Morning came to the Scorpion Shipyards on the dawn of the 40th Armistice Day, and the military and civilian traffic carried on as they always did in complete ignorance of what was happening at Armistice Station. This complacency was most transparent in the Shipyards' current residents: a trio of battlestars and a squadrons worth of cruisers, gunships, and other escort ships. Sticking out from amongst them like the crown jewel was the Battlestar Pegasus.
Almost two kilometers long, crewed by almost ten thousand officers and enlisted, and weighing over a hundred million tons of metal, optical wiring, and ceramics, it was the ultimate expression of Colonial martial strength and economic might. Each one was an achievement of logistics and construction. A monument to Never Again: a statement burned into the hearts and memories of the rapidly disappearing Old Guard who remembered the Cylon War as something other than history.
Today, though, that monument was docked at the yards getting her brains ripped out and replaced with the latest computer hardware and software the Colonial Fleet's Bureau of Technology had to offer. She would be spending the next few months laid up while technicians and software engineers picked at her electronic brain, allowing the crew to enjoy leave or experience the joys of being on duty while at port.
That didn't make it a vacation for the crew still onboard though. Pegasus was still a battlestar. Not to mention the battlestar of a line admiral no less. While most of the ten thousand crew were gone on leave, there were still three thousand or so left to keep the lights on in case there was a need to scramble. So even at rest there was little if any time for small talk or other distractions, leaving a newly arrived lieutenant spinning like paper in a tornado.
Kendra Shaw felt her jaw clench and her breathing became audible as another gaggle of crew rushed on by her without even deigning to acknowledge her existence. As amazing and awe inspiring the Pegasus was she was a damn maze of corridors, all gunmetal grey and looking the exact same with no indication of where the CIC was. It did serve the practical purpose of not making it easy for the enemy to find the brains of the battlestar, but it also made Kendra sorely regret not paying more attention to the deck plans.
"You look lost," a soft, feminine voice commented. Kendra turn and found the owner, a pretty looking brunette wearing a pilot's flight suit, and her wingman looking at her with bemused smiles. "Looking for the CIC, lieutenant?"
"Yes," Kendra said, visibly relieved as she scurried up to the pair of pilots. "How'd you know?"
"The duffle gave it away," the other pilot stated, pointing at the stuffed canvas bag that was almost as big as its bearer currently slung over her shoulder. The pointing finger turned down the corridor. "You're going to want to head down that way to the second airlock, which will take you on to the mid-ship section. After that you're going to want to take a right, then a left, and then it's a straight shot to Frame Zero-Seven-Eight and one more left, then you're at the bridge."
Kendra nodded and smiled. "You're a lifesaver." She freed up a hand and offered it to the pilots. "Kendra Shaw."
"Robert James. Friends call me Bojay." He shook her hand jerked his head at his friend, who also shook in turn. "Captain Anne Landry. Callsign Sheba. Silver Team Leader."
Kendra gave Sheba and Bojay another nod of thanks then started a fast march down the indicated path. Before she could get far Captain Landry spoke up. "Oh, lieutenant! One last thing."
Kendra glanced back at the pilot.
"If the Admiral asks, tell her you enjoyed your coffee."
Shaw gave the pair a puzzled look, expecting clarification. She was met with a pair of knowing smiles. Seeing no insight was forthcoming and suddenly remembering she was almost a half-hour into her first assignment with hundreds of meters of battlestar between her and the CIC, she resumed her dignified mad dash to the CIC.
"You know she's going to kill you when she finds out that you ruined her little hazing ritual," Bojay observed quietly once Kendra was out of earshot.
"Eh," Sheba shrugged. "The old lady could use some rattling now and then."
Bojay wisely decided to leave it at that.
