Miniseries, Night Two
A/N: So the Galactica has heard about the Fall of the Colonies, and is now on a course to lay up at Ragnar Anchorage for food, ammunition, and other essential supplies. The Marines have already taken their first casualties, losing their lieutenant, two sergeants, and Gunny Crawford, the Marines' most senior enlisted man.
"Come on, maggots. The sooner, the better," Staff Sergeant Erin Mathias growled at her small contingent of Colonial Marines, 19 Marines in all. They had been assigned, along with most of the deck crew to round up as many supplies, arms, and ammunition as they could for the upcoming battle. The former especially pleased the Marines; all they had were old MN-23 rifles. Short, compact, and nearly worthless against Centurions.
Private First Class Nathan Franco opened a crate of weapons and hefted the latest Corps-issue carbines, the 10x21mm C-3A3. Fully automatic, the 28-round magazine could take down a toaster in seconds. He couldn't wipe the smile off his face.
"Franco!" Mathias bellowed. "Put that weapon back and get to work!"
"Aye, ma'am." Franco gently laid the Cx4 into its padded groove, as though he were dealing with an infant.
"Gods, Franco," Corporal Joe Pike said, neck veins bulging out in strain. "Do you think you could quit fingerfrakking that thing and pick up your end?"
The Marines deposited the carbines by the seal between Galactica and Ragnar Station, where Tyrol's deck crew took over the transfer. The crew picked up the heavy crate and asked for a destination.
"These go to the armory. Well, glad that's done," Franco said, resting beside PFC 'Profile' Wallace, so called because his eyes were extremely sensitive to light and wore big aviator sunglasses at all times. Even in the darkened hanger of Ragnar Station.
Profile nodded, producing a flask from his pocket. He took a sip and coughed. Handing it off to Franco, Profile got back up and joined fellow Marines Cheadle, Shultz, and Bonnington in loading a box of cannon ammunition onto a trolly. More deckhands appeared, taking the rounds deep inside Galactica.
Franco grimaced as he drank from Profile's flask. It was home distilled Ambrosia, born two days ago from a combination of ingredients that he didn't want to think about. He passed it to Pike, who was staring off into nothing, probably worried about his sister.
"Hey, man. Look, I'm sure she's fine. It's standard procedure for ships under attack to cut all non-essential comms during a battle."
"Yeah. Maybe," Pike said, but Franco could tell he didn't believe him.
The Chief talked on the radio with Adama for a bit, then motioned some of his crew forward. Tyrol unlocked a door, only to have the barrel of a pistol practically up his nose. Pike acted without thinking, drawing his sidearm and adopting a shooter's stance. Cheadle and Bonnington were seconds behind him, but they all held their fire. Taking a shot at this guy from thirty meters away and there was a risk that Galactica's senior skilled mechanic would end up with his brains splattered on some rating's jumpsuit.
"I am NOT going to jail!" the man with the pistol declared.
Tyrol held up his hands in a peaceful gesture. "Take it easy, buddy. Nobody's taking you to jail...just calm down, ok? We're from the Colonial Fleet. We just came to get some equipment from the station to get back into the fight."
The man narrowed his eyes and his pistol lowered slightly. Slightly. "What fight?"
"There's a war on. Give me your weapon." Tyrol held slowly reached for the pistol.
"I think I'm going to need this, then, if there's a war on. Buddy."
"Lot a good that'll do ya, in space!" Franco called. The man ignored him and continued to squabble with Tyrol.
"I want out of here on a transport, a safe one. Something with an untraceable FTL drive, yes?"
"There's over two thousand people on that ship, so I don't have time to frak around. Hand it over!" Tyrol finally injected the voice of authority that only a senior enlisted man could possess.
The man, who Pike suspected was an arms dealer looking to steal a cozy shipment from the station, flipped the pistol and offered it to the deck chief butt-first. Immediately, Pike and PFC John Macintyre were at the Chief's side, keeping their barrels sighted at the dealer's chest.
"Get his weapon," the Chief ordered. Macintyre stripped the gun from his hand and tucked it into his vest webbing. "If he moves, shoot him."
"Aye, Chief," Pike said coldly.
"Cpl. Pike! Bring that gunrunner over here."
Pike closed his fingers in a vice grip around the prisoner's arm and dragged him towards Mathias at her request. She crossed her arms and glared at the man. Mathias then stepped the side to allow none other than the Old Man, Cmdr. Adama to inspect the prisoner for himself.
Pike rejoined Franco near the ammo crates Profile had been resting on. Three deckhands carrying a munitions box passed them as both Marines leaned forward to hear Adama's conversation with the dealer. He asked if he was an arms dealer, as Pike had suspected.
"People have a right to defend themselves," the man answered with a shrug. "I simply supply the means. Leoben Conoy."
