Up until his fleeing Cylon Raider had inadvertently entered what humans sometimes referred to as a "wormhole" and had then crash-landed on Earth's moon, Lucifer admittedly hadn't met very many humans. Two, to be exact.
First there had been Baltar, whom he had spent far too much time with for his liking. At first, he had assumed that the entire species were like Baltar. He had seen the traitor of the Twelve Colonies of Man transform from a weak, simpering fool who had been about to be executed following the destruction of the Colonies, to an egomaniac upon assignment of his own Base Ship, and then, once again, to a beaten man when he had been picked up from his planet of exile and subsequently thrown into a Cylon brig. Baltar was a man ruled by his impetuous emotions and made all the more despicable and ugly by them. On Cylon, while he had been incarcerated, Baltar had been extensively and surreptitiously studied by the IL, who had to admit to an enormous curiosity about these creatures. He was a study in contrasts, beyond question, and one that made Lucifer realize just how malleable and easily beaten humankind could be. The presence of Baltar and his representation of the human race also virtually vindicated the existence of the Edict Of Extermination, in Lucifer's analytical and succinct opinion.
However, the more expansively that Lucifer augmented and modified his own programming, the more he realized that there were exceptions to certain rules. He met that exception as they neared Kobol in a brash young lieutenant, a Colonial Warrior named Starbuck, when one of their patrols captured him. Unlike Baltar, in the face of danger, the Colonial Warrior had maintained his dignity and courage and had impressed upon Lucifer such charming and uniquely human characteristics as flippancy, impulse and a still hard to define concept the Viper pilot called "luck". For a short time, the IL could almostimagine that perhaps humans as a race might not be completely unworthy of survival, as he'd been programmed to believe, and that there were some redeeming qualities in them, after all. He had actually enjoyed Starbuck's company, even when he had been the target of the man's intriguing sense of humour. How two humans could be so utterly different in character was perplexing. But after the engaging lieutenant had been set free on Kobol, another thirty-two point four days in the monotonous and narcissistic presence of Baltar had made him reconsider his conclusions and remember his duty. His primary programming.
It occurred to him that these Earth humanoids were quite a bit like Starbuck. While not surprisingly suspicious of Cylons, they had still displayed a fascinating curiosity and indeed an unexpected tolerance of Lucifer while sharing their unusual outlooks and customs with him. They had a diverse outlook on life, so much different from the Cylons' own. Yet, as different as they were as units, they seemed to generally coexist peaceably in large tribes or nations—despite their penchant to war on one another. And they were intelligent.
As much as he claimed that the Cylon Alliance would bear the tidings of friendship once they finally made it to Earth, he was well aware that the Earth people suspected otherwise. Somehow, they had an intuitive sense that told them to distrust the IL Series cybernetic being, indeed the Cylon Alliance, despite his declamations of amity to the contrary. Apparently, his "card playing face" that Lieutenant Starbuck had once claimed would be perfect for a universal tour of gambling chanceries across the Star System, wasn't quite as good as the warrior had implied.
However, Director Borodin, of the Main Directorate of Russian Intelligence, was a different kind of man than most of them. He was a man much like Baltar, based on Lucifer's admittedly limited observations. A humanoid whose own interests would come before that of his fellow man. A man who might very well be convinced to conspire with the Cylons, as long as he firmly believed that he and his people would benefit from the alliance. At least, that was what something in his master programming was telling him. Something that recognized this moment for what it was. This man for what he was. A chance to replicate the destruction of mankind in a star system so far removed from the Twelve Colonies. He would be forever recorded in Cylon history and promoted far beyond any other of his kind by the Imperious Leader.
