WSG-1: Fall of the Twelve Colonies

by Kelso323

As the Cylons unleash their genocidal strike upon the Twelve Colonies of Kobol, disparate groups of survivors struggle to defy bleak odds and the cold, calculating wrath of the Cylons; aged veterans and a new generation of inexperienced warriors band together to safeguard the addled survivors in their care. Their only mission; ensure the survival of humanity.

2. Part 1 - The Twilight Hours

Forty Years Later
Colonial Raptor Three-One-One
Near Libran Colony

As he had for most of the last four decades, Adrian Kelso awoke with a start from the midst of nightmare. His heart racing, his breath quickened, Kelso looked up into the eyes of the startled young Lieutenant leaning over him and quickly realized he had the young officer's wrist locked within his grip.

"Sorry," offered Kelso meekly as he let go.

Rubbing his wrist slightly, apparently not having considered it possible for a man of Kelso's advanced age to be able to muster that much strength, the Lieutenant, Lee if Kelso remembered correctly, took a hesitant step backwards.

"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to startle you," he stated simply as he let his wrist drop back down to his side. "We're on final approach now."

"Oh, thank you, Lieutenant Lee, thank you," offered Kelso as he pushed himself more upright in his seat.

As the young officer moved back over to the co-pilot's seat, Kelso tried to suppress his lingering embarrassment as he glanced around the interior of the Raptor. Other than the craft's pilot and co-pilot, he was currently the only one aboard.

To be honest, he felt a little funny about that.

No doubt, the two Raptor crewmen found it odd as well. It had been nearly forty years since he had resigned his commission with the Colonial military, nearly twice as long as either of the two Raptor crewmen had been alive. In fact, Kelso found himself doubting that the two pilots really even knew who he was. They likely thought of him as simply some obscure old veteran, a relic from a war they knew about only from history books, a not-quite dignitary an upper echelon pencil pusher had saddled them with for the time being.

For his part, Adrian Kelso could not help but smile a little at that.

As the Commander of the Pacifica, the 'legendary' Battlestar from one of the last terrible engagements of the Cylon War, Adrian Kelso had spent the early years right after the war avoiding handshakes and offers of free drinks in bars from people wishing to 'congratulate' him on his 'bold and decisive leadership'.

Now, many decades later, he was simply the burden of two young pilots who had no real idea who he was.

For his part, Adrian Kelso had grown to prefer that anonymity.

While he knew no one who had offered him those drinks or showered him with accolades had meant him any ill will, what they could not know was that to his mind they were little more than congratulating him for losing over two thousand members of his crew.

Still, no matter how hard he had at times tried, no amount of ambrosia had ever managed to assuage him of the pain he felt as he remembered the sight of so many flag-draped bodies lined up in rows on the Pacifica's deck.

Nothing could erase that memory.

Two thousand and forty-three men and women lost; two thousand and forty-three bloody flags lying on the cold deck.

Following the ratification of the Armistice, the Cylons had disappeared into deep space and into practical obscurity in order to find a home of their own. The citizens of the Twelve Colonies in turn set about rebuilding their shattered homes and lives.

As twelve years of war gave way to peace, the patched-up Pacifica was deemed unfit for continued front-line service during the military drawdown and was decommissioned. Not long after, Commander Adrian Kelso resigned his commission from the Colonial military.

As he began what would eventually become a decades-long battle with his own conscience, 'survivor's guilt' the counselors had called it, there were those well-meaning individuals who sought to memorialize the one thing Kelso earnestly wished he could learn to forget.

As the story of Pacifica's harrowing ordeal passed into history, then into veritable mythos, a coalition of citizens and business leaders from Libran had petitioned the Colonial government not to scrap the mothballed warship. Saved from the breakers, the grateful citizens of Libran financed the restoration and conversion of the Battlestar Pacifica into a museum and nestled her into a stable orbit around Libran, the planet it had nearly been destroyed defending.

Kelso had declined the invitation to participate in the museum's commemoration ceremony if only because he had learned beforehand that the reception was being held on the same hangar deck where the makeshift morgue had been.

As the raw wounds healed over time, however, Adrian Kelso had begun attending the annual reunion organized by other Pacifica veterans. Over the years, he had come to rely on those reunions as a means to, if not assuage him of the horrific number of deaths suffered that day, to at least honor them with the only other people in the Colonies who'd be able to understand what he felt; his own former officers and crew from that terrible day.

Years stretched into decades, and the ravages of time took their toll on the survivors as accidents, age and simple, human mortality thinned their numbers.

Colonel Danielle Cole, whose masterful command over the damage control efforts during the battle had saved the ship from succumbing to internal fires, had died in a tragic car accident with a drunk driver.

Major Kyle Abuhda, whose single-handed engagement of a Cylon Basestar had earned him not only a Citation of Valor but also an entire airfield on his native Aerilon named in his honor, died a few years after the war of aggressive lymphoma.

Beyond the veterans themselves, family members of the crewmembers who had fallen during the battle as well as those that had passed on in the years since were often present at the reunions. Nevertheless, Adrian Kelso was becoming keenly aware with each passing year of just how relatively few of his former crew remained.

"We're coming around now sir," called Lieutenant Lee from the co-pilot's seat.

Wrestled from his ruminations, Kelso craned his neck around to look out the canopy as the Raptor completed its turn and lined up for final approach on Pacifica's still-active Starboard flight pod.

"This is Colonial Raptor Three-One-One to Libran Flight Control," began the pilot, Lieutenant Cooper. "Be advised, we are on final approach to Pacifica, do you copy?"

"Colonial Raptor Three-One-One, this is Libran Control, we have you on our screen, you are cleared for approach, switch to Tac-Two-One-Niner for local traffic control from Pacifica."

"Copy that Libran Control," replied Cooper simply as Lee switched the frequency settings on the wireless panel.

While the two young pilots occupied themselves with landing the Raptor, Kelso found himself looking out at their destination.

As she had so many decades ago when he had first taken command of her, the Battlestar Pacifica seemed to gleam as it lay in orbit above the lush blues and greens of Libran.

Kelso never once tried to explain away the apparent contradiction of holding such an unshakeable fondness for the old warship in spite of her also being the setting for his life's single most terrible memories.

As the Raptor lined up for its final approach, Adrian Kelso could see the myriad of civilian ships lined up at the exterior docking ports along the Starboard pod. No doubt, they were the chartered transports for the other veterans and family members attending the reunion. With a wry grin, Kelso mulled over how seemingly out of place they appeared, the bright hues and livery of the civilian ships standing in stark contrast to the muted military tones of the old Pacifica.

With divided attention, Kelso casually noted that the Raptor crew lined up for the approach manually using the Pacifica's own glide-slope indicator, 'the meatball', to follow the proper path onto the deck; most modern Battlestars had automated landing systems these days.

With public sentiment and appreciation high following the war, the funds collected on Libran had allowed for many of the systems aboard Pacifica to be restored, a painstaking process to be sure in light of her damage, during the old warship's conversion into a museum.

Indeed, the restoration work on Pacifica had been of such quality and detail that the ship had been, at least technically, reinstated as part of the Colonial Fleet Reserve, though the practical likelihood of her ever being pressed back into active service had waned over the decades as newer, more powerful warships were placed into service.

As such, the same Libran consortium that had financed her conversion into a museum was still handling the overall maintenance and upkeep of the Battlestar Pacifica. Since she was in most practical respects the responsibility of the Libran government, there would likely be very few actual Colonial military personnel at the reunion, save for the Raptor pilots and the usual Marine Honor Guard routinely in attendance.

After lining up for final approach, the Raptor gently touched down on one of the landing pads in the Starboard flight pod. It took only a few minutes for the landing pad to be lowered into the hangar bay below where a civilian landing crew, themselves likely former Colonial military who had mustered out, quickly moved and secured the Raptor in one of the maintenance bays.

After Lieutenant Lee and Lieutenant Cooper had powered down and secured the Raptor's systems, the side entry hatch slowly opened. With his knees cracking slightly, Adrian Kelso stood up from his seat, gingerly tested his weight on his now long-since impaired ankle, picked up the small bag he'd brought with him, and stepped into the hatchway and was surprised when a small crowd gathered in the hangar began applauding.

Gently stepping down from the winglet, Kelso saw that most of the people were former crewmembers or family members of former crewmembers, themselves likely having just arrived aboard one of the chartered transports. As he made his way through them, he would pause occasionally for the usual brisk conversation or handshake, but continued to make his way through the hangar deck.

As he continued to make his way through the crowd, Kelso couldn't help but obliquely note that there did indeed appear to be fewer of the old veterans at the gathering this year and began wondering just how many would be found absent when the ceremonial muster call was read.

It was as this thought passed through his mind that Adrian Kelso heard an unmistakable belly laugh as it rang out over the din of the milling attendees. With a not-so-insignificant grin on his face, Adrian quickly cut a path through the crowd towards Pacifica's former, and last, Chief Engineer, Mike Franklin.

Much like Kelso, it had taken a number of years for Franklin to warm to the idea of attending the reunions. No small wonder either; Franklin's engineering teams had been virtually wiped out during the battle, suffering nearly ninety percent casualties.

While Adrian Kelso had seen the aftermath, the bodies lying on the deck, Mike Franklin had been trapped in the middle of the carnage, forced to watch helplessly as the men and women he had worked with, many for years, had breathed their last.

As he finally reached the old engineer, Kelso was bemused to see the once fiercely fit Franklin had nearly completed his decades long transformation into the picture of a dotting grandfather, complete with a balding halo of gray and white hair and rotund belly. With cheeks rosy, likely from a liberal consumption of ambrosia, Franklin was being frenetically orbited by young two boys, twins.

"Commander!" beamed Franklin as he stretched his arms wide and embraced Kelso. "Damned good to see you, sir!"

Caught up in Franklin's still-robust grip, Kelso barely managed to avoid falling over the two rushing boys.

"Four decades now and you still can't muster yourself to call me anything but 'Commander'," chuckled Kelso as he took a cautious step back from the two rambunctious boys circling about their legs.

"Old habits," shrugged Franklin as he reached out and tickled the sides of one of the two twins.

"I see Joshua and Alexander are as spirited as ever," noted Kelso as the two boys broke orbit and shot off towards a refreshment table.

"Would it be as enjoyable any other way?" sighed Franklin as he eyed the two boys loading a couple plates full of pastries. "Wish the reception caterers had kept the sugared snacks under wraps till later, though."

"And where's Joan?" asked Kelso as he casually glanced about at the surrounding crowd.

"She couldn't make it this year," replied Franklin, the glint fading a bit from his eyes as he gently swirled the remaining ambrosia in his snifter. "She's not doing so well these days; looks like her cancer has come out of remission."

"Damn," muttered Kelso, shaking his head softly. "I'm so sorry to hear that, Mike."

"Oh, hell," replied Franklin, forcing a smile as he downed the last of the ambrosia, then returned a wary eye to the two twins. "She always did hate big crowds anyways. Besides, Gianne flew in from Caprica yesterday to be there and Jamie's with her too, which leaves the twins with me."

"Which I can see is just breaking your heart," added Kelso, trying to lighten the mood a bit.

Franklin let out another, if somewhat forced belly laugh as he continued to watch the two already sugar-energized boys continued to engorge themselves on still more snacks, much to the muted bewilderment of the caterers tending to the refreshment table.

"I think I'll manage," he smiled.

"So how are Gianne and Jamie doing these days?" continued Kelso as he too watched the two boys. "Been a while since I last saw either of them at a reunion."

"Well, life is many things, but never short on drama," muttered Franklin as he looked with mild dismay at his empty glass. "Jamie's in the middle of a very bitter divorce. And Gianne, well, you remember I told you she got engaged to some hot-shot Viper pilot, right?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, a couple weeks ago, Gianne found out she was pregnant," continued Franklin as he snatched another snifter of ambrosia from the tray of a passing server, deftly swapping it out with his empty one. "Well, what a fine example of a Colonial Officer he turned out to be; when she told him, he up and left her."

"Son-of-a-bitch," muttered Kelso, shaking his head slightly.

"Well gods help that little mother-fraker if I ever get my hands on him," growled Franklin as he practically downed the new glass in one gulp. "If he thinks that because his father is the CO of a Battlestar he has the right to skip out on his responsibilities..."

Just then, Franklin's two grandsons, Joshua and Alexander reappeared as though from a sugar-powered FTL jump, instantly yanking the old engineer out of whatever ruminations he was having about what he would like to do to the man who had abandoned his pregnant daughter. As a grandfatherly smile re-emerged onto his lips, Franklin reached down and quickly mussed the hair of the two young boys hovering at his side.

"Alexander, Joshua, you two might have been too young to remember the last time you met him, but this is Commander Adrian Kelso," stated Franklin as he gently nudged the two youngsters closer to Kelso. "Pacifica was his ship during the war."

"But gran'pa, I thought you said this was your ship during the war," retorted one of the boys, his expression somewhat confused.

"Oh, it was his ship," smiled Kelso as he carefully knelt down in front of the two boys. "Your grandfather was just nice enough to let me think I was in charge."

