The mood was tense as Dayton and his men were escorted to their new, but temporary quarters, on the crew deck. Dayton felt strangely calm now that he had made his decision, but Ryan was practically seething with repressed anger as he walked at his Commander's side, occasionally pausing to stare bullets at him.
In unspoken agreement, they kept their mouths shut about what had happened in Adama's office, and the two Colonial Warriors who courteously pointed out a few spots of interest on the way—most notably the Officer's Club—were distracted by Porter and Baker's multitude of appropriately timed inane questions.
Dayton was uncertain whether his other two men had understood the consequences of his statement to the Strike Captain in the presence of Commander Adama. The languatron, while effective for basic communication, might have lacked the vocabulary for describing Dynamos, energy fluctuations, or main reactors. It certainly seemed clueless when it came to subtle voice inflections. Ryan, however, most certainly caught the gist of what his commander was up to.
They entered their quarters, seemingly for visiting dignitaries or officers at one time by the looks of the spacious living area with the small sitting room just within the door. It was as big as Adama's quarters, with five bunks distributed around the rest of the room with accompanying bureaus. Three monitors, similar to those made available to them in the Life Station, were set up with comfortable chairs for their 'viewing pleasure'. The warriors ushered them inside, and reminded them that while they were free to explore that deck, including the OC, but that the rest of the Battlestar was considered a restricted military zone, and as such was off-limits.
Then they were alone.
Dayton held up a hand to Ryan, delaying the stream of words that were inevitably going to burst forth from his friend. He moved to a monitor and turned up the sound, hopefully masking any words that might be overheard by electronic devices. Hey, he didn't know for certain that the Colonials would bug them, but he wasn't going to take that chance.
"It's genocide!" Ryan spat at him in hushed tones, as he grabbed his commander by the shoulder and whirled him around. "What the hell have you done?"
"It's a . . . " he began, forcibly pushing his friend's hand from his shoulder, then stopped. Given the Colonials obvious superior technology, maybe turning the TV up wasn't enough. After all, it opened an electronic pathway into the room. Dayton raised his hands, and began making short, sharp gestures with them. "It is a calculated sacrifice to save our people, our planet." Dayton replied calmly by this sign language, known on Earth as ASL, or American Sign Language. He had learned it, practically been raised with it as a 'second language', in order to communicate with his youngest sister, who was deaf. Once imprisoned on the asteroid, he had taught it to the others, to give them a distraction from the usual same old, same old, occupying minds that at times seemed too dispirited or tired to think. At one point he had suggested it might provide some small measure of privacy from Torg and the rest, but a reluctant Dickins had pointed out that the obvious language barrier did an adequate job of that already. "I told you we'd have to find a way."
"But not this way!" Ryan protested, responding in kind, as Baker joined them.
"You really did do it," Baker shook his head in disbelief, his hands also communicating his thoughts. "I wasn't certain that I understood correctly . . ." He lapsed off as he studied his commander for a moment. "Do you realize that when they over-energize those Dynamos, it will not only blow the base, but probably take this Battleship with them?"
"I was counting on it." Dayton responded, nodding calmly. It had been theorized that it would take an immense amount of matter or energy to open a wormhole. Over the years, they had decided that the destruction of the International Space Station had potentially opened the wormhole on Earth's side of the universe. After enough discussion and information gained from Torg, and some admittedly limited calculations by Dayton, they had pieced together that the explosion of a single Dynamo during an energy fluctuation had caused the wormhole to open near the pirate's asteroid base. Now if the destruction of a single Dynamo had created enough energy to open a wormhole, then the remaining nine exploding simultaneously would most likely wipe out the Dynamos, the asteroid base, part of the asteroid field, and surely the Galactica.
"Mark, this ship protects a Fleet of over two hundred ships. Civilians. The sick. The elderly. Children. They'd be almost defenseless without her." Ryan continued.
"I know." Dayton nodded. "That's the point, Paddy. They won't make it to Earth without the Galactica. None of them will. Not if that Cylon Empire is truly a force to be reckoned with."
