So far their luck had held. Not a soul did they see on their way through the tunnels, as they hugged the walls and cautiously made their way towards the Control Center. Then again, they hadn't really expected to. The Zone had eliminated the need for guards . . . up until now.
"Just up ahead." Dayton whispered, carrying a broken wrench he had scavenged from the hangar on his last 'interview' with Torg.
Starbuck nodded. The footwear might not be much in the way of protection, but it was certainly silent, and he knew it would be unlikely that the attendant would hear their approach over the whir of the electronic equipment in the room.
" . . . Dynamo twelve. Launch and investigate, Torg." The attendant was saying.
The crackle of the comm came to life with a reply. "On our way, Krebs. Out."
Starbuck crept closer, his fingers caressing the hilt of the knife, which was secured to his thigh. They had already discussed the take down. As long as they could approach the pirate from the rear, they would merely knock him out and restrain him. If the man turned around and had an opportunity to call an alert, it was Starbuck's job to stop him. After all, he had the knife.
He had become adept with the weapon since perfecting his skills in the informal hand-to-hand combat classes he had started, while grounded due to a leg injury sustained on the planet Empyrean sectars ago. After he had returned to full flight status, Luana had taken over the organization of the classes as a leadership project and expanded upon it. She had encouraged both cadets and warriors alike to contribute their skills and experience in a wide array of defensive and offensive techniques, making up for the obvious hole in their abbreviated training program. Now a full third of Colonial Warriors carried knives as a secondary weapon and tool.
Dayton had made it clear that Starbuck would be his second while securing the Control Center. Though the warrior's adrenaline was plainly carrying him through the ordeal, the commander realized that the lieutenant was hovering between a desperate need to make the plan—his only chance at escaping a lifetime of servitude—work, and the reality of a battered and exhausted body. And he wasn't exactly being realistic regarding how they would approach this . . .
Dayton held up a hand to signal Starbuck to stop and hang back, as he crept through the Control Room. Krebs' back was to him, and the man was occupied with his equipment. It couldn't have been better really. He lowered his wrench and advanced on one of the pirates who had made the past thirty years of his life a living hell.
He had given this a lot of thought. They actually had a chance this time. The best chance they'd had since Zuskin had escaped. He had turned over the idea of simply disabling the cyclatron and trying to take over the base, but he truly had no idea how many people he was dealing with. Torg had always avoided talking about the 'civilian' contingent of the asteroid, if indeed there was any. It was an unknown entity. Dayton knew how to reach it, but had never been any further than the bifurcation of passageways that led there.
No, their best chance of escape lay with the Colonials. If Starbuck could actually fly his ship out of there and contact his Battlestar, as long as the rest of them could hold off the pirates or snag their own ship, they might conceivably get their first taste of freedom. Of course, that might all change once they met the leaders of these people who seemed so intent on finding his home planet. He wasn't so sure that he wanted them leading this race of machines, these Cylons, which had destroyed their own home worlds, to his precious Earth.
Why was it that mankind was so blind to the obvious? That they couldn't learn from their mistakes? Even light-years away from home, he could see these people trying to set the wheels in motion for history to repeat itself. They needed to destroy their ancient enemy, or at the very least be assured they had lost them completely, before they guided them to a planet where there wasn't the technology to provide an adequate defense, never mind a decisive military victory. Providing, of course, when they arrived, that the year was reflective of his own era.
Too many unknowns, Dayton.
In a split second he made his move. Remembering his old Air Force Special Operations Command training, he grabbed Krebs, and with a vicious twist, he snapped the attendant's neck. The man simply collapsed noiselessly in his chair, one less obstacle standing between them and freedom. He pushed him from the chair, the limp body tumbling to the floor in a heap, and took his place. "Mess with the best, die like the rest," he said to the still-twitching corpse.
Starbuck blinked in shock. "What the frack . . . ?" he growled, striding towards Dayton and grabbed the commander's shoulder, twirling him around in his chair. "You were supposed to knock him out! Not frackin' kill him!"