With his eightieth birthday just around the corner, and a major hip replacement only a few years in the past, Adrian Kelso strained a bit as he knelt down to look each of the boys directly in the eye, shaking the proffered hands of each of the two young boys.

For their part, both Joshua and Alexander shook his hand with nothing short of awe in their eyes, no doubt the result of having their short lives and imaginations filled with the countless retelling of war stories by their grandfather; the innocent adoration of those whom, he prayed, would never know the true costs and horrors of war.

"So just how old are you two now?" asked Kelso simply as he looked into the two sets of blue eyes tucked beneath unkempt shocks of light brown hair.

"Eight," replied Alexander and Joshua in virtual unisons.

"Eight, gods you two are getting big," sighed Kelso as he looked from one to the other. "The first time your mother brought you aboard the Pacifica, I remember she had you both bundled up so tightly in blankets you looked like a pair of Pyramid balls."

"Been a while since they were that small," chuckled Franklin as he stood smiling down at the two youngsters.

"You two looking forward to staying aboard Pacifica tonight?" asked Kelso as he looked from Joshua to Alexander.

"Yes!" they both exclaimed together.

Kelso chuckled.

The reunion committee had managed to convince the museum administrators to allow the attendees of this year's reunion to stay aboard the old warship in some of the old crew quarters. While it allowed them all to avoid the hassle of finding hotel accommodations on the surface, as well as eliminating the cumbersome need to arrange transport to and from the surface each day, Kelso himself was still somewhat dubious of the idea of sleeping in a military bunk tonight.

Joshua and Alexander, however, from the expressions on their face, apparently viewed the chance to stay overnight aboard the Pacifica as the ultimate adventure.

"Well, you two be sure to take it easy on your grandfather," continued Kelso as he looked into the two eager faces. "Why not go take a look at that Raptor over there; I'm sure the pilots would love to show you around the inside."

Without a word further, Alexander and Joshua shot away towards the two lounging Raptor pilots, immediately bombarding the two bewildered officers with questions as the boys themselves scrambled up one of the winglets.

With his knees popping a bit, Kelso stood back up as another server walked by with a tray filled with still more snifters of ambrosia. Taking one of the glasses, Kelso began absently swirling the green liquor.

"Well enough about me, sir," sighed Franklin, pausing for a moment as he noted the distant look on Kelso's face. "How, uh, how have you been holding up since Lena passed?"

"Oh, fine, fine," replied Kelso absently, a forced smile creasing his lips. "Been keeping busy, mostly trying new hobbies and such."

Franklin simply nodded.

Adrian Kelso simply looked at the swirling liquor in his glass.

Adrian's own wife, Lena, had died just after last year's reunion. For this reason above all others, coming to the reunion this year, he knew, would be bittersweet. On the one hand, it offered him a measure of the continuity he needed, a bit of normalcy. However, it had been the love and support of his wife that had first spurred him to begin attending the reunions in the first place, and so he keenly missed her now more than ever.

"And what about Sean, how's he doing these days, do you see him much?" asked Franklin, changing the subject as he glanced over at his grandsons crawling around the Raptor.

"Oh, he's doing well, I spoke with him just the other day in fact," replied Kelso simply as he took a small sip from the snifter. "He made Commander a few months ago."

"All those years you spent trying to dissuade him from Colonial service never took did it?" chuckled Franklin as he looked back over at Kelso.

"Well, Mike, I'd like to think I was at least partially successful," replied Kelso, also chuckling slightly as he took a somewhat more generous sip. "After all, my boy did go into engineering instead of command."

---

Scorpion Fleet Shipyard
Capital Warship Assembly Annex

Commander Sean Kelso stood absently drumming his fingers on the master plot table as he watched the final few crewmembers settle into their stations around CIC. As his gaze continued to wander around CIC, he caught sight of his Executive Officer for this little jaunt, Major Tyra Burke, not so subtly scowling at his drumming fingers from the opposite side of the plot table.

"Sorry," muttered Kelso as he abruptly ceased the drumming.

He had only first met Major Burke a few days ago when she had reported in for duty with his team, her expression one of dubious derision as she had first stepped into his admittedly diminutive office at the Scorpion Fleet Shipyards. In retrospect, he could hardly blame her; Major Burke's first impression of him was the sight of him scarfing down the last bits of a rather ample pastry as she walked in the door. Indeed, the feeble attempt he had made to wipe the powdered sugar from his hand before offering a handshake likely had not helped that first impression either. At this point, Sean Kelso doubted she held him in much regard beyond simple respect of rank.

But for whatever thoughts Major Trya Burke had of him, and he guessed they weren't too flattering, to Sean Kelso she came across as the consummate poster child a recruiter loved to show off to prospective candidates. A graduate of the prestigious Abry Military Academy, head to toe, Burke seemed to epitomize everything a Colonial Officer was supposed 'to be'. Every uniform crease was razor sharp, immaculate, her hair methodically placed in a regulation, parade-perfect bun, her hawkish eyes staring out past the thin rims of a set of Colonial military issue glasses.

Major Tyra Burke was Regular Fleet, doubtless a true believer in the holy mantra of 'by-the-book', her formidable ambition accumulating an impressive array of Academic and Military accolades; she was by every measure a woman on the fast-track to a command of her own. Doubtless, from her perspective, taking a temporary assignment as his XO during this shakedown cruise was merely another stepping-stone to command of her own cruiser, or perhaps even a Battlestar.

For these reasons, he knew, Burke could be forgiven for viewing Kelso as little more than a shipyard snipe; a slovenly engineer more suited to the company of engines and spanner wrenches than the rigors of commanding a warship.

The pastry incident probably had not done much to dispel this notion either.

For his own part, Sean Kelso had grown accustomed, indeed, comfortable with being the opposite side of the proverbial coin personified by Burke. In his own mind, his casual nature offered him a latitude in command style some Line Officers often seemed to lack; more often than not, they struck Kelso as simply too stuffy.

Major Tyra Burke included.

Through it all, Kelso did indeed view himself first and foremost as an engineer. For the better part of two decades now , Sean Kelso been occupied with the business of learning the inner workings of most every ship in service with the Colonial Fleet. From the mightiest Battlestars to the most diminutive patrol cutter, he had walked the decks of every major category of warship in the fleet.

However, none of them matched this ship.

She was a Warstar, a new classification of warship designed from the keel up to do exactly what her named implied; fight a war damned near on her own.

By design, she carried an air wing complement half again that of even the newest Mercury Class Battlestars. An extensive barracks facility allowed her to berth an entire Colonial Marine Expeditionary Regiment and their equipment. Moreover, barrel-for-barrel, she outgunned most every other ship in the fleet, and then some. With on-board Viper and Raptor manufacturing facilities, a full hospital ward with trauma unit, light mining and refinery capabilities, about the only thing designers seemed to have left out of her design was an amusement park.

For his part, Commander Sean Kelso had quite literally invested the last couple of years of his life directing the army of dockyard personnel who had assembled the ship from the keel up. And while Sean Kelso was loathe to ever admit as much openly, he had nevertheless begun to harbor a secret affection for the ship; she was his baby, it felt only right that he was there when she got finally underway for the first time under her own power.

This was to be the new ship's initial shakedown cruise, a proverbial drive around the block as it were to test the ship's systems before her full transition crew came aboard for the formal shakedown and commissioning ceremony in a few months. Most of the personnel currently on board were engineers, computer programmers and technicians, the tops in their fields. It was their job over the coming weeks to monitor every computer screen, bulkhead, bolt and light bulb for any hints that something wasn't working quite the way it was designed to before she was turned over to the fleet. They were hardly more than a skeleton crew, just under seven hundred all told, just a fraction of what her active complement would be.

"Sir," called the gentle voice of Petty Officer Celia Harris from Communications. "Departments heads have reported in; all sections ready to get underway."

"Thank you," replied Kelso simply as a wide grin spread across his lips.

As subdued excitement again began to snowball into baited anticipation, Kelso once again began lightly drumming his fingers on the plot table.

Again, Burke glared past the rim of her glasses at his fingers, though not nearly as blatantly as before.

"Petty Officer Harris, have we received word from the Dock Master?" asked Kelso as he glanced over at the young woman.

"Affirmative, Commander," replied Harris as she gently pressed her headset a bit tighter to her ear. "Dock Master has cleared us for departure; Pilot Raptor is on station and ready to guide us to the outer marker."

Taking one last glance around CIC, Sean Kelso could see more than a few smiles amid the faces around him. They, too, seemed as excited about getting underway as he did.

All except for Burke.

She instead continued dispassionately perusing the pages attached to the clipboard in her hand.

Letting out a sigh, Kelso mentally shrugged it off.

"Acknowledge signal from Dock Master, Harris," replied Kelso as he continued to stare across at his dour XO. "Well, Major Burke, shall we get this show underway?"

"Aye, sir," snapped Burke as she set the clipboard down, snatched up the handset on her side of the plot table and toggled the switch for the One-MC. "All hands, all decks, all divisions, set Condition Four throughout the ship, make preparations for getting underway."

Picking up the handset on his side of the plot board, Kelso placed it to his ear as the sound of the ship's Chief Engineer came on the line.

"Tyree here," stated the voice on the other end.

"What's your status down there, Colin?" asked Kelso casually.

Even before Tyree answered, Kelso glanced up just in time to see Major Burke gently shaking her head at his addressing the Chief Engineer by his first name; she was definitely Regular Fleet.

"Main reactors are online and nominal, Commander," replied Tyree over the handset. "The board is green, but if it's all the same with you, I'd like to stay at the low end of the acceleration curve in case we need to tweak the calibration settings for the tylium injection systems."

"Understood, Colonel," replied Kelso evenly, this time consciously using Tyree's rank, mindful of his XO's continued scrutiny. "We'll take her out slow and steady."

Placing the handset back into place, Kelso took a deep breath as he looked up to the DRADIS displays arrayed overhead.

For his part, Kelso at least tried to project a veneer of professionalism, after all, maneuvering a vessel of this ship's size in the close quarters of a busy dockyard was no small feat. Any one of a thousand things could go wrong. Nevertheless, it was exciting to him; this would be the first time the Warstar would be operating solely under her own power.

The first tentative steps of his nearly eleven million metric ton baby…

"All decks report setting of Condition-Four, Commander," called Petty Officer Harris a moment later.

"Very well, Officer of the Watch, secure the ship and set the underway watch," replied Kelso as he visually scanned over the ship's status display. "And be sure to note the time and date index in the log."

"Secure the ship and set the underway watch, aye, Commander," replied Lieutenant Cortez, the Tactical Watch Officer, as he picked up a handset at his station and broadcast the order over the One-MC.

"Underway watch has been set, Commander," said Major Burke a few moments later.

"Very good, Major, retract all mooring and umbilical support lines," continued Kelso.

"Retract all mooring and umbilical support lines, aye," repeated Major Burke as she turned and repeated the order to Lieutenant Cortez.

"All moorings and umbilical systems retracted, Commander," called Lieutenant Cortez a few moments later.

"The ship is one-hundred percent on internal power now, Commander," stated Colonel Tyree over the One-MC.

"Confirmed, sir, all systems are showing on internal power," confirmed Burke a moment later. "All systems still green for launch."

"Helm, maneuvering thrusters," called Kelso as he fought to keep a smile from his face. "These are her first steps, so let's ease her out gently."

"Helm, maneuvering thrusters ahead, aye," repeated Major Burke dutifully as she glanced over at the Petty Officer manning the helm; Chapman if Kelso remembered correctly.

His eyes locked on the DRADIS screens overhead, Kelso watched as the massive Warstar began slowly slipping from her moorings. After a few moments, during which Kelso was unknowingly holding his breath, the massive vessel was sailing clear of the massive scaffolding that had been her home for the last months of her fitting-out.

"Scorpion Dock Master confirms we have cleared dry dock, Commander," called Petty Officer Harris.

Up in the gallery, a few crewmembers clapped lightly.

"Helm, maintain speed until we have cleared the outer marker," replied Kelso as he watched the Pilot Raptor on the DRADIS guiding them through the rigidly defined traffic lanes of the Scorpion Shipyard.

As the massive Warstar maneuvered along the defined departure course, Kelso noted several other vessels, the Battlestar Pegasus and her battlegroup, being led into dock.

With a slight smirk, he half-wondered what the crew of the Pegasus were thinking as they caught sight of the behemoth Warstar slipping past them.

After the approximately twenty minutes it took to reach the outer markers for Scorpion Shipyards, the Pilot Raptor broke off its escort and turned back for the main yard.

"Petty Officer Harris, send my thanks to the Pilot crew and get me Scorpion Operations Control over Colonial Tac-One."

"Aye, Commander."

As he raised the handset to his ear, Kelso watched as the ship glided past the marker buoys at the outer perimeter of the Scorpion Shipyards.

"Ops Control standing by, Commander," stated Harris.

"Scorpion Control, this is Colonial Whiskey-Sierra-One-Zero-Zero-One, we have cleared outer markers, underway watch is set, preparing to commence shakedown trials," grinned Kelso.