"Do you know how many lives you'll be responsible for taking? Do you really want that on your conscience when you meet your Maker?" Ryan asked, changing tact. His hands curled into fists as he met the stubborn, but familiar glare.
Dayton smiled slightly, crossing his arms over his chest as though he was already bored with the conversation. "I thought you didn't believe in God."
"That's an advantage that we non-believers get to exercise. We can still wield it as a threat at our convenience." Ryan responded, no hint of the usual humour on his features. "You can't do this, Mark." He dropped his hands and said aloud, "I'm not going to let you."
"I . . . believe I'm doing the right thing, Paddy." Dayton told him quietly. "We have family that we need to think about. What about Sylvia and your kids? Not a day goes by where I don't think about Yvonne. How she raised Jess and Lauren without their 'Dada'." Once again he reverted to sign language. "I have to protect them all, even if all that's left is their bloodline. I have to honour their memory." He could feel the tears pricking at his eyes as images of his beautiful blonde-haired wife playing with his daughters, one fair like her mother, the other dark like him, haunted his memories.
"Are you listening to yourself, Mark?" Ryan asked him, once again grasping his shoulder, so distressed by now he forgot to sign as he hissed into Dayton's ear. "What do you think Yvonne would say if you told her you were 'honouring her memory' by planning the . . . wholesale murder of these people? Don't you think they have children? Don't you think they have wives? Lovers? I've seen Starbuck's blood, buster. I know it's as red as my own! Did it ever occur to you that there could even be distant relations to Kobol's thirteenth tribe in this Fleet? According to Ama, it's possible." He laughed mirthlessly. "What if you were descended from these people? What if someone you knew was?"
Dayton paused, shaking his head at the improbability. "Paddy . . ."
"And you're going to tell us that we fought our way out of that hellhole, Dickins almost losing his life, only to have our own friend . . ." His eyes narrowed as Dayton blinked at the use of the word. ." He grabbed the NASA Commander by the front of his tunic and stared him down, spitting his next words out. "Yes, my closest friend, has decided for all of us that our time in this big ole, ugly universe is through."
Dayton didn't move. He teetered forward as Ryan tightened his grip, trembling with emotion. He could sense, rather than see the fist that Ryan clenched, so tempted was he to thump his commanding officer. For the moment it gave him something else to focus on. "Go ahead. Do it."
Ryan let out a puff of air, pushing Dayton from him with disgust as if he was a rotting corpse, not his CO. "Damn you, Mark! You're better than this! You're a good man, not some kind of sociopathic killer!" He turned away, taking a deep breath, and running a hand back through long, greying hair flowing loose over his shoulders before looking back to the other.
"Do what you want, Paddy. It's your decision." Dayton replied audibly after a moment, doubt beginning to finally infuse him as images of all that his men had been through to gain their freedom raced through his mind.
Ryan sniffed in derision. He again walked up to the commander, this time taking the tip of his index finger and driving it into the man's chest. "Wrong. It's your decision. Me? I'm going to go check out the OC. I figure to get myself a rare steak and a cold beer before I'm blasted to oblivion. Maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll even have a chance to talk to an attractive woman before I die. I'll probably end up telling her all about Syl and the kids, but I don't care." He jabbed Dayton's chest one more time for good measure. "For thirty years we've been like brothers, Mark. Seems to me that if I can't believe in you anymore, then there's nothing left in this goddamned existence to believe in." With that challenge issued, he turned on his heel and left.
"Except rare steaks and cold beer," muttered Dayton dryly, watching him go. He looked up at the others, but neither seemed disposed to say a word. Instead they looked him up and down as though he had unexpectedly taken up wearing makeup and dressing in drag.
Then they turned in disgust to follow Ryan.
----------
Capitulation wasn't something Sheba was particularly good at. It wasn't in her DNA, the results, she suspected, of generation after generation of stubborn, bovine-headed people breeding out anything other than, "Open fire! Full thrusters ahead!" It also wasn't exactly on the personality profile for a Colonial Warrior, except when occasionally dealing with a superior officer.
