"Where the hell are they?" Chief of Staff Roach demanded, spittle flying from his mouth as he grabbed Grae by the front of his flight suit. The United States general was definitely a "lifer", from his military haircut, through his pressed, immaculate, and decorated uniform, to his highly polished shoes.
The crew had been cooling their heels in the stockade for over an hour, as Roach's men poured over the Unity with a fine toothcomb, looking for their prize. It had to be a bit like finding a winning lottery ticket, only to discover it had just become outdated.
"Who,exactly?" the astronaut returned, exceedingly politely. After all, there wasn't much he could do about it with his hands cuffed behind his back, and about ten huge guys with guns down the hall. He glanced at the nondescript, middle-aged guy in the suit who had entered with Roach. The man blended in to the background, like grey on grey. "By the way, General, I've been meaning to ask you . . . since we were in neutral airspace, and not breaking anyinternational laws when you forced us down . . . why exactly are we being detained by the US Air Farce? Oh, sorry. Canadian in-joke," he smiled, as the suit looked at him coolly. "After all, we are supposed to be allies. Aren't we?" Grae smiled irritatingly, with a glance at his crew.
Taylor groaned aloud in the next cell, and rolled his eyes with that look that said, "You're just looking for trouble!"
"You're being detained under the Patriot Act," the suit inserted softly, cigarette smoke coiling around him, before slowly ascending towards the ceiling. "You understand?"
"You've got to be kidding!" Grae sputtered, before demanding, "Who are you?"
"Mason. DNI."
"National Intelligence? Is that right? An oxymoron, if I ever heard one, especially in this crowd . . ."
Roach tightened his grip on the astronaut, his face beefy-red with fury. "You people! You seem to think this is some kind of game, don't you?" Silence. "Well, Major?" He leaned his head just a tiny bit closer to his prisoner, as if revving up the intimidation factor. Something that Roach had been famous for, and, admittedly, usually worked.
But not this time . . .
"Game?" Grae echoed in disbelief. "Hell, no! WASA's been telling people like you for a generation that the real enemy isn't in Iran, Pakistan or North Korea, or waiting to bomb Disneyland, it's out there!" He jerked his head upward symbolically, as if he could see through the thick walls and ceiling of the Kennedy Air Force Base's stockade, into the sky beyond. "We've put all our resources and energies into trying to resurrect the Space Program that your bureaucrats all but shut down forty-odd years ago, and to develop it enough so that when the time comes, we might actually be able to defend our planet from a threat that makes international terrorists look like pussy cats on catnip. But it's beginning to look like we've run out of time, General. And instead of working withus, like you told Director Dayton you would, you've attacked us, and commandeered our ship."
"You and your kind are just one more sect of conspiracy lunatics out to intimidate the people into subscribing to your particular brand of terrorism!" Roach spat, giving the astronaut a shake. "Only difference is you've managed to get the financial support of some very wealthy and powerful people . . ."
"It isn't too late to join up, General. You get a bonus years subscription to Sports Illustrated, along with the swimsuit edition. Operators are standing by," Grae adlibbed, as the Air Force officer let out a growl of anger, shoving him backwards. He hit the floor hard.
"Hey, now!" Taylor shouted from behind his cell.
"Where are these so-called Cylons?" Roach demanded, standing over him, fists clenched. "Are they still up at the Armstrong Lunar Outpost? Or was it all just another lie to drum up more funding for your frivolous Mars Program?"
"No place safer for them than the moon, General, after all, if we just handed them over, more than likely they'd just disappear like at Roswell!" Grae replied, refusing to be cowed, and recovering his feet as quickly as he could in restraints. The Anti-satellite weaponry should have knocked out any trace of theQuest, as well as blinded most satellites in range, civilian or military. Apparently, the Air Force was none the wiser that the Quest had landed safely in Russia.
"Roswell!" the general scoffed, his disgust written on his features. "You people never let go, do you?"
"The Cylons are real, General! Their threat is real! We've sent you the files!" Grae shouted. "What kind of half-wit do you have to be to remain in denial! We've shown you enough evidence to prove the existence of God Almighty! But, oh no. You'll still be denying it when they start bombing!"
"You've actually seen them?" Roach asked dubiously, after a long look over his shoulder at Mason The other man rolled his eyes, his scepticism clear. "Face to face?"
"I've played cards with one," Grae returned. "Five card stud. Bastard beat me."
Roach studied him for a moment, then abruptly did an about-face. He strode through the door of the cell, ignoring the guards as he passed by. A moment later, he was joined by Mason, walking apace to keep up with the general's powerful stride.
"Prepare a flip to take us to Peterson. From there a car to Cheyenne," Roach ordered an officer.
"I don't think that's a good idea, General," Mason suggested. "I told you, I have Cheyenne taken care of."
