For the fifth time in an hour, Jess rubbed the knotted muscles at the back of her neck, willing the dull throb in her head away as she followed the Spetsnaz soldiers through the enormous Baikonur Space Centre. Carter and the rest of the crew had been separated from her. She wondered where the special forces would put them, since Baikonur didn't boast any kind of military stockade, at least that she knew of. Then again, storage rooms and a good set of handcuffs would suffice, she supposed. Just as long as they weren't in any actual physical danger, it didn't really matter. Meanwhile, somewhere outside Director Borodin was meeting with Starbuck. The thought chilled her to the bone. Of all the people to get in the way of their very first Colonial contact . . .
With a remarkable calm that could only be explained by resignation or exhaustion, she noticed that a few of WASA's security officers had apparently switched sides during the offensive. She gritted her teeth, wondering how many good and loyal people—some of them friends—had been lost during the attack. Orlov would be able to tell her, if they allowed her access to him, of course.
They led her into a room. Boasting a small kitchenette and a few oversized and comfortable pieces of furniture, it was normally used for lower-level base personnel to take a break in.
"Russian Feast time? Thank God, I'm starving" she quipped, earning a cold glare from her escort.
Then, like a brittle Russian gale, General Surkov burst into the room.
Jess drew in a deep breath, her chest suddenly tight with anger. She had an almost irresistible urge to physically attack him, even knowing she wouldn't have a chance to get near him with the guard present. She clenched her fists at her side, while doing her best to recover her usual composure. This wasn't exactly where she had been expecting to confront the general.
"Leave her with me," Surkov ordered, standing ramrod straight, his silver hair and impressive decorations a contrast to his dark blue Air Force uniform. The Spetsnaz soldiers hesitated, apparently surprised. The Russian officer paused only an instant before barking, "That's an order!"
Hurriedly, they stood at attention, snapping their right hands, palm down, to their right temples. Briskly and dismissively Surkov returned the gesture. They left, closing the door behind them before they suffered his wrath.
All barriers removed, Jess strode across the room, fury flashing in her brown eyes. She stopped inches from the general. "I thought we had an understanding, Alexei Andreivich Surkov."
His voice was low. "To live life is not so simple as crossing a field, Jessica Markovna Dayton." His mouth twitched in amusement when she looked up in surprise at his playful use of the patronymic. Then he rested his hands lightly on her shoulders, kissing her on alternating cheeks three times. "If I hadn't interceded, most of your people would be dead now. Trust me on this. Borodin would see Baikonur destroyed. He would see you all destroyed, lapochka."
"And don't you find that just a bit . . . extreme,Aleksa?" she asked, her tone and voice softening in response to his words. It had been almost twenty years and at least twice that many bottles of vodka since he had called her lapochka . . .
"With Borodin in attendance, I spoke with Sergeiko." She didn't miss the old familiar use of Sergei's name that had once flowed from Surkov's tongue like a stream of honey, back in the old days. "And this . . . Cylon. While Borodin is preoccupied with Captain Starbucks . . ."
"He'll kill Starbuck," she inserted sharply. "To get rid of the evidence, to shatter a treaty that we haven't even begun to draft. . ."
"Colonel Katko will ensure that he does not," Surkov replied calmly. "Besides, scars become a man."
She studied his features, trying to read his thoughts, his intent. Whether it was twenty years ago or now, with Surkov it was always impossible. What was it Winston Churchill had said? Russia is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma. This man was the same. She took a slow, deep breath, collecting her thoughts and her emotions. Was he manipulating her or was he really looking for the truth? Would he believe it if she did tell him the truth? Could he see past the permeating lies that had blackened a peoples' spirit for well over half a century?
"Aleksa . . ." she murmured, wanting to trust him more than she was comfortable admitting.
"True love never rusts, lapochka. Not for old friends. Nor for my Rodina," he said softly, lightly stroking her cheek. "Now, tell me everything I did not know before. From the beginning."
xxxxx
"They're rocks."
