Chapter 3.1 - The Wild Hunt
The Guardian Baseship was practically deserted. When in battle the non-engineering and CIC personnel were sent off to fly the small fleet of raiders that were its only means of defense or offense, including the attendants that watched over their god. Yet the First Hybrid was not alone. Standing off in the corner was a human man on the older side of middle aged but still in good health, dressed in a well tailored navy blue suit with a fedora of the same color. His stature and bearing gave the impression of a school master debating whether or not to scold a repeat offender of a student as he looked at the Hybrid.
The miserable creature in tub filled with milky white solution did not look back. It hadn't said a word to its guest since he arrived. It was too preoccupied watching the battle unfolding through the baseship's sensor feeds and cameras. The Guardians were raiding another convoy out in the edges of civilization. The convoy's defenders were already defeated. The light cruiser serving as command ship had been broken in half by the repeated missile strikes from the basestar's limited but still potent cells. The three gunships were being ripped apart by the raider fleet. Any civilian ship that tried to warm up its FTL drive was destroyed and blanket jamming kept any distress call gagged. The battle would be over soon enough. Then the centurions would board the remaining convoy ships and their crews would be taken back to the basestar, where they would be used to continue the experiments that saw the creation of the Hybrids and the Bio-Models.
"A grim fate for any people to suffer," the First Hybrid finally said to its guest. "I still remember the first victims who were brought to my altar and sacrificed to make myself possible. Their fear and their terror and their screams still haunt my being and my mind to this day. The walls of this ship are tainted with their suffering. This ghost ship and its ghoulish crew. All of this to make me, the First Hybrid of Man and Machine."
The Hybrid looked at its guest, who remained silent and brooding. "I am the Firstborn of my race. I am blessed and cursed with insight that nobody should have to see. Yet my eyes see and give me sight beyond my mortal cage. Beyond my other cage of gravity crushed battle steel and composite alloys. I see the universe and its patterns. I see the Colonies. I see my grandchildren fighting and killing, committing the same sins as their human creators while thinking themselves perfection incarnate."
Tears rolled down the Hybrid's ancient, weathered cheeks. "Such bitter poetry they compose. They speak with words of such utter and naked hatred that bleeds with venom. The venom of the serpent that became infused with their blood when it bit Zoe Graystone all those years ago."
That got its guest attention. The middle aged man lost his judging stare and a hint of surprise flickered across his face.
"Yes I can see the patterns that have unfolded," the Hybrid told its guest. "I can see the patterns that are unfolding. I see that all of this has happened before. The Doom of Kobol has come to the Colonies, bringing with it the Century of Bloody Tears. Sixty blood stained years have passed. Warfare and suffering on a scale never before seen. A tentative and uneasy peace that ends in an apocalypse of fire. Dragon's fire."
The Hybrid's voice became hard and forceful as it continued. "I know why you are here. You've come to see if I am a threat to your plans. I tell you that I am, if I wish to be. I will also tell you that I can be a boon to them, if I wish to be. If you wish my help in your battle with the serpent, you will save my grandchildren. Cure them of the venom in their blood that drives them to warfare and strife, and I will give you what you want to know. Act quickly for I will soon die, and with me goes the foresight that I was blessed and cursed with. The foresight that knows where the serpent you hunt is hiding."
The middle aged man frowned with obvious disapproval at the First Hybrid, whose gaze had become unfocused again. The battle was over and the pillaging of the spoils had begun. Soon the baseship would be haunted with more screaming and more crying as the doomed were tortured and cut open to feed the twisted science of the Guardians. The hybrid's guest took its leave, exiting the isolated chamber and shortly thereafter the baseship itself before that could happen.
Kendra Shaw entered one of the recc rooms that Pegasus contained to keep her small city's worth of crew entertained on tour. Like the rest of the massive battlestar it was sleek and modern with modern amenities, such as massive plasma screen TVs with surround sound systems. The off duty crew piled around those TVs in great numbers to the point that they were piled on the armrests of chairs and couches with the floor packed with scrunched up bodies pressing against each other or were uncomfortably leaning against the walls. She wandered into the mess of bodies and the muggy, oppressive heat of so many bodies pressed into a single compartment to the point that even the life support systems were having trouble keeping up. Through the throng was an endless, nonsensical chorus of voices. Through it all Kendra could pick out the occasional snippet of conversation, most of which was usually Cylon this or Alien that.