"We copy you've cleared outer markers, Colonial Whiskey-Sierra-One-Zero-Zero-One," replied the voice on the other end of the wireless transmission.

"We'll see you in a couple weeks, Control," answered Kelso simply, pulling the handset away from his ear as he turned to his XO. "Major Burke, have you plotted the FTL jump out to the fleet testing range?"

"Affirmative, sir, coordinates have been plotted and input into the navigational system," replied Burke as she slid a copy of the jump overlay across the plot board towards Kelso.

"Very well," replied Kelso as he reached down and toggled the switch for the handset. "Colonel Tyree, are we ready for FTL?"

"I've got no reasons down here to say 'no'," began Tyree over the line, pausing a moment to bark an order to one of his engineers. "Everything appears to be operating nominally, but then again, something goes wrong I doubt we'll be around long enough to bitch about it, Commander."

"Very well, Colonel," chuckled Kelso as he reached down and toggled the switch again for the One-MC. "All hands this is CIC, secure for FTL jump."

As he hung up the handset, Kelso looked back over at Major Burke.

"Start the clock, XO," he said simply.

"Aye, sir," replied Burke, turning to begin calling off the checklist to the various stations around CIC.

As she did so, almost as an afterthought, Kelso decided to exercise a privilege that was his discretion as Commander. To be sure, Colonial Whiskey-Sierra-One-Zero-Zero-One would not be the ship's operational name, but it was technically her official designation until the full formal commissioning ceremony in a few weeks. Nevertheless, the ship did have a formal name already chosen for her, a name already emblazoned upon her flight pods; it was the name of a vessel being prepared for decommissioning, a proud vessel this ship had been built to replace.

"Harris, do we still have the channel open to Scorpion Ops Control?" asked Kelso simply.

"Affirmative, sir."

Picking the handset back up, he motioned for Harris to once again pipe the transmission over to him.

"Whiskey-Sierra-One-Zero-Zero-One to Scorpion Control."

"This is Scorpion Control, send your traffic Whiskey-Sierra-One-Zero-Zero-One."

"Control, please note and relay to Picon Operations Command, at this time we are changing our operational call sign," began Kelso evenly as he casually looked around at the crew in CIC. "Colonial Whiskey-Sierra-One-Zero-Zero-One is now Warstar Galactica."

---

Battlecruiser Enceladus
Patrol Route 75-A113 Near Leonis Colony

Colonel Thadius Runel took a step back through the hatch into the Combat Information Center of the Gunstar Enceladus.

"Commanding Officer on deck," snapped his XO, Major Alec Kell.

Instantly, everyone around CIC snapped to attention.

"As you were," replied Runel casually.

As the crewmembers resumed their posts, Runel stepped over towards the center plot table, his gaze making a cursory check around the Enceladus' nerve center.

No, nothing out of the ordinary…

Taking a deep breath, Runel stopped at the plot table and looked across to Kell. The Major in turn extended a clipboard to him holding a significant stack of reports requiring his signature.

"Are we prepared to get underway, Major?" asked Runel as he pulled a pen from his pocket and began systematically scribbling his signature at the bottom of each page.

"Affirmative, Colonel," replied Major Kell as he rolled a course sheet out onto the plot board. "The Ikenga and Adroa have already formed up with us and all decks report ready to get underway."

"Thank you, Major," replied Runel as he finished the last signature, put the pen back in his pocket, and set the clipboard down onto the plot board.

Taking another deep breath, Runel quickly glanced over the course overlay sheet Major Kell was working on, then up to the DRADIS.

Other than the Ikenga and Adroa, the only other vessel in DRADIS range was the Battlestar Galactica.

This had been the venerable Battlestar's final deployment as an active vessel with the Colonial Fleet. Now, per orders, Enceladus, Ikenga and Adroa were detaching themselves as the escort element for Battlestar Group Seventy-Five to complete the last leg of the patrol while the old warship returned to Caprica for her decommissioning ceremony.

Most of the Galactica's Viper complement and munitions had been offloaded a few days ago at the Rhapsody Station. Once that was done, the Gunstars had maintained their escort of the Galactica until they had returned to the inner Colonial defense perimeter zone. Commander Adama had briefed Colonel Runel only this morning, issuing his formal order to assume command of what was now Gunstar Group Seventy-Three and complete the last segment of the patrol.

"I have the conn," stated Runel simply as he stood watching the old Galactica continue to move away on DRADIS.

"Colonel has the conn, aye," replied the current watch officer, Lieutenant Martin Thorpe, as he stepped over with the ship's logbook and handed it to Runel.

Taking the logbook, Runel skimmed over the last couple of entries made during the mid-watch; all routine entries. Satisfied, if unsurprised, Runel again pulled the pen from his pocket and began a new entry.

"Lieutenant Thorpe, dispatch a message to Picon Operations Command that we have detached from Battlestar Group Seventy-Five at this time and are continuing our patrol under designation Gunstar Group Seventy-Three."

"Aye, Colonel," replied the Lieutenant simply as he turned and stepped over towards the Petty Officer at the Comm station.

"Did Commander Adama have anything to say this morning, sir?" asked Major Kell as he watched Runel annotate the designation change in the logbook. "Some parting pearls of wisdom, perhaps?"

"Commander Adama is a man of few words," replied Runel simply as he finished the entry and placed the pen back in his pocket. "However, I get the impression he's still not very happy having the Galactica converted into a museum."

"Better than scrapping her," replied Kell with a slight shrug as he took the logbook from Runel and placed it back in its place below the plot board. "At least this way people from all over the Colonies will have a chance to see the old warhorse, learn her history first-hand."

"That's what they said about Pacifica, but outside of her old crew, you can practically count on just your fingers and toes how many people visit her annually," replied Runel somewhat sardonically. "Sometimes I feel like most people in the Colonies have completely forgotten how much those people sacrificed fighting the Cylons."

Even before obtaining his degree in the subject at the Academy, Thadius Runel had nursed his life-long passion for history by pouring over the mountains of information compiled about the Cylon War. But beyond what he needed to know in his capacity as a line officer in the Colonial Fleet, beyond the mere tactics and logistical minutiae, Runel had and continued to study the underappreciated human aspects of the conflict as well, the people who'd fought the battles themselves. Feeding his voracious appetite for the subject with journals, diaries, personal letters entered into various archives for posterity, Runel was often engrossed with an almost voyeuristic insight into how they had lived and, often painfully, died.

Because of this, Runel frequently felt more than a twinge of annoyance when he thought about the apathy or complacency that seemed to have settled in throughout Colonial society. Most civilians seemed to take for granted the safety and security they enjoyed following the war, for the most part going about their lives in a daze of ignorance over just how much blood had been shed fighting off the Cylon onslaught.

Indeed, some even seemed to behave as though the war had not occurred at all. To them, it was merely an abstract, something only discussed in a classroom.

Or a museum…

Thadius Runel had been born after the war, part of the 'baby-boom' generation sired by the veterans returning en masse following the Armistice. Runel's father had been a Colonial Marine infantryman during the war. For as long as Runel could remember, his father had been very tight-lipped about his experiences at the front, rarely ever mentioning what were plainly very tortuous memories. That alone had seemed to speak volumes to Runel about what kind of horrors his old man must have endured fighting the Cylons. Indeed, until the day he died, the elder Runel had never made it through a single night without waking up screaming in a cold sweat, his eyes wild, distant, almost inhuman.

Taking a deep breath, Runel mentally shrugged off his thoughts and annoyances.

The populace of the Twelve Colonies may be complacent, but he still had a ship to command.

"Major, you have the conn, I'll be in my quarters," stated Runel simply as he turned and made his way out the hatch. "Advise me when we've reached the fourth turn on our route."

"Aye, sir, I have the conn," he heard Major Kell reply as he stepped out of CIC.

Within minutes, Runel stepped back into his quarters, unfastened a few buttons on his uniform tunic, and stepped over towards his personal library. Slowly, he began to run his fingers down along the collection of worn spines jutting out on the shelves; numerous manuals, history texts, books on tactics. Eventually his fingers came to rest on one of the books; a very well-worn copy of the Scriptures.

Slowly pulling it from the shelf, Runel held it appraisingly for a moment. Opening the cover, Runel saw, as he had seemingly thousands of times before, a hand scribbled list, names of places; places where some of the wars most vicious and brutal ground campaigns had taken place, places where his father had fought. Under each place name there was another subset list of names and dates; the names of men and women his father had served with, and the date each had died. And beside his father's handwriting, looking like nothing so much as a hallowed stamp of authenticity was a smudged, bloody thumbprint on the edge of the page.

Closing the book, he slowly turned it over and saw a not-so-small hole bored into one corner, its edges fraying; the place where a Cylon round had ripped through it, but thank the gods, not his father. He personally had not read it in many years, but for some curious reason, Runel felt almost compelled to read it now.

Stepping over to his personal recliner, Runel sat back, opened the pages, and saw a single line of text that had been highlighted, a set of words that practically every man, woman and child in the Colonies could recite from memory even if they couldn't necessarily grasp their full meaning.

All this has happened before, and all this will happen again…

---

Colonial Fleet Reclamation and Reserve Maintenance Depot
Sagittaron Colony

Lance Corporal Dwayne Bowman watched as the last of the night's stars faded from overhead, the first inklings of sunrise chasing them away with the approaching dawn.

With his breath turning to mist on the chilled morning breeze, Bowman reached down, pulled back his parka sleeve and looked at his watch.

Seven minutes to the hour.

"Damn," he muttered as he rolled the cuff of his sleeve back down.

Stomping his heels, the dull pain of his cold feet aching a bit more as he did so, Bowman slowly paced back and forth, trying to keep the blood flowing against the morning chill.

With the dark of night giving way overhead to the growing light on the horizon, a few birds began to chirp, their few calls echoing through the dense growth beyond the gate.

"All units, all units, this is Doghouse; standby for wireless check."

The sound of the Sergeant of the Guard's voice over the wireless set echoed out loudly through the chilled air, startling a couple birds from the underbrush. Nevertheless, Bowman was glad to hear the SOG; wireless checks were done at the top of every hour. Long, solitary nights on post led one to use them as signposts of time's passage as much as anything.

Eight hours on post…

Eight wireless checks total…

When you heard the eighth wireless check, your relief was on the way…

This was the eighth.

"Post Five-Echo?"

"Five-Echo copies," replied Bowman, his fingers fumbling a bit as he keyed the handset.

Bowman listened with detached awareness as the SOG finished the checks with the other posts around the depot. Reaching up, he readjusted the sling for the carbine on his shoulder; like all Marines, it was well ingrained in him that allowing his weapon to fall to the ground was akin to blasphemy against the gods.

As he stood waiting eagerly for his relief; he would hear them coming before he actually saw them; Bowman kicked a stone with his boot, sending it skittering away through the fence into the underbrush beyond. Stepping up to the fence, he looked out along the worn and broken asphalt road beyond.

Three years with the depot's Marine security detachment and he had never seen anyone on that road, vehicle or pedestrian. It just sat there, unused and crumbling, meandered off into the distance, disappearing into the ever-thickening treeline beyond.

Reaching down, Bowman tugged at the gate's heavy rust-flecked padlock. As it had any of the other tens of dozens of times he had done so, the lock did not give; it was secured.

Always secured; three years and he had never seen this gate opened or this lock removed.

He had asked around once but none of the other Marines in the detachment had ever seen it opened either. A couple went so far as to suggest that the key for lock was long since lost.

Bowman let out a long, bored sigh.

Like so many things in the military, at least to Bowman's eyes, having him out there guarding a gate, locked by a lock that had no key, which opened onto a road that no one used just seemed pointless.

Pointless and boring.

Pointless…boredom.

All to secure a boneyard full of junk.

Three years…

Bowman could not say he regretted joining the Colonial Marines, far from it; gods knew he would have probably ended up in some low-wage, dead end job or perhaps even prison had he not. Still, at this odd hour of the morning, with boredom as his companion, he could not help but wonder just how much greener the proverbial grass might actually be back in civilian life.

He had not yet decided he would absolutely get out.

Still, at moments like this, he was far from sure about reenlisting.

Men like Bowman had a hell-of-a time making Corporal, much less anything beyond that. When he had first enlisted, Bowman had requested assignment to the infantry; the idea of spending most of his time in the field appealed to him. Instead of a line unit, however, Bowman found himself assigned to garrison duty here on Sagitarron. It was not difficult duty, just much too regimented for his liking.

Once a month, usually for three or four days they'd make it out to the field, brush up on their basic infantry skills, but always back to the boredom, back to grind of manning the fence-line.

It was not a hard job, just tedious.

Muster out or stay in; time would tell, he supposed.

Suddenly his ears perked up.

In the distance, he could hear the low drone of an engine. Looking up from the rust-flecked, worthless lock, Bowman caught sight of the utility vehicle as it trundled along the perimeter fence, kicking up a thin cloud of dust behind it.

Within moments, the vehicle half slid to a stop as the passenger door swung open.

Bowman's heart skipped a beat as the Corporal of the Guard, Corporal Sera Lenore briskly stepped over to him. As she moved, her toned form within the crisp lines of her uniform, Bowman, like so many times before, felt a chill run down his spine. Lenore was by every account the most attractive woman Bowman had ever seen.