"Oh please, don't be naïve, Lieutenant. Do you want him coming at us from the Control Center later on when he wakes up? Every enemy we leave alive behind our backs is a threat! It's kill or be killed! Wake up and smell the Starbuck's, Starbuck!" Dayton glared at him, knowing this confrontation would be coming. He had not understood the Colonial's strange insistence that they merely disable the enemy. He had pretended to consent to it to save time spent arguing over two diametrically opposed points of view.
"I thought we already settled this!" Starbuck exploded. They had argued back and forth and had come to an understanding . . . only kill if there was no other recourse. At least that was his understanding. "What in Hades Hole in wrong with you, Dayton! You didn't have to . . ." His gaze flickered back and forth between the Earthman and his victim.
Dayton leapt to his feet shoving the younger man by the shoulders. His determination and anger energized him as he watched the Colonial stumble backwards regaining his footing quickly. "Don't you dare judge me! You spend thirty years of your life in my shoes being humiliated and abused by these assholes, and then come and talk to me about ethics!"
Starbuck hadn't expected the strike, and his tired, aching body reacted slower than normal. Survival instinct kicked in a milli-centon later, and his hand automatically gripped his knife, ready to pull it and use it if necessary. "Yeah, well, you spend a millennium being persecuted by a sociopathic society bent on the elimination of Mankind, and you might learn to value each and every life. Today's enemies might be tomorrow's allies, when the Cylons come calling in this quadrant." He shot back.
Dayton ground his teeth, hearing the logic in the other's words. They were from vastly different worlds. His historic enemies had always been Human. Starbuck's people had moved beyond that, forced to overcome any differences and unite when faced with complete annihilation. It would alter one's perception . . .
"We're wasting time. My men are going to move out in five minutes." Dayton muttered, noting the Colonial's hand on his knife. "If you're going to use that, I suggest you do it now." His eyes bored into the other, warning him it wouldn't be an easy encounter by any means.
"Just get on with it." Starbuck snarled back, striding towards the control panels. The timing was crucial; if the Obediators weren't disabled, the others would think they had been intercepted. "Which one operates the cyclatron?"
"This one." Dayton replied, moving over and flipping a toggle switch.
"That's it?" Starbuck asked.
"What were you expecting?" He leaned below the console, pulling away a heavy panel and revealing circuitry.
"An access code? I don't know . . . something more elaborate." Starbuck replied as he watched Dayton grab a fist full of wires and pull. Sparks flew around him as he continued to ravage the circuitry.
Dayton simply shook his head, intent on his task.
"Can you find the coordinates for the Dynamos?" Starbuck asked, looking over another control panel.
"How do you mean? I thought you just wanted me to deactivate them so you could fly out of here unhampered?" Dayton asked, scooting his chair over to where the warrior stood and situating himself in front of the keyboard.
"Just before you . . . killed Krebs, he was sending Torg out to investigate Dynamo twelve. Something must have triggered it."
"Your friends?" Dayton looked up expectantly.
"Possibly. I'm wondering where Dynamo twelve is in relation to us."
"Where your friends are in relation to us." Dayton expounded, looking over the panel. "Just a sec." His fingers flew over the keyboard, and he shook his head in bemusement as he realized the it was almost identical to an old command line user interface he used in the eighties. It was archaic even by Earth standards. "Here we are. We even have a navigational star chart to pinpoint the coordinates."
Starbuck watched as the asteroid belt came up on the screen above them. Several red lights appeared spaced sporadically through the belt. "There's not as many of them as they'd have you believe."
"No." Dayton agreed. "I'm trying to find twelve . . . ah, there it is."
Starbuck nodded as one light began to flash. He pointed to their position on the chart with his knife. "We're about here. They're either on the other side of the asteroid belt, or they want the pirates to think they are." He frowned, trying to put it together.
"A rescue? I thought you figured they'd leave you for dead?" Dayton asked.