"So you keep saying," Roach sneered. "My visit to Cheyenne is overdue, Director Mason."
"General, do you want all of the astronauts moved to Cheyenne, sir?" the officer asked.
"Only the major."
"Hey, Roach!" Grae hollered after them. "Do I have time for a combat dump before we go?"
The outer door of the stockade slammed shut with a resounding clang.
"Man, I am really sensing some hostility here."
xxxxx
"I appreciate you letting me know, Adama. I'm still wading through that gallmonging Cylon's report," Cain complained, dropping his computron reader onto his desk, in his quarters on the Pegasus. "If they actually make it, somebody had better teach Dayton's resident tin can to get to the point in less than three hundred and eight thousand, eight hundred and nine words."
"It was certainly a . . . thorough report," Adama returned impartially.
"That's one way of looking at it. Another is that Dayton was so blasted anxious to finally be able to get back home, that he directed Malus to hornswoggle us." Cain raised one eyebrow.
On the screen, Adama opened his mouth, apparently about to come to the Earthman's defence once again, and then just as abruptly closed it. TheGalactica's commander sighed heavily.
"Don't beat yourself up, Adama. You've been obsessing about your quest to find Earth for so long, that it isn't surprising Dayton could hoodwink you. Lords of Kobol, after that command meeting, even I was beginning to buy into his rhetoric."
Adama raised his eyebrows. "Cain, I'm not exactly convinced about that. After all, he had the Endeavourand the Clavis once before, and returned as ordered. I believe . . ."
"He wasn't heading for Earth that time, old friend. Time will tell, won't it, Adama?" Cain waved an impatient hand at his old friend. After all the resources they'd committed to rebuilding that old Cylon Base Ship, only to have it commandeered by a man that the whole Fleet had become far too besotted with, in order to take him back to his home planet, obviously at any cost . . . "In the meantime, I think we'd better make some provisions for the fact that theEndeavour probably won't be back. Let's get back on track."
"What do you propose?"
"Well, it's time to let the Pegasus get back to doing what we do best. A little reconnaissance, for starters. We destroyed one of their Base Ships back at Planet 'P', after all. They'll be out there looking for us. Now, I'm planning on taking . . ."
xxxxx
As the doors slid open, Starbuck saw the rest of the Endeavour's "inner circle" gathered around the readouts, or looking at the main screen. Apollo, the Earthmen, and Dorado were glued to the images.
"What have we got?" asked Jolly, as they filed in. "Uh, sir."
"We have exited the Clavis Portal within 4.5% of our predicted position," reported Malus. "Commander?"
"Okay, Malus. Precise position, Coxcoxtli?"
"We are at present approximately . . ."
"Did I ask for approximate, Coxman?" Dayton inquired.
"Uh, no, sir. We are precisely 140.833 billion kilometrons from the system's primary, Commander."
"Thank you, Take us out of w . . . lightspeed, now. Deflection to full."
"Yes, Commander," replied the helmsman.
Starbuck watched as the graphic of the ship's drive field vanished, accompanied by the vibration that confirmed they had returned to "normal" space. Unlike human-built capital ships, Cylon vessels had never progressed beyond the old-fashioned telltale of dropping out of lightspeed. Maybe, as robots, they either didn't notice it, or didn't care.
Either way, they had arrived.
"Main screen on," ordered Dayton. "All scanners to maximum. ECM suite to full."
"Aye, sir," replied Coxcoxtli. As he manipulated the controls, they all stared into the void ahead. In the upper right quadrant of the screen was a bright dot.
"The sun," said Baker, and there was a note of longing in his voice. "Can you give us greater magnification?" Coxcoxtli replied in the affirmative, and the tiny dot swelled into a massive yellow ball.
"Spectral readings of the star are in a perfect 1-to-1 correlation with the data from your files on Earth's sun," reported Malus. "This is unquestionably your home system, gentlemen." The Earthmen cheered, slapping each other on the back and shoulders. Malus shook his head in bemusement. As an afterthought, he raised a hand, using his "hand" to scratch his "head", as he'd seen humans do.
"What?" asked Starbuck, smirking at the adopted affectation.
"Charming as it may be, I still have difficulty assimilating why humans act the way you do," the IL told him. "After all, getting here was the result of refined mathematics, precise navigation, and highly technical engineering. Why . . . celebrate something so clinical?"
"Because they're home, Mal. We associate strong emotions with home."
"This is true," Malus replied, reminded of the strong hatred and utter contempt that most humans bore towards him, merely because he was a Cylon, and thus associated with those that had destroyed the Twelve Colonies of Mankind. A light flashed on the Clavis' control panel, and he moved over to the station.
"Sir," said Pierus. "Incoming signal detected."
"Source?"
"Earth, sir. It's very weak."
