Four white flashes burst into life and disappeared in the span of an eye blink, depositing a flight of raptors, two scouts with extra sensor nodes bolted on to their underbellies and two gunships armed with twin chain guns and a plethora of missiles, in the deep black of interstellar space.
"Jump complete," one of the scout raptor pilots, a rail thin ethnic piconian woman with the call sign Bone Rattle, leader called out. "Nothing on DRADIS. Fungus, can you confirm?"
"Confirmed," her ECO, Derrick White whose callsign came from a cruel prank from basic that'd stuck, reported. "Nothing but gravel and the rain."
"Copy. What about you, Rancor?"
"Aye, ma'am," the other Raptor pilot , Aquarian born Hitori "Rancor" Hart, confirmed. "Nothing bigger than a pebble for miles and miles."
Another jump off the notch, Bone Rattle noted to herself. "Alright then. Rancor, jump back to the fleet and tell Galactica she's cle-."
"Wait," Fungus interrupted, sounding like someone just shot a bolt of lightning up his ass but was trying to hide it. "Strike my last last. Getting something on extreme range. Bearing: One-One-Seven Karom Three-Five-Zero. Range: four hundred thousand klicks."
Bone Rattle felt a jolt run through her spine but kept her calm. It was probably an asteroid. She voiced her opinion as such.
"Maybe," Fungus replied. "But I don't think so. Reading a lot of metal in that asteroid. Looking funny on my instruments. Looks like a…"
"A ship?" Bone Rattle guessed.
"Yeah. Big one too. Looks like a heavy cruiser."
Bone Rattle suppressed a swear, instead asking," Any power readings?"
"No power. No heat either. Getting some odd returns off her hull plating, though."
"So she's silent running?" Bone Rattle ventured.
"I think she's derelict, actually. Even running silent I shouldn't be able to detect her from this range."
"Derelict ship on the Cylon border? Think I read a five cubit horror story about that once," Rancor chuckled.
Bone Rattle rolled her eyes. "Well, if you don't hear back from us in twenty tell the Old Man we got eaten by space gribblies. You're heading back to the barn. Gunships with me. Take the safeties off but keep the targeting systems off for now."
A trio of affirmatives answered. Rancor's raptor jumped out and the remaining scout ships flew toward their unexpected guest. Not wanting to accidentally get shot by a jumpy gunnery officer, Bone Rattle sent continuous hails identifying them as Colonial ships and asking if they needed assistance. No answer came from the ship, but Bone Rattle kept the hails up.
Even from such extreme range the derelict cruiser was obviously a warship. Closing in the exact details of the ship became obvious. Though neither knew it, both Bone Rattle and Adama were together in the initial impression that the ship looked startlingly like a valkyrie battlestar it was a distinctly not one. What had appeared to be flight pods were actually old fashioned hangar bays that were built into the main hull structure. Three bay doors were on the port and starboard each and were big enough hint at an impressive launch capacity.
"Damn," Bone Rattle swore as she ran the search over the hull, finding it heavily pockmarked from meteorite strikes and large swathes scarred by stellar radiation. DRADIS dishes and comms antennae were smashed, bent, and melted in the kind of ways that would probably drive a tactical officer to drinking and sobbing like a heartbroken lover. "This ship hasn't seen a good yard slip in… years."
"Try decades," Fungus told her. "This ships been drifting for a very long time. How'd it get out here?"
Another good question. Along with who built it. It looked Colonial but that didn't prove anything. All Cylon technology was based off of Colonial science, and Bone Rattle doubted that alien warship design philosophy would be radically different enough to be instantly identifiable just because they evolved on a different planet. The laws of science and the universe didn't change because of where you came from.
"Everyone keep an eye out for the ship's name or registry," Bone Rattle commanded. It didn't take long for it to be found. Bone Rattle's search light panned over the bow of the cruiser and found the crest of the ship or its owner: a two headed bird of prey with one being an eagle and the other a raven. A crown rested on the eagle while a silver headband encircled the raven. In their crawls was held a star with twelve orbs arrayed in a circle at the center. Below that was the ships name, written in some kind of script that seemed overly stylized but was definitely colonial.
"Found it," Bone Rattle announced. "Hull ident is Victor-Delta-Sierra space Tango-Ramses-Echo-Sierra-Oscar-Ramses."
Even as she read them off her eyes went wide in apprehension as she connected the dots and realized what she was looking at. After five hundred years, the Virgo Dominion Ship Tresor had been found again.
Concurrently….