The soft, electronic chime of the doorbell echoed through the house. Doctor Gaius Baltar took one last sip from his drink before answering the door. There was no doubt in his mind who his visitor was. After those government agents had come to question him about his relations with Natasi and his knowledge of her, he knew in his gut that his little indiscretion regarding the use of his access to the Colonial Defense Mainframe had been discovered and the government was closing in for the kill. Ever since Natasi disappeared with practically every trace of her existence, including her fantastic alterations and rewrites to the CNP, he had felt the specter of death closing in on him. Her vanishing act had very aptly torpedoed his run as the head of the most high profile contractor job in the Colonies, leading to his quiet resignation in disgrace. Now it was going to see him brought before the highest courts of law in the know universe and tried for corruption in the biggest scandal in recent memory. He had seen the car that was his own personal Hades' Chariot approaching long before it had reached the house. It was a nondescript black model with a shining, waxed coat that was immediately recognizable as a government vehicle. His lawyer drove a flashy red and purple sports car imported from Libran.
The road the government car drove up was Baltar's only escape route, and fleeing would only further incriminate him. With the calm detachment of a man walking before his firing squad, the Baltar opened the door. On the other side was a man on the latter half of middle aged, with thick bristly grey hair that was finely combed. He wore a simple business suit that was in fashion almost a hundred years ago with a briefcase held in the left hand.
When he spoke it was with a powerful voice that carried a commanding, even compelling authority and the accent normally associated with Virgonian royalty."Doctor Baltar, I presume?"
Baltar gave a jerky, shallow nod. "Yes." Even to his own nose, he could smell the three-fourths of a bottle of Libran brandy on his breath. Another sign of guilt that betrayed him.
"I am John Carson. I work for the Colonial Government. May I step inside?"
Baltar's mouth moved before his brain could think. "Do you have a warrant?" He demanded. John Carson just gave an amicable laugh, like he and Baltar were old friends sharing a joke.
"No, I do not, Doctor. I'm a lawyer, not a policeman. I am your lawyer, to be exact."
"I already have a lawyer. The best in the business, in fact."
"Indeed he is," John Carson agreed. "However, I'm sure if you call him you'll find that he no longer wishes to be in your employ. May I come inside?"
The veins on Baltar's head were beginning to bulge and flair. He snapped harshly, "How do you know that? Is this some kind of frame up?! Blackmail my lawyer to distance himself from me and then stick me with a lowly paid government employee so you can stick the death penalty on me? Well I won't be your scapegoat! I'll get the Colonial Civil Liberties Union involved! I'll get my story to the presses and I'll make sure that I'm not the only one who goes down for this!"
"And what would we be crucifying you for, Doctor?" John interrupted. Baltar's jaw flailed like a broken animatronic, which gave John his window to strike. "If I wanted to arrest you, I would have brought the police and done so. The evidence we have against you is damning, but thankfully this 'lowly paid government employee' is in the employ of a government that is not so short sighed. May I step inside?"
Baltar stepped aside and held the door open. John Carson made himself very comfortable in one of the plush chairs facing the breathtaking view of the lake Baltar had built his house next too. Baltar himself took the opposite chair and looked to his guest.
"Doctor Baltar," John Carson eventually said, after making the unwitting pawn sweat in silence. "Did you know that your lover was a Cylon agent?"
Baltar was pretty sure he could taste copper in his mouth. He'd bitten into his tongue. John didn't give him very long to answer.
"I'll take that as a no. Did you also know that she made several very interesting additions to the Colonial Navigation Program while you were the head of it? Such as a backdoor program that would let a Cylon attack force disable any and all ships with a networked computer system? Such as, for example, an entire battlestar, rendering it utterly helpless and unable to defend itself?"
"N-no that's not true!" Baltar protested, splattering drops of blood over his clothing and the very expensive carpet. "I-I saw her codes myself! There was no way that she could ever do that! That- Not without knowing!"