Adama nodded slightly. "You don't look so good, Conoy."
"Allergies," he said, waving his hand dismissively.
"Allergies, my ass," Franco said. "Something is seriously frakking wrong with that guy. Who comes to a secret, near forgotten stockpile now? I mean, now?"
Pike shook his head. "You are just so godsdamned paranoid, Franco. Arms dealers come to arms stockpiles when they think nobody is around because, I dunno, it's illegal perhaps?" Franco had come to be known for his wild conspiracy theories, ranging from the mundane involving a women, to elaborate shadow groups trying to dissolve the Colonial Marine Corps.
"You say that now..." Franco started, but he was interrupted by the sound of metal striking metal. Pike turned to witness the petrified crew that had just passed backing up from a crate marked 'ORDINANCE, HEAVY. SAM HE/DP 90MM ROCKET-PROPELLED'.
"Get back! It's hot!" one of the men yelled, meaning the missile was armed.
Pike tackled a female crewman to shield her with his body, while Franco rolled behind the ammo crate he was sitting on. SSgt. Mathias bellowed for everyone to get to cover. There was a massive explosion that rattled the deck, sending those not already prone sprawling.
"You okay?" Pike asked the woman, Crewman Specialist Seelix.
"Yeah. Thanks."
"No problem."
"I'm in a lot of pain, actually," Franco said. He was still lying by the crate he hid behind. "I think I've got shrapnel in my ass."
"Walk it off, pansy," tough-guy Macintyre sneered at him. "Ya ought to be ashamed of acting so frakkin stupid, diving behind live rounds to escape an explosion. What're you, some kinda dumbass?"
"No," Franco hissed through his teeth. "I've a bleeding ass, with a large chunk of white-hot metal imbedded in my body. Could somebody PLEASE get a corpsman?"
"Everyone alright?" Mathias called, dusting off her fatigues. Her one eye had a small cut under it.
"Franco's bitching about his arse again, but I think everybody else is alright."
"Everybody except the Commander," Chief Tyrol said, pointing at the collapsed bulkhead that Conoy and Adama had leapt into. The missile's explosion had fused the metal debris together, and it didn't look like there was a way to get Adama out without heavy duty cutting equipment. Tyrol banged on the ruined door. "Sir?"
"Chief? Staff Sergeant?" Adama's muffled voice called back. "Get all the bullets and equipment into the ship, and don't spare a man on anything else. We'll go another way. Tell Col. Tigh that he's in charge until I return.
"Understood sir," Mathias said. She leaned into her radio and ordered the Marines in other parts of the station to drop whatever they had and grab the nearest ammo crates. Tyrol did the same with his deckhands.
Pike flexed his bicep. "Time to get back to work, Franco."
"Kay. Seriously, I can't get up," Franco said. Pike, fed up with Franco's whining stormed over and was surprised to see Franco had actually been telling the truth; his right leg was bleeding profusely and his BDU pants had been shredded.
"Gunny," Pike motioned Mathias over and showed her Franco's leg.
"Take him to sickbay, but don't make a big fuss about it," Mathias said. "Just drop him off and get back here ASAP. Shit. This is just what I need."
Doctor Cottle had been less than happy to see Franco, but slapped him on a hospital bed and went to work. Pike in the mean time, returned to a continually growing pile of ammo, spare parts, and manufacturing materials. Mathias seemed to have instilled her special brand of fear into the loading party. The Marines and their Fleet counterparts were bringing the supplies faster than they could be loaded onto the Galactica.
"Pike! Quit standing around with your thumb up your ass and get back to work! We got a war to win!"
"Aye ma'am!"
"All hands, all hands," Lt. Gaeta buzzed over the radio. "Action stations. Large number of unknown DRADIS. Repeat, all hands to action stations. Cylons inbound."
If the men and women had been motivated before, they were now on the border of fanatical. Marines sprinted onto the battlestar, carrying two, three large crates stacked on top of each other. SSgt. Mathias was ordering everyone to 'pack it in'.
"CIC, Two Times. I've got Showboat and Chopper ready to scramble in three."
However to everyone's great relief, Lt. Dualla refined the contacts. "Negative, Two Times. They're friendly civilians. Colonel, the lead ship is requesting permission to come along side, sir. They're saying the President is aboard."
"Alright maggots. The President is alive, the frakking moron. Now get to loading! We don't have time to dick around with civies. Profile! I see you slacking over there."
Two more hours passed of the transfer routine, before Adama appeared, carrying the limp body of the arms dealer, Conoy. Conoy's face look smashed in, dripping blood all over the station's deck. Adama looked like he'd been in a fight.
"Sir!" Mathias rushed to the Commander's side. "What happened? Were there more runners? Cheadle, Wenzler! Possible hostiles!" The two closest Marines to Mathias came at her call.