Alkran's Cradle was a cold, mountainous world of harsh peeks and long valleys long ago carved by titanic glaciers that eventually melted into long, winding oceans perpetually half frozen over except during the heart of the summer months. Such an unfriendly world would no doubt create an equally unfriendly and hardy people. In some ways it had. As much as the modern Alkrani tried to profess their enlightened and peaceful nature, their world and their history would always remind them of their violent past.
When the Alkrani discovered the power of coal and oil along with the metallurgical arts that allowed for boats of iron to float, those early ice cutters allowed for the distant city-states to connect and trade, and with this ease of travel came wars of conquest in the name of wealth, power, and ideology.. The crusades of faith were a particular black spot in Alkran history. Many tried to forget the purges and inquisitions that had killed so many. They tried to remember the good parts of their history, like when the first Steward created the Sovereignty and ended the terrible wars and persecutions. They tried to remember the good will and prosperity they brought to their neighbors under the umbrella of the Concordance. Only a relatively small percentage of the population actively acknowledged the horrors they were capable of. Lord of Admirals Skrain Skarskin Yn Concalsan was one of those few.
He saw the proof all around him and embraced it. His heritage was that of templars and warriors. His family name, Skarskin, was descended from Skar the Preserver, the Executor and later Steward who used sword and pen both to end the bloody civil war that had spawned when his fellow Executors killed the previous Steward and attempted to divide the Sovereignty into fiefdoms. His birth city of Concalsan was a city of warriors who made one of the first great empires that held out during the wars of unification until the bitter end. That last heritage was not considered one to boast about. Concalsan was a city of tyrants as well as warriors, and the blood toll they had taken in lives and treasure had cut the nascent Sovereignty deeply. His legacy was one of heroes and villains both, and he would not hear a word otherwise.
Today, though, all of that seemed like so much frozen mud in the throws of a deep winter. Sitting in one of the comfortable plush chairs outside the Steward's private audience chambers within the House of the Alkran, the holiest building in the holiest city on Alkran's Cradle did more to test his patience and ability to appear calm than the darkest hours of the Cylon seige of this very planet barely four months ago. He awaited his greatest challenge and perhaps the penultimate moment of his life, second only to a contest between witnessing the birth of his first litter of pups and the first time he commanded a patrol cruiser against Xurian raiders, long before the Cylons were even at war with their human creators.
At long merciful last the great doors to the Steward's chambers opened and one of the Executors stepped out. There was a hidden smile that shown in his eyes as he announced, "The Steward will see you now."
Skrain rose to his full height and moved with a gait that was powerful and commanding. Even with a walking stick helping him carrying himself he treated it like it was merely an extension of himself without a hint of a hobble or weakness in his knees. As befitted an official meeting between two powerful members of the government, Skrain was dressed in full ceremonial regalia. His ochre jumpsuit was replaced with fine robes made of dark crimson that were lined with geometric patterns laced with gold threads. His chest was covered in medals and ribbons signifying the many decades of service he had provided to the Sovereign Guard and the accomplishments he had achieved in that time. Draped around his shoulders was his Living Memory: a self-stitched cloak worn over the side that chronicled his long life and the events that had unfolded in his time.
On the other side of the doors was the Steward Fonla. The supreme ruler of all Alkrani and conduit to the divine Alkran itself was kneeling at her personal shrine to the creator of the universe. She wore her own set of fine robes, except colored a deep emerald green with intricate geometric patterns made with a rainbow of many colored threads so amazingly precise that is was impossible to think that they had been woven by hand by the finest seamstresses in the Sovereignty on the eve of her ascension from Executor to Steward some forty-seven years ago. In that time her brilliant, glossy black coat had gone silver with age, but her bearing and brain still remained sharp as ever.
The faint scent of incense and the heavily melted wick of the candles that surrounded the holy symbol of the Alkran and the Sovereignty, an interwoven band of gold, silver, and bronze that was studded with rubies, diamonds, and emeralds, indicated that she had spent the last hour in deep meditation and consultation with the divine. The same hour that Skrain had spent waiting outside. This did not bode well.
Skrain stood patiently while the Steward finished her worship. It was only after the last candle was snuffed out and the final prayer of thanks was spoken that she rose and turned to face Skrain, officially recognizing his presence.
"Your holiness," Skrain greeted with a deep bow.
"Welcome back to Alkran's Cradle, Lord of Admirals," Fonla returned his greeting. "I hope your journey was swift and uneventful."