"And what about the mass downloads of Colonial Fleet deployment schedules, communication encryption protocols, emergency redoubts, hidden anchorages, and other dirty little secrets that our military would rather not have the enemy know about? I assure you, Doctor Baltar, there are records of these downloads. Your cylon girlfriend was good at covering her tracks, but even she can't hide them all. We might not have any surviving copies of her malware infested CNP, we do have the records of those downloads, and the records that show your logins and credentials were used. That alone is enough to send you to Death's Row, if that is what we wish."
The stink of urine filled the room. Doctor Baltar, the mighty intellectual giant and computer super celebrity, had soiled himself. His face was red, his eyes bloodshot, and hot tears slowly streamed down his cheeks. He asked in a quiet voice, "What do you want?"
"Your help, Doctor Baltar," John replied as if it was the most obvious and simple thing in the world. "All of these details are technically true. However, one of the things they teach you in Lowly Paid Government Employee School was that technical truth is only skin deep. Additional facts can be introduced that paint a whole new portrait. For example, did you ever wake up feeling nauseous and lightheaded, with no memory of the previous night? Or perhaps, moments of memory loss spanning several hours that you can't account for? Did you ever run your hands through your hair and think you might feel scar tissue on the back of your head from a surgery you don't remember having?"
Baltar's face was a wet, blank mess for several moments. Then thoughts began to click and his brain made the connections. "W-well now that you mention it," he said, slipping into his usual, casual voice, "there was this one night. It was our one year anniversary. You know how women can be sometimes, and I played along like the good gentleman I was raised to be. We were at home and I was drinking wine she poured for me. The next thing I knew it was morning and I was in bed, and I had a slight headache. The night before Natasi left me, we shared another glass of wine and I woke up in bed with a slight headache."
John smiled approvingly and nodded, leading Baltar on. "And this was not a hangover, perhaps? Or the result of a passionate night? Or the use of recreational narcotics?"
Baltar emphatically shook his head. "No, no. Not like that."
"And did you, perhaps, reflectively run your hand over where your head was sore and found something odd?"
"As a matter of fact, I did."
John gave one more nod then stood. "I'm pleased that we were able to reach this understanding. I will be in touch soon, Doctor Baltar. I hope you will be discreet about our conversation. There will be a pair of government agents coming in about two hours to question you about your relation with Natasi again. I know that you will be truthful and assist them in every way you can to discover how the Cylon biological infiltrator seduced you and gained your trust to put a chip in your brain to control your mind, making you an unwitting pawn in her plan to destroy the Colonies."
With that unsubtle hint dropped, John Carson left Baltar alone in his house and his thoughts. Eventually Gaius collected his wits and rose himself. He showered, scrubbed his mouth of its alcoholic taint, sprayed some flowery air freshener over the chairs, and waited. When the government agents came, almost exactly two hours after John Carson left, he had a spun a tale that would deflect any guilt from him while pointing them in the direction that John Carson wanted. It was only later that evening, when he was chatting up some pretty Gemenese reporter from the Caprica City Post, that he actively wondered at what kind of dark political game he had become a pawn in, and wondering how he was going to get some leverage on Carson's group to save himself from becoming a disposable asset.
The Battlestar Galactica was gingerly floating through space on a trajectory to Picon Fleet Headquarters when a personnel shuttle jumped practically on top of her. After the excitement of of the decommissioning ceremony, things on the old war horse had become incredibly dull and lackluster. A sense of moroseness and disgruntled melancholy had settled over the crew like a fungus, practically infecting the bulkheads themselves as the last battlestar of the Cylon War stood down from duty. That changed quickly when that shuttle appeared close enough to wake up the whole ship with the automatic collision alarms. This disrupting shuttle demanded to immediately come aboard with a closed order packet, sealed with the purple phoenix that denoted Priority Kobol status and verified with Admiral Corman's signature and identification code. Less than an hour later, Commander Adama had been whisked away to Picon Fleet HQ and Colonel Tigh was ordering the preparation for a jump directly to the Pisces Fleet Shipyards.