"It wasn't any criminal that attacked me, Gunny Mathias. It was this thing. Conoy. He's a Cylon."
"What!?!"
"They look like us now. Keep that to yourself. Get finished up here, and get back to the ship. Have this brought to Cottle for an autopsy.
Mathias looked to Cheadle, who grimaced and reluctantly took the body from Adama. The last of the ammunition was loaded into the Galactica, and Pike and Sykes, who he had not seen since the attack, went to visit Franco in the infirmary.
While Pike and Sykes were busy checking up on Franco, the rest of the Marines returned to the barracks to rest before going to their assigned stations. PFC Richard Cheadle flopped down on his rack, not even bothering to take his gear off.
Just as he was getting relaxing on the stiff, uncomfortable bunk, the intercom cracked to life. "Security Team Five to the CIC. Security Team Five to the CIC."
Cheadle's eyes slowly cracked open. He saw Profile waiting for him by the door, holding out a pistol and holster. Cheadle strapped it to his thigh, and exited the barracks with Profile.
"This sucks," Profile said miserably. "We JUST got off."
"Yeah. You have any idea what this is about?"
"Nope."
"It better not be to escort somebody to the brig for insubordination. Do you know why I enlisted in the Corps, Profile?"
"To have sex with semi-attractive female pilots," Profile said, nodding.
"Ye...no. No, you idiot. To kick ass and take names. Not escort Fleet officers to the brig for mouthing off to that rat bastard Tigh."
The two Marines passed relatively few people, and took the deck-to-deck elevator to the B Deck, where the CIC was located. Profile showed his ID to Corporal Clyde Madsen, the CIC guard. Madsen waved them through. Even though they were Marines too, it was procedure to get an ID check before entering the nerve center of a battlestar.
"That's Gaius Baltar in there," Captain Aaron Kelly said, thumbing in the direction of Navigation. Kelly was Fleet, the Landing Signal Officer. In other words, he guided Vipers and Raptors into the flight pods for landing. "He claims that that PR guy, Aaron Doral, is a Cylon. We're taking him to the brig."
"Understood, sir," Cheadle said. He didn't let it show on his face that his mind was about ready to blow out. Cylons? On the gods-frakked bridge of a war ship? How do you not notice that?
Profile blew out his breath, then the three of them entered the CIC, Capt. Kelly in the lead, with Profile and Cheadle flanking him. Doral looked up, confused. Kelly informed him that he was under arrest, and the Marines took an arm in each hand, locking them behind his back.
"See," Cheadle said, guiding the man who didn't feel very much like a chrome-plated killing machine to the elevator. "I told you. Escort to the brig."
"Uh-huh. Captain Kelly?"
"Yes, Private?"
"Your first name's Aaron too, aye?"
"Yeah."
"I wonder if you'll be trouble then." Capt. Kelly looked quizzically at Profile, then decided he was joking and laughed. Profile however, remained silent and stared at Kelly. (Or he seemed to. It was impossible to tell.) "We'll be in touch."
When the small party of Profile, Cheadle, Dr. Baltar, Capt. Kelly, Col. Tigh, and the prisoner Doral reached the ship's brig, Profile unclasped a pouch on his web belt and held up a pair of handcuffs. He motioned for Doral to sit, then locked him to the bars of the cell.
"If he's a Cylon, then why hasn't the storm radiation made him sick by now?" Tigh asked.
"I suppose it takes a while for the affects to become apparent. By the time you'd encountered Leoben, he was already here for several hours."
"I don't suppose it matters to you that I'm human."
"Shut your mouth," Tigh growled at him.
"Yes, I collected random hair samples from everyone in the CIC and subjected them to spectral analysis. Doral's were the only ones that were of a synthetic origin.
"I want everybody aboard the ship screened, Doctor."
Doral stood up, looking squarely at Col. Tigh. "I'm human! I'm from Oasis...it's a small hamlet, a couple of stops from Caprica City. I went to Kobol Colleges, on Gemenon. I studied public relations."
"He's lying," Tigh said after a moment. "He's frakking lying. If he moves, shoot him."
"Aye, sir," Cheadle said. He tapped his ancient Model-K 9mm in its holster.
Tigh, Kelly, and Baltar left the brig, leaving Cheadle and Profile alone with Doral. Cheadle rubbed his eyes tiredly, then sat down on a small bench reserved for guards.
"Hey, as long as I'm thinking of it, where is Cpl. Venner and the rest of the brig rats?"
"Off duty."
"Lucky godsdamned bastards," Cheadle said glumly.
"Feeling down? I could sing a song," Profile offered.
"Please, for the love of Kobol, don't."
Doral looked at them. "You guys believe I'm human, right? I mean, I can't be a Cylon. Right?"