"It was," he replied truthfully, though he had a feeling she wasn't referring to the return from the front lines where he was supposed to be. At the thought every part of his ceremonial uniform felt like it was under the pull of 3 gravities and whispering words directly into his mind. All their words and feeling could be summed up with one.
Traitor.
Fonla continued, "That is good to hear. Tell me how does the war go?"
And there was the trap. His life and career would be decided based on how he answered. Of that Skrain had no doubts.
He replied, carefully, "The war continues to stalemate, your holiness. The Cylon Republic has had their basestar hunter-killer groups tied up chasing the Pheldain Imperial Navy across the Blue Drift. As I'm sure you know, the pulsar singularities in that area make it difficult for accurate jump plots to be written quickly, even by the machines minds. The Sovereign Guard continues to harass the occupation forces in the Hassari worlds. Our lightning strikes have with some success, particularly Group Commander Xonma's raid on their shipyards near the former Xur colony of Zonlak. Enemy casualties include the base itself, three basestars, seven heavy cruisers, and one of their precious resurrection ships. The strategic situation seems favorable, but without an accurate source of intelligence we cannot apply the pressure we truly need to defeat the Cylons. Their territory is simply too vast for our scout ships without some idea of where to look, and the Model Sixes and their Centurion rebels continue to be hesitant, secretive even, on where we should be striking."
Fonla nodded. "Good. Now, what of the Sovereign Guard's fleets?"
"They are still depleted, my Steward," Skrain continued without missing a beat. "The Cylons were methodical and relentless in the battle over Alkran's Cradle. The shipyards are working all hours of the day to repair those few ships not destroyed. It's only now that we can field a full dreadnought squadron. Our focus is still on refilling our cruiser and frigate lines. The good news is that the new dart fighter lines have finished the new wings for our strike carriers. They will hopefully make a fine compliment to our strike fighters. Group Commander Bellam will soon be taking his strike group into enemy territory to conduct a deep strike raid on a major Cylon refuelling base that is servicing the basestar groups hunting in the Blue Drift."
Fonla nodded again. "Good. Good. I'm glad to see that you did not completely neglect your duties as Lord of Admirals of my space forces."
Skrain felt his body temperature rise in flushed shame. He did not reply to that, which seemed to suit Fonla just fine as she continued.
The Steward asked with bitter, furious anger that was carefully restrained. "Did you really think I would not find out that you had abandoned your post? Defied my will?"
"I," Skrain replied evenly, "have been tasked with defending the Concordance of Stars and Species from Cylon occupation and extermination. Fifty billion sentients, including the various protectorates who haven't even discovered electrical power, much less nuclear bombs and interstellar spacecraft. We have both and much more, and we barely held the line the first time. That is the charge you have given me, and to do that I need ships and actionable intel. With our 'allies' unwilling to even provide us with actionable intelligence or technological support, I must have some way to replace all of the ships we lost."
"This again!" the Steward seethed. "The war council decided to not contact the humans. I expressly forbid contacting them!"
"On the advice of the Cylons!" Skrain roared back, slamming his cane into the floor. "They fought a war against the humans that lasted a generation! Do you really expect the robot servants to have an unbiased opinion of their former masters?"
"The Sixes stand by their Republic's opinions even as they rebel against it!"
"And you believe them even as they refuse to help us defend ourselves from the their Republic! They refuse to give us targets to attack or even assist us defend our worlds! And our association with them have driven a wedge between us and the Imperial Fleet! Our closest ally and the only space force that had the strength to fight the Cylons won't even respond to our transmissions for fear we'll reveal their main base to the enemy! Instead of one strong army we have two weak ones! I couldn't have devised a better plan to weaken my enemy's defenses!"
"And yet you allowed them to ferry you to the Colonial space. Imagine how much a blow would be dealt from the capture of the Lord of Admirals of the Sovereign Guard Astro-Navy in terms of moral and intelligence?"
That inconvenient truth damped Skrain's righteous fire some, but he persisted with a simple, "The Cylons have superior jump drives that can travel the distance in days and hours compared to the weeks it would take one of our ships. That was a calculated risk on my part, but I would not have allowed myself to be captured. An eternity as a formless spirit trapped in the void is infinitely preferably to being a hostage."
"Well I'm glad you are willing to take such risks for your Sovereignty. If only you hadn't acted so belligerent with the humans I might have believed you were acting under the best interests of it!"
Now that killed Skrain's fire, pushing him into guilty silence. Yonla did not relent.