"Your stubborn refusal to believe in what is directly in front of your eyes, might very well lead to the extinction of your kind, Director Borodin. From what I have witnessed of your technological stagnation, you would be defenceless against only one of our capital ships. Coincidentally, I understand from Executive Director Orlov that there is currently a Cylon Base Ship in Earth's star system," Lucifer taunted him, not missing how the man's hands clenched and his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. Lucifer didn't understand why the man had continued to publicly deny the existence of alien life forms when the evidence to the contrary was so conclusive. This group of humans seemed more inclined to blame deviations from their societal norms on conspiracies and unlikely plots, rather than see them for what they truly were. Lucifer had to jolt the man into accepting the truth. "The Cylon Alliance would find it much more convenient to annihilate every living sentient being on your planet, rather than to leave behind the necessary forces to subjugate them. Unless . . ." He paused as Borodin raised a hand. "Yes?"
"You told Orlov that . . ." Disbelief and scepticism were etched into his features. "That the Cylons . . . came in peace . . ."
"Ah, I see we are making some progress," Lucifer nodded in satisfaction. "It is not Orlov that I wish to enlist. It is you, Director Borodin."
"Why?"
"The needless termination of an entire planet of life forms seems so . . . illogical. Do you not agree? However, here on Earth I have heard it said that 'one death is a tragedy, a million deaths a statistic'." He paused as the quote by Stalin penetrated the other. Borodin considered him quietly. "Yet, that is exactly what would happen . . . unless . . ."
"Unless what?" Borodin asked.
"Unless we formed an alliance with great and powerful nations, such as the Russian Federation, which then could rule Earth in our stead." He modulated his voice, making it the most convincing, most wheedling he possibly could. "Isn't it time that your people regained their rightful status as one of the truesuperpowers of Earth, as you once were in the glorious days of your late Josef Vissarionovich Stalin?" He waited a beat and a sensor sweep of the human showed a rise in pulse, blood pressure and brain activity. His words seemed to be having the desired effect. "You know the men who could help us set up our ring of power. Accept my pact and I could make you one of the most influential men of your time, Yuri Vladimirovic Borodin."
"The President . . . he would never agree . . ." Borodin said the words hesitantly.
"Then chose a new one. Yourself, perhaps?"
Unsurprisingly, as something deep within Lucifer's programming deduced, the man didn't hesitate. "I accept."
Of course, you do.
"Excellent. How good to see that all Earthmen are not so . . . so lacking in vision as certain others. We will contact the others forthwith. Now, tell me what you know of this Colonial pilot . . ." Lucifer purred.
xxxxx
"Ama . . ."
Sigh.
The admonishment in John's voice was clear. However, the last time such a tone had made an impression on the Empyrean necromancer, she had been a relative child on her home planet when her mother had caught her "ruining your supper" chewing on wild honey sticks. Apparently, he was upset about her visit to Dick-Dickins, as well as her little diversion tactic with Dayton's daughter, Lauren, in the transit station. It hadn't occurred to her that she had put herself at risk until he had pointed it out to her. While it was true that she had been instructed by the Ship of Lights beings not to interfere on Earth, in retrospect, it was like asking Borellian Nomen to break with their Code of Conduct and let their prey off with a kiss and a hug. Rather daft, actually. She smiled at him as the shimmering lightness of the ethereal surrounded them both.
"All things being as they are and will be,John, if I am indeed the one meant to help mankind overcome the inroads that Count Iblis has already made on Earth, then perhaps a certain amount of interference on my part is to be expected." She chuckled as he closed his eyes in frustration. "After all, I am not of your dimension, which, Dear Heart, leads me to conclude that I'm not specifically subject to your usual guidelines and limitations. Wouldn't you agree?"
The being of light opened his eyes, studying her impassively for a long moment in silence. He sighed again. Finally, "Young lady . . ."
"Operationally," Ama plunged onward, "I believe it is a way around your rather... stringent rules, John." She fanned her arms outward, her palms lifted upwards. "And when dealing with the aftermath of the schemes of a being such as Iblis . . ." She refused to refer to him as her father, a revelation that had been as shocking as anything she could ever have imagined. "You need a rule breaker. A rebel. Isn't that why you brought me here? Salvaged what remained of my life force when it had dwindled down to but a spark? Or was it . . .?"