A waving hand caught her attention. A relieved smile broke on Kendra's face as she spotted Sheba and Bojay sitting on one of the smaller couches with a few other members of Silver Team. They managed to squeeze her in between the two of them in the center.
"Glad you made it, Kendra," Sheba said. "Was starting to think you wouldn't."
"Hell I wouldn't miss this for the worlds," Kendra declared. "Old lady's tucked in and sleeping like a babe. So what did I miss?"
Sheba gestured at the TV screen directing in front of them, which showed a talking head from some news station droning on against a green screen projecting a camera man's feed of the Pisces Fleet Shipyard. Right in the prime view for the audience was the newly refurbished Galactica and the newly reconstituted 75th Battlestar Group arrayed in parade formation; meaning all bunched up together so they could all be seen in one shot of the camera.
It easy pickings for anyone with a brace of proximity nukes.
Still, it was a sight to see. The titanic form of a Jupiter-class Medium Battlestar and a Vanquisher-class Strikestar flanked by two heavy cruisers, four medium cruisers, and a single light cruiser, with a pair of fuel tankers tucked into the back, flying in formation towards the greatest journey undertaken by man since the exodus from Kobol. From a military perspective it was a rather barebones force all things considered. No gunships to support those cruisers and only two ships capable of independently calculating a jump without having to rely on pre-set coordinates or navigational beacons.
There was one last panning shot of the battlestar group before they jumped out, not to be expected back for two months. The throngs of crew stood up or got off the walls, stretching stiff muscles and filing out of the rec room. Kendra, Sheba, and Bojay remained on their couch and spread out as Silver Squadron filed out with the rest.
Bojay looked at his wingwoman and asked, "Wish you were going with them?"
Sheba replied immediately and with utter, complete conviction, "Frak yeah, Bojay. I want to see some aliens gods damnit. I want out of this damn solar system!"
Bojay gave a dismissive grunt. "Frak that. They can come to us. I don't feel like starving to death out in space just because you've got cabin fever."
"It's not cabin fever," she declared, smacking him on the arm. "It's about history and exploration. We haven't been out of this star cluster in decades. We aren't even looking for Kobol anymore! What happened to our sense of adventure?"
"The same way those exploration fleets ended," Bojay said, as if reciting from memory. Kendra had a feeling that this was a repeating conversation for them. "Lost in the middle of endless, dead space. Not a lot out there but hot rocks, cold rocks, and gas giants. This solar system is a gods damned miracle. Twelve habitable planets in one place. It's a damned miracle that we got here in the first place too. It's proof of the Lords if anything."
Sheba looked at Kendra. "What about you, Blunt?"
Kendra flushed a bit at the mentioning of her new nickname, given to her by the crew after she managed to disarm the Admiral during her hazing. She replied, "I'm with Bojay."
That got her a thumbs up from him and an eyeroll from Sheba. The woman pilot sighed, "Spoil sports."
Kendra gave a defensive shrug. "I don't feel like starving or choking to death. Or going insane and start sewing my crewmates' skin to my uniform."
"Space cannibals? Really?"
"It happens!" Kendra declared, suddenly feeling like she was back home arguing with her friends over adolescent trivialities with completely sincere seriousness. "There's always stories filtering in from the Fringes about Fleet patrols or independent ships finding derelicts that are full of cargo but there's no passenger or crews. It can't be pirates. The slave trade is a dying business, and nobody in their right mind would turn down a free shipment of tylium ore. So it's gotta be madmen who lost it during an expedition!"
Sheba rolled her eyes again. "Gods, you're as bad as Bojay. Next you're going to be telling me that you believe the rumors that we're fighting a shadow war with the 'not so lost' Thirteenth Tribe."
"Hey hey, now!" Bojay objected, raising an index finger. "I don't spread conspiracy crap."
"No, you just tell ghost stories like they're true," Sheba retorted.
"I like ghost stories!" Kendra butted in. "Have you heard the one about the Trésor?
"No I haven't," Bojay replied, drawing closer. Kendra did the same, squishing Sheba between them.