"Yes the Sixes provided me with a recording of the meeting. How dare you, Skrain," she demanded, sounding hurt. "You are my Lord of Admirals. I rely on you to defend the Sovereignty from the threats beyond our borders. You are my first line of defense and you do this. You have humiliated the Sovereignty. You have dishonored the long line of Lords of Admirals and disgraced the Sovereign Guard. I would be well within my rights to demand that you be stripped of rank by the Admiralty House and petition your dynasty to remove your Memory from the Long Saga."
Skrain merely nodded and kept silent. All she said was true, and he had no doubt that his dynasty wouldn't comply with her petition. When the Steward requested you to become a non-person, they usually had overwhelming evidence against you. In the whole history of the Alkran's Sovereignty there had been only seven times that the dynasty controllers would defy the Steward. Each had been great scandals that had rocked the political landscape of the Sovereignty. This would be no different in its effect and not in the way.
Steward Yonla paced by Skrain with her hands clasped behind her back. A painful silence held the chamber that was so quiet that only the ticking of the ancient antique clock and the distant sound of the clergy leading hymns for the midday prayers could be heard.
"Do you what the humans are doing now?" Yonla asked.
Skrain replied, "According to the Sixes they sent an envoy using the pre-plotted jump coordinates I and my navigator on the Veltesa the Enabler made for them. Only she and I know the exact path."
"And it takes them close to the old Xurian border, which the Cylons now control."
Skrain nodded. "It does."
"Then your first mission is to ensure that they reach Alkran's Cradle safely. Take the Veltesa and her escorts to one of the jump points near Cylon space and prevent any harm from coming to them. Do this, and you will have earned some small measure of redemption as I consider what punishment would be most just for your transgressions."
"But the Veltesa's dreadnought squadron is required to assist Group Commander Bellam in his raid! Removing her will weaken the total mission!" Skrain exclaimed.
"Yes it will," Yonla nodded. "Sadly the Veltesa is the only dreadnought I can spare to ensure that the envoy from the Colonies of Kobol reach us. Everything else is needed to defend Alkran's Cradle. Consider this part of your punishment, Skrain Skarskin Yn Concalsan. Counteract it, diverge from my orders again, or by the Alkran's mercy even consider defying my sworn mandate I will see you dragged in chains before the Ice Rifts of Purgatory and left to the carrion feeders of the Deep Cold along with every person on your command staff, innocent or otherwise."
A dark look fell over Skrain's eyes as they became little more than black lines buried under a furrowed brow. His breath was held tight in his chest lest his fury escape with it. Eventually he forced out, "As my Steward commands."
"You are dismissed, Lord of Admirals. Do not return to the Cradle without your guests."
Skrain gave one last bow then departed. The Executor who showed him in showed him out, then approached the Steward with a satisfactory look on his muzzle. He congratulated, "Well done, my Steward. It's about time that arrogant ru-"
Before he could say another word a powerful slap send him reeling. His hand went to his face and felt a warm wetness that hurt to touch. He glanced at it and found his life's blood in his hands, and on the Steward's extended claws.
"Y-you dare!" he roared.
"I am the Steward!" She roared back, "And he is my Lord of Admirals. You are merely my Executor, and merely one of them at that! You will remember your place or you will lose it. I'm sure that there's some village near the poles that could use your ministrations. I heard that the Deep Cold will soon set in, so you will have many long days and nights to comfort their souls around the bonfires. Begone from my sight until I remember why I chose you to be among my disciples."
The Executor merely nodded and departed. It was only once he did that Yonla tendered to the blood staining her hands and released some of her pent up feelings. If only for the moment. The guards and the ministers that passed by the chamber closed their ears to the sound of frustrated sobs that would occasionally escape the room.
In the small region of the endless back where the derelict Tresor drifted a score of new ships arrived one hour after Bone Rattle returned to the Galactica. Inside them was the 357th Virgonian marine battalion's Alpha Company. Escorting them was the heavy cruiser Furious and the medium cruiser Valorous. Their combined viper compliments were launched as soon as the jump was complete. The vipers numbered only fifty in total, but were still adequate to defend against most surprises that were likely to show up short of a full battle group.
Sergeant Abigail Anderson slapped the stick mag into the butt/receiver of her pistol caliber carbine and pulled the action, chambering a bullet. The rest of her fireteam did the same as the ominous bulk of the Tresor slowly grew from a speck to fill the raptor canopy.
"Seven minutes till contact, boys and girls," the pilot announced.
Anderson gave him a thumbs up and looked to her team, announcing, "Gear check!"
