps even a bit miffed look on Gerrity's face, Vansen looked over at the section of casing in the EOD tech's hands.

As Gerrity turned it over a bit, Vansen saw some rather unimpressive electronics attached to a flashing red light along the interior curve of the hatch, but nothing else.

"What is that?" she asked, her brow again furrowing a bit.

"In a nutshell; a cheap clock radio," replied Gerrity flatly.

"What?" sputtered Vansen.

It was then that Rakunas took out a flashlight and shined it down into the interior of the cylinder.

Leaning forward a bit, Vansen looked inside.

And saw nothing.

"It's empty," she muttered, looking back over at Gerrity and Rakunas in confusion.

"Looks like the Silicates bluffed, Captain," stated Gerrity as she tossed the piece of casing down onto the ground in slight disgust. "The bombs are bullshit."