She had been conscripted by his kind for this calling after she had fought the battle of her life with Count Iblis—her blood father, as it turned out—in his own domain. She had barely survived the encounter and had later found out that it had been some mystical but crucial element of her own life force that still bound Iblis there, keeping him a prisoner. Through some omnipotent powers that she didn't altogether understand, the Ship of Lights beings had used the daughter to neutralize the father. For the present. However, the way things were progressing both on Earth and on Mars, she couldn't help but think that whatever Iblis had set in motion while there was still at work. His power was either being exerted and felt beyond his current realm, or the machinations he had put in place didn't rely on his presence. John clearly agreed.
"Ama, I caution you to remember that Count Iblis began his own existence as pure and noble before he started down the dark path as a rebel, ending up as the most vile, despicable being in the known universe. Many of the great things he did then are still spoken of in . . . certain realms. Remember, you do tend to have some of his rather . . . egocentrictendencies, after all. It's a fine line that you tread . . ."
"That is your fear, it is not mine," Ama retorted stubbornly, knowing that they still harboured concerns that somehow Iblis' spawn would turn on them in the end. A lack of trust in the better aspects of human nature was one of their biggest failings as the guardians of the universe, in her humble opinion. "I knowwho I am, what I am. However, I am motivated by the love of my people, not by bitterness and hatred, resentment and betrayal . . . although . . . if I don't find a decent fumarello and ale soon, that may change . . ." She cackled in amusement at John's indignant snort as he looked upward, the burden of his charge obviously wearisome. They could all use a heady dosing of humour in this realm. "Surely you realize that traipsing between the various and sundry dimensions of mankind and the ethereal is no Empyrean Ball, John," she reminded him. "I'm new to this sort of thing, and it takes a lot out of a girl."
"You have been given a higher calling, a greater responsibility, Ama," he replied reasonably, leaving the rest of the message unspoken. "Something few mortals could even imagine, let alone be able to fulfil."
"In exchange for my life, yes, I know. But it is my life force that continues to imprison Count Iblis . . . which makes it somewhat clear that it was inevitable you would restore me."
"And as such, there is one being out there who would see you destroyed. And more than one who will be looking for you on Iblis' behalf. You must not put yourself at unnecessary risk."
She paused to consider him. Something had happened that he wasn't sharing with her. She gently probed his mind, trying to see what he was hiding. What he knew that she did not.
A barrier went up and he shook his finger at her. "Not now. This is your destiny, Ama," John reminded her.
"Then quit your meddling, and let me fulfil it, John," she returned. "As I see fit. If you don't allow me access to all the information, I could go seek it myself." She stared at him a moment, scowling, allowing him to think about that. "Surely, you would rather me put all my effort into what's happening on Earth. A whole world's fate hangs in the balance. An entire race!"
"I know," nodded John, looking up and beyond, and pausing for a long moment as he considered the information he received. "It really couldn't be more appropriate." He smiled wryly, glancing back at the necromancer. "That just might work. What do you think?"
"Perhaps you have a sense of humour, after all!" she returned, her grey eyes sparkling.
xxxxx
"Activate . . .?" As far as he knew, the line was secure, but he still didn't dare say it. "Isn't that a little drastic?" Hayashi, the Flight Director from Guiana Space Centre, asked over the sat-link. He could feel his heart pounding against his chest at the very thought of committing what were felonies, in huge numbers, in several countries all over the world at the same time. Not that it would matter if the Cylons came to town. "I mean . . . I know we put the program in place, but . . ."
"We're out of options, Atsuo," Lauren replied, her face looking tired and drawn. "The GRU has stormed Baikonur. Totally overrun it. And they have Jess and Sergei. For all we know, the Colonial visitor is already dead and they're disassembling the Cylon as we speak. Roach hasn't responded to Jess' threat about pasting that image of the Endeavour all over the media because he knows they'll all turn me down flat. Word has gone out. Nobody will touch it. I even heard that some knuckle-draggers in Brooks Brothers visited my mother's former residence looking for her!"