"Which in theory is why we're here," Ryan quipped.
"Thanks for clarifying that, Paddy," Dayton rolled his eyes at the other. "Put it on, Cadet." They waited as the young man worked the controls. Suddenly, the hiss spilled forth from the speakers, regaling them with . . .
" . . . reports. . .ar in Iran, and how. . .EU chairman. . .on Mars. . .errorist attc. . .sidential press conf . . . is week, on Sixty Minutes. . ."
"Oh God," sighed Baker. "Is that thing still on?"
"I wonder how old Andy Rooney is now?" Porter tossed in.
"A hundred and thirty-odd," Ryan returned. "Should be nearing retirement soon."
Dayton scowled at him, and gave Pierus the cut-off sign. "Just record whatever you get. We'll look at it later."
"Yes, sir."
"I'll listen in, Mark," Porter told him, heading for the station. "After all, if the Cylons are already here, we might get some inkling from the media."
"Good idea. Cox?" asked Dayton. "Find Sedna yet?"
"Yes, Commander. The planet is . . . 10,344.67 kilometrons distant. Altering course."
"Good lad. On screen."
The sun vanished, to be replaced by a small dot of light. As the seconds ticked by, it grew larger, until it was clearly a spherical object, currently in a crescent phase relative to the Endeavour. As they drew closer, the small world's reddish colour became clear, as did numerous surface features. Moving around to the sunlit side, it became obvious how little sunlight there was at this distance.
"Quite an unremarkable world," observed Malus, running a diagnostic on the Espridian device. He hadn't observed readings like this before.
"You think so?" said Ryan, with a smile. "I think it's glorious."
"Diameter 1,154 of your miles. It is orbited by a small moon, approximately a quarter its size, and rotates once every six standard days. The planet consists of several unremarkable ores, has no molten core, no magnetic field, is approximately four hundred degrees below zero, and has a thin atmosphere, but I am not detecting any signs of life."
"What's its orbital period, Mal?" asked Dorado.
"Approximately 10, 500 Earth yahrens, Captain. We are, after all, a long way from the sun."
"Sure are," said Dayton. "Okay, Coxman? Put us into orbit."
"Sir."
They watched, as the ship slipped closer to the frigid world, until it filled a quarter of the screen. Barely had the instruments confirmed orbit attitude, when one of the scanners began bleeping. "Cox?"
"Scanners detecting an object in orbit ahead of us, Commander. It appears to be a primitive reconnaissance craft of some sort. There is a small nuclear-fuelled power source in operation. Very low level, however. I am not detecting any life signs."
"Is it scanning us?" Apollo asked.
"No, sir. I think it's dead."
"Let us know when you're sure, Cadet," Dorado told him quietly.
"I . . ." his fingers raced over the controls. "I'm sure, Captain."
"Good work. Full mag."
The screen shifted to the image of a small probe. Dayton and the others at once recognized the old NASA logo on the side.
"Looks like the New Horizons probe they sent to Pluto, Mark," said Ryan.
"Sure does, Paddy." They zoomed in, scanning every tiny detail of the old probe. Dayton was surprised there was any appreciable energy left in the old plutonium-powered thermocouple.
"Wonder what she's doing here."
"Dunno. But that's not our problem. Cox, full scan of the entire system. Any and all signs of Cylon activity. I want to know where that Base Ship is."
"Sir."
"Starbuck, I want you to organize patrols. As far out as possible. We need extra eyes. Briefing in five min . . . centons."
"Yes, sir," he turned to go.
"Commander?" Malus inserted, his diagnostic complete. "It appears we have a potential complication with the Clavis. It is behaving rather . . . atypically."
Starbuck stopped in his tracks, looking back at the IL.
"How's that?" Dayton demanded.
"Instead of deactivating, as previously, after energizing, as you call it, its inner mechanism seems to be still consuming energy. The device's power source seems to be climbing of its own initiative."
"It's activating itself?" Apollo asked.
"Well, it has the potential to activate itself when it reaches a hundred percent."
"How fast is it powering up?" Dorado asked, crossing to the station to see the graphic display.
"At this rate . . . I would have to approximate that we have three days before the Clavis reaches an optimum power level that will initiate opening another portal."
"Three days?" Dayton echoed hollowly.
"We could jettison it," Coxcoxtli suggested.
"Leaving us with no way to get back to the Fleet," Apollo reminded him. "Keep working on it, Malus."
"Of course, Colonel."
"In the meantime," Dayton glanced at Starbuck, "how many patrols can you put out there, Captain? How many are ready?"
"I have two full squadrons, Commander. Phoenix Squadron is on alert right now."
Dayton nodded, his eyes raking those assembled in the Control Centre. They settled briefly on Ryan. "Seems that we suddenly have a deadline. Five centons. War Room."
"Aye, Commander."