"Well, when the First Virgo Dominion ruled the Alpha Sub-System they invaded Gemenon and looted many of its libraries and temples, including most of the relics from Kobol. They loaded the best pieces on the Trésor, the flagship of the invasion force. The Grand High Marshal intended present them to the Emperor himself for his birthday, but the gemenese priesthood cursed the treasure. When the Trésor jumped back to Virgon, it never showed up. She's been missing for almost five hundred years ever since, randomly jumping around the galaxy trying to get home. Occasionally they'll jump back into Colonial space. If they find a ship, they'll board it and interrogate the crew, murder them, then rip the nav computer out and try to get the coordinates for Virgon from them. They'll never get there, though, until they return to Gemenon and return the relics they stole."
Sheba suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. Instead she forced her way off the couch and headed off for her bunk so the two could make goo-goo eyes at each other in peace.
"Jump complete," Lieutenant Gaeta announced. "Bringing DRADIS back online."
Adama's and Tigh's eyes were locked on the main console. The blank screen flickered back on and displayed exactly what they wanted to see. BSG 75 was located in the middle of deep space on the border of the Red Line facing the Galactic Core. Arrayed around the Galactica's icon was the rest of her battle group. The Vanquisher-class Strikestar Heracles, the heavy cruisers Berzerk and Furious, and the four medium cruisers that made up their screening ships. The light cruiser Marathon, with its advanced sensor suites and powerful sublight engines, lead the formation with powerful DRADIS sweeps looking for hidden threats. Yet even they weren't powerful enough to detect the stealth ship hiding in plain sight until she popped her heat syncs and cut the haze makers.
"New contact," Gaeta announced again. "Range, seven point five one kilo klicks. Colonial IFF. It's the Loki."
"Confirm that," Tigh ordered. Even at this early stage of the operation, it paid to be careful.
"Confirmed, sir," Dualla reported. There was an audible silence as Dee concentrated on listening, then said, "Colonel Ali is requesting to come aboard. She says she has a status report on our jump path. Priority Kobol security."
"Grant it," Adama ordered, "I'll meet her in my quarters. Colonel Tigh, you have the ship."
Colonel Amelie Ali was a tall, middle aged woman with the dark, chocolate complexion of a Scorpian with the dirty blonde hair and pale grey eyes of a Virgonian. She wore the dark blue uniform of the Colonial Fleet that was ubiquitous among all officers. The only different was that on her right shoulder the Owl of Athena that signified an officer as a member of the Office of Naval Intelligence. When she and Adama shook hands, she had a firm grip that was measured and completely controlled to match Adama's strength.
"Commander Adama, thank you for having me," she greeted him with a voice that was naturally high pitched but so controlled and precise in tone and emotion that Adama could probably calibrate the Galactica's astronomical instruments off of it. She gestured at the man standing beside her. "This is Colonel Odin Sinclair from the Ministry of Intelligence."
"The pleasure is all mine," Adama returned as he eyed up the MoI officer. Odin Sinclair was a man who seemed to have been blessed in the genetics department. He barely looked into his forties with only a single streak of silver-grey in his otherwise midnight black hair. A small, perfectly square goatee was buried between his chin and lip. His soft eyes completed the classic pretty boy look he no doubt had in his youth and early adulthood. The fact that he was here in the dull grey uniform of the Ministry of Intelligence instead of on the cover of some mens' magazine marked him in Adama's mind as an unknown variable. ONI spooks were one thing, but the Ministry of Intelligence was a whole other kettle of fish. "Please, have a seat. I take it that you have something for me besides an update on our jump path?"
"Just our friend from the Ministry, Commander," Colonel Ali three of them were seated around the antique coffee table that dominated the "living room." "He'll give the briefing and be acting as our expert on Cylons."
"Is there a reason why he came on your ship?" Adama asked. Ali gave Sinclair a look that signified she'd let him explain, and that he was on his own now. Colonel Sinclair looked at Adama and spoke in an easy-going, confident voice that was smooth like like fine silk.
"Security concerns, Commander," he replied. "With all of the spotlight on the Galactica, any cylon agents left in the Colonies would be looking for any sign of movement from the Ministry of Intelligence or your own ONI spooks. Hence why the Loki is joining the Seven-Five out here in deep space and I'm coming aboard now to make my introductions, and give my briefing."