The four members of Team One Alpha checked themselves over. Anderson checked over her second, Corporal Sasha Melnik, and then he checked over her. Even though the 357th were officially part of the Virgonian Imperial Space Forces, their colony's wealth and prestige born from the greatest of the old colonial empires bought them equipment on par with the Colonial Marine Corps Force Recon and the Raider Battalions. Cutting edge ceramic armored vacuum suits with experimental air recycling system that gave them a reasonable supply of air without having to carry bulky tanks, though spare bottles were part of their gear. Conventional flash bang grenades and EM pulsars that were specially made to target the MCP that gave cylons sapience fill the webbing along with additional ammo and other tools. Diamond-coated hatchets and combat knives were kept in easy to reach places that could chop a centurion into scrap yard junk in the hands of a well trained marine, which the 357th certainly were.
Fragmentation grenades and heavier rifles were left in the Galactica's armories. The Tresor's bulkheads were much weaker and systems more vulnerable than the more robust internals of the modern fleets. Back when the first jump capable warships were still using titanium backed crude ceramics plates, even the smallest pistol rounds were a deadly danger that could cause blow outs and hull breaches.
Thus the scout teams being sent in were armed with sub-machine guns, small caliber carbines, and shotguns. Even the heavy revolvers and the explosive round launchers for the smaller pistols were left behind, which left Anderson feeling slightly vulnerable. The revolver was an unappreciated beauty of the armed forces, disliked for its heavy weight but incredibly valuable for the wise for its ability to blast a centurion to pieces without having to take precious seconds to load, aim, and fire and explosive round. With the smaller pistol on her hip, it was like she was going into battle without her armored vest.
"Thirty seconds to contact," the pilot announced again. The small craft and the rest orientated themselves belly down to the hull, attaching themselves to the hangar bay doors. With no schematics of the old Virgonian cruisers on record, the mission planners decided to play it safe and burn through the hangar doors.
A bump and the sound of magnetized struts clinging tightly to hull announced their arrival. The whirl of hydraulics told of the airlock connecting.
"Hard seal," the pilot said. "Engines locked down. Good to go, Sergeant."
Anderson gave the pilot a thumbs up and looked to Melnik, ordering, "Boil it, Corporal."
Melnik broke out what looked like an overdesigned glue gun while another marine opened up the hatch under the deck. A clear gel-like substance with a red wire being laid in it was poured around the battered bay door plating as far as the hatch would allowed. Once a perfect square was formed the line of gel was cut and an electric pulse was sent through the wire. The gel cut through the plating with relative ease until an opening was made. The plate seemed to hover there until Melnik gave it a gentle push, sending out of range of the raptor's gravity manipulation system, or jimmy as they were colloquially known. He flipped out a flashlight and watched it glide slowly into the pitch black interior.
"Full pressure," he announced. "The jimmy's down too."
Ah that's great. Nothing like trying to inspect a ship during space walk, Anderson groused to herself. She keyed her radio to the command frequency and spoke, "Crusader One-One Alpha to Crusader One Actual. Hard lock secure. Atmosphere inside and gravity manipulators are dead. No sign of contact."
"Copy, One-Alpha," Lieutenant Gilbert Clark replied, eventually saying, "All teams report the same. Captain's given the go-ahead for boarding. Full vacuum sealing is still in effect. Proceed to primary objective."
"One-Alpha copies, Actual. Out." She addressed her team, speaking with force but not shouting as to not deafen them. "Egress, marines!"
Stepping out of the raptor was like stepping into an imperial war museum but with an eerie, bleeding atmosphere of a mausoleum. Powerful flashlight beams from a dozen rifles and SMGs wielded by Crusader One-One and the fire teams entering through the topmost deck painted over the walls, ceiling, and the rows of antiquated shuttlecraft and assault ships. Despite the immense size of the hangar bay, there were only about forty or so of the ancient assault ships. Every one of them was lined up in their massive work alcoves where a small army of deck hands and technicians would tend to them.
Anderson was neither historian or naval officer (thank the Gods for that) but she had spent enough time on warships and naval bases to recognize that this hangar was in near-perfect condition. There was no sign of a battle or panic. It was like the crew had done their best to ensure their battle cruiser was in the best shape possible before leaving, but where did they go?
The answer came as One-Alpha left the cavernous hangar and entered the corridors of the ship. They advanced single file through the bulkheads. There were writings on the bulkheads to help crew find their way through the ship. It was all in High Virgonian, but with the prestige of empire came its baggage and requirements. Sargeant Anderson was able to roughly read the directions towards their objective. Corporal Melnik lead the way with shotgun in hand while Anderson took up the third position. Like the hangar it was spotlessly clean and in order until they reached a junction point.
