"Colonel, you need to talk to Adama about Sinclair," Major Jane Anokhi repeated. "It's a matter of national security!"

Colonel Amelie Ali blinded slowly. Her arms were propped on her small plastic desk and fingers interlaced. Her head was drooped slightly as if in prayer and her impression of inner contemplation was firmly based on the corporeal matters. Namely, the paranoid major sitting in her usual all right angles posture when discussing anything related to ship business.

Amelie said carefully, "I never knew you for hyperbole, Major. Please don't disappoint me now."

Jane didn't let Amelie's comment rankled her. When you served on the same, cramped spaceship with the same people for almost five whole years, you either knew their quirks like the back of your hand or you were trading favors somewhere. Both officers were happily married and had no interest in a side dish, but they knew each other like they were married.

Jane counted to three then said with calm, firm assuredness, "Colonel, I've been keeping tabs on Sinclair since he came aboard. I pulled every string I had wrapped around my fingers to find out everything I can about him even before we left. His record is locked up tighter than Secretary Brady's!"

"That's normal for a Ministry spy. Naval Intelligence and MoI dip toes in the same pool but we don't go skinny dipping. Plus, Sinclair is a field agent and Brady is part of the president's cabinet."

"There is also the fact that he doesn't act like a MoI agent. He's abrasive, arrogant, occasionally belittling, and always seems to be pushing the buttons of everyone he meets. You'd think he was interrogating everyone! I heard second hand that he even took Colonel Belmont to task over his involvement in the Virgon Civil War!"

That did pick up Amelie's attention, but she didn't show it. She merely nodded and offered, "Alright, so he isn't being friendly, but being an asshole isn't a matter of national security."

"This goes beyond being an asshole. This is plain old unprofessionalism! One step below actively sabotaging the mission!"

Amelie thought the next two steps of this conversation through and decided it was worth the leap to the logical conclusion. She asked bluntly, "So you think he's a Cylon agent?"

"That or he's been brainwashed by one of their agents," Jane stated, seemingly a little annoyed that Amelie jumped the gun without letting her build up to it. "We know for a fact that Doctor Baltar, the man in charge of the CNP program, was in contact with a Cylon agent who used revolutionary micro-surgical machinery to plant a chip in his brain that was able to almost put a backdoor in the Colonial Fleet, which would have made us defenseless! When we left everyone was being checked up to and including the presidency!"

"That wasn't proven definitively," Amelie interjected.

"Since when has that stopped the Cylons? They've spent the last two generations thinking of all new ways to kill us. They've got FTL drives on their raiders, and they put almost a thousand of them on a basestar. Those FTL drives are also supposedly much more powerful than ours to the point they can do atmospheric insertions. At this point we're luck-"

"You're rambling, Major," Amelie interrupted. "What's your point?"

"My point is," Jane sighed, "is that it's more than pure bad luck that the Cylons got as far as they did. The Cylons had to have some kind of sleeper agents or sympathizers in our military and civilian command hierarchy. We don't know how many infiltrator models are still in the Colonies or how far they really got. If one could get close enough to Cain, then they could get close to someone like Sinclair. It's my belief that he might be a sleeper agent trying to destabilize this mission, either through creating a hostile atmosphere among the higher ups or during the diplomatic meetings themselves. Or it could be even worse and he's letting the Cylon Fleet track us with some kind of low emission FTL beacon. We have records of anomalous signals ever since we left and the last one was detected when Adama decided to loot the Tresor. After that last burst we finally located it. It's on the Galactica."

Amelie gave a small sigh of her own and poured herself a fresh glass of water from the ice cold, hard plastic pitcher. As she did she asked, "So what should we do about it?"

"Have the Galactica's doctor do a scan of him for anything in his brain that shouldn't be there. If there is, we can lock him down and end this before it can begin."

Amelie drained a full third of her glass before replying, "And if he refuses?"

"That's what the marines are for." Jane replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the worlds. "I'll bet the 357th would love to help out there."