Face it, Sheba, you usually don't let your emotions get in the way of the job. She sniffed at that. Yeah. Like with Cassie on the Gamoray mission. Totally professional.
As much as she was disinclined to admit it, Apollo was right. The whole episode of finding out her father was still alive had really messed with her mind. As Starbuck had been known to say, she was 'off her game'. And, oh, how she had clearly proven it when things had come to a head in the hangar of the asteroid base.
Hades Hole, girl! Where was your head? She wrinkled her features as she thought about that. Oh. Right.
Sheba ran through her final checks as the last of the mining crew boarded, trying to wipe that moment out of her mind when Apollo had stared at her in obvious anger and frustration, as everyone had scattered to complete the evacuation of the base when they realized the Life Support Systems were failing.
"Sheba, I want you to fly that shuttle out of here . .."
"Apollo, we've already talked about this. You're obviously
not clear on what we discussed. I'm only going to do it if you
assure me . . ."
"Lieutenant, that's
an order. I was still your commanding officer the last time I
checked. This is not the appropriate time or place to
discuss our personal relationship. Now haul astrum and get
those people out of here before I put you on report. Is that clear
enough for you?"
It had been like a slap across the face, and she had merely stared dumbly at him, and then turned away in embarrassment as she felt angry tears fill her eyes. She refused to let him see the effect his words had had on her, especially when she realized she had taken things too far. Instead, she had muttered a brisk "Yes, Sir," and had paced towards the shuttle.
Now, she realized Apollo too was under enormous pressures, what with concern about Starbuck and Luana, the failing reactor and possible radion leaks, and any number of other burdens, and she hadn't made it any easier on him by bringing up personal issues at an inappropriate time. He wasn't exactly known for losing his temper with his subordinates unless they damn well deserved it. The man really had to be pushed.
Like now.
All the same, once again he would ultimately be putting himself at risk and setting the main reactor to explode, running towards the hangar and the single remaining Viper that would carry him to safety beyond the uncalculated blast radius. If he made it out in time.
Their relationship seemed to be a series of if's. Not exactly the way she had envisioned love when she was younger. A meeting, a series of intense emotions and moments building up to a first kiss, intense passion, and then 'happily ever after'.
Ha!
No, in reality love was as much work as anything else in life. It took real effort to sustain a relationship. She had had this discussion with Cassiopeia not long before the med tech had broken things off with Starbuck. For some reason, even good friends were reluctant to discuss it when they were going through a difficult time with their lover. It was akin to failure to admit that life with the most sought after bachelors in the Fleet wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
Yes, her and Cassiopeia had been the envy of single woman throughout the Fleet. The celebrated and much decorated Captain Apollo and Lieutenant Starbuck. The Gold Team. Heroes of Carillon, Arcta, Gamoray, and a dozen other missions. As Starbuck liked to say, "eaters of Base Ships for breakfast". Handsome, dashing, daring . . . every young woman's fantasy, and probably even a few slightly more mature lady's, truth be known.
Never single for long—apparently, about a centar was his post-pubescent record—Starbuck had moved on to Luana, at least for now. Meanwhile, Sheba and the Strike Captain were still on the same long and winding road, taking things slowly and cautiously, mainly at Apollo's insistence. It hadn't really been that long since Apollo had lost his wife, and Boxey had lost his mother. Neither was ready for the premature presence of another woman in the household. And so, Sheba patiently waited on the periphery of Apollo's life, trying to be understanding and supportive, vying for his time amidst his demands of duty, family, triad, and friends.
As she looked back on it, she reflected that she had matured a great deal since Cain and the Pegasus had left their mark on the Fleet and had disappeared in an intense flash of laser fire and a flurry of battle debris . . . as was his way. The young, determined, stubborn woman who had proudly held her head high at the mention of her revered father had learned a lot about humility, patience and life in general since meeting Apollo and his circle of friends. She had become a part of a larger extended family.