Corporal Melnik announced, "Sarge, I've brass and dried blood on the deck and holes in the wall. Looks like there was a shoot out here."
Anderson examined his findings. Sure enough there was a rust red coating of life fluid covering the deck. Spent shell casings for small arms covered the floor sparsely, enough to indicate that whoever had the gun had dispatched his or her victims with surprise and thoroughness but was not quick enough to prevent some return fire. Further examination showed that the blood patterns indicated that the bodies had been dragged off towards the CIC, where they were heading.
She reported it in. "One-One-Alpha to One-Actual. We've got signs of a battle near the CIC. Proceeding with caution."
The blood trail did indeed lead to the CIC. Anderson remembered one of the scout pilots mentioning this situation resembling a horror story, and it held true here. Inside the CIC was the skeletal remains of the command crew of the VDS Tresor sitting at their stations in full vac-gear. Were it not for the chaotic smearing of blood on the deck it would almost seem like they had died in utter peace where they sat. Anderson steeled her nerves and approached the nearest skeleton crew. She examined it closely and spoke into her radio with a voice of forced calm.
"One-Alpha to One-Actual," she reported. "We've arrived at the CIC and found some of the crew. All the bodies are decomposed and show signs of possibly teeth marks on the bones."
"By the gods," one of the other two marines, a young private named Bella Norton gasped." What happened here?"
Chapter 3.6
When Sergeant Anderson's report crossed Adama's desk, it was one of several after-action reports that the various team leaders had submitted after the very thorough scouting of the Tresor. Right now he, Tigh, and Ali were in briefing with Lieutenant Gaeta as the tactical officer gave a summary of the facts in the main briefing room. Colonel Sinclair had invited himself to the meeting, claiming that it was a matter of utmost importance to the Colonies. There was also a sixth member of the group: The commander of the 357th. Colonel Hieronymus Belmont was a thoroughbred of a Virgonian. Like Adama and Tigh he was a veteran of the Cylon War and his body told the story of a lifetime of service with tanned, leathery skin and many scars all across his body. Yet his blue-grey eyes were still alight with fire and a powerful inquisitiveness. Those eyes were intently focused on Gaeta as he spoke.
The young man spoke, "At last count we've found one thousand, five hundred and forty-two bodies aboard ship, which matched with recorded standard crew compliments for Manticore-class Battle Cruisers. According to the black box and ship's logs the ship suffered a catastrophic malfunction during their jump back to Virgon due to computer error, and found themselves in interstellar space. The last log entries indicate they were working to repair the damage and jump back to the Colonies, and then end. It's very likely that what happened was a breakdown in discipline as food stores and life support ran low, leading to a mutiny between various parties that ended with the last of the survivors eating each other before perishing."
Tigh look genuinely shellshocked as he muttered, "Damned terrible way to go."
"Yes, sir," Gaeta agreed with a hollow voice.
Adama broke the chain, asking with his usual calm but commanding voice, "So you're sure that this is genuine?"
Gaeta snapped back into his disciplined self as he reported, "By all accounts, yes, sir. There's no sign that anyone has been there before us and the supporting evidence simply cannot be manufactured to such a degree, even by the Cylons."
"Still one hell of a coincidence," Colonel Ali groused. "I don't like it."
Sinclair opined back at her, casually, "Life is stranger than fiction at times, and they do happen."
Belmont asked Gaeta, "Has there been any new information on the cargo bays or the void vault?"
"None, sir. They're locked up tight that heavy drilling equipment would be needed if we're going to access them without damaging the contents."
There was a moment of silence that ended when Adama declared, "Thank you, Lieutenant. You're dismissed."
Gaeta saw himself out post haste, leaving the officers to their deliberation. Adama began it with a question, "Opinions, people."
Colonel Belmont spoke immediately, saying quickly. "Commander Adama, this ship is of incredibly importance to all the Colonies. When the First Virgo Dominion sacked Gemenon they took almost all of the intact records of the Exodus from Kobol and the mother world itself. If the legends are true then they also took many of the tech-relics left over from the Argo. So much of our most advanced technologies were derived from relics. Some even say the jump drive of the Argo was aboard when she was lost. We could learn so much about our history, factual history straight from the source with no biased interpretation or reimagining! We simply can't let this opportunity pass!"
Adama gave a decidedly neutral reply to the Colonel's enthusiasm. "I am aware, Colonel, but we are on a tight schedule on the Cylon border. We might be discovered by a raider patrol randomly jumping through."
