Author: Cyclone
Feedback: Please be gentle.
Distribution: Gimme credit and a link.
Rating: Nothing worse than on the shows, except maybe language.
Spoilers: Up to Symphony of Light for Robotech, with a few ideas picked here and there from other sources. For the other... you'll see.
Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to other people. I'm just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: A navigational error throws the SDF-3 into the middle of another war.
Author's Note: Beware the vorpal plot bunny. Figured I ought to get at least part of this out before Shadow Chronicles comes out and completely debunks the whole thing. Not that The Prelude to the Shadow Chronicles hasn't already done that, but... oh, well.
Commander Adama tried to maintain a subdued manner as the Earth admiral drove him and the president through his flagship. That the ship was large enough to require vehicles to travel in it was a mute testament to its sheer size. The ship was probably big enough to carry the entire population of the Colonial refugee fleet by itself!
"I'm sure this is quite a lot to take in, Commander, Madam President," Admiral Hunter said. "The Pioneer is among the largest vessels built by the people of Earth. It was initially built to mimic a Sien Dereta-class Zentraedi warship and was scaled to fit."
"Are you saying that these Zentraedi have other ships this size?" Roslin asked.
"And much larger," Hunter nodded. "The Zentraedi were created to form the military arm of a massive interstellar empire. They were much larger than humans and lived on a completely different scale."
"'Were'?" Roslin queried.
"Hmm?" Hunter responded.
"I notice you used the past tense."
"Oh," the admiral nodded in understanding. "Yes, 'were.' While there are still a few Zentraedi remnants that have taken to piracy, most of them underwent a process called 'micronization' and were then integrated into our society. Aside from a few exotic features and some genetic markers, they're now indistinguishable from humans."
"I... see," Roslin said uneasily.
The all-terrain buggy entered a hangar bay. Unlike the cavernous hangar bay in which Colonial One and the Raptor that had ferried Adama over were parked, this one had rows upon rows of combat-ready fighter craft. Adama noted that these fighter craft were the same black and grey fighters that he had seen making up the bulk of the Earthers' fighting forces. They were considerably larger than a Viper or even a Raptor, and the pilot in him concluded that the Earthers had sacrificed agility for armor and firepower.
His train of thought derailed and crashed in a bloody wreck when the Earth admiral drove into the maintenance bay behind. Technicians swarmed around the various craft in the maintenance bay, performing checks and maintenance on them. The craft included a few smaller black and grey fighters that were about a fifth again as large as a Viper, and a small part of his mind abruptly realized that the larger fighters were, in fact, these smaller fighters attached to some sort of booster. He could see one of those boosters being checked at the far end of the maintenance bay, and the sight of a pilot's chair lowered from it brought up even more questions. Several motorcycles were also being worked on, oddly enough.
But the craft that held his complete attention stood at the center of bay, towering menacingly over everything else, even as technicians scurried over and around it, popping open access panels everywhere.
It was a gigantic, black and grey Cylon.
"What... is that?" Adama finally managed to ask, pointing at the giant Cylon, amazed that his hand wasn't shaking.
Hunter looked over, then said, "Oh, that's a Shadow Alpha fighter in battloid mode."
"'Battloid mode'?"
Hunter nodded, "Because of the scale of the Zentraedi, we developed fighters that were reconfigurable to a humanoid shape for large-scale infantry combat. We've kept that basic design philosophy, because it gives our fighters a significant edge in maneuverability."
Adama considered that and had to agree. The sort of radical shifting in structure that had to entail would mean completely different thruster configurations. Now that he knew what he was looking for, he could see where some of the fighter's components related to the... battloid's.
"Rick!" one of the many people in the bay waved. He was a slender man with blue-black hair and blue eyes. Adama noted the rank insignia on his uniform.
Hunter pulled to a halt next to the man who had called him and smiled, "Hey, Max." He turned to Roslin and Adama, "Madam President, Commander Adama, this is the Pioneer's CAG, Captain Maximilian Sterling. Max, this is President Laura Roslin of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol and Commander William Adama of the Galactica."
"Pleased to meet you," Sterling said, shaking their hands eagerly in turn.
"Likewise," Roslin nodded. Adama silently gave a respectful nod.
"What's up, Max?"
"Not much, just checking the veritechs."
Hunter chuckled, "I'll leave you to it then."
"It was a pleasure to meet you, sir, ma'am," Sterling nodded to them, waving as Rick drove off.
"Max was always a gifted pilot," Hunter said quietly. "Even when he first joined the Spacy under my command, he was able to fly rings around the enemy. Nine kills in his first outing. He was a natural."
Adama had difficulty trying to reconcile that with the easygoing man they had met moments ago.
"I've also read your briefing on the Cylon prisoner," Hunter said, abruptly changing the subject.
"What about her?" Adama asked.