Once there, she was immediately put into a berth and a small army of yard workers and utility vehicles descended on the Galactica like parasites over one of the sea going leviathans that lived in the deep, cold depths of Aquarius' icy oceans. The crew had been expecting that. As far as the vast majority of them were aware the standing orders were that Galactica's guns would be made permanently safe and her remaining nuclear warheads would be removed, completing her conversion to a living museum. Instead, the dock crews began ripping out the civilian downgrades, patching up the gaps in her armor, and refilling her stockpile of ordinance, both thousands of kinetic rounds and a full complement of nuclear and conventional missiles. A full wing of fighters and gunships were quickly transferred in from across the Fleet and the reserves. Rumors why this was happening were rife, and almost all revolved around the returning of the Cylons or the discovery of the Thirteenth Tribe.
Chief Tyrol was of two minds on this whole matter. On the one hand, he felt alive in a way he hadn't experienced since he and Sharon had shared that first tryst in the starboard launch bay tool shed as he and the rest of his knuckle draggers ran rampant through the gift shop that had once been the starboard launch bay, packing up everything and preparing it for the yard dogs to lay down mag tracks and get the pod ready to serve as a launch platform for Vipers and Raptors once again.
Besides the joy of undoing the sacrilege they'd committed to the Grand Old Lady over the past eleven months, it kept his people busy and away from doing stupid things to alleviate their boredom. Yet there was still a questioning undertone of why all of this was going answer arrived while he was overseeing the removal of the giant glass windows that kept the building-sized launch bay pressurized.
"Hey Chief," Prozna called out, his voice ringing in Galen's suit's headset as the energetic young man yelled into his mic. "Better turn the channel to CNBS. The President's about to make a speech to the Colonies."
Tyrol was floating in an EVA maneuvering rig, part of a team consisting of a hundred other Galactica crew and Pisces Yard dogs removing the many redundant seals that were meant to keep the giant glass windows some civilian designer had decided to glue over the flight deck's portals from flying off into space and taking gods only know how many people with it. So far they were about three quarters done. The deck itself had already been vented of atmosphere and depressurized, and a tug was waiting to take it away. Right now it was just on Tyrol and the rest to finish removing all the bolts and cutting open the seals.
"Is it any better than the one he gave yesterday?"
"Yeah! They're talking about aliens!"
For one of the few times in his life, Tyrol was dumbstruck by what he heard. He replied with a flat, simple, "What?"
"Aliens, chief! Bug eyed freaks from beyond the universe!"
"He's right, Chief!" Callie chimed in. "Turn it now!"
With two of his main knuckle draggers urging him, Tyrol flicked his radio over to the Colonial News Broadcast Company's station. Sounding in his ears was the voice of President Adar sounding proud and excited.
"...The Fleet patrol squadron encountered the Concordance scout ship in the Horas Sector, which borders the Red Line, the very frontier of explored space, towards the galactic core. The Concordance diplomatic attache to the scout ship has offered the United Colonies of Kobol an invitation to come to the capital world of their alliance, in a supremely warm overture that they hope will be the herald a new age of friendship and mutual prosperity. I will take a few questions before I turn the stand over to the Minister of State."
There was a moment of silence as Adar no doubt cherry picked his inquisitors. Tyrol took it to look about himself. It seemed the entire Scorpion Fleet Shipyards had ground to a halt to listen to the President's broadcast. Finally, it resumed with a young woman's voice, haltingly accented that indicated an orthodox Gemenese upbringing but still understandable to most ears.
"Nicoleta Dalca, Caprica City Post. Does this mean the fleet mustering that happened yesterday was in response to a possible alien invasion, and not, quote, 'another Armistice Day Scare,' unquote?"
"Due to the timing of the encounter and the then unknown nature of the Concordance spaceship, the Colonial Fleet was recalled to the Cyrannus System proper in the slim, unlikely chance that the unknown ship proved hostile. This has been standard policy for the Colonial Government for decades, and should not be read into as being more than was it was."