Fortunately, she had inherited an inner strength from both her parents. Though most people attributed her stronger qualities to her father, her mother wasn't exactly a shrinking viola, standing in the shadow of her husband all her life. Bethany had a resilience that couldn't be denied, almost single-handedly raising her daughter while Cain was away at war. She had made it look easy and had imparted her self-sufficient streak to her daughter, making Sheba wonder time and again exactly how her parents would have dealt with one another if the fiercely independent twosome had actually co-existed in the same dwelling fulltime. Lords, the fireworks would have been seen the Twelve Worlds over!
Hades Hole, all the way to Cylon!
Likely, that was why Bethany's slow, agonizing death had so devastated Cain. She had carefully orchestrated their lives so Cain could pop in on the all too rare furloughs, usually to be called back to duty prematurely, every person playing their part and knowing their role. She was his link to normalcy, and despite the fact that he was more comfortable in his military life, he could comfortably step into his position of father and husband, following her lead before the promise of danger and action would once again lure him back to the Front. People thought that Cain was the strong one, but Bethany's inner strength was the grounding force in their relationship. And when she had died, he had crumbled.
Apollo, on the other hand, could move between duty and fatherhood with an apparent ease that was oftentimes baffling. It was one of his qualities that Sheba quickly recognized and admired, especially after a lifetime of uncomfortable moments with her own father before she had joined the Service and had ended up fighting at his side. Apollo had many of Cain's characteristics—bravery, intelligence, honour, a tactical cunning—yet his sensitive and caring nature was really what had finally encouraged her to take the first step towards nurturing a loving relationship in the cockpit of a Cylon Raider so many sectars ago.
Yes, much like war, real love was vastly different from her youthful imaginings. And 'happily ever after' was really only the musings of romantic holovids and books, she concluded. But a future with Apollo was worth the hard work and heartbreak. At least she fervently wished it was so.
"Everything's nominal," said her co-pilot. "We're cleared for launch."
"Launch."
----------
Starbuck was watching Reece like a wild, hungry, predatory felix about to pounce as the other paced beside the biobed. The good thing was the lieutenant was wrapped in some kind of regenerating medical equipment, which, after surreptitious inspection, would probably keep him firmly affixed to the medical bed. Translation: Starbuck couldn't leap up and try to throttle the Security Officer after he admitted the position they had unwittingly maneuvered themselves into.
"What happened?" Starbuck demanded.
"I don't know how much Boomer told you about how we . . . interrogated Borka," Reece began, watching as the lieutenant's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but his face remained impassive.
"You already mentioned you were persuasive." Starbuck reminded him, not really caring about the details, considering Borka had almost killed Luana. Humanity was for the humane. Animals like Borka and Kaden were exempt.
"Look Starbuck, Borka was behaving nervously when we initially questioned him. He wouldn't crack though and Will had a feeling that we were running out of time if we were going to find Luana and Oriana. He has an innate sense for these things." Reece lowered his voice, looking briefly around him, ensuring no one was within earshot. "We sent in a team to work him over. They didn't hurt him much, the idea was to scare him into confessing, but still . . ."
Starbuck merely nodded. He had drawn his own conclusions already, and while he was a little surprised that Boomer was involved, he had heard that officers in the Caprica City Civil Security Forces, where Willem had honed his skills, had gone to some extreme measures to get the information they needed. "And?"
"Apparently, information gained under duress is inadmissible in a Tribunal," Reece admitted. Sneered was more like it. He had little patience for legal niceties.
"What the frack does that mean?" Starbuck asked, his mind rebelling against all legal information thrust at him in a mental response to previous entanglements with Colonial Jurisprudence, once several sectars before when he had been charged with a fellow officer's murder, and again several yahrens ago when he had been charged with possession of narcotics for the intent to traffic while in the Academy. Of course, he was eventually exonerated of all charges, although both times he had had his doubts that he'd escape conviction for something he didn't do. Too often it seemed the law was designed to protect the criminals, not the innocent, at least in his all too relevant experience.