Ryan sounded suitably unimpressed as they looked at the laboratory counter that had several rocks of various size, shape and constitution displayed on it. Each one had been labelled, recording date, place of origin, name of the collector, and then analysed, the findings recorded on the data logs at the main station.
"Basaltic composition for the most part, although that's a tad generic. Think of it as granite that wasn't allowed time to cool and got puked out of a volcano onto the surface."
"Puked?" asked Malus.
"Erupted," smiled Baker, looking through the assorted stones. "Let's see . . . the usual volcanic medley for Mars. Hydrothermal quartz . . . metamorphic quartzite . . . hey, gold!" Baker told them from the central station, waving a hand at the porous looking samples. He held up the glittering specimen. "I'm staking a claim!" Then he pointed to a chunk of another stone, much denser and less porous than the others. "Well?"
"Looks like . . ." Ryan leaned over it, peering closer. He poked it. "A rock."
"As always, Doctor Ryan, your scientific insights leave us all gasping in abject overwhelmed-ness-ness."
"Hey, it's a gift."
Dayton let out a breath, pushing his friends aside and picking up the rock with both hands, weighing it in his hands as he looked it over. "It's a dense igneous rock . . . granite? These look like radiohalos. Granitic pluton?"
"Well, composition studies did identify both quartz and plagioclase feldspar. It's igneous and obvious fairly high in sodium . . ." Baker continued, referring to a hardcopy lying on the bench.
"Hey, hey . . ."Ryan waved a hand. "How about a tutorial for those of us who listenedto Rock instead of digging through them. What's 'felsic'?"
"It's a geological term, Paddy," Dayton explained. "Feldspar is an alumino-silicate rock You want the chemical formula?" He looked at the other, who managed to affect a look of sceptical boredom. "Uhh . . . I take it that's a 'no'? Good, cos' I haven't got a clue what it is." A few of them chuckled. "Anyway, in this case it means rocks that are enriched with lighter elements such as silicon, oxygen, aluminium, sodium and potassium."
"Right," Baker nodded. "Granite is the most common of felsic rocks. Now, this comes pretty damn close to terrestrial granite-like rocks."
"Then it's intrusive," Dayton guessed.
"My turn," Dietra smiled sympathetically at Ryan. "Intrusive?"
"Thank you, Darlin'." He winked at her.
"Rock formed from magma that cools and solidifies within the crust of the planet," Dayton explained. "That's what makes it so hard and tough."
"And what's your excuse, big boy?" Ryan teased him, batting his eyelashes at the Endeavourcommander . . . before swiftly sidestepping the resulting half-hearted swing.
"He might have a point; I've seen you erupt a time or two, Mark," Baker quipped, before continuing more seriously. "Now on Earth, granites often form as a result of crustal rocks being melted when carried down to depths in the Earth by plate tectonics. Mars shows little sign of plate tectonics. In this case they theorized that thick sequences of basaltic rocks were metamorphosed by moderate heat and pressure and then partially melted," Baker added, referring back to the data screen.
"Colour me dense, but I still don't get what you're all hot and bothered about, Bob." Ryan shrugged.
"Because . . . they recovered this piece of granite from a much larger piece that they believe to be some kind of . . . structure."
"Go on," Apollo encouraged him.
"One of the reasons they built the base here was that their Thermal Emission Spectrometers had been picking up weird readings here for decades. Along with several other projects they undertook, WASA had every intention of investigating those readings."
"How do you mean?"
"They've been excavating."
"For what?" Dayton asked.
"You got me," Baker shrugged. "For some reason, I can't recover that data. Like it was either erased or it's password protected and I just can't find it."
"Interesting," Malus piped up. The IL had been conspicuously silent throughout the exchange.
"Mal?" asked Dayton. "Cat got your tongue?" The cybernetic being looked odd, the only one of the group not in a spacesuit.