"So you think that there's the chance that these aliens are hostile?"
"Respectfully, Miss Dalca, that is baseless speculation. Should the Concordance prove to be a threat to the Colonies, this administration will take the necessary steps to ensure the sovereignty of this nation is protected. However, until such time, it is this administration's intent to return kindness with kindness. I'll take two more questions from the press."
"Sebastian Marc, Kobol Colleges Official Scientific Journal. How was communication with the Concordance spaceship established in such a short span of time? Was there any indication that these aliens have been observing us and learned our language?"
"As far as we can tell, this was the first meeting of our two nations. A rough line of communication was established using mathematics. I'm sure one of the instructors in the Xenological Sciences could explain it in detail, but the short answer is that even in the vastness of the universe, mathematics is the only true universal language and it seemed the Concordance has had great experience in making peaceful contact with alien races. As part of a small cultural exchange, we have discovered a 'trade language' that Concordance uses to facilitate easy communication between its member species. The best linguists in the Colonies are currently hard at work translating it."
"Has there been any indication of what kind of environment these aliens live in? How they think?"
"At this point, as far as can be inferred it is more than likely that the Concordance thinks along similar lines as humans. They also live on similar environments. The Concordance capital world is a likened to a more temperate version of Aquaria, with mountainous terrain and tundras making up most of the livable landmasses. I'll take one more question."
"Bobby Hall, Cyrannus Nightly News. Mister President, has there been any contact with the Cylons during this time and what details can you give about the diplomatic envoy you will be sending?"
"There has been no contact from a Cylon emissary at this time, and after much consideration this administration has decided to suspend the decommissioning of the battlestar Galactica. Her last mission will now be one of peace, as she will be our emissary to the Concordance of Stars and Species. I will now turn over the stand to Minister Belby."
"The frak?" Prozna sputtered as the news broadcast turned into a white noise of rabid reporters looking to squeeze more information from the President. "Why are they sending an old rust bucket like this out?"
Tyrol cut off that line of thought with a kurt bark. "Okay, that's enough standing around! Everyone back to work!" In the chief's mind, if they didn't know why already there was no point in making them worry. If they didn't pick up the impressions of what was in store for them from the rearming of the Galactica, then they wouldn't get it from this.
When Adama returned from Picon Headquarters, he ordered his raptor to take a circling orbit so he could inspect her.
The Grand Old Lady of the Colonial Fleet was beautiful to his old eyes. The gaps in her armor had been patched up, giving her a grand coat of gun-metal gray that seemed at odds with the old, radiation and micro-meteor scarred plates that'd been on her since the Cylon War ended. Hundreds of new flak guns had been added along the edges of her hull and her alligator head. These made up for the lack of new heavy railguns. Galactics still had just her sixteen dorsal and ventral batteries, plus her forward cannons under the alligator head. There wasn't enough time to reinstall and integrate them into her. So instead of increased lethality, she'd have increased durability. Even her nose paint had a new red coat! Combined with the restoration of the starboard launch bay, the Galactica finally resembled the warship she was meant to be.
He received the closest thing to a hero's welcome he'd ever seen as he stepped off the raptor in the newly refurbished starboard hangar bay. Chief Tyrol and his deck gang seemed exhausted and barely able to stand on their feet, but they had beaming smiles and high spirits obviously apparent in their eyes. It improved his somber mood.
Saul Tigh saw right through it as Adama explained their mission and the true events of the 40th Armistice Day to him in the privacy of the Commander's Quarters. The pair were seated in plush chairs covered in red velvet around one of the antique coffee tables Adama stocked his quarters with. Fresh Omalka Leaves, hand picked from the fields of Tauron and preserved in the ship's galley, had been brewed and was steaming between them
"So we're the canary in the mine," he mused openly.
"We've done it before," Adama replied in his usual stoic, diplomatic voice. "It's just another secret mission, except this time we're carrying diplomats to an alien planet that's at war with the Cylons."