She was also the coldest and most sexually repressed woman he had ever known.

"Damned shame," he muttered.

"What was that, Lance Corporal?" snapped Corporal Lenore, scowling a bit as though she could read his mind.

"I said 'everything's the same', Corporal," replied Bowman with a smirk.

"All the same, I'd prefer a proper report, Lance Corporal Bowman," stated Lenore coolly as Bowman's relief, some boot Private that Bowman hadn't bothered to get acquainted with yet, half-jumped from the back of the utility vehicle and made his way over.

With practiced efficiency, Bowman snapped to attention and delivered his brief, uneventful report to Corporal Lenore. Then, trying his best to keep his thoughts at least somewhat professional as he surreptitiously glanced at her firm buttocks, Bowman cleared his carbine, turned the ammo over to his relief, then hustled his way over to the utility vehicle while Corporal Lenore briefly grilled the newly arrived Marine on the post's General Orders.

Pausing long enough to take one more cautious glance over at Corporal Lenore's shapely posterior, Bowman leapt up into the canvas-covered rear compartment, plopped down on the simple bench seat beside some of the other Marines relieved from other posts, and casually stretched his neck.

Within moments, Corporal Lenore was back in the passenger seat and the vehicle started back along the road towards the Guard Shack.

"What's up with Auric?" muttered Bowman as he pointed across to his fellow Marine.

Auric's eyes were closed, his head bobbing back and forth with the gentle, and sometimes not so gentle motion of the vehicle as it moved along the dirt path.

"Fraker can sleep anywhere," replied Sims dismissively. "Hey, did you hear about Jahnigen?"

"I heard some of the ruckus over the wireless, but…" replied Bowman, shaking his head slightly.

"Jahnigen saw the Ghost last night over on Echo-Nine," replied Sims.

"Frak that," snorted Chaffey derisively. "I've stood Echo-Nine too many times to count, and I've never seen any damned Ghost out there. Lazy FNG; he's just trying to get sent out for a psych eval; he sees the shrink, shrink certifies him crazy, he gets pulled from rotation on post, we get fraked having to stand extra shifts. If I were SOG I'd leave him out there for an extra shift to keep him from wasting my time."

"Chaffey, if you were the SOG, the Corps would finally be too screwed up to ever fix," countered Sims.

"Frak you."

Bowman simply shook his head in amusement.

Post Echo-Nine was just another gate along the seemingly endless perimeter fence surrounding the depot, and none too far from his own post. However, for some reason, some, not all but some of the Marines who stood that post swore there was a phantom lurking around in the bushes out there. Consensus amongst those who had seen it was that the Ghost was some long-dead grunt from the Cylon War, probably an MIA who had died unknown, his soul now damned to wander without rest.

Like so many Marines before him, when he'd first heard the stories regarding the Ghost, Bowman had given them little account, believing them to be little more than superstition, tales passed down by senior Marines in an attempt to spook new arrivals to the boneyard. After all, what better place was there to pass spooky ghost stories than a boneyard full of junk?

At least, that is what he used to believe.

However, a little over a year ago, Bowman had been posted to Echo-Nine and come face-to-face with the Ghost himself.

As usual, it had been around zero-dark-thirty, that proverbial dead time midway through a watch. Bored, Bowman had been fiddling with the lock on the gate when he seemed to sense something watching him from the underbrush just beyond the fence-line.

Speechless, Bowman had then watched as an older man decked head-to-toe in an old Cylon War-era Colonial Marine combat uniform had emerged from the forest barely twenty meters away. His heart pounding, Bowman had watched as the Ghost stood there for a few silent moments, seemed to measure him up, and then disappeared back into the forest.

He had almost reported the incident; hell, he had drawn down on the figure before he had disappeared, but Bowman had decided against it; no need wasting good weekend liberty time writing up a report he was certain would simply be filed away and forgotten just as quickly.

He'd seen the Ghost a couple more times after that, each time from a distance, but clear enough that he knew it was not simply his mind playing tricks on him. In any event, Bowman did not see any real threat, whoever the Ghost really was he seemed content to remain on the other side of the fence.

So as he sat there in the back of the utility vehicle, Bowman simply shook his head in silence as Chaffey and Sims continued to trade barbs regarding the Ghost; it wasn't the first time Chaffey had been talking out his ass about something he didn't have a damned clue about.

As far as Bowman was concerned, all that mattered right now was getting back to the barracks, turning in his weapon, then getting some chow and some rack time.

With any luck, he would have a dream or two about what he would love to do with a more amicable Corporal Sera Lenore…

---

The morning sun had just barely begun to peak over the horizon, casting a soft orange light across the seemingly endless rows of obsolete Viper hulks in the boneyard below.

Raising the coffee cup to his lips, Paul Bess took a sip as he watched the utility vehicle bringing the Marines back in from the perimeter posts passed through the yard below. As the vehicle continued along the dirt road towards the Guard Shack, Bess took another sip. Behind him, the gaggle of bodies that was his supervisory team continued to meander their way into the briefing room.

While they continued to file in, Bess continued to watch the sunrise.

He liked the sunrise…

Then, with a touch of resigned finality, Bess swallowed the last of the coffee and tossed the empty cup into the trashcan. Picking up a clipboard, Bess stepped over towards the worn podium as the last of his team settled into their seats.

As he had so often done since his appointment as Director of the facility nearly two decades ago now, Bess let out a long sigh as he looked down at the lengthy task list affixed to the clipboard.

After retiring from the Colonial Fleet as a Commander, Bess could have virtually walked into any number of corporate or private sector management jobs. He had accepted this particular job at the depot though for that one factor that drives people to take a job; money.

The position was government contract work; generous pay and great benefits that combined with his Fleet retirement pension offered him a very comfortable life. Moreover, it was not a bad job really, just tedious at times. The Colonial Fleet Reclamation and Reserve Maintenance Depot was to Bess's mind little more than a fancy bureaucratic name for an all-purpose junkyard.

Located in perhaps the most remote possible location on Sagittaron, the hundreds of acres of land had grown from a backwater ammo staging ground during the war into the single greatest collection of obsolete, worn, or hopelessly wrecked fighters and other craft in the entire Colonies. In addition to the surface facility, there was an orbital annex sitting in geo-sync position above that likewise processed heavier capital ships destined for mothballs, they too having outlived their usefulness.

More than once, it made Bess wonder if it was the gods' subtle, cynical way of hinting that he too had perhaps outlived his usefulness.

Occasionally, the depot performed salvage operations, scavenging spare parts or equipment from decommissioned ships that might still be of use in an active vessel, and sometimes, though less often, it would actually be a place to obtain still-serviceable ships at a fraction of the cost of procuring new-built craft. A lot of the time, those requests came in from local Colonial governments, typically for reconditioning old Raptors for use as local rescue and disaster response craft.

More often than not, however, once something found its way to his boneyard, its fate was to simply rust away, a forgotten relic left to rot in the middle of nowhere.

Most of the seventeen-hundred personnel working the boneyard were, like him, former Colonial Fleet; old retirees also looking to pad out their pensions or younger workers who had mustered out at the end of their contracts lured by promises of good pay.

Since the facility was under the primary care of civil workers, very few active Colonial military were assigned to the depot, most of them belonging to the Marine detachment that guarded the boneyard from privateers anxious to steal military equipment, even old equipment, for sale on the black market.

And in spite of its remote location, a small community had grown up outside the perimeter, mostly small shops that catered to the personnel who worked at the depot and their families.

But even in the age of inter-colonial travel, it could feel like an isolated place to live…

As his supervisors continued to mill about, idle conversations passing about regarding the latest reality-show nonsense or pyramid playoff match, Bess glanced down at his watch then up at the vintage clock hanging at the rear of the conference room.

"Okay, we've got a long day and an equally long list to deal with people, so let's get started," began Bess as he gently tapped the clipboard against the side of the podium, cleared his throat, then glanced down at the first item on his list. "Kip, how goes the work on those refurbed Raptors the fleet asked for?"

"We're just about finished with most of them," replied Hal 'Kip' Kipinger evenly as he flipped through a few pages on his own clipboard. "There were a few parts we weren't able to salvage out of the other ships, but the machine shop was able to mill out most of what we couldn't get, so we should have all eighty ready for turn-over this evening, tomorrow morning at the latest."

"Good to hear," replied Bess simply as he made a simple mark next to the item. "Janice, are you and your people ready to start processing in those old Mark Six's we got last week?"

"We're having a bit of trouble clearing space for them in the boneyard," replied Janice Aster as she fumbled with the loose notes she pulled from a trouser cargo pocket. "We've been moving equipment around over in the South Lot, but there are forty of them to park, it's going to be tight."

"Well, I need you to get going on that," sighed Bess, suddenly wishing he had another cup of coffee. "Coleman and his people are bitchin' that they're taking up too much space over at the airfield."

"I can't move them where I don't have space, chief," shrugged Aster. "Boneyard is kinda full these days."

"Go ahead and coordinate with Kip's people, see if you can move some of them over to the slots where he pulled those Raptors for refit," stated Bess evenly.

"Understood."

"JP, this next item is for you and your people," continued Bess as he glanced up from the clipboard. "The Proteus arrived on station last night for mothballing."

"This going to be a standard decom or are there any special circumstances I should let my teams know about?" asked Jaren Pelt, simply 'JP' to most everyone who knew him.

"None that we've been made aware of," replied Bess as he glanced over to Pelt. "According to the tower, the breaking crew is still aboard, point of contact is going to be a Major Tyle."

"Any idea where they want us to start on this one?" asked JP as he finished jotting down a few notes on his pad. "Mark and his teams are still using the heavy docks in orbit."

"Mark, how 'bout it, are your people close to being done?" asked Bess.

"I'm not going to lie to you, boss, we're having a few problems," replied Mark Shipman as he gently dipped the end of his pastry in a cup of coffee. "FTL systems are up and running on Limnos and Kilkis, but Asterica is proving to be a bitch."

"What's the hold-up?"

"Whatever genius pulled her FTL components at her decom hard-welded her access panels back into place when they were done," shrugged Shipman, pausing to take a bite off the coffee saturated end of his pastry. "Breaking the welds without compromising structural integrity has been tricky."

"Seems like a bit much considering all three are going to be used as targets," muttered Bess as he watched Shipman take another bite from the pastry.

"Not my call, boss," replied Shipman as he absently wiped the corner of his mouth on a sleeve. "Fleet SOP says they have to have the FTL's online so they could jump them out to the range."

"Any idea when you'll have the components installed?" sighed Bess.

"We should be done before the day is out, but don't hold me to that," replied Shipman as he finished off his pastry.

"Well, do what you can," muttered Bess, shaking his head slightly as he made a few circles around that line item. "I guess we can hold off pulling the cannon mounts from Proteus till next week."

"I'll have my people concentrate on the internal survey, then," replied JP as he scribbled off a few more notes.

Bess continued down the list until each item had a neat mark next to it. Soon thereafter, his supervisors left to gather their teams together for the day ahead. For his part, Bess grabbed a new cup of coffee and went back to his office.

By the time he stepped back into his office, the fully risen sun shone brightly though his window. Stepping over to his simple desk, Bess lightly tossed the clipboard down with a clatter and looked out at the yard at the decrepit row of relatively ancient Mark One Vipers rusting away below.

Just beyond them, Bess watched as several dozen workers were moving several Mark Twos into a nearby machine shop. Unlike the neglected Mark Ones immediately below, the Mark Twos were destined for a more fitting retirement. Nostalgia over the fortieth anniversary of the end of the Cylon War had created a demand from several sources for restored Mark Twos.

Just last week, an entire squadron of fully restored Mark Twos were delivered for display as part of the Battlestar Galactica's conversion into a museum. Restoration work on another full squadron was nearly complete, these one also earmarked for display aboard the Galactica once her decommissioning was complete. Still another squadron's worth of Mark Twos were slated for auction next week, soon to be in the hands of rich private collectors and weekend pleasure-pilots throughout the Colonies.

Looking away from the boneyard, Bess's gaze settled back upon his clipboard. Though he would never have admitted it, one line item on that list was gnawing at him. Prior to his retirement, he had served as the last Commanding Officer of the Battlestar Asterica, one of the ships being prepared in orbit by Mark Shipman's team for use as a target.

A target.

The venerable Battlestar, one of the few to survive the war intact, was to end her existence as cannon fodder out at the Colonial Fleet Capital Vessel Proving Grounds. Pacifica had become a museum, Galactica was being turned into a museum, but Asterica, having survived more than her own fair share of fierce engagements with the Cylons, was now instead to be felled by Colonial weapons.

To be sure, other old hulls had met with similar fates during his tenure as director of the Sagittaron depot. One ship, the old flagship Atlantia, had even been deorbited by FTL and then sunk as an artificial reef on Picon. Still, this would be the first time Paul Bess would be turning over one of his old commands to such a fate.

It just did not feel right to him.

Letting out a long sigh, Bess dropped down into his chair, picked up the clipboard, then methodically scribbled over Asterica's name in mild disgust.