A tasteless joke about the Virgonian marines' moniker popped into Amelie's mind just long enough to make her realize she'd been spending too much time eavesdropping on the enlisted again. She banished the thought and said, "Jane, you know what kind of can o' worms that'll open, right?"

"Colonel, we're on the brink of war! This is just a formality. Everyone knows that we can't just let the Cylons conquer these aliens. They'll use all that industry to build up a bigger warmachine and wipe us out."

"I didn't know you were in that meeting where the President decided that," Amelie deadpanned to show her disapproval. Jane puffed up her chest and was about to unleash a new tirade when Amelie cut her off with a vertical swipe of her hand, saying, "I'll pass our concerns on to Adama, but ultimately it's the Commander's decision."

Jane took that as her cue to leave. She wasn't happy but Ali's use of "our" meant that she was considering her XO's concerns seriously. That was as much as she could reasonably expect of this. She stood up and saluted, saying, "Thank you for your time, ma'am."

"Any time, Jane," Amelie said warmly, showing a smile. A faint twitch at the edges of Jane's mouth showed. It was the closest thing that came to a smile with her. For a few minutes Amelie was left to her own thoughts. Eventually she grabbed a phone off the wall and connected to the CIC.

"Tactical, please inform Commander Adama I'd like to see him at his next earliest convenience."

Colonel Ali was escorted to Adama after making two relatively brief detours. The Commander was in his quarters reading a large, leather bound book with the eagle-raven seal of the First Virgo Dominion on the cover with "Commander's Log Book" written in High Virgonian letters around it. There was already two cups of Omalka Tea were already steaming with its bitter, savory aroma filling the flat-sized quarters.

"A bit of light reading, Commander?" Ali asked with a smile.

"The Virgonian marshal's log book," Adama replied with a gesture towards the other side of his desk. "Pretty light on the details of the Sack. Most of it is just references to occupation plans and Gemenese resistance. The government will be happy to know their stories of brave templars fighting to the death against virgonian conquistadors aren't all made up."

"Anything else interesting?" Ali asked as she sat.

"Yes. Just before the Tresor left, the Virgonians discovered something called the Mausoleum of Penance. Inside they found a large machine that looked like a jump drive."

"No," Ali said reflexively.

"They also found all of the senior clergy chanting something in the Gods' Language. The last log entry was the battle cruiser preparing to jump back to Virgon."

"That's really it?"

"No, but that's as far as I got till now." Adama placed the book to the side and faced Ali dead on. "What can I do for you, Colonel?"

Ali had spent too much time considering how to parse her phrasing. There was no good way to accuse another officer of being an enemy agent, and as much as Adama had a reputation for being pragmatic he had a second reputation for being blind to the flaws of officers under his command. She hoped that her words has been chosen correctly, and that Sinclair hadn't wormed his way into Adama's good graces just yet.

"It's about Colonel Sinclair," she began. "I have noticed some discrepancies in his record, and I've been hearing reports of unbecoming behavior, both as an officer in service of the United Colonial Government and as an agent of the Ministry of Intelligence. I have reason to suspect that he might be a Cylon sympathizer or agent attempting to destabilize our mission."

The changes in Adama's posture was subtle. The irises of his eyes contracted and the corners of his mouth tightened. The creases in his brow became more pronounced. He asked in the same voice as before, "What's your evidence?"

Now the true test. "Nothing concrete," she admitted, "but lots of little things that add up. For one, his interactions with the officers on this battlestar. He has failed to build a proper working relationship with several of your crew. In all cases he has been inquisitive yet aloof, and occasionally condescending. In some cases he's been borderline provocative, such as when he almost provoked one of your pilots into a physical altercation."

"Starbuck is a good pilot," Adama said, almost reflexively, "but she has easy buttons if you know how to push."

"Fair enough," Ali admitted. It was true enough and not worth pushing when she had other ammo. "However he seems to be pushing those buttons whenever he can get away with it. As I understand it he's done to the same to your CAG, XO, deck officer, and even Colonel Belmont."

"I haven't heard about that," Adama said. "What happened with Belmont?"

"As far as I can determine, he and Colonel Sinclair shared a raptor over to the Tresor where Sinclair grilled Belmont over the White River District Massacre and the other policing actions taken by the 357th during the Virgon Civil War."