"Even though Borka admitted that Kaden terminated Oriana, as well as revealed that he left Luana welded up in a waste pipe to die, we can't submit that as evidence at Tribunal." Reece elaborated with disgust in his voice, watching the impassive features before him contort in anger. "Unless . . ."
"Unless what?" Starbuck demanded. No, he definitely didn't like this turn of events.
"The Chief Opposer, Solon wants Borka to implicate Kaden, since it was actually Kaden who terminated Oriana. Solon feels that Borka will accept a plea bargain for a reduced sentence."
"Now wait just a fracking centon! He almost killed Lu! Look at her, Reece! Just look at her! He can't get off on some reduced sentence." He spat the words at the Security Officer in derision, pulling inadvertently at the bio-sleeves and then huffing in annoyance as medical alarms began to ring, alerting the staff to displaced leads. "He should spend the rest of his life rotting on the Barge! Hades, if it was up to me, he'd be out an airlock!"
"Starbuck, other than his own inadmissible statement, we have very little else on him. Or Kaden. They're a professionals. They did everything right. No traceable evidence. No tracks. No prints. No DNA. No nothing. Now according to law, we don't even have enough evidence on either one of them to convene Tribunal. Thankfully, they don't know that. After all, the only person whose testimony could possibly convict them can't even remember what happened. Do you really want them to put Luana on the stand the way she is?" Reece asked him, looking back at the sleeping young woman whose life had taken such a tragic turn. "Do you?"
"NO!" Starbuck snapped, gritting his teeth as Hinnus began reattaching medical leads, once again immobilizing him. The image of a bewildered Luana taking the stand at even a preliminary hearing as Kaden or Borka's Protector questioned her came too easily to mind. It would be overwhelming for the young woman, and absolutely pointless, except to determine that there was no concrete evidence with which to proceed to Tribunal.
Reece waited patiently for the med tech to finish and depart before continuing. "As you know, Colonial Law is very clear that we need to proceed within ten centars for a charge of willful termination. Our time is almost up if we're going to convict Kaden of killing Oriana. Borka is our only hope for that, Starbuck." Reece explained patiently, holding back his own disgust with a system that was designed to hasten convictions for the guilty, but in this case was instead likely to get Borka off the hook. Personally, he doubted that Borka would spill his guts for anything less than complete exoneration of all charges, but he wasn't about to share that information with the already volatile warrior.
"This is bovine mong! There has to be some evidence somewhere." Starbuck insisted. "What about Komma and the computer data?"
"I already told you, nothing so far. Corporal Komma thinks they inserted some kind of instantaneous virus or tapeworm program that obliterated the memory files on the hard drive before they trashed her quarters. He's still working on it though."
"Any evidence that they did trash her quarters?" Starbuck asked.
"No. Just deductive reasoning. Not even enough to ask for a continuance before the hearing." Reece admitted. "Look, part of the problem is that the Galactica left the Fleet which interfered with our investigation. Unfortunately, Colonial Jurisprudence doesn't make allowances for removing the investigators from the scene of the crime. The law was written for use in the colonies, and hasn't exactly been revisited to take into account that we're traveling through space in a convoy of ships, which our base ship can potentially leave in a moment of crisis, taking us with it." Reece ran a hand back through his hair, successfully making it stand on end on both sides, unbeknownst to him. "Castor is on the Malocchio Freighter, but we can't even contact him due to communications silence. Having Borka turn states' evidence is our only chance to convict Kaden. And I do mean only."
"But surely you can ask for a continuance based on the fact that the Galactica leaving the Fleet impeded the investigation!" Starbuck argued. "Someone must have seen something on the Malocchio! What kind of justice is it if all the evidence isn't even presented at the hearing?"
