Far, far away, in orbit around a dead planet circling a star known to Earth astronomers as Delta Pavonis, the Cylon Abaddon-class Base Ship Ravagersat. Listening. Watching. Waiting. Waiting, as she had waited for many long, long yahrens.
Commander Syphax, IL Series Cylon, entered the Command Centre, as he had for the last forty-one thousand, nine-hundred-sixty-six days, and crossed the room to his elevated seat. Positioning himself, he sat down, flicking away a fold of his robe almost theatrically.
"Report, Centurion," he ordered.
"By-your-command. All-scans-and-patrols-report-complete-success. All-sentient-life-in-this-system-has-been-destroyed. All-has-been-claimed-by-the-Cylon Alliance-in-the-name-of-the-Imperious-Leader."
"Excellent, Centurion," replied Syphax. "Excellent." The IL plugged himself into the ship's systems, and rejoiced as he reviewed the data. When first detected, the planet below, third from this star, had supported a sentient race of beings, amphibioid in nature, at approximately the Fourth-Fifth Millennium transition period of their development. Horrific, sustained barrages by the Ravager's Mega-Pulsars, as well as "dirty" pluton weapons and massive orbital bombardment by highly concentrated piiglin nerve gas bombs had reduced the population from over two hundred million, to zero, in under two days. Syphax privately celebrated his success, momentarily annoyed that there was no one there to recognize it for what it was. He watched the fires, some continent-wide, filling the atmosphere with ever more pollution and toxins. What had once been the closest thing this race had to cities, were now molten craters. Once rich oceans were now vast, radioactive cesspools of death. Once more, another superfluous and inferior life-form had been eradicated from the universe. The Imperious Leader's orders had been carried out. Now, as soon as the last of the shuttles arrived carrying raw tylium for processing into fuel—discovered on one of this system's other planets—they could move on to complete the mission assigned to them so long ago by the Imperious Leader himself, the mission for which Syphax had specifically been created. They had finally received the signal foretold to him over a centi-yahren before.
"By-your-command," said another centurion.
"Speak."
"Our-last-patrol-craft-is-aboard. All-fighters-ready-for-lightspeed."
"Excellent, Centurion. As soon as the fuelling . . ."
Beep.
"Hmm . . . How interesting," decided Syphax, as new data was input into his system. He accessed the ship's navigational charts. A signal. Ahead of them. He did some calculations. While too short-lived to get much detail on its precise position, it appeared that some kind of spatial distortion had occurred somewhere along the path they were exploring. He waited patiently, all of 3.67 millicentons, while the computer processed the incoming data. Whatever it was appeared artificial. Engineered. Perhaps . . . perhaps.
"By-your-command. Fuelling-shuttle-is-aboard. Offloading-of-fuel-ore-for processing-will-be-complete in-fourteen-centons."
"Excellent. As soon as offloading is complete, lay in a course for our next destination. Flank speed, Centurion."
"By-your-command."
Within minutes, the Ravager began to move away from the murdered planet, slowly gaining speed, as she came to a new course. Then, in a blur, she ripped a hole in space, and the dead world was once more alone in the darkness.
xxxxx
Even after over twenty years of knowing that this day would inevitably come, Sergei Orlov still couldn't believe his eyes, as the "IL series cyborg" debarked the Questat the Baikonur Space Centre in Kazakhstan, and was instantly surrounded by several WASA security guards. An unseemly boyish excitement battled with a cold shot of reality, as Sergei realized that he was finally facing the very first "verifiable" Cylon on Earth. Retrieved from a wrecked Cylon fighter on the moon three months before, along with the remains of a couple lower class soldiers known, curiously, as centurions, the Cylon had been confined to the Armstrong Lunar Outpost while WASA had discussed and negotiated with various world governments, while offering various news media conclusive proof that a Cylon threat really did exist. Along with the downed craft, they had recovered pieces of debris from a much larger vessel, both on the lunar surface and in space, which they were informed, had belonged to the downed machine's mothership. While much of it was badly damaged, analysis of the wreckage was nevertheless ongoing. What they had so far was . . . astounding! Incredibly, radically advanced.
It turned out to be nothing less than a huge, massive warship!
In the end, those at WASA had been extremely reluctant to bring this mechanical being from another star system to Earth at all. In fact, they had debated strongly over instead destroying it. But for over a century, there had already been too much deception, too many lies.
"I am Sergei Orlov, Executive Director of the Worldwide Aeronautics and Space Agency," Sergei nodded, nervously running a hand through his greying hair. "You are . . . Lucifer?"