"My judgement is reserved for your autopsy," Profile answered.
"Profile," Cheadle said, exasperated.
"Mm?"
"Could you, just once, just...shut the frak up?"
Profile, oddly enough, didn't say another word. The silence continued for thirty minutes, until Col. Tigh returned, this time with the heavily-armed second half of Cheadle's fire team, Lance Corporal John Collishaw and PFC Harriet Twinam. He nodded when they entered the brig, and saluted Tigh.
"Hatchet-faced Harriet," Profile said, the way he always greeted Twinam.
"Pus-brained Profile," Twinam countered. Although Twinam was a hard-edged, rather stiff Corps 'lifer', meaning that she intended to make the Corps her career, she sometimes exhibited a sense of humor. Very rarely though.
"Knock it off," Collishaw barked. "Doral. Come quietly, and there won't be an issue."
"Where are you taking me?" he asked suspiciously.
"Somewhere more secure," Tigh said. "Adama thinks you're too much of a risk here."
"More secure than this? You gonna throw me in jail? Got a barge floating around?"
"As a matter of fact..."
"You can't do this. I didn't do anything wrong. I didn't do anything wrong!" Doral started to squirm when Profile, Collishaw, and Cheadle unlocked his cuffs and tried to drag him out of the cell. Twinam racked her carbine, and Doral immediately complied.
But as they navigated the prisoner through the bowls of the Galactica, Cheadle realized with a start that they weren't heading to the flight pod. Richard Cheadle had been on Galactica for five of the seven years he had been in the Colonial Marines, and recognized that they were going to the hard seal that was still established with Ragnar. The man in his grasp wasn't getting transferred.
He was getting condemned.
Despite the fact that he had three muscular Marines holding him and a fourth Marine with a fully automatic 10mm carbine jabbing his spine, Doral put up a fight once he realized where he was. Cheadle planted his boot on the guy's ass and pushed him forward, finally getting Doral onto Ragnar Anchorage. Doral whipped around, facing his emotionless (for all intents and purposes) executioners.
"You can't leave me here!"
"You've got food, water, all the luxuries of home."
"No, I'm begging you, don't do this. I"m NOT A CYLON!"
"Maybe," Collishaw said coldly. "But we can't take that chance." He stepped back into the seal with the his Marines and Tigh. The heavy doors on the seal closed, first on the station, then Galactica's. The last thing any of them saw of Doral was his pleading, hopeless face. The seal began to retract, and fire team two slowly began walking back to the barracks.
"Sir?" Cheadle said. Tigh turned his head. "I feel like a bastard."
"Sometimes you just have to block out the screams and carry on. That's what my first C.O. told me during the War. We all have to do bastardly things sometimes, son. And I don't think we're done, not by a long shot."
The entire crew of the aging battlestar had been mustered for the memorial service. Not just for the 82 crew and three Marines killed when she had been struck by a missile, but for the entirety of the 12 Colonies. The priestess, Elosha, finished the service, and a round of 'so say we all's" passed through the ranks.
Adama stepped up, in full uniform. He addressed the crew.
"Are they the lucky ones?" he asked of them. "That's what you're thinking isn't it? We're a long way from home. We've jumped well beyond the red line, into uncharted space. Limited supplies, limited fuel. No allies, and now, no hope."
Adama paused, letting the words sink in. This wasn't the inspirational speech Cheadle had hoped for. "Where shall we go? What shall we do? Life here, began out there. Those are the first words of the Sacred Scrolls. And they were told to us by the Lords of Kobol, many countless centuries ago. And they made it perfectly clear, that we are not alone in this universe. Elosha, there's a 13th Colony of Humankind, is there not?"
"Yes, the Scrolls tell the 13th tribe left Kobol in the early days. They travelled far and made their home upon a planet called Earth, which circled a distant and unknown star," the priestess answered.
"It's not unknown. I know where it is." THAT got Cheadle's attention. Even Franco, who had been half asleep during the memoriam, snapped his eyes on Adama when he heard that. Disbelief washed through the crowed of enlisted and officers. "The location of Earth was known...only by the senior commanders of the fleet. But it won't be an easy journey! It'll be long, and arduous. But I promise you one thing. On the memory of those lying here before you...we shall find it. And Earth will become our new home. So say we all."
"SO SAY WE ALL!" The crew roared, fresh enthusiasm injected into them by Adama's speech. They were then dismissed, first the Fleet officers, than Gunnery Sergeant Burrell, who 'ayed' and dismissed the Marines who were know under his command. And the Marines of the Battlestar Galactica BS-75's Security Detachment, 1st Platoon, Alpha Company fell into routine with the rest of the Fleet, until an unimportant man took hold of the prison barge and demanded a change in the government. A man by the name of Tom Zarek