"Lords, Starbuck, don't you think we tried?" Reece replied wearily. "Sire Solon was turned down. Sire Memnon was appointed Chief Magistrate, and he said he couldn't interrupt the age old traditions of Colonial Jurisprudence without sufficient reason, and the mere possibility that there might be more admissible evidence wasn't good enough for the old vapour bag. He needed something more concrete. We couldn't offer it to him."
"Memnon?" Starbuck asked, recalling that the frail old man who looked as though a strong breeze could knock him over, had been retired for several yahrens. "Why is he acting as Chief Magistrate?"
"Apparently, it isn't the first time he's done so since retirement. Why?" Reece shrugged. "I don't know. Probably because he used to be Chief Magistrate of the Colonial Supreme Tribunal. Besides, the Commander is too damn busy with whatever is going down on that asteroid, along with these new survivors you brought back with you. And obviously Memnon was aboard. That must be part of it."
"This is crazy. Why would Borka think he needed to incriminate Kaden?" Starbuck shook his head. "He'd know that if you really had the evidence to convict either one of them, you wouldn't need his testimony to corroborate Lu's."
"Simple. Luana remembers that Borka tried to kill her, but her recall on the actual person who fired a laser shot at Oriana is sketchy." Reece shrugged. "At least that's what he believes. We also told Borka that Kaden is pointing the finger at him. He's scared. Fear motivates to a certain extent, especially when a life sentence on the Barge is looming."
"Frack . . . " Starbuck muttered. "I can't believe this." He shook his head slowly. "Borka's going to get off . . ." He started to move a hand, but was once again limited by the bio-sleeves. His muscles tightened reflexively, and he appeared as though he would jump to his feet, tearing at all restraining equipment and howling his outrage, before he let out a few ragged breaths, reining in his emotions instead. "There has to be something we can do . . ."
"Look, Starbuck," Reece leaned in towards the warrior, feeling unexpected empathy as he watched blue eyes dart between the sleeping Luana and the medical gear that kept him secured to the biobed for the moment. "Borka will probably get a suspended sentence. Kaden will go to the Prison Barge. And Luana won't have to take the stand. It's the best we can do under the circumstances."
"It's not frackin' good enough!" Starbuck spat out between clenched teeth. "I'm not going to let him get away with . . ."
"Easy there," Reece cautioned him. "Look, we knew you'd feel this way. I would too if I was you. Just remember what we talked about before. There has to be someone behind them. Someone who actually ordered the terminations. Someone who set you up for that whole triad scam that seemed to set all of this is motion. Borka and Kaden are minor players. We want their boss." He watched as the lieutenant paused, obviously considering his words, and surprise clearly on his features. Starbuck wasn't expecting Reece's support on this scale, this was obvious. But the Security Officer knew that the warrior's considerable energy and determination would be better harnessed as an ally, then as a vigilante. And working together had initially been Starbuck's idea. Just how that would work logistically they would still have to determine. "After Tribunal, and we get back to the Fleet, you can bet that'll be our focus. And if you were serious about having contacts who might know who Borka and Kaden are working for, then we'll get to the person who's orchestrating this whole scene. But I'm willing to bet it won't be easy."
"Nothing worth doing is easy, Reece." Starbuck murmured, his mind already racing ahead to his next move.
"So, are we actually going to work together on this?" Reece interrupted the warrior's contemplations. After a long history of mutual antagonism, he was as surprised as the warrior that they could even contemplate joining forces.
Starbuck slowly nodded, a slight smile touching his features. "How about together/ apart?"
Reece snorted, watching the lieutenant's smile stretch into a full-blown grin. "What the frack does that mean?"
Starbuck chuckled, recalling he had asked exactly the same question a centon before. "It means, Reece, that I have an idea . . ."
Reece winced. He had a feeling that he wasn't going to like this.
----------
"Report, Captain" Adama ordered of his son over the comm link from the Bridge of the Galactica. He hoped his voice didn't sound terse, but somehow his debriefing of the Earthmen had left him feeling unsettled.