"Yes," the IL bowed his head slightly. As it spoke, the cyborg's "lips" flashed in sync with the words. Its "eyes" also oscillated back and forth, which Orlov found disturbing. The robot's voice was amazingly, even disturbingly humanlike. Suave and urbane, he enunciated like a practiced orator or actor. "I am Commander Lucifer, IL Group Cylon, IL Series Number IL-6475836254785/HGDJ-373764 of the Cylon Alliance, Executive Director Orlov. I have come a long, long way to bring tidings from our Imperious Leader and to bid you peace, my friend."
Orlov cleared his throat. The Guardians had told them otherwise. "Welcome to Earth, Commander Lucifer."
"I am mostpleased to be here," replied the IL.
xxxxx
"In a minute," said the man behind the desk, as the holographic teleconference connection came on-line and suddenly it was as if Mason was standing there in the Oval Office, almost a thousand miles away. A few moments later the President closed a folder, and slowly looked up. Dark brown hair, greying at the temples, blue eyes, chiselled chin . . . the face might have won half the votes in America, but his political record had won the rest. Unfortunately, he was proving to be less malleable than Mason's people had expected. "My office has been getting some . . . complaints from that WASA woman, again, Mason," President Gibson told him. His tone wasn't very understanding. "Let me get this straight. You attacked one of her space ships?" he asked astringently.
"Counterterrorism, Mr. President," Mason calmly replied, as if ordering a sandwich. He lit up a cigarette, ignoring the glance of disapproval directed his way. "If that woman ever has the courage to set foot on American soil again, I'll personally escort her to a cell, and throw away the key."
"What kind of terrorism are we talking about, Mason?"
"Endangering the National Security of the United States of America, Mr. President." He took a drag of his cigarette, blowing out the smoke. "We've confiscated their ship. The intelligence they've collected will be reviewed, and dealt with appropriately. Their crew is being held for questioning, of course."
"I see."
"These people will stop at nothing to further their own agenda. Trying to drive irrational fear into the hearts and minds of average, hardworking people. Not just American citizens, but people all over the world . . ." Mason snorted in disgust.
"I'm familiar with the speech, Mason. If I recall correctly, I used it in my election campaign. Several times. Still, that's a bit thin, isn't it? Technically, she's broken no laws, remember. 'Irrational fears' is hardly something we could charge someone with, or so the Attorney General tells me."
"As you well know, the Patriot Act empowers us to bring them into custody if we suspect terrorist related acts."
"Talking about aliens and such hardly comes up to the level of a terrorist act," said Gibson.
"They used Anti-satellite technology, Mr. President! Something new, something we don't yet have! A pilot had to be fished out of the Atlantic Ocean! Besides, irrational fears can lead to a distrust in government, and a loss of support. The next thing you know we have a few more conspiracy ding-dongs,and theories, as if we don't have enough already. And thatcan lead to a whole host of other problems." His voice dropped a bit. "Actual conspiracies, Mr. President. Attempted coups. Don't forget one of your predecessors."
"I haven't," said Gibson, recalling the 2013 accident that had led to the President almost dying, and having to step down. Even today, there was some doubts that it had, after all, truly been an "accident".
"I'm just saying . . ."
"I think I know what you're saying, Director." His hand hovered impatiently over the switch that kept them connected. "Keep me posted."
"Yes, sir, Mr. President," said the other, and the Oval Office faded around him, returning him to the reality of the Kennedy Air Force Base.
xxxxx
"Commander," said Athena on the Galactica's bridge, glancing up at him when he didn't respond. "Father?"
"Yes?" He tore his eyes away from the Clavis report by Malus, which Dayton had given him, as a growing unease enveloped him. He had the worst feeling that he was about to find out it was too late to stop them. Then again, it would have been a selfish act, and nothing more. "What is it?"
"The Endeavourhas passed beyond scanner range, sir. According to the telemetry, she activated the alien device, as planned."
With a bitter look back at the report, Adama moved over, and studied the replay of the scans over her shoulder. The former Cylon vessel had accelerated to flank speed, leaving the Fleet in her wake. At a distance of 1.437 light-yahrens ahead, the energy readings went crazy, as the Clavis was activated, and the Endeavourtransited into . . . the unknown. He could only pray that they'd arrive safely, and return the same way. As far as Dayton went, Adama didn't know whether to strip and module him, or to thank him. He might not get a chance to do either. He was beginning to wonder if he had another Cain on his hands. "No subsequent readings, Athena?"
"Nothing, sir. The space ahead of the Fleet reads as clear of any traffic or appreciable space bodies."
"Very well. May the Lords of Kobol guide them on their journey. Steady as she goes, helm."
"Steady as she goes, sir."
"Get me Commander Cain. I'll speak to him on the telecom in my office."
Athena looked up at that.
"Yes, sir."