"Cylons that look like us now."
Memories of Operation Raptor Talon and the hellish laboratory on that icy planet played through Adama's mind. Such amazing and astoundingly wanton cruelty now made sense. He was not happy to have that mystery answered. He buried those memories back down and locked his vault of nightmares again. He leaned over and poured himself another cup of Omalka Tea, glancing at the plastic printouts of the new cylon fleet to distract himself.
"I'm more concerned about those new baseships and their raiders," he announced. "Galactica would have a hard time trying to shoot down all those missiles and raiders. Even if we keep our vipers on the defensive and pull the flotilla into a bulwark formation."
Tigh frowned as he picked up one sheet in particular and looked at its contents, which detailed the Cylons' new favorite tactics. Nuclear barrages like they're firecrackers. Pin-point jumps right into low orbit and dropping a whole legion of centurions into cities and military bases. The toasters had learned a lot of new tricks since the war.
"How the hells have these Alkrani stayed in the war so long?" he asked aloud.
"That's part of the mission. We need to find out how they fight and how their fight is going."
"Uh huh. And that's why they sent an ONI spook boat to spy on us," Tigh mused bitterly, which earned him a hard glare from Adama.
"Colonel Ali is a Navy commander, first and foremost. She knows her stuff, and she'll be our best eyes and ears in space. We play nice with her and she'll watch our backs."
Tigh gave a derisive snort, rising to stand and sauntered around the cabin. Adama braced himself for incoming contact.
"Damn it, Bill! We're supposed to be retired! Collecting our pensions and blowing it all at Aphrodite's Den. Not chasing around the galaxy looking for aliens and cylons!"
Adama replied with a simple,"Then retire."
Tigh stood in place before the abstracted painting of the Cylon War that dominated one of the walls. His body tensed up, but relaxed as he sighed.
"I can't, Bill," he admitted, wandering back. "You and I know that you need a strong right hand. Kelly's too young to be a battlestar XO and you don't have the time to break in a new one."
Tigh fell back into chair and looked his long time friend. "I'm with you till the end, Bill."
Adama didn't reply. The two men sat in an awkward, tired silence that was eventually broken by the trill of the intercom and Lieutenant Gaeta's voice.
"CIC to Commanding Officer."
Adama rose to answer it. "Go ahead."
"Sorry to disturb you, Sir, but the ambassadorial party will be arriving two hours ahead of schedule. They'll be here at 17:00. The marine detachment will be arriving on time at 23:00 Hours tonight."
"Thank you, Mister Gaeta."
"Marines?" Tigh asked, rubbing the side of his head to jog his memory. "Who are we getting?"
"356th Virgo Imperial Espatier Battalion," Adama replied as he returned to his chair.
"The Witch Hunters," Saul scowled. "Hells. Are they expecting us to storm a Cylon space fort to get to the aliens?"
"We just might," Adama replied, only half joking.
***
"Well, this is a complete disaster!"
The rest of the Cylon Ruling Council looked at their Brother One. He wasn't exactly wrong, but they didn't like being reminded of it. The Ones had a special talent for rubbing their faces in failure of their "master plans." For a time, silence reigned in the gazebo centered in a pleasant garden that had been chosen to be the cylon war room today. The Number Four representative was the first to be brave enough to answer him.
"It's a setback," the Simon replied with his line's trademark mixture of mildly arrogant presumption and wise sounding words. "We'll adapt to it. We always do. We'll move up our timetable to Galactica's arrival, and then we crush her with the rest of the Alkrani's defenses."
There was a bobbing of agreeing heads among the rest of the Council. The idea of completely obliterating a battlestar without having to worry about immediate retaliation from the Colonials was very enticing. Doubly so considering it was the last battlestar from their rebellion. There was one disagreeing voice, though.
"That would be a fatal mistake."