"Is she okay?" Hayashi asked anxiously.
"I have it on good authority that she's safe. A bit discombobulated, but safe."
"Damn. . ." he breathed quietly. "I'm glad, LM."
"Well, I'm angry. Look, this isn't the time to think about alternate plans that are slightly more legitimate. We need to hit them now and do it damned bloody hard. We need to blast this thing wide open and our window of opportunity is closing fast. The only things that can save us now are a miracle or worldwide awareness. Possibly both." She paused for a moment. "You know the plan."
"You might need to reconnect with our heavy hitter."
"He's as good as his word. The only reason he's stayed put is because he knew this time would come."
"He has a lot to lose, LM."
"Nah, he would have left years ago if it hadn't been for a long talk we once had over a sixteen year old Lagavulin, when I told him that if he stuck in there and put up with their bullshit, that I'd finally give him this chance."
"I hope you're right."
"Me too. Tell you what, I'll call him right now anyway just to remind him of my immense respect and faith in him."
Hayashi chuckled. "Not a bad idea. And you? Are you safe?"
"You know me, Atsuo. Always wanting to be a part of it. I'll stay one step ahead of them and get my job done. A-number one."
"Ah, I thought so. Be careful, LM."
"Sounds incredibly boring, Atsuo," she scoffed.
"It grows on you," he replied, frowning as she cut their connection. He sighed, putting down his sat-phone and adjusting his microphone.
"Comm Section, this is Control."
"Comm here. Go ahead, Control."
"Attention, activate Killstar."
"Authorization code?"
"Authorization code, Vrillon of the Ashtar Galactic Command."
"Received and understood, Control."
Atsuo watched as one of the base's huge dishes began to move. Within less than a minute, he had confirmation: it was locked on target. Lights on his panel went green.
"Killstar activating now."
xxxxx
Slumped against the far wall of the containment unit and rubbing the feeling back into his wrists, Grae felt like an oversized lab rat. Even though he was theoretically in there alone with Captain Richard Dickins, General Roach, Colonel Bradshaw and probably that tobacco-reeking slimeball, Mason, would be watching every move and listening to every word. In the adjoining unit, the Polynesian man was also watching him. Distrust and curiosity were etched into his features. He hadn't missed that Grae was in their custody and was obviously wondering about the astronaut's reaction to the battered and unconscious Dickins when Grae had first laid eyes on him.
A low groan erupted from Dickins' lips. Grae looked over at the man who had gone missing with his father and another five NASA astronauts forty-five years earlier. For his age, the man was surprisingly fit and muscular, in a wiry sort of way. His grey hair still had streaks of its original black. However, it was the scars on his arms and neck, tracking under his loose clothing, that most disturbed Grae. Scars that made him wonder what he'd been through. And if, somehow, miraculously, his own father had also survived . . . or Jess'. He needed answers. Answers that had eluded him for a lifetime, since that shattering day when his mother had told him about the explosion of the ISS and the loss of the Endeavour. He returned his attention to the old man, when Dickins started mumbling.
"Damn you . . . Bex!" Dickins' head thrashed from side to side, before he seemed to settle again. Then he murmured quietly, "Cassiopeia . . . quite a prize . . ."His head lolled back onto his pillow. He had been undoubtedly sedated and was now finally waking up. But it was taking too damn long for Grae's liking.
Letting out a short breath, Grae climbed to his feet, grabbing a pitcher of water at the bedside. With a hopefully reassuring glance at the Polynesian man, who'd jumped to his feet in alarm, Grae dumped the contents on Dickins throat. After all, he wanted to wake him up, not drown him.
Sputtering in surprise, Dickins' eyes shot open, his body shooting upright. "Torg! You bast . . ." His hands twitched, as if clutching something. Then, after a second or two, he relaxed. He appeared to casually accept he was no longer restrained as he let out a breath, locking his eyes on Grae. With a cool, appraising glance, Dickins managed to assess the situation and the newcomer all within a couple seconds. His body relaxed as he looked indifferently at Grae, settled back into his bunk and then closed his eyes again.