"I don't have . . . oh, yes. Another Earth idiom, no doubt. My apologies, Commander," replied Malus. "I have made a discovery that is . . . disquieting."
"What?" asked Apollo. He turned his helmet pickup in the Cylon's direction.
"I am using some of my time reviewing and reordering my files. Data that has been downloaded or input since arriving in this system."
"And that's disquieting . . . how?" asked Dayton.
"Two reasons. The first is that a full day has passed without getting any closer to solving the problem with the Clavis." He paused as they all nodded soberly. "As to the second . . . well, I was just reviewing the engineering logs from the Barstow Station." Again, the IL fell silent a moment, then looked directly at Dayton. "The reactor accident, Commander, was not an accident."
"What?" asked Cassie and Jolly at once. The horrific images of the dead were still fresh.
"According to the recovered data, the reactor and all ancillary systems were functioning entirely within engineering design parameters until exactly fourteen minutes before the explosion."
"What happened then?" asked Ryan.
"At that time, someone entered a command into the system, directing the reactor's control computer to close a critical valve in the coolant system, withdraw all the control rods and also to shut down the main coolant pump."
"Holy . . ." sputtered Giles.
"Why the hell would anybody do that?" asked Baker.
"Indeed," replied Malus. "Exactly ten of your minutes later, the computer did precisely that. Within four minutes, the heat and pressure had risen so high that it exceeded the system's rated tolerances, but the remaining coolant was not vented. You saw the result. The reactor massively overheated and the resultant explosion destroyed the entire area, flooding the base with radiation."
"Sabotage!" snarled Dayton. "Someone . . ."
"Bastards!" snarled Ryan.
"Any indication who?" asked Jolly. "Who sabotaged the reactor?"
"It would have to be someone with full knowledge, as well as access to all systems," said Apollo.
"Anything in the data as to who, Mal?" asked Ryan.
"Some of the surviving data is corrupted, I am afraid, Doctor. However, when we return to the Endeavour, I can attempt to run it through a buffered enhancement system and see what may be recovered. My own internal systems lack such sophistication, sadly."
"Do what you can with them, alright?" said Apollo. Malus began to comply.
"Mass murder!" spat Ryan, his voice taking on a cold, dispassionate tone. "Nothing short of bloody mass murder!" In his mind's eye, he could still see the face on that kid, Sanchez, expression still readable, the rest of his body ripped apart by the blast. Hell, he doubted he'd lived long enough for the drugs to do their work. The guy had died in utter agony and terror.
"So, what do we do now?" asked Cassie.
"Find 'em," said Dayton. "We find them!"
"And someone pays," Ryan promised.
xxxxx
Starbuck tried to tell himself that compared to some of the things he'd been through—such as torture at the hands of maniacs like Bex or Guidobaldo, or a Cylon Brain Probe—that this was relatively pleasant, other, of course, than the station where he'd been ordered to stand astride the unit. Hey, at least he was no longer restrained. It was like going through a hovermobile wash for humans as he progressed through the old-fashioned hygiene facility, going from one station to the next, while his naked body was thoroughly washed at a tolerable pressure for questionable alien contaminants. After all, the Colonials had a sonic version of this, and he'd even seen something like this one in one of his old textbooks. Yeah, these folks could sure learn a few things about updates. The smell of the disinfectant was a bit astringent for his liking and he could do without the assessing green female eyes on the other side of the transparent barrier, watching his every move as he dutifully raised his arms as directed, turning this way or that, but he'd been expecting worse. A lotworse. He told himself that he could ignore the humiliation factor when he'd been forced to undress in front of several soldiers and decon officers at gunpoint. It would probably be the last he'd see of his clothes . . . and Hades Hole, he'd just broken in those boots.
Once again, another door in the sequence of stations opened. He passed through into a chamber, this one almost closet-sized. A single white towel sat on a shelf. Again, the prying eyes of his assigned decon officer appeared on the other side of the transparent barrier. Like those who had first approached him on the runway, she wore a bulky white protective suit which covered her from head to toe. It was only from the arch of her fine brows and her heart-shaped face that he had even realized she was a woman at first.