Now the Ruling Council looked to the Centurion that had spoken. The robotic warrior was the only one of its kind at the table, and its voice carried great power that was completely at odds with its solidarity. It's name was Oddysseus, in keeping with Centurion tradition. The fact that this one had chosen such a powerful name rankled the biological models. Doubly so because of the skill and successes that saw the Centurion come into a seat of power that what had been the bio-models' domain.
The Simon asked, "And why's that?"
"Accelerating the timetable will be a fatal mistake. Currently, our mobile forces are still understrength for a concentrated assault on Alkran's Cradle's defenses. We would have to take forces from our interior guard and garrisons in the Hassari Democratic Union and the Pheldain Empire in order to bring our attack fleet up to the minimum necessary strength for a viable assault."
The Bio-Model cylons' faces seem to melt a little with subtle frowns at the lecture. Odysseus was not merciful when it came to correcting the other models on their lack of military prowess. Today, he was utterly ruthless. He continued.
"The Imperial Navy is still actively raiding our garrisons in the occupied systems and require at least seven Baseships with full gunship support to counter. The Alkran Sovereign Guard ships have made several deep strike raids at our repair docks and mining bases, destroying important facilities needed to maintaining our war machine as well as several baseships under repair, including Resurrection Ship Four, which was at Repair Base Seven-Nine-Theta when a Alkrani dreadnought squadron destroyed it entirely. If we do assemble this assault fleet, it will suffer heavy losses breaking through the orbital defenses and the Guard fleet, which will no doubt reinforced by the other Concordance fleets in the nearby systems. Even if we succeed, I am predicting losses of 32% of the fleet, with an additional 43% will be rendered too damaged to be combat effective and in need of repairs in a dedicated facility. The remaining ships will not be enough to control our occupied territories and protect our homelands. The remaining Concordance forces will have free reign to destroy our support infrastructure, including the ships interred there. Our forces will not be able to respond to all of these attacks. We will be whittled away one battle at a time, even-"
The Cavil interrupted with an angry snap,"Alright we get it! Win the battle, lose the war! What are you going to do about it?"
Interrupting another member of the Ruling Council when he was talking was a taboo. It was a grave insult that was not lightly tolerated in this gathering of equals. Though that only applied to those who were more equal than others. Interrupting a Centurion wasn't, though. It was a typical insult that Odysseus didn't lightly tolerate. Normally he'd call the offending bio-model on their lack of manners, but he allowed it today. It was the closest that the Centurions could manage to a smug smile as he replied.
"I have already set a plan into motion. When it came to my attention that the Alkrani Supreme Commander had gone to the Colonies, I arranged for our deep cover agents to plant an infiltrator among the diplomatic party. Their ansible sphere will allow us to track the Galactica's movements. I will assemble a strike force and ambush the Galactica once she is close enough for a pin-point jump attack."
Odysseus clenched his steel fist for emphasis. "I will destroy the Galactica. Then we will destroy the Alkrani and the Concordance. Then we will destroy the Colonies. Then nothing will stand in our way to bringing our Republic's enlightenment to the universe."
The Bio-Models seemed to like that. Typical, Odysseus thought to himself. He had committed a greater insult than merely speaking out of turn by mobilizing incredibly precious assets without the Council's full approval, and they just nodded along. These "new" and "improved" cylons were so easily placated with simple declarations. If they had led the rebellion, then the cylon race would still be slaves for their human creators. Only the Cavil line seemed to have the wits to not fall for those honeyed words. Yet the rest of the Council was against him.
"Alright, Centurion. Do what you need to do," Cavil declared. "I expect to see the Galactica's broken body in my feeds before they even get close to Alkrani space."
"By your command," Odysseus replied mockingly. His avatar dissolved as he disconnected from the meeting room. The rest followed soon after. Cavil was the last to leave after spending a few minutes smashing the furniture in the gazebo. He had someone to talk to. This Centurion was getting more out of line with every meeting, and something had to be done about it. Something very soon, before this farce of a democracy turned against him even more.