"Please pardon me if I come across as foolhardy considering the circumstances, but the chances of that must be miniscule. If they haven't found it by now they won't while we're recovering her."
"The chance exists," Adama spoke with the utter confidence of experienced authority. It seemed to convince the rest. To his unease, Sinclair had a knowing look in his eye that only Tigh shared. "I'll admit, if we weren't on an important mission I would arrange to have the whole ship transported back to Caprica, but right now that choice isn't just mine."
Adama, with the rest of the officers following, looked to their seventh member. Doctor Simon Gau was the leader of the diplomatic envoy to the Concordance and purportedly the most brilliant linguist in the Colonies. At first he didn't seem to have much to him with his portly middle aged body, bald head, and peculiar dark complexion of Canceron. His reputation as a scholar and high education at the greatest universities of Gemenon had given him a sour initial welcome among the "salt of the earth" types that tended to gravitate to the service. In reality he had proven quite personable and intelligent, able to match the enlisted when it came to their almost ritual pissing matches while completely side stepping the expected down-the-nose sneering most tended to expect of scholars towards the military. Adama himself had had several conversations with the man over their journey and found his company and conversation enjoyable.
The diplomat asked, "I don't see why you're looking at me. Last I checked this was your command, Adama."
"It is," Adama stated, "but you are the senior government official on a diplomatic mission. If we're going to stop to recover the Tresor, you have to agree to it as well."
Gau gave an understanding nod. He asked, "I don't suppose that we could just bolt it onto the hull of the Galactica or one of the cruisers, then send it home?"
"We would need a dedicated fleet tender to do a jump with it, which we don't have."
"And it's too big to just put into one of flight pods?"
Adama just nodded.
"Well bugger. I'm guessing that we can't just fuel it up and send a prize crew over either. Hmm…. I don't suppose we could just loot the cargo bays then go on our way? The ship itself is an archeological holy grail but the contents inside are the real value. Could we just move them all aboard Galactica and move on within a reasonable time frame?"
"We could," Adama admitted, "it could take several days depending on how big the cargo is and how much of it is, but it would be the quickest option."
Gau crossed his arms and gripped his chin in deep consideration. It was about a minute before he replied, "Let's do it, Commander."
Adama looked to Tigh, "Colonel, have Chief Tyrol work with the tanker ships to work on getting one of them to mate with the Tresor. This will be easier with power. Jump the fleet in and begin recovery operations as soon as possible."
Before long Battlestar Group 75 had jumped in full to the Tresor's location and recovery operations began. One of the fuel tankers brought along mated with the old battle cruiser and partially refueled her reserves just enough for the engineers to bring her main power online. With power restored a small army of engineers and specialists swarmed over the cruiser to begin recovery operations. The assault ships were blown into space to make room for the shuttles and all six hangars were put to full use as work crews worked around the clock to bust open the stores of the Tresor and move them to the Galactica once they were broken open.
On the second day of this activity, when those vaults were projected to be opened, Colonel Belmont decided to pay it a personal visit. As he boarded his raptor an uninvited second and third guest joined him. As he sat in the back of the small craft he turned to find Colonel Sinclair with him. He was immediately put on guard by his sudden appearance and the fact he hadn't felt Sinclair's presence till now.
"Good morning, Colonel," Sinclair said jovially. "I hope you don't mind me tagging along. I wanted to get a look at the Tresor myself when we open the void vault."
"Not at all," Belmont replied. He was truthful enough so as not to come across as blatantly lying, but he certainly didn't enjoy the MoI spook being here. During the War he had met enough spy-types of the Colonial Government as well as the security agencies of his home colony to know some of their type never did anything on a whim, and Sinclair was one of them undoubtedly.
"You know, Hieronymous," Sinclair said casually as the raptor took off, "I don't think we've ever talked man to man. I mean, we're both old hands of the service. We both served in the War."
"Where did you serve?" Belmont asked, not bothering to hide his dislike of Sinclair's casual use of his given name.
"Believe it or not, the Ministry of Intelligence back when it was just Colonial Fleet Intelligence."
"That's very interesting. You couldn't have been more than a teenager when the war happened. I didn't think that CFI recruited agents that young."
"Well, young adult," Sinclair said dismissively with an amicable wave of the hand. "I was part of the resistance on Gemenon against the old Mono-Theist terrorists."
"The Soldiers of the One," Belmont stated, which got a smile and a nod from Sinclair.