---

Battlestar Pacifica Museum
Libran Colony Orbit

Adrian Kelso tried in vain to stretch the kinks from his back. As he had feared it would, last night's 'nostalgic stay' in the austere military bunk had left his back feeling as though a mule had kicked him.

As it turned out, it was just the first factor that led Kelso to reconsider his bemused doubts over the fanciful decision to have all the attendees stay aboard ship.

The second came when he went to take a shower and shave.

As he came upon the long line of people waiting in the corridor, it was clear there was a significant amount of grumbling chaos regarding the heads, and the simple ad hoc paper signage designating which were for use by women, and which were for use by men.

On an operational Battlestar, there was no such distinction; everything was unisex.

Next came some the almost laughable attempts by individuals to share the basic sinks and showers, somewhat difficult concepts for the myriad of unindoctrinated civilians used to concepts like 'privacy' and 'personal space'.

And then there was the peevish lines waiting to use the commodes…

The only real civility seemed to be the unspoken acceptance by all that children who needed to go went straight to the front of the line.

In the end, Kelso was able to navigate his way through the bemusing chaos and soon found his way onto the Port hangar bay where yet another line of people had begun making their way through the breakfast buffet set up on the aft end of the bay.

Eyeing the line for a moment, Kelso instead opted to settle for a simple cup of coffee.

Cup in hand, Adrian Kelso then began making his way towards the forward end of the hangar deck. Taking a sip from his cup, Kelso could not help but note that even now, decades after it had last been used as a service space for Vipers and Raptors, the unmistakable scent of lubricants and tylium fuel still clung to the air, defying even the wafting scents emanating from the buffet to fully dispel it.

As he continued along at his meandering pace, truly little more than trying to stretch the stiffness from his legs, Adrian Kelso was amused to see the fully rejuvenated Joshua and Alexander soon racing past him as they made a headlong charge towards the Viper display up ahead.

With one last attempt to stretch the ache from his back, his efforts at last being met with a decidedly satisfying crack, Kelso too began making his way towards the display.

The first ship he came to was an old Mark One Viper, the venerable fighter that had served the fledgling Colonial Fleet during the desperate, early days of the Cylon War. Next to the Mark One was a Mark Two prototype, differing from the production Mark Two in having more angular lines and larger, less dynamic winglets. Next came a production Mark Two, the type that had served the Pacifica and so many other Battlestars so well during the later stages of the war.

And so it was that the line continued, one ship after another showing the evolution of the entire Viper series; a Mark Three, essentially an enlarged Mark Two with angular stealth characteristics. Next was a bulkier post-war Mark Four then a Mark Five, the first variant to adopt the darker gray 'space superiority' color scheme. Next, a Mark Six, a controversial variant in that it was the first to readopt fly-by-wire technology; and finally a modern Mark Seven. At least, it was a full-scale mock-up of a modern Mark Seven complete with simulator-grade controls.

Several other fighters also fleshed out the display, failed prototypes developed during the war and even a few pre-Cylon War craft, virtual antiques from before unification. There was even a captured Cylon Raider, its circular 'flying-wing' arrangement standing in stark contrast to the angular Colonial designs.

Looking about, Kelso saw that more and more people had likewise begun to make their way along the display, more than a few rubbing amply filled bellies as they went. For their part, Joshua and Alexander had jumped up into a two-seat trainer variant Viper and were occupying themselves with gleefully shooting imaginary Cylons from a pretend sky.

Perhaps even more amusing, Kelso noted that the two Raptor pilots who had shuttled him aboard, Lieutenants Lee and Cooper, seemed to be as equally enthralled with the Mark Seven simulator.

Gods, I am old, thought Kelso, they are all just children to me.

With a slight smirk, Kelso continued past the fighter display, taking the occasional sip from his coffee, his mind somewhat wandering.

By the time he reached the far end of the hangar bay, his cup was empty, but his mind was most decidedly focused on the large slabs of marble that had been erected at this end of the hangar deck.

Stretching from the deck to the ceiling, the highly polished surface gleamed in the soft spotlights, standing in stark contrast to the utilitarian bulkheads surrounding it, visually dominating the space. Etched into the surface, inlaid with gold, were Two thousand and forty-three individual names.

It was a memorial.

The Wall of Remembrance.

No matter how many times he had stood before it, the sight of each of those names, the names of the crewmembers he had lost, never ceased to humble him. In many respects, Kelso hoped he never stopped feeling that humility.

Lost in his own thoughts, Kelso slowly stepped over to one side of the display, off into the corner of one of the old Viper service bays. Kneeling down, Kelso's eyes focused in on a stain on the bulkhead he himself had discovered only a few years before.

A bloodstain, smudged, but nevertheless recognizably a handprint.

This was where the temporary morgue had been.

He had never forgotten, never could forget, the image of so many bodies lying still on the deck. And as regal as it was, the marble wall had never struck him so fully as when he'd first seen that lingering blood stain on the bulkhead.

Forty years now, and the stain remained.

His knees cracking, Kelso stood back up and turned around, only to find that a young woman in a Colonial uniform was watching him.

Half feeling as though he had been caught doing something he was not supposed to, Kelso casually stepped back out of the alcove.

For her part, the woman looked back up at the large marble memorial for a moment, then sheepishly stepped towards him.

"Permission to speak with the Commander?" she asked cautiously.

Such formality, so young, she must have only recently graduated from the Academy.

For a moment, Kelso simply looked at her.

Although he was certain he did not know her, Adrian Kelso nevertheless felt as though there was something intangibly familiar about the young woman.

"You don't need my permission to speak, Ensign," grinned Kelso as he stepped a little closer.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I, sir?" she asked.

"No," replied Kelso evenly, glancing back at the alcove. "Just have a lot of memories here. How can I help you?"

"I just wanted to meet you, sir," she replied.

"Meet me, why?" he asked, hoping like hell he sounded more modest than sarcastic.

"Because you're a legend, sir," she replied flatly.

"A dubious description, at best," countered Kelso as he looked back over at the gleaming marble. "What's your name, Ensign?"

"Ensign Jinara Cole, Commander," she answered dutifully.

Kelso's eyes instantly snapped back to the young officer.

"Cole?" he muttered. "As in Dani Cole?"

The young woman simply nodded.

Staring at her for a moment, Kelso grinned a bit.

"You're related to Danielle Cole?"

"My grandmother, yes, sir," she replied.

Slowly, Kelso reached his hand out towards the granddaughter of his former Executive Officer. After the war, Adrian Kelso had regrettably lost touch with his old XO. Indeed, Kelso had not even learned about her death until years after the fact. But at that moment, Adrian Kelso found it comforting to know that Danielle Cole had not only had a child after the war, but that she now had a granddaughter.

"No, Ensign, it's my honor to meet you," smiled Kelso as the young woman took hold of his hand.

As he did so, the young woman's resemblance to his old XO now seemed as obvious to Kelso as the nose on his own face, especially her eyes.

"I could never have asked for a better XO than Danielle Cole," continued Kelso. "She was a good woman, a damned good friend."

"Thank you, sir."

"I don't remember seeing you at the reception last night, Ensign," stated Kelso evenly.

"I came aboard this morning with the Marine Honor Guard," replied Ensign Cole, a slight smile creeping onto her face. "I have more than enough opportunities to sleep on military bunks already."

"Part of me wishes I'd passed on the opportunity myself," groaned Kelso slightly as he again tried to stretch the lingering ache from his back. "Been nearly forty years for me, and I'm paying for it this morning."

"You didn't stay in your old quarters, sir?"

"No, not this time," replied Kelso simply. "So what brings you aboard this morning, Ensign?"

"I've never been able to attend the reunions before," began Ensign Cole as she glanced over at the marble wall. "Thought I'd better before…"

"Before all us old-timers die off?" interjected Kelso, half-chuckling.

Ensign Cole's cheeks flushed a bit.

"Well, we are getting fewer," noted Kelso, turning away to look off along the row of old Vipers, again catching sight of Joshua and Alexander.

Looking back over at Ensign Cole, Kelso again found himself looking into those hauntingly familiar eyes. Slowly, Kelso felt a smile spread across his lips.

"Ensign, I have something I'd like to show you," he said simply as he motioned the young officer to follow him.

---

For the first time in the better part of four decades, Adrian Kelso undogged the hatch leading into Pacifica's CIC.

Stepping in through the hatch, Kelso looked around the empty CIC and felt a chill go down his spine.

It was eerie, to be stepping into a space that on even the most visceral level he knew so well, having his mind almost expect to see a bustling work space, and yet find every station empty, powered down save for a few key stations needed to help maintain the ship's orbit.

Felt like a tomb…

Stepping somewhat absently over towards the center plot table, Kelso reached out, ran his fingers along the edge of the console, and felt the rough edges where decades before his own fingernails had scratched through the enamel; torn free while he had held on desperately against a barrage of Cylon missiles.

Glancing back over his shoulder, Kelso saw that Ensign Cole was still standing in the entryway, visibly hesitant to step inside.

Motioning with his hand for the young woman to join him, Kelso stepped around to the far side of the plot table. As Ensign Cole stepped up to the place just occupied by Adrian, Kelso could see the latent awe in her expression.

Just like a child…

"For more engagements than I'd ever care to remember, your grandmother stood in almost that exact same spot," stated Kelso simply.

"Are we supposed to be in here, sir?"

"I'd like to think I've earned the right to go anywhere I damned well like aboard this ship, Ensign," chuckled Kelso as he looked around the empty CIC.

Motioning with his hand for her to follow, Kelso guided Cole over towards the Damage Control station.

"But it was here, right here, that your grandmother saved this ship," began Kelso as the young Ensign stepped up to the panel. "There's not a person aboard this ship right now, or for that matter on the surface of Libran, myself included, that doesn't owe Dani Cole their very life."

The young officer reached up and absently ran her fingers through the thin layer of dust on the console surface.

"Her efforts commanding the damage control teams kept this ship in the fight," continued Kelso evenly. "It's because of her leadership, her fortitude and determination, not mine, that we're all still alive."

Watching the young woman's face, her reaction to what he was telling her, Kelso suddenly realized that Ensign Jinara Cole wasn't old enough to have ever actually known her grandmother; Dani Cole had been killed by that drunk driver at least a decade before she'd been born.

"I wish I could have known her," she said wistfully, subtle tears welling in her eyes. "Thank you for bringing me up here, sir."

Watching as Ensign Cole continue looking the panel over, Kelso could not help but smile.

So impeccable in character, so indomitable in spirit was Dani Cole, it was heartening to Kelso to know that her legacy continued in the person of this young woman before him.

---

Warstar Galactica
Colonial Fleet Capital Vessel Proving Grounds
One Light-Day from Caprica

"This is a big problem, Major," muttered Commander Sean Kelso as he scowled at the report before him.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose for a moment, Kelso looked up from the printout and across the plot table at Major Malcolm Macedo, the Computer Operations Specialist assigned to the shakedown team.

"I wouldn't have brought it to your attention if it wasn't, Commander," replied Macedo evenly as he adjusted his thin-rimmed glasses.

Macedo had only recently transferred to Kelso's team from a Research and Development cadre at the Ministry of Defense. That alone spoke volumes to Kelso about the man's competency and technical expertise; you effectively needed to be a certified genius to work at R&D.

And in no uncertain terms, Kelso's new resident computer genius was telling him that he was stumped.

"Alright, let's just go over this one piece at a time so I understand perfectly," sighed Kelso as he absently scratched at his forehead. "You're telling me that the Command Navigation Program isn't functioning properly with the new systems?"

"Not exactly, sir," replied Macedo as he opened a small binder and began extracting numerous printouts. "When I was assigned to Galactica's shakedown team, I had a colleague of mine over at the Ministry of Defense send me a beta-test copy of a new software analysis program they're developing."

Taking the proffered sheets in hand, Kelso casually glanced over them as Macedo continued.

"The new program is designed to scan and monitor active lines of code for any errors or security anomalies that could compromise systems to an outside intruder, Cylon or otherwise."

"And what exactly did you find?" asked Major Burke flatly as Kelso handed her the data sheets.

"When we accessed the Command Navigation Program for the FTL jump from Scorpion Shipyards, the analysis software flagged several ancillary algorithms imbedded in the CNP."

"Are you saying the copy of the CNP we have aboard is compromised?" asked Major Burke.

"Possibly," replied Macedo hesitantly. "Keep in mind I've only begun my preliminary analysis, Major Burke."

"If you had to make a guess, Major, what do the errors you've detected mean?" asked Kelso pointedly.

"If I had to guess, Commander, it looks as though the CNP is attempting to bypass the firewalls and access other non-navigation or propulsion related systems on the ship's network."

"Why hasn't this problem been detected before now?" asked Major Burke. "The CNP has been in active use throughout the fleet for nearly a year now."

"As far as I can tell, most of the algorithms in question remain dormant under normal operational conditions," answered Macedo evenly.

"Is it possible your program is the cause of the problem and not the CNP?" sighed Kelso as he gently gathered the printouts back into a single pile.