"Commander, the first of the transport shuttles should be fully loaded and returning to the Galactica in ten centons," Apollo relayed. If he noticed the slight astringency in his father's tone, he gave no sign.
"And the Dynamos?"
"We were finally able to bypass the energy stabilization control mechanism and are ready to over-energize the Dynamos. However, the main reactor has become even more problematic since the Life Support Systems crashed. It's already shut down on us twice as we've prepared to blow the Dynamos, and the main storage batteries are draining fast just keeping the base's lights and gravity going. In fact, it's already starting to get cold in here."
"Apollo, with the unstable nature of the main reactor, you should evacuate all non-essential personnel before trying again." Adama ordered, noting Tigh's tight frown.
"Agreed, sir. Already happening. " In the background, Adama could hear the rumble of a shuttle's engines starting up. "It'll take at least that long before we get the main reactor fired up again anyway."
"Commander, we've just picked up . . . " Omega's voice trailed off and he began rechecking his readouts from where he sat at his station. "I don't understand, sir. It's gone."
"Omega?" Adama turned his attention from the comm link to regard the other man. Omega was frowning, as if feeling uncertain.
The bridge officer shook his head. "A random energy pattern that I couldn't identify, Commander. A wide-spectrum burst that washed across our scanners. Only there for an instant, and now it's gone." He poured over his console once again. "Can't be wrong," he muttered.
"Nothing on the scanners, Adama." Tigh inserted.
"Rigel? Could you run the scan through the BTD for me?" asked Omega. Rigel nodded, and returned to her instruments as Omega dumped the data to her station. As she did so, Adama moved to the main scanners. As Tigh had said, they were clear, showing nothing they weren't already aware of, or needed to worry about.
"Solar radion fluctuations?" Tigh asked Omega.
"No, sir. The sun in this system is a Gamma Type Two, and appears to be extremely stable. At this moment, it is at its sunspot minimum. Very quiet, Colonel."
"The Pegasus?" asked Tigh quietly, next to Adama.
"Omega?" asked Adama.
"It didn't read like a ship, Commander. Not Cylon. Certainly nothing like a Battlestar's power plant. Or a Viper's either."
"Could we have missed a pirate ship?" asked Tigh. They thought thatall the bad guys were accounted for, but the marauders hadn't exactly kept military rosters, and the folks they had rescued didn't look like the most truthful bunch in the universe.
"Not a ship, sir," said Rigel. "Buffered Telemetry Demodulator analysis shows that it resembles no machine or natural phenomenon known to us."
"Anything else?" asked Adama.
"No sir," replied Rigel. "I'll continue to run comparison scans, but that will take a while."
"Keep on it, Rigel. Apollo, still there?"
"Yes, Commander. The first shuttle is away, and should be docking in about eight centons. The second is on taxi."
"Good. Let me know the centon the reactor is powered back up, and the Dynamos are ready to blow."
"Yes, sir. Shouldn't be much longer. Apollo out."
----------
It was eerily quiet, save for the low vibration of the ship's engines, unlike the corridors of most military vessels that Dayton had been on, since most of the Colonial Warriors were either on the asteroid base, or flying escort for the temporarily abandoned Fleet. Dayton just kept walking, preferring pacing the near empty corridors to being alone with his thoughts in their newly assigned quarters on the crew deck. Quarters he was sure were bugged.
He couldn't get Ryan's words out of his mind. He shook his head angrily, deciding that the other had hit below the belt when he had abandoned all attempts at rational debate and had taken it to a purely emotional level.
What do you think Yvonne would say if you told her you were 'honouring her memory' by planning the . . . wholesale murder of these people?
She would have been horrified.
But then, the Mark Dayton who had launched thirty years ago for the International Space Station was a different man than the one who had now decided the fate of the Colonial Race. Earth's history had certainly bespoken the cruelty, the savagery, the utter depravity which mankind was capable of inflicting on his fellow beings, but actually existing and surviving within that environment under Torg's brutality couldn't help but affect a man.
Like the horrors of war.