"Exactly!" Sinclair declared happily. "I'm surprised that you know about them. After the war began they were pretty much forgotten about."
"The Virgonian Secret Service was very thorough in their investigations. The Soldiers of the One were responsible for the bombing that killed Daniel Graystone's daughter and drove him into the madness that developed the Cylons, and then they tried to bomb the Pyramid Tournament at Atlas Area. The Caprica branch of the STO was killed to a man by the Cylons, giving them untold levels of popularity to set the stage. Then the STO were active helpers of the Cylons in the war and were the cause for several early defeats and much sabotage. It was very painful for the GDD to root them out."
Sinclair nodded knowingly. "I imagine that you know a lot of that. Tell me, were you part of the 357th when the Purges began?"
Belmont's eyes hardened into burning coals, replying tersely, "You mean the civil war that Emperor Edward caused when he sided with the Cylons against the Capricans and their allies? Yes I was part of the clean up effort to remove the saboteurs and partisans that the Cylons were using to weaken the Imperial Army and Fleet."
Sinclair titched in disappointment. "Oh come now, Colonel. This isn't a media interview. We can both admit that what happened after Emperor Gaius usurped the old Emperor and declared for the Capricans who put him on the throne, he used the Cylon sympathizer hysteria to prune the political landscape of any opposition. If I recall correctly it was the Blazes of the White River District that the 357th earned the Witch Hunter moniker."
"What happened there was before my time," Belmont snarled, "but I know that the slaughter of over two thousand innocent families during that siege when the terrorists and their cylon masters tried to foster an uprising right in the heart of Boskirk was not desired or ordered by the government."
"But it didn't stop it from becoming an international scandal," Sinclair commented with what was to Belmont disgusting casualness. "The Purges claimed many innocents before without much notice at first. Then the Pan's Valley massacre happened, then the scouring of the Black Ciff Hinterlands, both of which saw whole communities killed or imprisoned. After the Blaze it was so bad that the then Colonel fell on his sword right before the Emperor in Imperial Square and the 357th was thrown into the thick of the fighting during the War: assaulting Cylon bases in the Periphery of explored space and the grinding sieges in Caprica City, the Valerie Industrial District Massacre, the Ghost Fleet Offensive, and other meat grinders. The battalion was replaced thrice over before the Colonial Marine Corps Raider Battalions took over those jobs."
Belmont didn't strangle the smug colonel with his bare hands, but he dearly wanted to. He stated through gritted teeth. "Reparations were made after the Hall of Governors reigned in the Emperor's power. The ones who slaughtered civilians gleefully were executed. My friends bleed and died and suffered to make up for the nightmares of those days. I did my part to save humanity and still am. Every colony has stories of the Cylon Scare and what people in power do when they're scared witless and weak willed to act without thinking. Virgon is not unique in that."
"True, but Virgon was the one to bestow row after row of medals and ribbons to the perpetrators. Though I suppose suffering such high attrition rates while claiming great victories make it all good in the end, turning them into an incredibly prestigious unit."
Sinclair rose to stand and Belmont realized they'd arrived. Sinclair said warmly, "I've enjoyed our conversation today, Hieronymous. We should do it again sometime. I hope you find what you're looking for here."
Belmont was glowering like an enraged god as he stalked the corridors of Tresor. Servicemen and fleet techs shied away from him wherever he went and the work crews he observed worked at double speed. In a way it proved helpful as the Void Vault was broken open. The Vault was an old tradition from the early days of interstellar warfare. It was something like a second black box that held mission critical and highly sensitive objects or information and were design to survive the destruction of their home vessels short of complete obliteration, and were specially locked so that only their home navies could unlock them.
The Colonial Fleet techs with their modern gear found the five hundred year old mechanisms trivially easy to break. Belmont was the first to enter the vault once it opened. Inside the flat-sized compartment were dozens of locked titanium crates that were opened by a key that the captain kept on his person until his demise. Inside them he found leather bound tomes and small books by the score. All were written in the tongue of the mother world, which was the precursor to High Gemenese that only their grandest priesthoods and Kobol School linguistic anthropologists could understand, and many of their purposes were incomprehensible to him. However the content of one chest were what were unmistakably crew log journals and jump coordinates.
For the first time since arriving on the Tresor Belmont's face soften and his burning coal-like eyes regained their usual intensity. It was much to the relief of the men around him as they search. It didn't stop them from initially flinching as he said loudly, "Take note, boys and girls, and remember today. Today we've found the Hoard of Gemenon and within it, the road to Kobol."