"Possible, yes, but I must add, highly improbable, Commander," replied Macedo with a grin. "Again, if I had to make a guess, I'd say that the analysis program is what's prompting them into activity, but these dormant algorithms are still acting as they were intended to by attempting to bypass security and access the other systems."

To say the least, Sean Kelso didn't like that answer.

"What do you suggest we do, Major?" asked Kelso evenly.

"In the short term, I think we should take the CNP offline until my team has a better idea what these algorithms are really designed to do," replied Macedo without skipping a beat.

"Major, without the CNP we're not going to be able to perform any more FTL jumps," stated Kelso flatly. "Fleet Headquarters is not going to be very pleased with us if we cut this shakedown short because of a software problem."

"Granted, Commander, but I doubt they'd like it very much more if the ship's computer systems were vulnerable to an outside intrusion either," replied Macedo flatly. "It could be nothing, or, it could provide an enemy with a way of bypassing all security lockouts and shut this ship down without firing a shot; we need to be certain either way."

Sean Kelso paused, gently tapping his fingers on the plot table as he looked across at Macedo.

"Point taken," sighed Kelso as he handed the printouts back to Macedo. "Okay, we'll go ahead and disable the CNP, and as a protective measure, go ahead and have your people shut down the ship-wide network as well, put all systems on stand-alone until you have a better handle on this problem."

"Understood, sir," replied Macedo, his tone a bit relieved as he took the sheets back and slid them into their folder.

"Should we advise Picon Headquarters about the possible delay in our testing schedule, Commander?" asked Major Burke.

Kelso continued to drum his fingers on the plot table for a moment, mulling over Burke's suggestion.

"For the time being, no," replied Kelso simply. "We're here to make sure this ship's systems are fully operational when they commission her. A problem like this is the reason we are out here. Besides, I'd like to have a better idea of just what we're dealing with before I ruffle any important feathers back at Headquarters."

"Understood, Commander."

"Major Macedo, get your team on this; this is your priority for the time being," continued Kelso. "Have your people pour over every line of code if you have to, but find out what the problem is and get the CNP back up and running. Until then, we'll keep the computers off the network and hold off loading the CNP into the main memory storage."

"Aye, sir."

With that, Major Macedo collected up all the paperwork he had brought up and walked out of the CIC hatchway.

After Macedo had gone, Kelso looked back over to a visibly disapproving Major Burke.

"Problem, Major?"

"Command is not going to be very happy with a delay in our schedule, Commander," she stated evenly. "Especially if we have no firm explanation as to why we're delaying it in the first place."

Kelso stifled a chuckle.

"I'm sure Command would be equally displeased if their newest warship wasn't able to perform a simple FTL jump because the CNP wasn't functioning properly," replied Kelso as he absently scratched an itch behind his ear. "We've got a full docket of systems tests to perform, we'll just shuffle the schedule a bit, give Macedo and his people time to work."

"Very well, Commander," she replied dutifully as she retrieved the clipboard with the testing schedule and began making her way across CIC.

As he watched Burke move away, Sean Kelso again reached up to scratch at the persistent itch behind his ear.

---

Battlecruiser Enceladus
Patrol Route 75-A113
Near Libran Colony

"Colonel Runel, please contact CIC; Colonel Runel, please contact CIC."

His every perception groggy, Colonel Thadius Runel slowly opened his eyes as he swam back to consciousness.

Somewhere in the midst of reading his father's worn copy of the Scriptures, Runel realized he had dozed off. Looking over at the clock on the wall, he realized he had slept through most of the first watch.

After placing the Scriptures back onto the shelf, Runel stepped over to his deck, rubbed his eyes for a moment, then snatched up the handset hanging on the bulkhead and toggled the switch for CIC.

"Runel, here," he said simply as he lifted the handset to his ear.

"Lieutenant Thorpe, sir, sorry to bother you," began the voice on the other end.

"No bother, Lieutenant, what do you have?" stated Runel as he reached over and turned on the small coffee brewer on his desk.

"We've just received a dispatch from Fleet Headquarters, Colonel, they're requesting that we break off from our patrol route and proceed to Armistice Station."

"Did they specify why, Lieutenant?"

"Apparently the Colonial Representative is overdue for return from Armistice Station, sir; they want us to head out there to see if his shuttle is having mechanical difficulties."

As the scent of the brewing coffee began to waft up from the small pot, Runel rubbed the slight stubble forming on his chin.

"Didn't we receive something in last nights' dispatch about the representative?"

"Yes, sir, he's apparently been overdue close to a full day now."

Taking a deep breath, Runel half-wished the coffee was brewing a bit faster.

Sending three full Gunstars out of their assigned patrol route seemed a bit like overkill, especially if it turned out that the Colonial Representative's shuttle was simply experiencing engine trouble.

Still…the station was located right on the demarcation line for Cylon territory.

"Very well, Lieutenant, acknowledge the order and advise Adroa and Ikenga of the change," stated Runel as he glanced down as the rapidly filling coffee pot. "Start plotting the jump out to Armistice Station; I'll be in CIC in fifteen minutes."

"Aye, sir."

---

Clean-shaven, fresh uniform on, freshly brewed cup of coffee in hand, Colonel Runel strode in through the entry hatch to CIC.

"Commanding Officer on deck," called Major Kell as Runel stepped through the hatchway.

"Lieutenant Thorpe, did you advise Adroa and Ikenga of our change in orders?"

"Affirmative, Colonel, both ships are standing by."

"Very good."

Runel stepped up to the plot board opposite Major Kell. Picking up the handset on the side of the console, Runel toggled the switch to main engineering.

"Colonel Lidell, here."

"Lidell, what's the status on our FTL systems?"

"All FTL systems are fully operational, Colonel," replied Lidell simply. "However, keep in mind the CNP is currently off the grid."

"Your team still working on the network upgrades?" asked Runel as he took a sip from his coffee.

"Affirmative," replied Lidell flatly. "I don't suppose there's any way to hold off making a jump till the network is back up?"

"Command says go, we go," countered Runel as he motioned for his XO to join him.

"Aye, Colonel."

Placing the handset back in its place, Runel looked up into the subtly inquisitive face of Major Kell.

"How long has it been since you calculated a jump by hand?" asked Runel flatly.

"It's been a while," sighed Kell somewhat apprehensively.

"Well, just make sure you double check your calculations then," said Runel with the slightest of smirks.

"Aye, Colonel."

As Major Kell stepped away to begin the jump calculations, Runel took a deep breath.

FTL jumps were a tricky operation, and although he had nothing but the utmost confidence in his officers and crew, he was not quite sure how he felt about performing the complicated equations by hand without the aid of the sophisticated CNP, especially that close to the Cylon border.

If they advised Headquarters that their CNP was down, the assignment to check out Armistice Station could be tasked to another patrol group. However, Runel had never been the type to pass off an assignment to someone else.

"Alright people, listen up," began Runel as he looked around at the crewmembers in CIC. "Fleet wants us to make a jump to Armistice Station, find out why our representative is overdue for check-in. As you know this is right on the dividing line between our territory and that of the Cylons. Now, we don't know why the Colonial Rep is overdue, it may be nothing more than engine trouble, but, I'm not about to risk this battle group by making an assumption."

Pausing, Runel let out a long sigh.

"So, just in case, we'll be executing a Combat Jump," continued Runel as he looked back over at his Tac Ops Officer. "Lieutenant Thorpe, sound Action Stations."

"Aye, Colonel," replied Thorpe dutifully.

As the ship-wide alarm sounded, Runel looked up at the descending DRADIS display.

"All decks, all divisions report Action Stations manned and ready, Colonel," called Lieutenant Thorpe a few moments later. "Adroa and Ikenga report ready at Action Stations as well, sir."

"Very well. Major Kell, how are we with those jump calculations?"

"Calculations complete and input, Colonel. All systems show Green. FTL drives are spun and ready."

"Very well. Lieutenant Thorpe, coordinate with the Adroa and Ikenga, just in case the Colonial Rep is having more than engine trouble, I don't want to be separated from our only support."

"Aye, sir."

Runel took a deep breath.

"Execute jump, Major Kell."

---

Battlestar Pacifica Museum
Libran Colony Orbit

By the time Adrian Kelso and Ensign Jinara Cole returned to the Port flight pod, the reunion had moved on to a full audio-visual presentation put on by the museum administrators. With the overhead lights dimmed, most of the assemblage was engrossed with a video recreation of Pacifica's last and most harrowing battle with the Cylons.

As he and Cole made their way through the crowd, Adrian Kelso paid only the most peripheral attention to the presentation, itself little more than an academic account of what had taken place. For his own part, Kelso knew no presentation could ever fully convey what it had been like to live through that day.

As he finally made his way over to Mike Franklin, Kelso could see by the old engineer's face that, like him, Franklin was little more than tolerating the relatively sterile account of the battle. Franklin's two grandsons, however, were paying rapt attention to presentation, their youthful minds in awe as the latest in computer graphics illustrated the movements of the ships on the screen.

Glancing back over at Ensign Cole, Kelso saw that she too was as equally engrossed in the presentation.

Kelso could not help but envy such innocence…

When the presentation ended, the lights came back up, and the museum curator, Eli Straten, stepped up to the podium.

It was then that Kelso began to feel a growing sense of subtle dread.

He knew from past reunions that it was only a matter of minutes now before Straten would call Kelso up to the podium to speak to the assemblage.

Trouble was that after so many years, so many reunions, Kelso felt like he'd run out of things to say.

Nevertheless, when the moment came, Kelso made his way through the crowd amid applause to the podium. With a gracious handshake, Straten turned the podium over to the former Commander.

As the applause died down, Kelso stood silently at the podium, looking out into the sea of faces. Even after so many years, so many reunions, Kelso felt uneasy about speaking, uncertain as to what to say.

"Today, we gather here to remember our fallen."

Even as the words left his mouth, Kelso felt as though they were somehow wrong. With a lump forming in his throat, Adrian Kelso recalled a face, half burned, a lovely young woman lying still on the deck a moment before a flag settled over her unseeing eyes.

Forcing himself to look out into the crowd, Kelso fought to find some measure of inspiration, an assurance, something to steady him. It was then that he again caught site of Ensign Cole, and of young Joshua and Alexander amid the crowd. Almost in spite of himself, he smiled.

Letting out a long sigh, Kelso leaned forward onto the podium.

"For many years now, we have gathered here together, amid friends, amongst family. Each of us comes here for reasons sometimes known only to ourselves; some in sorrow, some in celebration, but always together. We gather, I think, to find an answer to the one question that truly matters; why? Why did so many good people, our friends, our family, have to perish?"

"It's a question I have wrestled with every day since that battle."

Pausing, Kelso took in a steadying breath.

"But as I look out into this crowd today I feel I am perhaps closer to finding an answer to that question; quite simply, they died for us."

"I know many of you were born long after the war. For you it is easy, perhaps even comforting, to label them heroes. The problem with labels is that they are merely words, incomplete in description, limited in value. The depth of their sacrifice is not so easily defined."

"When they turned this ship into a museum, into a monument, I felt no comfort. The Pacifica is just a place, possessing a history, but not a memory. It is for us to remember our fallen, for it was to us that they were most cherished."

"So when I find myself again struggling to explain their loss, my only solace is remembering that they died for us."

"For each child's laugh, every lover's kiss, every sunrise, every breath, these men and women so loved us that they gave their last, full measure. Each person here today is their inheritance, their sacred legacy."

"So it is that we continue to gather here, on this ship, to remember them together. With laughter, with tears, we come here, bound by the love they bestowed upon us, all of us as a family. And amongst this family, we continue to feel their love to this very day."

With that, Adrian Kelso stepped back away from the podium.

As he did so, a wave of applause, more heartfelt than before, swept through the crowd, echoing off the bulkheads. He had never fancied himself much of an orator, but he was humbled to see how deeply his words had apparently resonated with audience.

As Kelso stepped away, making a vain attempt to surreptitiously wipe away a tear that had begun to slip down his cheek, the museum's curator, Eli Straten, stepped back up to the podium. As the applause petered out, Straten thanked Adrian Kelso for his words as the old Battlestar Commander moved back towards his seat.

However, as he was about to lower himself back into his chair, Adrian Kelso caught sight of the two Raptor pilots who had ferried him aboard. Lieutenant Lee, Lieutenant Cooper and a third Colonial Officer, presumably the CO of the Marine Honor Guard detachment, had somewhat sequestered themselves off to one corner of an old Viper service bay and were huddled around an emergency wireless receiver.

Hovering next to his seat for a moment, Kelso watched the three officers intently.

To be sure, nearly forty years as a civilian had tempered many things about the old Commander. But somewhere beneath the veneer of what he'd become over these many long years there was still that part of him that had served as Commander of the Pacifica. And it was that part of him that was picking up something in the body language of the three officers, a subtle tension.

Something was wrong.

Making his way down from the platform, Kelso stepped over towards the trio. His approach did not go unnoticed either; as they caught sight of him, each of the three officers straightened up a bit, their faces taking on feigned smiles.

Now he knew something was wrong.