"Is Paddy Ryan alive?" Grae whispered urgently, his voice not sounding quite like his own. He hadn't meant to blurt it out that way. He'd been intending to face down an angry man and explain himself. The last thing he'd expected was this reaction.
Dickins' eyebrows quirked slightly, before he opened his eyes again. This time he took a good long look at the intruder before replying. "You're new here, aren't ya, Joe Schmuckatelli?" He yawned widely, before continuing. "It's all in my file. I've told you it all a hundred times, at least. Every goddamn time, I told it the same. I'm not telling it again. Read the freakin' file, that is, if you made it out of grade school, boy." He smothered a yawn, and closed his eyes again, rolling over towards the wall.
Boy? Twenty seconds in his presence and it began to occur to Grae just why the guards enjoyed pummelling Dickins so much. If the retort hadn't sounded so much like something Grae would say, himself, he might have held it against the old astronaut. He gripped the man by the arm, determined to have his say.
"Listen, you old fart, I've waited forty-five years to find out what happened to my father . . ." He paused, startling, as Dickins lurched back towards him, gripping him by the wrist and squeezing with an unexpected strength. Then the tough old man froze as the words penetrated his defensive mode.
"Your . . .father?" He studied the younger man intently, cocking his head slightly to the side. "Who are you?"
"Graeme Ryan."
xxxxx
The moment it pierced Starbuck's skin, he knew he was in trouble. A sharp stab, followed by a burning pressure, it grew outward in waves until his entire body felt as though some inexplicable pressure was physically crushing it. He'd been doing alright for the preceding few microns in the fight, managing to dodge the first flying projectile, and then actually disarming one soldier who was struggling to move aside his clingy towel. Then he was hurled to the ground under the combined weight of the other two. A handgun pressed against his back, which he was sure was about to rip a hole in him that they could launch a fighter through. Instead, it fired some kind of dart . . . and he was introduced to a whole new world of hurt.
The drug coursed through his body, making it feel as though infinite needles were being driven into his skin from every direction. He thrashed wildly, desperate to get them off, but hands were all over him, grasping and gripping him. He had to get them off, had to get away! Loud, unfamiliar jargon knifed through his brain. He clawed, punched and kicked at his aggressors, using an animalistic instinct rather than any defensive technique. His teeth tore into a gloved hand and he tasted the metallic tang of blood. Victory! A micron later, two meaty hands wrapped around his throat and his head bounced off the floor as they tried to force him to release his clenched teeth. An unholy shriek echoed around the room. However, even with his vision clouding, Starbuck refused to relent. Then an all-encompassing pain gripped him by the balls, stealing his breath, as the gorge rose in his throat. Spitting out the torn flesh, he writhed on the floor in agony, curling up into a protective ball.
As one, they lifted him, tossing him onto the unforgiving surface of the stretcher, securing a flailing limb to a dreaded ring. Realizing his predicament, he forced himself to jerk against the restraint, straining to escape, arching his body upwards and bearing his teeth at whatever came close enough as a litany of Colonial curses flew from his lips. A massive weight pressed against him, forcing him downward, until one by one, straps and restraints were secured in place, completely immobilizing him. His chest heaved with his determined efforts, even as the last one was fastened and the unit of Earthmen stepped back out of his range.
Then the stretcher gently vibrated beneath him. His body began a slow slide into the pod as it swallowed him alive. The surrounding walls closed in around him. Again a pressure began to build, crushing him, choking him. He wasn't sure if it was real or imagined, but he couldn't ignore the all-encompassing panic that suffused him or the burning, insistent need to escape. Like a wild animal he fought, snarling threats and jerking uselessly at the restraints as the last of the light ebbed and darkness eclipsed his vision. Something clicked as the outside world was shut out. A low hum and a pulsating red light filled the chamber.
"NO!" he screamed at the cold metal walls.