"Dry yourself," she instructed through the intercom.
It was reassuring to know that between Earth and the Fleet, some things—like towels—were the same.
He grabbed the towel, hastily drying, before wrapping it around his waist. As he finger-combed his hair back into place again, a door opened and he stepped through. Within was a man-sized tubular container with an examination table extending outward from its core. It put him eerily in mind of something the Ovions had used to store their food source. An image of Cassiopeia struggling against two of the creatures in the caverns under the casino came powerfully to mind. It appeared that the table itself would slide into the pod, swallowing the occupant whole as it facilitated the . . . whatever-it-did.
"Do you suffer from fear of darkness or enclosed spaces?" she asked.
While she spoke the same Earth language as Dayton, the accent was much different, though understandable. It was the same as that spoken by Baikonur Control and Director . . . What's-his-name on the runway. He was beginning to realize the accent was indicative of this particular region.
"Of course not, I'm a Viper pilot," he replied, trying to force down a rising unease as he noticed the metal rings situated where a man's wrists and ankles would rest. "I'm used to a cockpit and . . ."
"Drop your towel and lie on the stretcher," she instructed.
"You know, I've seen brigs that were more inviting. Burning coals too, for that matter." Silence. "And you really have to get over this obsession you have with seeing me naked." He secured the towel firmly in place as she huffed angrily. Truthfully, he'd grown rather attached to the scrap of cloth. Funny, how one could become friends with a towel, but considering the alternatives in this place . . . He glanced again at the pod. "What's it do?"
"It checks for residual microorganisms, at the same time irradiating your body of any virulent ones resistant to our washdown rooms. And I am notobsessed with seeing you naked . . ." she defended herself.
"Irradiating?" he gasped, as the languaphone translated the word. "I thought you wanted me clean, not sterilized!"
"Irradiation is a proven technique in advanced decontamination," she calmly explained. "Once you are finished, we can begin the gastric, urinary and sinus lavage, and your decontamination will be completed. Then your medical examination will begin."
"Lavage?" he repeated in revulsion, slamming a hand against the barrier. "Listen, lady, if you think I'm going to let anybody irradiate me, then flush out my. . ." he shuddered at the mere thought. So much for 'relatively pleasant', Bucko. "Sagan's sake, there's a Cylon Base Ship out there somewhere!" He waved a hand in the general direction of "up". "That mega-pulsar can tear this planet apart! We don't have time for this felgercarb! There's more important things at sake here than the death-defying Colonial microbes up my astrum!"
Her features tightened in annoyance and she moved away from the transparent barrier to beyond his sight. In the heat of the moment, had he spoken to her in Colonial Standard or Dayton's Earthspeak? He wasn't even sure. However, it wasplain he'd once again crossed over the boundary that Jess had warned him about. They were coming back and they'd be playing rough.
In the antiseptic and barren room, he looked around for something, anything that he could use to defend himself. Try as he might, he couldn't even pull off the restraining rings from the irradiating platform. Yeah, his sole defensive strategy would be snapping his wet towel at whomever came to deal with his sudden rebellion.
The door once again slid open, this time admitting three hefty looking soldiers, all still dressed in protective gear and carrying handguns. Even he could admit, it was a damn bit more effective than his wet towel. Behind them he could see the female decon officer waiting in the wings, arms crossed over her chest. She looked smug. Immediately, the soldiers targeted him with their weapons. He raised his hands. He shouldn't have been surprised when his towel chose that moment to work its way loose from his hips, slipping down to pool around his feet. It was turning into that kind of day.
One soldier snickered in reaction.
It was one time too many. Again, thoroughly humiliated, Starbuck curled his lip in disdain, kicking the towel towards them as both a distraction and a visual impediment. He let out a battle cry worthy of an Angylion prince, before rushing them, not caring what happened next.
A weapon fired . . .