"Well, I'm a popular guy." Starbuck grinned in response, then shrugged. "Honestly, I thought they would. Maybe they found something . . . I don't get it." All along he had been torn between wondering if they would attempt to find him, trusting that he wouldn't activate his emergency beacon unless there was a damn good reason for it, or abandon him for making a bad decision that could put the fleet at risk. After all, following the Dynamo's attack on Apollo, it had really been his ego and temper that had demanded he try and avenge the Captain. Sure, he could rationalize that he was just trying to find out about the enemy's strength and their subsequent risk to the fleet, but when you blew the stink off his arguments, the rashness of his decision remained. "I guess we'll find out soon enough. Can you deactivate them?"
"What do you think I'm trying to do?" Dayton returned, still searching the data banks for the information.
"You got me." Starbuck leaned over him watching. "I'd be lost."
"Then you're glad I came?"
Starbuck hesitated before replying without much conviction. "Yeah, I guess."
"It's nice to be loved."
"Don't get carried away, Commander." Abruptly, the lights on the navigational chart went out. "Hold it! What did you do?"
Dayton looked up in surprise. "You mean it worked? How about that!"
Starbuck snorted in reply. "I admire your confidence."
"Blundering my way through life as usual. So, what now?"
"Scanners?" If there was a Colonial task force coming this way, it would be handy if no one found out about it.
"Rudimentary. The dynamos detect and incapacitate any incoming ships. The squadrons move out to intercept, using their scanners. It's worked for so long, they haven't bothered upgrading to anything more sophisticated." He smiled as Starbuck shook his head in disbelief. "Really, it's true. Now, we were going to get you to your fighter and have the guys attack the hangar as a diversion. Your friends might or might not be coming to our rescue. What do you think?" Dayton eyed the air duct above them, which was going to be their route to the far end of the hangar. He smiled as he spied an old grill tucked behind the control consoles. It was covered in grime, rusted and bent out of shape—much the way it had been twenty-eight years ago when they had gone through it the first time. He then reached down and pulled off the panel beneath the console, once again ripping apart the circuitry, snapping boards and yanking wires, to prevent the reactivation of the Dynamos.
"We better go ahead with the plan. Just in case we're wrong about the Galactica." Starbuck told him, briefly thinking about using the comm to try and contact Apollo . . . or Boomer. Whoever was out there . . . maybe. Of course, it would only reveal their escape to the pirates listening in. He moved to the comm suite, ripping the microphone off the panel, effectively eliminating their ability to talk to their patrol. He also eyed the duct. "Can you boost me up?"
"Yeah." Dayton moved beneath the duct, bending over and linking his fingers for the warrior. He leaned against the wall to steady himself. "Think light thoughts," he murmured, recalling the warrior's earlier words to him.
"Fluorescent or ambient?" Starbuck asked, resting his foot in the commander's hands and placing one hand on Dayton's shoulder and the other against the wall.
"Smart ass. One, two, three!" He heaved the warrior towards the duct.
Starbuck grabbed the edge of the duct, pulling himself upward. It was taking far too much effort to do something that he would normally consider simple. Of course, the fact that every muscle in his body ached, and his gut felt as though it was about to rip wide open again, didn't aid his cause. He gritted his teeth, even as he felt Dayton giving his feet an additional push providing some much needed momentum. He scrambled into place.
"Are you going to make it?" Dayton called up after him.
"Yeah, yeah." Starbuck replied, wiping sweat from his eyes and manipulating his body, turning it around in the cramped space. He held a hand down to the commander. "Come on."
Dayton nodded, backing up to make a running start. He looked back at the control console ruefully. It had been Zuskin who had managed to find a schematic of the duct system the first time around, ensuring they found their way to the hangar. He was somewhat sure he could remember the way, but . . .
"Dayton!" Starbuck urged him. He rubbed his eyes, feeling the overwhelming fatigue wash over him. They all knew his wound was getting infected—they had seen the inflammation—but he was hoping that any further symptoms would wait until he escaped. Hades, he was counting on it. "Let's go!"