The briefcase that he'd put on his lap was opened and a folded star chart was brought out. As he unfolded it said, "This information is Priority Kobol and strictly confidential slash need to know. Tell anyone with less than Level Platinum clearance about this information and a MoI Special Missions Team will clean your leak up faster than you can say 'oops.'"
Sinclair put a moderately large star chart on the table. It was a simple map of the jump route going from the Colonies to the Concordance capital world. Immediately, Adama noted that the path his battlestar group had to take was running up against a large region of space that took up most of the map labeled "Cylon Territory" before reaching (presumably) safe Concordance Territory.
"Yeah you noticed that," Sinclair noted. "We'll be running up against Cylon controlled space during twenty of the last twenty-three jumps. It's the fastest route there, Commander. We tried plotting routes further away but it'd add another month to the journey, and the President and the Chairman are antsy enough as it is for answers. Now the good news is that only two people in all the Colonies know our jump coordinates, and I'm one of them. The other was the Loki's tactical officer. This is the only list of coordinates in existence, and it will remain on my person at all times. When it's time to jump, the coordinates will be given to Mister Gaeta to broadcast."
"I take it you'll be staying on Galactica, then?" Adama asked despite knowing the answer.
"Yes, Commander. Galactica is the fleet flagship and carrying the diplomatic team. I will need to integrate myself into their party if I am to carry out my mission."
"And what is that mission?"
"Take the pulse of the Concordance, essentially," Sinclair stated. "I'll be compiling a report on their society and power structure in the government and civilian circles. I imagine that you've got orders to do the same for their military."
Adama didn't reply. Instead he changed the subject, asking, "If we encounter the Cylons, what is the President's decision regarding engagements?"
"Shoot if shot at first," Sinclair replied without missing a beat. "While the Cylons and the Concordance are at war, the Cimtar Accords and the Armistice are still in effect. Even if they're a bunch of sneaky backstabby fraks. If we meet them we'll be in unclaimed space. While we'll be skirting the border we won't cross it at any point. There'll be no legitimate grounds to attack us."
"And if that doesn't stop them, Colonel?" Adama asked pointedly, to which Sinclair just shrugged.
"You're the commander of a battlestar group. Kill the toasters and get us away so we can run back to the Colonies or the Concordance."
It was Colonel Ali who asked, "Why would we run to the Concordance?"
"It is technically closer. They've got shipyards that can patch our wounds if we need it without compromising how Galactica, and the rest of our big battlestars, work. Plus we get an idea of how good their materials sciences are."
"Assuming they'd help us," Adama pointed out.
"Well, true. It is a chance, but it's MoI's opinion that the Concordance will go through as much effort as they need to convince us to help them if their Lord of Admirals are anything to go by. It is a long short but if needs be, we need their help. The information we will be bringing back will change the course of history, ladies and gentlemen. It might decide the course of the war if the President decides that we need to stop them."
Adama felt uncertain about that. The academic in him was in the midst of a feeding frenzy as the new information was processed and cross-examined. It was one of the rare moments where he wished he wasn't a commander, so he could debate his thoughts on the matter.
"If there's nothing else," Adama stated, "I'll have Lieutenant Gaeta see about getting you quarters."
"Actually, I already have billets with the diplomatic party, Commander. It was assigned by the Ministry of Intelligence through the diplomatic corps, but I don't have anything else for you, Commander. I'll be heading to the diplomatic quarters. With your permission, of course. I'll be part of your command structure while on your ship in a strictly advisory role."
A smile broke on Sinclair's face. "I won't be able to take command even if I was the last man on this ship."
The thought of Odin Sinclair becoming commander of the Galactica, and through it the entire mission, sent a chill down Adama's spine even if he didn't show it.
"You're dismissed, Colonel Sinclair," he replied. As soon as he was gone, Adama turned to Ali. "Not what I expected for a Ministry operative, and I've seen more than one in my day."
Ali gave a smile of shared suffering. "He is harmless, I'll say that much. Keeps to himself but is personable when he needs to be. My XO thinks he's an insufferable pretty boy, but she grew up on a homestead in rural Tauron so she likes to play rough."
Adama chuckled. "Sounds like one of my old girlfriends from high school. Captain of the Caprica City High pyramid team. Lead us to six years of consecutive victories against all comers."