"Can we help you, sir?" asked Lieutenant Lee casually as he surreptitiously slipped the emergency wireless set behind his back.

"Funny, I was about to ask you three gentlemen the same question," replied Kelso as he pointed to the wireless set in Lee's hand.

For a moment, they each exchanged a hesitant glance.

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with, sir," replied the officer from the Honor Guard dutifully.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant," replied Kelso with a forced smile. "I don't think we've been introduced."

"Lieutenant Don Attis, sir," replied the Honor Guard CO as he extended a hand.

Reaching out, Kelso latched onto the hand purposefully, not letting go even as he feigned a smile of his own.

"Good to meet you, Lieutenant Attis," began Kelso as he held Attis' hand firmly. "And now, just so we understand one another; while I am usually loath to stooping to this, let me remind you that I was at one time a Commander in the Colonial Fleet."

Lieutenant Attis made a weak attempt to withdraw his hand, but Kelso held it firm.

"Furthermore, let me remind you gentlemen that I was in fact the Commander of this very Battlestar long before any of you were so much as a drunken twinkle in your fathers' eye. Now, I may look like nothing more than a wizened old man to you, but please do me the courtesy of not patronizing me."

With that, Kelso let go of Attis' hand, much to the subdued relief of the young officer. Gently massaging his hand, Attis exchanged another couple of sideways glances with the two Raptor crewmen. For his part, Kelso simply stood there staring down the three men, his own body language demanding an answer.

Behind them, another round of applause rolled through the audience.

Finally, Lieutenant Cooper took a deep breath and casually took the emergency wireless set from Lee.

"We've been monitoring wireless traffic over the Colonial Fleet Tac-One," began Cooper, keeping his voice low. "So far the reports are vague, but there's been intermittent DRADIS contact with several unknown vessels outside normal commercial lanes."

"Can I presume a ship has been dispatched by Fleet Command to investigate?" asked Kelso flatly.

"The Battlestar Theseus and her group are currently investigating, yes, sir," replied Lee as he cast a hesitant glance over Kelso's shoulder at the crowd.

"In any event, we may need to start preparations for evacuating everyone down to the surface of Libran," continued Lieutenant Cooper evenly.

"Gentlemen, we have over four-thousand people aboard right now," stated Kelso evenly as he too glanced back at the crowd. "None of the charter transports are due back until late tomorrow."

Kelso paused for a moment, looking back at the crowd of people…

By his own words, his family…

"There are still a few shuttles over on the Starboard pod," began Lieutenant Lee. "Between them and our Raptor, we can at least start moving people in small groups."

"We should also try and contact Libran's Civil Traffic Control," continued Lieutenant Cooper. "They might be able to reroute a few inbound ships to help with the evac…"

"No," said Kelso firmly as he looked back over at the three officers.

"Sir?" asked Lieutenant Attis, visibly puzzled.

"I said 'no', Lieutenant," replied Kelso adamantly.

"Sir, if we need to evacuate…" began Attis, his voice trailing off as he realized a few members of the crowd close by had overheard him.

"Gentleman, let me be clear," began Kelso firmly. "I am not about to allow you to put any of these people in potential danger. Until we have a better idea of what's buzzing about out there, piling these people aboard slow, vulnerable transports and shuttles is a bad idea."

"Do you have a better suggestion, sir?" asked Lieutenant Lee flatly.

Kelso paused for a moment, took a breath, then looked the three officers squarely in the eye.

"I might."

---

Colonial Fleet Reclamation and Reserve Maintenance Depot
Sagittaron Colony

"Bess, you listening to the wireless?" asked Hal Kipinger as he practically exploded through the office door.

"I'm drowning in too much paperwork to be listening to the wireless," replied Bess wryly as he suppressed his annoyance over Kipinger's unorthodox entry. "Speaking of work, aren't you supposed to be out picking the boneyard for parts to get those Raptors back up and running for fleet?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's being taken care of," replied Kipinger as he briskly stepped over to the civilian wireless receiver and began fiddling with the dials. "But you need to hear this."

"Kip, I don't have time to listen to music right now," sighed Bess as he shuffled a few folders about on his desk.

"This isn't music," replied Kipinger as he apparently found the wireless channel he was looking for.

"…spokesperson for Colonial Fleet Headquarters says, however, that there is no cause for alarm," filtered a voice from the wireless receiver's speaker. "To recap our top story, several unidentified craft have been sighted near Caprica, Picon and Scorpia…"

"Well?" snapped Kipinger as he turned the volume back down.

"Well what?" retorted Bess as he looked up from the open folder in front of him.

"Didn't you hear; there are unidentified craft buzzing around the capital and fleet command centers."

"And how does this in any way help get those Raptors ready for shipment back to the fleet?" replied Bess, the annoyance more than evident in his voice.

"This is major news," stated Kipinger theatrically.

"For the fleet maybe," countered Bess as he leaned back in his chair, the under-oiled mechanism giving a slight groan as he did so. "It's probably some terrorists or something trying to garner a few headlines for whatever whack-job cause they're backing."

"What if it's not?" asked Kipinger simply. "What if it's the Cylons?"

Bess looked over at Kipinger and began to wonder whether the ex-Viper jock had finally lost his last grip on reality.

"Don't be ridiculous," scoffed Bess as he leaned back in over his reports. "The Cylons are long gone, off in deep space."

Glancing up, Bess saw that Kipinger was still staring expectantly at him.

"Would you get back to work please?" sighed Bess.

After a few more seconds of staring at one another, Bess realized his simple imploration was not enough. Tossing his pen down onto the stack of reports before him, Bess again leaned back in his creaking chair.

"Look, if it is the Cylons, and I doubt it is, the fleet will be able to take care of the situation. My gods, Kip, have you forgotten just how many Battlestars are in commission right now? Ten per Colony at last count. Cruisers, destroyers; for the love of Artemis, you need to start drinking decaf if you're going to let this rile you up so badly."

"I can't believe you're not the least bit concerned," replied Kipinger as he lightly shook his head. "For frak sake this could be the start of another war."

"And if it is, I'm sure the fleet will want their refurbished Raptors, post-haste," countered Bess simply as he returned his attention to the folder in front of him. "Now will you turn that fraking wireless off and get back down to the machine shop?"

Without another word, Kipinger switched off the wireless set, sighed, and walked out the office door. When he had gone, Bess looked up from the folder, glanced thoughtfully at the quiet wireless set, stood up, and walked over to the window.

Looking out into the boneyard, Bess saw several of the workers huddled around the wireless down in the machine shop. Letting out a long sigh, Bess stepped back over to his desk and was about to pick up the receiver for the landline, intent on calling down to the machine shop himself, when it suddenly rang.

Startled slightly by the ring, he snatched up the handset.

"Bess here."

"Bess, it's Coleman," began the voice on the other end of the line. "Got a little bit of a situation over here at the airfield."

"Sal, unless you're about to tell me that the entire line-up for Miss Caprica pageant has landed over there, I'm in no mood to hear it," stated Bess evenly as he continued to watch workers out in the boneyard flock around the machine shop.

"Not quite, Paul," replied Coleman flatly. "I've got several ships requesting permission to make landfall over here."

"Landing requests?" muttered Bess, his brow furrowing a bit. "Who the hell from?"

"Civilian passenger liners, mostly," replied Coleman evenly. "Colonial Fleet Headquarters and Civil Defense have halted all intercolonial traffic along the civil and commercial lanes."

"Why are they requesting permission to land here, why not one of the civil landing strips, there's dozens of them around Sagittaron."

"The civilian fields are running out of space for them," answered Cole flatly. "Planetary flight traffic control is asking us to lighten their burden a bit."

"You know the drill, Sal, this is a restricted fly-zone; we can't take them unless they've declared an emergency."

"It may come to that, Paul," countered Coleman. "Unless landing space opens up at the civilian pads, flight control is going to have a hell-of-a time keeping so many ships stacked up in orbit."

Bess took a deep, almost resigned breath.

"How many ships are we looking at if we open our strip?" asked Bess as he began rubbing his left temple, sensing the first tingling of a building headache.

"Six passenger liners and three freighters right now, Paul," answered Coleman. "We've got the space if you approve them for landing."

"Frak, this is the last thing we need to deal with," growled Bess in annoyance. "Is there any indication how long the commuter lanes are going to be shut down?"

"None."

Bess took another deep, even more resigned breath.

"So some damned reporter starts a panic over what's probable no more than a glitch in the DRADIS network and we get stuck playing babysitter for several boatloads of sandal-clad tourists and holier-than-thou businesspeople," sighed Bess.

Bess dearly hoped that once the dust settled whatever moronic journalist had started the panic lost his job…

"All right Sal, clear them to land," relented Bess with a frustrated grunt. "But, I want you to personally advise each and every civilian captain that no one, no one, is to get off their respective ship. The last damned thing we need is a bunch of bleary-eyed lookiloos wandering around the tarmac."

"I'll make sure they get the message."

As Coleman hung up on the other end of the line, Bess fought the tempting impulse to slam the receiver back down. Letting out a long, frustrated sigh, Bess slowly set the receiver back in place as he hovered over his desk, trying to wrestle emotional control back from the rapid-fire series of complications that had begun to intrude upon what had begun as a normal day.

With his temple still throbbing, Bess picked the receiver back up and dialed in the number for the boneyard's Marine detachment.

"Duty NCO, Sergeant Gibbs speaking, how may I help you, sir or ma'am," snapped the crisp voice on the other end of the line.

"Sergeant Gibbs, this is Director Bess, is Major Beck on duty today?"

"That's a negative, Director Bess," replied Sergeant Gibbs evenly. "Major Beck is currently on leave. Detachment XO Captain Gaines is acting CO at this time."

"Can I speak with her please?"

"One moment, sir," replied the Marine as she proceeded to put Bess on hold.

"This is Captain Gaines," stated a voice a few moments later.

"Captain Gaines, I need your help," stated Bess as he settled back into his creaking chair.

"That's why we're here, sir," replied Gaines lightly.

"Some civilian ships have been cleared for an emergency landing out at the airfield. I need you to get as many of your people over there as possible to give Coleman a hand with crowd control, or more specifically, a hand in making sure nobody gets off those ships."

"Understood, sir," replied Captain Gaines dutifully.

"Thank you, Captain," finished Bess as he hung the receiver up.

As he resumed massaging his temple, Bess slowly turned to look back out the window of his office, the chair groaning once more as he did so, lamenting how the day had seemed to start out so promisingly with a beautiful sunrise.

---

Battlecruiser Enceladus
Near Armistice Station

Colonel Thadius Runel felt his head throbbing as he reached up, grabbed hold of the plot table, and pulled himself up from the deck.

"Report!" he shouted, wincing in pain as he reached up and felt the blood running down the side of his face.

Dazed, his vision slightly blurred, Runel glanced around CIC, the sound of emergency alarms mixed with confused shouts and cries.

With his head pounding, Runel cast his eyes up to the DRADIS screen.

Blank; DRADIS was down.

Wiping the blood on his trousers, Runel looked out around CIC, his eyes peering out through the thin smoke filtering into the air. All around, crewmembers were likewise pulling themselves back into their stations. Some groaned, others moved about helping others.

Some did not move at all.

Runel caught sight of his XO lying still on the deck, Lieutenant Thorpe leaning over him. Pressing his fingers against Major Kell's neck, Thorpe searched for a pulse.

"XO's dead, sir!" called Thorpe after a moment.

"Then you're my XO, Lieutenant!" replied Runel flatly. "Get over to the DC panel and get me a damage report!"

Thorpe seemed to hesitate for a moment, looking down at the unmoving body of Major Kell.

"Now, Lieutenant!" snapped Runel.

Startled, Lieutenant Thorpe leapt up and made his way over to the Damage Control panel.

As he continued to feel the blood running down the side of his face, Runel reached down and snatched up the handset on the side of the plot table, toggling the switch for engineering.

For several seconds, Runel waited; no answer.

Placing the handset back in its place, Runel looked over to the communications station where Petty Officer Templeton was readjusting his headset.

"Templeton, get on the wireless to Adroa and Ikenga, order them to cover us till we get our systems back up."

"Aye, Colonel."

"Lieutenant Thorpe, give me a report, did we collide with something?"

"Negative, Colonel," replied Thorpe instantly. "Radiological sensors over several decks have been tripped; looks like we've taken a nuclear detonation amidships."

Runel's thoughts were still fighting through the haze he still felt from his head slamming into the deck. One phrase, however, had pierced his dizziness with ice-cold clarity; nuclear detonation.

Not a random asteroid or object, but a deliberate attack.

"Damage control teams?"

"Half a dozen compartments haven't reported in yet, but several teams are fighting to contain fires between frames one-five-zero and two-zero-one."

Looking up, Runel saw that DRADIS was still out.

"Templeton, have Adroa and Ikenga acknowledged our order to provide cover?"

"Negative, Colonel, I am unable to raise either ship over wireless."

"Keep trying."

As he stood there, Runel was startled when a medic suddenly stepped up to him and placed a large bandage over the side of his head.

Frustrated, even annoyed, Runel placed his own hand over the bandage and waved the medic over towards several other injured crewmembers. A litter team appeared moments later, stepped over and picked up the lifeless body of Major Kell.