Seems to me that if I can't believe in you anymore, then there's nothing left in this goddamned existence to believe in.
That had been like an abrupt and unexpected blow to his gut.
For all the arguments, debates, disagreements and general spats that he and Ryan had had over the years, somewhere along the line, the man's personal opinion had started to matter. Not so much his opinion on religion, politics, ethics, the damned metric system, or social structure—after all the man was a Canadian—but more so the fact that when Dayton looked at the other he could see respect in Paddy Ryan's eyes.
For all their differences, they liked and respected one another. They had, in fact, become the closest of friends. Even closer than brothers, and Dayton knew that from bitter experience with his own. And for the very first time in thirty years, despite all that they had been through, all the horrors they had survived, like some never-ending POW camp, he could palpate the shock, disgust, disappointment, and disillusionment coming from Ryan. Disillusionment was something he hadn't thought Ryan capable of—the man had an unbelievable, almost gruesome penchant for maintaining a humorous outlook, even in the most dour of circumstances—and that disillusionment was directly attributable to him. It had made him step back from the moment and take a second look.
"You respect him too much to not value his opinion, Mark."
Dayton swung around at the words, but the empty corridor mocked him. "Who's there?" He rasped, again looking up and down the corridor. The words had been spoken in English, but not by any voice that he was familiar with.
Abruptly, his clothing changed to the strangest shade of white, as if someone had doused him in bleach-filled water and thoroughly rolled him in all-purpose flour. A brilliant, glistering white, as if its whiteness came more from within, than from the mere colour of the fabric. A man was standing before him, his arm outstretched as though he had just tapped him on the shoulder, though he had felt nothing. He jumped back as the man opened his hand, as if to show he wasn't armed, and stated in a dignified voice, reminiscent of an English accent on Earth, "And now you can see me. And remember."
It was if he was swept by a hurricane of memory back to his childhood. Nine years old and full of energy. Intent on the recovery of his Mike Bossy hockey card, just after the New York Islanders had won an unprecedented third consecutive Stanley Cup victory in the 1981-82 season. He could still feel the way the wind had suddenly whipped in off Lake Michigan, tearing it from his hand, sending it flying onto Lake Shore Drive in Chicago.
In that impulsive nature usually reserved for even younger children, Dayton hadn't even thought twice about the traffic, rushing towards his lost treasure. All he could see was his prized hockey card, flittering in the wind, taunting him and managing to stay just beyond the reach of his fingertips. Then the blaring of horns, screaming of a woman, screeching of brakes, and the crash of metal on metal . . . and darkness.
The next thing he remembered, his mother was rolling him over, nearly hysterical, pleading with God and anyone else listening that her son wouldn't be taken from her.
Intense sobs wracked her body, even as she finally realized her son seemed to be uninjured.
"It's a miracle," she had continued to weep as a crowd gathered around them, her sobs at last ebbing as she pulled him to her, squeezing him so tightly that he was sure she would crush his ribcage. Then she had gently pulled him from her, her watery eyes traveling over him to assure herself that he was indeed undamaged, and not just some figment of her imagination. And then suddenly . . .
"What were you thinking? Running out in traffic? You could have been killed!" She had yanked him to his feet so fast it had made him momentarily dizzy. "If you ever do that again, Mark Alexander Dayton, you'll be grounded so long . . ."
The rest was a bit of a blur, but he still recalled that sensation of something in his hand as she screamed shrilly, all onlookers nodding their agreement and encouragement at the ritual, except for one standing apart from the others. Dayton had then opened his fist to find his treasured Mark Bossy hockey card . . . though how he had ever retrieved it he couldn't recall.
His gaze, he remembered then, had been drawn to that lone man. Enveloped in white, from his hair to his toes, and smiling his support only once before turning away and simply disappearing before the young boy's eyes. At that moment, he had thought it was his imagination playing tricks on him. And indeed, he had never been able to put a face to the image again.
But now, with an assurance he couldn't rationalize, he realized that the same man was standing before him.
"Y. . . you?"