"Any collaborating witnesses?"

"Just the raptor pilot and ECO. Plus a company or so of marines and enlisted who had a pissed off colonel stomping through the bulkheads."

Adama gave her meaningful nod, then said, "I'll talk to him about his attitude. Still doesn't prove he's a traitor."

A harsher word could never be conceived or spoken that wouldn't sting as bad, even if it was screamed into her ear. "There's a few other things. This is all privileged information that the UDC doesn't want to make public yet, so keep it to yourself. There is hard evidence suggesting that Cylon infiltrators have brainwashed or suborned key personnel through a nano-surgical process that puts a control chip in their brains. It's virtually undetectable unless you know what you're looking for. We know for a fact that the head of the CNP program was a victim as well as three attaches working in Picon Fleet Headquarters itself. Six aids on the president's staff with intimate access to the president, vice president, minister of civil defense, and minister of the state.

"It is entirely possible that Sinclair might be compromised. Whether he knows it or not, and he's putting your key officers off center. Off their game. He might also be letting the Cylons track us. The Loki can track faster-than-light communications through the emissions it gives off. It occasionally gives false positives but there has been a consist pattern every few days since we left the solar systems. It's coming from the Galactica."

With the last of her bombshells dropped, Ali waited for Adama to process the information. Adama had his eyes fixed on Ali as he thought as if judging the source of the information as well as the information itself. Finally he spoke.

"An FTL transmitter isn't something you can just hide," Adama stated. "We should be able to find it if it's somewhere on the Galactica."

"We should also have Colonel Sinclair submit to a CAT scan to check for any Cylon control chips," Ali said, not sure if she should be relieved just yet.

"I'm not going to accuse a man of treason just because he acts like a bastard," Adama stated. "Until we have proof, we'll search the ship. Starting with guest quarters."

Ali sensed that was as far as she was going to get and left it at that. She rose and said with a grateful voice, "Thank you for your time, Commander."

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Colonel," Adama replied, returning her gratitude with earnestness.

It was a poor salve for the cold, raw numbness that filled a part of Ali's heart as she made her way back to the flight deck and her raptor. Despite the popular myths and preconceptions about people who worked for the intelligence services, the men and women of Naval Intelligence were still soldiers and sailors who trusted their counterparts in the line fleets and in the civilian organizations who made sure that the military never had to come in at all. Accusing someone of treason was something that only got harder if you were in any way sane. She was deep in thought when the klaxons started warbling and the young voice of Lt. Gaeta announced action stations, followed by the detonation of a nuclear missile against the hull that rocked the massive battlestar and threw Ali against a hard angle of the raptor. It was precious minutes before someone found the stealth boat skipper lying on the deck with a small pool of her own blood spreading from her head.

The command center of the Alkrani dreadnought was Veltesa the Enabler quiet. A pregnant silence held over the mighty warship as it and her sisters held position in deep space along the projected jump route the Galactica was using. Such projections were relatively easy to make. Actually finding the battlestar was another thing. These projections could not predict how long the battlestar would take between each jump and there was a small margin for error measured in the scores of light-minutes that would mean that it was entirely possible that the two fleets could pass each other by and not even know it. Thus, the Veltesa's dreadnought squadron and the attached scout flotilla were forced to spread themselves wide and create a wider net of probes and sensor relays.

Through it all, Lord of Admirals Skrain alternated between supervising the command deck, carrying out paperwork in his day cabin, and generally carried on as if life on the dreadnought was normal. He projected the aura of calm, professional ease as was his role when not leading the Sovereign Guard into battle. Yet even the old soldier had his worries and projections of meaning of their cause.

The first small crack in his calm confidence showed itself when he asked, "Ship Master, how long has it been since the Galactica's projected departure?"

Vulshur, commander of the Veltesa, replied immediately, "Ten days, approximately, sir."

Skrain nods. "They should have been here by now."

Vulshur shot down himself before he could offer the obvious suggestion of mechanical troubles. Instead he went to the more likely possibility. "Do you think the Cylons intercepted them?"