Dayton drew a deep breath, taking a running start and leaping towards Starbuck. Fingers locked around wrists simultaneously, and Dayton heard the younger man grunt as he pulled upward. The commander grasped at Starbuck's clothes, breaking their grip and clambering over the lieutenant's prone body until he rested atop him in the duct. He could feel the Colonial's chest heaving after his efforts; the man was fading fast. "There's no time for a nap, lieutenant. We have to move."
"Well then, get the frack off me Dayton," he muttered, willing himself to keep on going when his body only wanted to meld into the surface beneath him. "I'm through carrying you."
----------
"Who wants to go first?" Dorado asked, standing at the edge of the Zone. They had scrounged the area to find anything that could be used as a weapon: pipes, chains, and even rocks. Lords, sophisticated warfare it was not. What he wouldn't give for a Colonial blaster! He looked over his shoulder at his wingman, knowing Rooke wouldn't be much help in the upcoming fight. He was barely holding his own, his body bent over in constant pain from whatever damage that bloody implant had done to him. His eyes were glazed and unfocused as he tagged along behind them, more out of habit than any apparent intent. Dorado needed to get the lieutenant to the Galactica for medical treatment ASAP.
"Short straw?" Ryan asked, reaching out with one hand as though he could somehow detect whether or not the cyclatron had been shut down.
"Paper, scissors, rock." Baker inserted, stumbling over the language he didn't really feel comfortable with. Why the heck couldn't the others just learn English? After all, they were the majority in the prisoner population!
Dickins snorted at them in disgust, stepping past them with a heavy elbow-shaped pipe in his hand, and then spreading his arms and turning in a circle to illustrate he was fine. "Let's move," he told them hoarsely in English, before turning on the spot and striding away.
"He doesn't say much, but I like him anyways." Dorado grinned at the others, shrugging at the words as he followed behind. Despite knowing that Dickins was proceeding unimpeded, the captain's stomach still tightened reflexively in long-ingrained anticipation of the Obediator.
"The quiet ones always surprise you." Ryan agreed, knowing Dickins would fight like a madman to gain his freedom. The man was already psyched for the confrontation ahead. Blood would be shed as thirty years worth of revenge was exacted. There would be justice and liberty for all . . . or however that went south of the border.
----------
Sit on hands, insert thumb in bum.
While processing scrap metal on the Hephaestus wasn't the most enthralling job, at least it kept Technician Halls busy from 0900-1700 centars, five days a secton—six when they were busy, and while working overtime wasn't always appreciated, what else was there to do?. He nonetheless felt as though he was making an important contribution to the Fleet. Today, however, was unusual to say the least.
He didn't know why, and he didn't particularly care either, but their routine had been interrupted by Colonial Security, and if there was one thing Halls, a middle-aged, long-discharged, crippled ex-warrior lived by, it was regularity and routine. So, here he sat, whiling away the centars, waiting to be given the 'go ahead' by his supervisor.
Supervisor Thurman was growing increasingly impatient, as his work schedule was put further and further back. He was a company man who had worked in scrap his entire life, from his first position as a labourer up until the present one in management, and he took the position seriously. He had promised the Fleet's Machinists delivery of enough recycled metals to continue the manufacture of some much needed replacement parts for some of the oldest tubs throughout the Fleet, ensuring the continued high standards that Commander Adama had put in place for routine maintenance.
Now, because of Security, he was going to be letting the Commander down.
Thurman huffed as he eyed the heavy waste pipes, many already loaded on the shredder-conveyer for processing. Halls was beginning to pace along the line once again, clearly as disgruntled as his super with the inaction. The other men obviously felt the same way. They were accustomed to working hard, and they were rewarded for their pains by an appreciative boss. There was still another dozen pipes waiting to be loaded, not to mention the other two shipments still on the Malocchio.
And now, Security Officer Castor had just 'ordered' him to examine the contents of every pipe. What the frack did he think was inside waste pipes? Lords, just because he didn't wear the neatly pressed uniform of the Colonial Security Forces and macho blaster holster, he was suddenly elected to dissect Human waste! And where did Castor get off thinking he could order Thurman around anyway? He could feel his blood pressure rising in reaction to the entire situation.