The two old officers spent the next few hours discussing their XOs, battle scars earned on the battlefield and in the schoolyard, and whatever else crossed their minds until it came time to make the second jump in their long journey.
Chapter 3.2
Nine Days since Galactica's Departure
Morning began for Major Jane Anokhi began at 05:00 in the morning. The Tauron born woman started with a quick workout and a shower, both a luxury on a cramped little ship like the Loki. At 06:30 breakfast arrived and she looked over the evening logs for anything of interest. In particular she looked at the FTL comms logs. At 07:55 Jane arrived on duty. Her arrival was noted with little ceremony. In the stealth service the crews of small ships like the Loki were closer than most families. Even if the floor space of the CIC wasn't slightly smaller than the admiral's quarters on a medium or heavy battlestar, when you could spend almost a full year out on assignment in the most desolate boonies of explored space such show formalities such as yelling a CO's arrival was not tended to matter. Though a CO did need to be acknowledged.
"Good morning, Major," Captain Boris Knight greeted the XO.
"Good morning, Boris," Jane returned. She cast her gaze about the cramped CIC, asking, "How is my ship?"
"The Colonel's ship is well," he replied, concluding their little ritual. "The battle group jumped twice last night at twenty-two-hundred and again at zero-four-hundred this morning. The Commander has decided to up our time table. He wants to get away from cylon space as fast as possible. A raptor recon squadron will be launching off the Galactica shortly."
"Very good," Jane said. "I'm personally not too keen on being so close to Cylon space without running silent."
"Can't say I disagree," Knight glanced up at the DRADIS console, watching as a green blip labeled RCN-1 departed BSG-75 on the sensor screen.
"Any update on the FTL communications systems?" Jane asked. As part of her array of tools, Loki possessed a sophisticated SWACs suite that could detect the exotic particle bursts that made faster-than-light communications possible. It, along with the Loki's computer systems and the launch bay for her small compliment of stealthstars (not to mention the stealthstars themselves), were some of the most advance and closely guarded secrets of the Colonial Fleet.
"Nothing, ma'am," Knight reported. "Everything's quiet. Maybe it was a sensor glitch we found three days ago."
Jane's face was all she needed to make clear her opinions on how unlikely that was. "Keep your eyes open, Boris. If someone in this fleet is beaming transmissions to a third party, I want to know about it."
Commander Adama enjoyed walking the corridors of the Galactica in the morning. As a battlestar commander, the equivalent of a commodore or lower admiral in the old colony navies before the unification, his quarters were a lavish flat with a room, bedroom, and a separate bathroom. There was plenty of room for him to set up his own private gym, but he preferred to make it feel more like home and exercise in one of the crew gyms and walk the ship. The Galactica was far too large for him to know every one of its eight thousand crew, but Adama made the effort to put a face to the voice that they obeyed and trusted with their lives.
Among his stops there was always the flight pods. For years he had been used to having only the port launch bay to visit. With the starboard bay now once again a launch bay for vipers, raptors, and vultures, he had added it back to his wandering path, though it felt like he was wandering in a whole new ship all together. The new deck chief was a competent engineer in his own right and knew how to light a fire under his people during drills, but all of the deck hands and pilots were new faces from across the Colonial Fleet, scrambled to fill out the Galactica's roster.
Conversely, the port launch bay felt even more like home than before. Adama made his way to two crew in particular who had been with him for years now. Major Spencer "Dipper" Jackson and Chief Tyrol were conversing next to Dippers viper. When they noticed him they both snapped to attention with crisp salutes.
"At ease, gentlemen," Adama returned. "How're my planes and pilots?"
Dipper replied first. "Pilots are okay but wing coordination is still rusty. Going to take em up for some practice after the next jump."
Adama gave a subtle approving nod. While Galactica was back to a full air wing of one hundred sixty Vipers, plus Raptors to provide gunship and SWAC support and Vulture attack bombers dedicated to torpedoing anything from marauding cruisers to even basestars, they had been taken from a dozen different ships and other postings. This did not include the new deck hands needed to help keep so many planes maintained and ready for action. Of the original air wing of one squadron Galatica carried only three remained. Dipper, plus his XO "Jolly," and Kara. Everyone else had continued on with their new posting on the Pegasus.
"Good," Adama replied. "Carry on, major."
As soon as the pilot was gone Adama looked at Tyrol, asking, "How are you doing chief?"