Pulling the bandage away for a moment, Runel was surprised at the amount of blood on the bandage; his blood. He didn't want to even think about how bad the laceration on his head must be.

Putting the bandage back into place, pressing hard against the stinging pain, Runel reached back down with his other hand and picked up the handset, again toggling the switch for engineering.

"Lidell, here!" coughed the Chief Engineer.

"Lidell, what's your status down there?" began Runel as he again looked up at the blank DRADIS.

"We're picking up the pieces down here, Colonel. Whatever the hell hit us knocked out systems across the board."

"Not whatever, whoever; we've got radiological alarms tripped amidships," countered Runel flatly.

"Nukes? Who the frak's firing nukes at us?"

"I can't find out till you get my DRADIS back up," snapped Runel.

"Done," said Lidell simply, hanging up the line a moment later.

For a moment, Runel stood looking at the handset quizzically; he wasn't used to being hung up on so abruptly.

Just then, the overhead DRADIS screen flashed back to life.

Looking up, Runel watched as the screen resolved itself back into a recognizable pattern, the unknown space outside the hull of the ship now not so unknown.

Nor was it empty.

Two icons lay close to Enceladus' position, transponder ID quickly labeling them as the destroyers Adroa and Ikenga.

And out beyond, floating about where they'd expected to find Armistice Station was an unknown vessel, large, encircled by several fighter-sized craft.

Cylons.

It had to be the Cylons.

Just then, several of the smaller fighter craft launched a volley of missiles.

The remaining fog in his head cleared as a surge of adrenaline was dumped into his bloodstream.

"Lieutenant Thorpe, I need status on all weapons, now!"

As if to answer, the dull drone of the Enceladus' defensive guns firing began to reverberate through the hull. Thank the gods, at least someone in Fire Control was on the ball…

Flying headlong into a hailstorm of rounds erupting from the Enceladus, the incoming missiles were quickly ripped apart.

"Helm, do we have maneuver control?"

"Affirmative, Colonel, mains are coming back up now," replied Petty Officer Pardi.

"Bring us to Starboard, twenty-two degrees, angle our deflection for optimum broadside."

"Aye, sir."

"Templeton, have you been able to raise Adroa or Ikenga yet?"

"Negative, Colonel," replied Templeton, shaking his head slightly. "I don't understand, all our systems are up, they're just not responding."

Not responding.

Although both ships appeared on DRADIS, neither was doing anything, not maneuvering, not firing, nothing.

The Cylons, however, were not so sedentary; as the Enceladus began her turn, the Raiders that had been holding a tight formation around their Basestar broke away, racing in towards the Colonial battlecruiser.

Snatching up the handset, Runel this time toggled the switch over to Fire Control.

"Fire Control."

"This is Runel; bring main batteries online, plot suppressive flak fire on incoming Raiders; multiple targets, multiple attack angles."

"Understood, sir."

As he waited for Fire Control to confirm a firing solution, Runel tossed the blood soaked bandage down on the plot table, his eyes locked on the DRADIS.

"Firing solution has been obtained, Colonel."

"Commence fire."

Instantly, the thundering cadence of the main cannons firing echoed over the dull drone of the smaller defensive guns.

As a wall of shrapnel began ripping into their formations, shredding to pieces several of Raiders closing in on the Enceladus. With the sheer volume of fire being laid down by Enceladus acting as a momentary deterrent, the remaining Raiders veered off, pulled back out of range and began a wide envelopment.

With the handset still pressed to his ear, Runel watched the Raiders redeploy with hawkish eyes. Spreading out in wide arcs, the Raiders were quite literally attempting to encircle the Colonial ships; a wide circle that would contract around them. With so many vessels on divergent approach angles, effective suppressive fire would be near impossible; too many targets in too many differing directions to concentrate the flak effectively.

Moreover, Runel was keenly aware of the Basestar that was still hovering menacingly just beyond optimum engagement range.

Reaching up with his hand, Runel again felt the slowed, but not stopped, trickle of blood running down the side of his head as he considered his options.

With Adroa and Ikenga apparently out of action, for reasons still unknown, Enceladus was effectively their only defense. If the battlecruiser maintained its current position, it would be able to protect the two destroyers, but he'd be surrendering the initiative to the Cylons, allowing them to attack at their leisure.

If Enceladus broke from its covering position, however, she would be able to more effectively engage the Cylons, maneuver away and prevent them from concentrating the attack. But, it would leave the two destroyers completely exposed.

Neither option was particularly appealing.

Only one seemed to offer any real chance for survival.

"Petty Officer Pardi, all engines, full ahead flank speed," called Runel. "Bring the nose around, hard a-Port."

"Aye, sir, engines answering all ahead flank speed, coming about zero-nine-zero to Port," replied Pardi, her youthful eyes hesitant as she nevertheless complied with his orders.

Runel could understand that hesitation; he was about to sail the Enceladus right into the center of the storm.

With a steady kick of acceleration, the Colonial battlecruiser began her turn, a turn that would soon bring her nose-to-nose with the Cylon Basestar.

As if in response, the Basestar launched a volley of missiles towards the Enceladus. Some of the missiles slammed directly into the wall of suppressive fire still erupting from the ship's defensive guns. Those that got through the defensive fire continued to race in towards the battlecruiser. Reflexively, Runel gripped the plot table with his free hand in preparation for the jarring impacts, impacts that thankfully never came. With subdued satisfaction, Runel watched the missiles veer away erratically, their guidance systems scrambled as Enceladus' reinitialized ECM systems came back online.

With her nose now effectively aimed directly at the offending Basestar, the Enceladus began to churn up the distance between the two ships, closing in. The enveloping Raiders did not alter their approach, however, and continued to close in on the two destroyers.

A quick glance at DRADIS confirmed that most of the Raiders were still outside effective gun range…

However…

"Runel to fire control, you are cleared hot for missile engagement on Cylon Raiders," snapped Runel, his eyes narrowing as he watched the encircling Raiders.

By design, Enceladus had no Viper complement aboard, no fighters of her own with which to engage the Raiders ship-for-ship. But, with no friendly Vipers to worry about felling with an erroneous missile lock, Enceladus had free reign to use everything in her arsenal.

On the DRADIS screen overhead, each of the icons representing the Cylon Raiders were rapidly highlighted, one-by-one, as the ship's phased array targeting system locked onto them. Within moments, a series of missiles erupted from launch pallets positioned along the hull.

As the missiles streaked away on DRADIS, Runel watched as several of the approaching Raiders veered off, maneuvering to evade the guided ordnance. A few of the missiles were thrown off, but a good number of them found their mark, razing some of the Raiders stalking the Colonial ships.

Even as the missile volley was warding off the Raiders, Enceladus continued to build speed, rapidly cutting the distance between her and the Basestar. As if realizing that the closing battlecruiser was intent on biting into them with some very potent teeth, the Basestar launched off another, much heavier volley of missiles at Enceladus.

With the distance between them decreasing, the Enceladus' ECM systems had less time to act upon the Cylon guidance systems. As a result, several of the enemy missiles were able to strike home on the battlecruiser's bow. But in spite of the withering fire laid down by the Cylons, the stout battlecruiser pushed forward, continuing her charge.

"Fire control to CIC, passing optimum engagement line, we have a firing solution."

As he heard the message over the handset, Runel eyed the Cylon Basestar hungrily.

"This is Runel, all bow batteries, hot load, one-to-one HE to AP, fire at will."

Reverberating through hull, the dull thud of the main bow batteries firing echoed throughout CIC, punctuated by the continuing impacts of Cylon ordnance. However jarring the impacts were, they did not deter the Enceladus from her course.

Indeed, Colonel Thadius Runel himself would not be deterred.

The Cylons may have been the first to draw blood, his blood, but he was intent on being the one who finished the fight.

With its Raiders in disarray, regrouping after being pummeled by Enceladus' missile strike, and with the battlecruiser itself rapidly bearing down on it, the Cylon Basestar began moving away, attempting to break contact.

"Fire Control to CIC, we have a good firing solution, multiple impacts of target."

"This is Runel; at the rapid rate, fire for effect; break their backs, gentlemen."

With her quarry now attempting to retreat, the Enceladus continued her headlong charge, her bow batteries erupting in round after punishing round, peppering the Basestar with unremitting blows even as the enemy ship attempted to withdraw.

Toe-to-toe, the two leviathans traded fire, the engagement devolving into little more than a grueling close-quarters slugfest. As the Enceladus continued to pump round after round into the hull of the Cylon Basestar, the enemy ship continued to launch off missiles, struggling to build up speed for an escape. Missile after missile rained in on the ultra reinforced bow of the Enceladus, desperate to delay her, deter her, to stave off what was becoming inevitable.

Too late…

Its structure now fatally compromised by the battlecruiser's fire, the Basestar crumbled under the relentless assault by Enceladus, its long spires twisting, contorting till finally the entire ship was engulfed in a blinding explosion that sent debris hurtling into the breathless void.

As the Baseship's icon disappeared from DRADIS, a triumphant cry echoed out through CIC. But Runel did not pause to revel in the victory, his eyes still intently locked on the roughly two dozen surviving Raiders still stalking about just beyond Enceladus' gun range.

With the destruction of the Basestar, the surviving Raiders turned away during their pursuit of the Enceladus, turning instead back towards the Adroa and Ikenga. Pulling no punches, the rapidly closing Raiders launched a volley of missiles at the two unresponsive destroyers.

"Helm hard about, one-eight-zero, tight arc, maintain speed," barked Runel as he watched the missiles streak in towards Adroa and Ikenga.

In response, the Enceladus' bow veered away from the fading pyre of the dead Basestar. With her speed still at a high clip, Runel reached out and held onto the plot table as he felt the deck beneath his feet shift with the high-speed turn, the artificial gravity fighting to compensate for the hard shift in inertia.

Even as the Enceladus' was coming about to fend off the renewed assault on the destroyers, the Adroa and Ikenga, their defenses apparently down, began absorbing the missile strikes. No defense guns, no ECM, each and every missile slammed home against the hulls of the two destroyers.

With the bow of Enceladus again bearing down on the remaining enemy fighters, the battlecruiser charged back to the defense of Adroa and Ikenga.

"Runel to Fire Control, at this distance, can the bow batteries lay down a flak barrier around the Adroa and Ikenga?" asked Runel as he watched the tightening ring of Raiders continue their barrage of the destroyers.

"We have not closed to Optimum Engagement Range, Colonel."

"That's not what I asked," snapped Runel. "I asked, at this range, is it possible?"

"Possible, but not recommended."

"Noted; all bow batteries, flak loads, lay down suppressive barrier around Adroa and Ikenga," replied Runel flatly, adding a moment later, in emphasis, "That is an order."

As the bow batteries again erupted, this time peppering the space around the Adroa and Ikenga with explosive flak rounds, the wave of hurtling shrapnel began to tear into the missile volleys. At first, only a few missiles were knocked down, but as the Enceladus closed the gap, the accuracy and effectiveness of her long-range cover fire increased.

Suddenly, the entire mass of Raiders turned again, this time directly at Enceladus.

Converging into one massed formation, Runel realized what the Cylon fighters intended to do; they were going to ram Enceladus.

"Runel to Fire Control, increase rate of suppressive fire, multiple targets, inbound CBDR."

As he watched on the DRADIS screen, the hail of shells began tearing into the much tighter, easier to target formations. One-by-one, the Raiders were pounded and pulverized, but refused to turn away.

With a wave of dizziness passing over Runel, he set the handset down on the plot table and looked down at his own hands. Blood, dried, drying, his blood, smeared…

Runel shook his head, a few drop of blood raining out onto the plot table, and forced himself to look back up at DRADIS, to fight the dizziness.

The Raiders, their numbers dwindling, continued their suicidal charge. A wave of nausea building in his stomach, Runel felt his skin begin to crawl as he watched the icons, fewer and fewer, yet closer and closer. Joining the withering cannon fire, a volley of missiles raced away, tearing through the Raiders. Yet the remaining few kept coming.

After what felt like an eternity, an eternity of no more than twenty seconds, the last remaining icons vanished from DRADIS, the last Raider having been taken out by a missile barely a dozen meters out from the hull.

Runel let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, his shoulders dropping as if a weight had been removed from them.

After a few seconds, he looked back up at the DRADIS, half expecting to see more contacts.

Thankfully, none appeared.

Reaching down, Runel picked up the handset on the side of the plot board and toggled the switch over to the ship's One-MC.

"This is Colonel Runel, maintain Action Stations, all decks report damage and casualties to the CIC immediately," he stated evenly.

Placing the handset back in its place, Runel looked up at the crewmembers around him. Young, expectant, elated and exhausted, it felt like that surreal moment he had always seen in movies where the leader was supposed to say something profound, inspirational. For his own part, in this real-life moment, with nausea and dizziness clouding his perceptions, he could not think of a single damned thing to say; the reality of the situation seemed to speak for itself.

Their proverbial cherries, his included, had been busted.

They were combat-blooded veterans now.

They were also at war.