Hunter seemed to soften at the last word, but Adama couldn't figure out why any more than he understood the sudden change in topic. Hunter's next words clarified both in an instant.
"Max was also a man who was once in a position very much like your own Lieutenant Agathon's," Hunter said. "His marriage to Miriya Parino -- a deadly Zentraedi ace who had killed dozens of our men in a single engagement -- precipitated the defection of more than a million Zentraedi warships to our side. Instead of being outnumbered six million to one, we were only outnumbered five to one."
Both of them were stunned speechless. The off-hand way Hunter spoke of the millions of ships suggested he wasn't exaggerating, and the idea that any military could field even one million ships, let alone six, was disquieting. Even at the height of its power, before the Cylon attack, the Twelve Colonies only had a hundred and twenty battlestars.
"Think about that, Madam President," Hunter continued. "In the meantime, as ranking representative of the United Earth Government, I am granting Sharon Valerii's request for political asylum."
That snapped them out of it. "Machines can't be granted political asylum," Roslin protested automatically.
"Perhaps not by your laws," Hunter acknowledged, "but by ours, any sentient being can be granted political asylum, regardless of their physiological makeup. And we're granting it to her. Now, we can do this the easy way or -- as my marines call it -- the 'fun' way. Apparently, they get a kick out of having bullets bounce off their Cyclones."
"What's a Cyclone?" Adama asked, ignoring the thorny political question for the moment.
Hunter nodded to one of the motorcycles, "Those, over there. It looks like they're about to test that one's reconfiguration module, so just watch."
Adama and Roslin watched as an armor-clad soldier straddled the motorcycle. The vehicle's engined thrummed to life with a throaty roar that seemed to carry even through the louder ruckus from elsewhere in the maintenance bay. The soldier thumbed a control on the right handlebar, and the motorcycle shifted and twisted, the soldier standing halfway through the process as the armored motorcycle wrapped itself around him in a protective shell.
While he wasn't certain of anything, the implications of what they'd just seen were clear, and Adama had a feeling that Colonial small arms would likely be as effective against Cyclone armor as it was against the heavier Cylon Centurion armor: not at all. Still, there were practical reasons why he had kept Sharon in the brig instead of allowing her to roam freely aboard Galactica -- the civilian ships were out of question for other reasons; she would have been lynched by the end of the day -- and he could not ignore them now any more than he could before.
"Admiral," Adama said, "while Sharon has assisted us and proven herself a valuable asset several times, she is still a Cylon. I believe she truly has defected, but the Cylons have demonstrated an ability to program sleeper agents as saboteurs and spies that are unable to resist and remain unaware of their programming."
"As a political refugee, she would be restricted from sensitive positions until our conflict with the Cylons has ended," Hunter replied. "As a civilian, she would be restricted to the non-military facilities on board the Wright, none of which would be particularly vulnerable to sabotage, and the only thing she'd learn, Commander, is our culture." He gave a small smile, "And if there's one thing we Earthers have learned, it's that culture can be our greatest weapon."
Captain Cole "Stinger" Taylor, CAG of the Battlestar Pegasus, swore when he saw the three basestars jump into the system. Even a Mercury-class battlestar like Pegasus would have trouble with the two that had first appeared; one was burning merrily and was out of the fight, but that meant they now faced four basestars, three of them undamaged and with full loads of Raiders.
"Stinger to all Vipers, form up on me," he ordered as he oriented himself on the damaged basestar. "We're gonna bomb the hell out of that basestar and maybe get out of this alive."
Admiral Helena Cain clung to her command console as another Cylon nuke detonated uncomfortably close to the Pegasus. "How long until we have a jump solution?" she demanded.
"Five minutes!"
Another near miss rocked the battlestar. Five minutes was far too long.
"Jump in two!" she snapped. "Anywhere!"
She hated making that sort of gamble again, but if she didn't... they were dead anyway. She only wished she had the time to recover the Vipers.
The Pegasus's navigational officer bent to the task, his mind racing. There was no way he could calculate a jump to a safe area in two minutes, but...
Just before the attack, he had been working on a jump calculation to take them to one of the systems they were about to scout for the Cylon fleet. He hoped they'd guessed wrong, but it was the best shot they had at getting out alive.
"Ready for jump!"
"Make the jump," Cain ordered. She closed her eyes as she thought of the pilots still outside, still fighting.
Forgive me.
Cheers erupted over the wireless as the basestar began to disintegrate. Gouts of flame shot out as thruster fuel ignited, and a massive explosion sent a storm of shrapnel flying through space as the tylium core was breached.
Suddenly, the joy vanished... along with the Pegasus.
They were alone.
"Well, frak me," Stinger muttered.
Author's Postscript:
Yes, Admiral Cain is a ruthless bitch, but that doesn't mean she's a heartless one.