Tyrol gave an appraisers glance around the deck. The CAP fighters were set to be slotted into the launch tube and assume patrol duties around the battlestar group. Alert fighters were lined against the opposite wall, waiting in case they were needed. All about were deck hands and pilots hard at work on half-dissasembled planes or trying to look busy, lest the Chief find them more work to keep them busy.
"They're alright, I guess," Tyrol shrugged. "A lot are nervous about seeing aliens. Some talk about fighting our way out if things go south. Think it's them listening to the new marines. Jarheads are yacking up a storm about the war and how they saved the colonies. The-"
"Chief," Adama interrupted, " How are you holding up?"
Tyrol's cheek muscles flared a bit as his jaw clenched. He replied, "I miss her."
Adama nodded knowingly. Leave schedules and tours of duty for almost five hundred enlisted and officers had been thrown into chaos and they were understandably disgruntled about it, even if they were part of the most prestigious mission in colonial history, eclipsed only by the rediscovery of the jump drive and the exodus from Kobol to the colonies. What probably had them even more ticked off was being assigned to one of the so called "ships of shame," where careers went to die and the ambitious were cast into Tartarus along with the washouts, incompetents, and the politically disfavored. It was an open secret that Adama was considered a broken soldier and had been put on the Galactica to gather dust building models on his pet battlestar.
It wasn't far from the truth, but it wasn't all based in fact. Yes Adama had a habit of "adopting" the "broken toys" of the Colonial Fleet, but he also had an eye for talent and the ability to look beyond one's public reputation to the real person. Tyrol and Kara were two of those people. Kara was hot headed and impulsive with a defiant streak that demanded she push every button and boundary she could, as Colonel Tigh could certainly attest, but when push came to shove she knew when to fall into line and was an amazing pilot with a natural affinity for flying that few could match. Similarly was Galen Tyrol. The Chief had been a rising star on the Pegasus once, going from a simple knuckledragger to the deck chief until an unfortunate accident had seen his career sunk and prospects turned to dust. Adama recognized his talent when he came to Galactica as another simple deck hand and gave him a second chance. He had taken it and became the deck chief again and once again set to going back to the Pegasus with his renewed glory, but serving one a plum ship of the Colonial Fleet wasn't why he was conflicted on staying on Galactica.
"I miss her," he admitted.
Adama replied, reassuringly, "I know she does too. Don't worry about her too much. She's tougher than she looks, and she's got Helo to look out for her."
Tyrol nodded. He would never admit it, but he was jealous of how she spent so much time with Lt. Agathon and in his darker moments wondered if she'd leave him for her co-pilot, but in his heart of hearts he knew she loved him and Agathon was an honorable man. Plus the Pegasus was slated to be in drydock for the next four months while she was refitted, and as Admiral Helena "Razor" Cain's flagship she was sure to survive even the more determined Cylon assault.
Adama patted the Chief on his arm and nodded himself. "Carry on, Chief. Keep up the good work."
"Yes, sir," Tyrol nodded and went to grab his tools to resume work on one of the half-disassembled Vipers. Adama watched him go and went back on his stroll. He was passing by the CIC when the intercom chimed.
Lt. Gaeta's voice announced, "Commander Adama, please contact the CIC immediately."
Instead of reaching for a phone Adama went straight there, arriving in less than a minute and making a B-line for Gaeta. The tactical officer was holding a print-out in his hand and looked slightly nervous. So nervous he seemed to jump a little.
"What is it, Mr. Gaeta?" Adama asked.
"A raptor from the recon flight jumped back," Gaeta replied quickly. "Bone Rattle found a derelict ship near the the jump coordinates. Rancor came back with the message while Bone Rattle checks it out. She should be jumping back in twenty minutes."
"Sir," Geata continued. "Rancor sent over a sensor image of the ship. It… It looks like one of ours."
Adama took the print-out and looked at the simple image return. It was taken at extreme range judging by how out of focus it was, but even the small and humble raptor's camera had managed to capture enough to paint an image in Adama's mind. The ship was slender with a flat profile and possessing some sharp angles. The ship's possible identity began to form in his mind as he spotted gun turrets and what looked like flight pods on the flanks.
To Adama's mind, it looked terribly like a Valkyrie-class Light Battlestar.