He stomped off towards Halls, reasoning they had examined the current load thoroughly enough. Hades, they had been staring at it for over a centar while they waited for Security to enlighten them as to why they were in a holding pattern. Halls was currently running his hand over a pipe as he peered inside, a perplexed look on his thin face. "Halls, let's get started," Thurman told him.
"Thurman, this is kind of weird, the valve on this one here looks like it's been welded . . . "
"So what? The compacter will take care of it." Thurman snapped, not the least bit surprised the pipe had been repaired in the past. Old and worn out, it was well past its prime, and had doubtlessly been patched together many times over. He sighed as he headed off towards the others, aware that his personal space was soon going to be overrun with Security Officers. Maybe he shouldn't have signed off on the Officer while he was still talking over the comm. Then again, maybe Castor could learn to treat someone of his experience with a little more respect. Oh, well, they could have it out face to face soon enough. In fact, he was looking forward to it. But in the meantime, the Scrappers could make an attempt to put in an honest day's work.
----------
"Dammit, bloody hell . . ."
"What is it, Bex?" came the voice over his speaker.
"Hardly a prize," snarled Bex. He dumped his scans to the other ships.
"Bit on the small size, wouldn't you say?"
"Oh really, ya think?"
Bex could feel the heat of anger slowly suffusing his face. Not much smaller than the Dynamo just beyond it, the piece of metal floated serenely in space, mocking him. In a burst of pure childish fury, he fired, blowing it to space dust. "It's a bloody decoy, that's what it is!" He trailed off in a string of vile curses. "We've been set up! Return to base!"
"Hey, I just lost the energy reading on the Dynamo, Bex. She just fizzled out."
With a snarl and more curses, Bex hit his turbos, as he registered the last statement, leaving the slower Rovers behind. He thanked the prescience that made him take one of the Colonial Fighters, instead of his usual bird. He knew Starbuck had been lying! Knew it! The Battlestar Pegasus was obviously back in the area, and was clearly searching for their base. Knowing that the Colonial's tracking signal hadn't been deactivated until well after Starbuck had been captured, he was aware that they had a damn good chance of finding it, or even knowing where it already was. Hence the decoy.
"Rover Leader to base. Come in."
Nothing.
"Rover Leader to base. Get off your ass, Krebs! This is important!" More of nothing. "Krebs? Damn you, you little barf bag, answer me!" But Krebs didn't respond. Only hiss.
He could feel the throbbing of his pulse at his throat. That familiar tension that crept over him when he was about to pounce on an enemy. This was no freak malfunction. The Dynamos could only be deactivated in the Control Center and now Krebs wasn't answering. It didn't bode well.
How the Hell could Starbuck make it past the Zone? And how could he coordinate an attack from the inside? Unless . . . unless this whole thing had been a setup from the start! Starbuck was a plant! Get him inside and penetrate the base . . .
A growl of fury erupted from his throat as he realized the extent of the Colonial's machinations. This battle would be more like his Gramp's day, before the Dynamos and Obediators had turned them into glorified nursemaids instead of the regaled buccaneers of yore. Oh, when he caught up with Starbuck, he would enjoy every second of teaching him that you didn't cross Bex. The Hell with match and rematch! He'd exact payment with each scream from the warrior's throat and each splash of blood from his mutilated body. Only then would his wounded pride be assuaged; his ancestors be satisfied.
"Come in Torg. Come in anybody!" Bex commed, banging the console with his fist in urgency. There was always someone fiddling about in a cockpit in the hangar. Someone would pick up his signal. "The Dynamo was a diversion. We're about to be attacked. Repeat, we're about to be attacked!" He swore again, as the channel stayed silent. He considered turning back to his group, thinking there would be strength in numbers, when something beeped. He looked down at the scanner. "Bloody Hell!"
----------
They had laid low just out of scanner range, as first one squadron and then the other left the asteroid base to investigate the decoys. Apollo checked his chronometer, nodding in satisfaction. Both task forces were far away by now, leaving the base depleted in manpower. Everything was going exactly to plan. He powered his Viper back up. "Okay, Blue Squadron. Let's move in."