"It's possible," Skrain admitted, "but we don't know where they are. It seems there's nothing we can do but wait."

"We could send out some scouts," Vulshur ventured.

It was a logical suggestion. The dreadnought squadron still had a few strike fighters left that had survived the grinding war of attrition that the Cylon raiders had inflicted on the Sovereign Guard's fighter corps. Their jump range was the shortest of all Guard ships, but it was better than nothing. Skrain was about to give the order when the DRADIS began to beep.

"New contact!" the XO announced. "Reading as Cylon heavy basestar. IFF says it's a rebel ship."

Skrain tensed and immediately barked orders. "Ship Master, bring us to Standby Alert! Communications, send a challenge and demand why they are here."

The low, booming chime of the klaxons filled the dreadnought. Gunners went to their standby positions and pilots shuffling around in the ready room sprinted to their fighters. Active DRADIS pings swept through thousands of kilometers around the dreadnought squadron, searching for any hidden Cylon stealth ships. The only thing they detected was the one baseship, which the war book confirmed was BS-210, one of the four rebel ships that had successfully broke away from the Republic and survived the relentless hounds their loyalist enemies sent after them.

"Identity confirmed," the comms officer announced. "A Model Six identifying herself as…" -the Alkrani paused and said the difficult and unnatural name to its vulpinoid mouth- "Natalie Faust asks to speak with the Lord of Admirals on a scrambled channel."

Despite his distrust of the Sixes, Skrain admitted to himself and himself alone that he was genuinely intrigued at what she had to say, since she was putting herself in great risk here by coming so close to the Republic's border. He grabbed a headset from the side of his command couch and donned it.

"This is the Lord of Admirals," he declared, formally.

The Model Six leader of the cylon rebels said with a tenseness in her voice, "Skrain, the rest of the Council know where the Galactica is. She's stopped for some reason just seventeen jumps ahead of you and they're sending General Odysseus after her with a large strike force."

Skrain didn't bother asking her to verify the information. Instead he asked, "Where's the Galactica?"

"I'm sending the coordinates now. Tie your squadron into our network. Our jump computers can get us there in a third of the time. The attack has already been launched."

Skrain muted the line and ordered to Vulshur, "Do it and set the squadron to Battle Alert." before replying, "Connecting it now."

The command deck complied. A hurried, unsure feeling settled over the command crew of the Veltesa and the rest of the squadron. The Lord of Admirals, most vocal opponent of the Sovereignty's association with the Cylon Rebels, was hooking his personal combat force, one of the few remaining heavy combat groups left in the whole Concordance of Stars and Species, into the jump computers of the Cylon Rebels' leader. If there was any sign that dark times were ahead, this was it.

AN: Sweet goodness gracious this chapter bloated like a tumor. It was supposed to be a lot smaller but as I started writing it down I realized that there was so much packed into it that in hindsight I should have divided up the ideas more. What was supposed to be the climax of this chapter is being shuffled off into its own separate chapter. It and the following ones will have a narrower, more organized focus to avoid this kind of bloat again.

I'm a bit dissapointed with myself that I didn't wait and clean up the battle between Odysseus and the Xur. I'm also dissapointed that indulged in pointless cliche by turning Cavil into the incompetent screamer that meme culture would have you believe. I will make sure that he gets his proper due as we continue. The next chapter will be posted as one single post in order to keep it clean and focused.

Finally, allow me to add some dedications that should have been added a long time ago.

To my mother, who taught me how to be of conscious soul and pushed me to write even when I hated it. Thank you, mom, for pushing me to write and showing me the joys of books.

To my grandfather, who taught me how to be a man.

To my aunt, who made sure my life was filled with joy and hope when I was young.

To my brother, who stands with me through thick and thin.

To my sister, who fences with me and keeps me honest.

To the wolf, who taught me how to be clever and brave.

To the squirrel, who shares her secrets and encourages me.

To the dragon, who teaches me to wield my fire justly and to stand tall.

If you're enjoying my work, please consider supporting it on my ! It helps keep me going and lets me get to know you people better!

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