Chapter Seven
Consciousness seeped back. Slowly. Painfully.
Starbuck shivered with the coolness as unfamiliar voices drifted over him. He still couldn't understand what they were saying, but . . . at least they didn't sound angry. At this stage, that was somewhat encouraging.
With a deep breath, he forced his gritty eyes open, blinking at the resulting blur until his vision cleared. His head felt thick, his thoughts muddled. It took him a moment to get his bearings.
He was out of the pod, out of that room. Thank the Lords of Kobol, both those he remembered the names of and those he didn't. He closed his eyes again, letting out a small sigh of relief, not wanting to think about the panic that had infected him after they had injected him with their dart gun. He vaguely remembered screaming himself hoarse, and thrashing about wildly until he was completely exhausted from the effort. He couldn't help himself, couldn't curb the desperate urgency. How long they had left him in there before taking him out again, he had no idea. He'd been physically spent, almost insensate. Yeah, if his burning throat and throbbing head were any indication, it had been a long time.
He shook his head, even as unwanted memories of those centars came back to him. It didn't matter how hard he fought, they were determined to finish their decontamination protocol with him strapped to that table. Idly, he wondered if Hummer and Dickins had been subjected to the same treatment on the opposite side of the planet. Involuntarily, he shuddered, wondering vaguely if this was what Dayton had meant by the "Welcome Wagon" he had once mentioned.
Sure as Hades Hole wasn't very welcoming.
"You're awake?"
The soft voice beckoned him to open his eyes once again. Reluctantly, he did so, feeling abashed that he had been unaware of her presence. The most startling sky blue eyes framed with thick, dark lashes filled his vision and gazed curiously into his own. Her dark hair was pulled back severely off her face and she wore the usual protective white suit that denoted she was one of the bad guys. He attempted to respond, but his voice was raspy and thick. He cleared his throat, only to have his voice fail him once again before he coughed harshly, instinctively trying to sit up as his chest rattled and burned. His restraints stopped him and he winced as the movement lit another fire around his wrists. The light sheet that covered him shifted slightly, revealing bandages around both wrists from his previous struggles and an array of bruises. Oh, and apparently he was still nude.
"Quiet yourself," she shushed him, moving to his side and adjusting the sheets tactfully. She picked up a pitcher and poured a tumbler of a clear liquid, offering it to him through a straw.
He eyed it suspiciously as he settled back on the pillow, although the thought of quenching his burning thirst appealed more than he'd like to admit. His skin felt hot and tight. Like it was one size too small, shrunk in the Kazakhstan heat. There was a growing pressure just under his eyes and nose, making his face ache and his eyes begin to water.
"It is water," she assured him. "You know . . . water?"
He nodded, parting his parched lips and allowing her to slip the straw in his mouth. He drew greedily on the straw. The splash of cold water filling his mouth tasted more glorious than fine ambrosa. However, swallowing it was another matter altogether. Pain lanced through his throat as he forced himself to gulp it down. Determinedly, he drained the tumbler and then he collapsed back against the stretcher, utterly exhausted. For some reason he couldn't breathe through his nose and that wasn't helping.
"Who . . . are you?" he croaked, looking around the small cubicle. It was some kind of isolation chamber, as they had on the Galactica or Endeavour but with one startling difference. Like in the "washdown" facility, thick, transparent walls separated the "patient" from the med techs, who stood on the other side observing him. He had absolutely no privacy, whatsoever.
"Colonel Katko, Natalya Andreyevna," she replied, pausing and raising her finely arched eyebrows expectantly, as if waiting for something.
"Starbuck," he said throatily, by way of introduction.
"You only have . . . one name?" she asked, furrowing her brows.
Actually, he had two, one given to him by his parents and the other by the Caprican Child Welfare System, but he didn't really want to get into that just now. "It's served me fine until now," he managed with a wan smile.
"Your weapon, your ship . . . they are nothing like we have ever seen before. Where are you from?"
"The Colonial Nation . . ." She shook her head blankly. "From another star system, far away."
Her eyebrows raised sceptically. "Then how did you get here?"
He grimaced, looking around and testing his restraints once again. "I've been asking myself that same question, lady . . ."
She frowned at him. "What language is it you speak? Your first language?"
He frowned, raising an eyebrow at her.
"The one you screamed in. The one that nobody understands."
"Ah." He felt himself flush, not liking the idea of any woman hearing him scream in pain or fear. He cleared his throat once again, wishing he had a free hand to release the vise-grip on his head. "Can you . . ." It still hurt to talk. "Take these things off? Maybe find me some pants?"
"Nyet." She shook her head. "Doctor Sidorenko felt that you reacted adversely to a drug that was intended to sedate you," she explained. "Apparently, on you it had an unexpected, rather violent effect."
"No mong," he muttered. It had been the drug.
"She also mentioned some differences in your hemochemistry which might explain why you metabolise our drugs differently. Also your bone density, organ structure . . . and kidney function." Her eyes dropped to something she was reading. "Excessive deep scar tissue in places, but very few congruent scars on the skin surface . . . some kind of mechanical implant in your right inner ear and another at the base of your skull . . . all very . . . perplexing. Can you explain?"
"Nyet," he replied stubbornly, mimicking her before glancing at the pitcher of water again while he processed her words. Yeah, he guessed the conclusions from his medical examination would look pretty unusual, by Earth standards. After all, Dayton and his men proudly wore the scars of their thirty yahrens of tribulations. In a Colonial Life Station, medical personnel had the ability to erase those superficial marks for the most part, although deeper and older damage couldn't necessarily be eradicated as easily, as Salik had told Starbuck repeatedly. "You took my blood?" he wondered aloud, not remembering. It was something he particularly hated. It took him straight back to all of those times that Ama had felt it necessary to draw his blood for one of her mystical incantations. He sighed, wondering what else he didn't remember. Then again, maybe it was just as well. . .
She smiled softly at his confusion, turning to pour him more water. For a military officer, she had a maternal side that he was willing to bet she didn't show often. Again she offered him the straw and he sipped as she continued. "You bit one of our soldiers, tearing through his glove and breaking the skin. It is Dr. Sidorenko's opinion that you have contracted the virus the soldier was carrying, as a result."
"What kind of virus?" he rasped, remembering Dr. Salik's warning that his immunity was compromised since his spleen had been removed back on Planet 'P'. It would be just his luck that he'd get some bad astrum Earth disease. Cassie would roll her eyes at him as Rhiamon started her weird Empyrean therapies.
"We refer to it as the 'common cold.' A generally mild rhino-virus. It is nothing." She shook her head to accent her point.
Rhino-what's it? He mouthed the unfamiliar word while his languaphone translated. "Well, that's good." His eyelids began to drift closed of their own volition. He forced them open again as he realized . . . "Where's Director Dayton? And who's in charge here? I need to talk to someone about the Cylons. There's a Base Ship . . . "
Colonel Natalya Katko turned, her finely arched eyebrows knitting as she glanced beyond the transparent barrier. Starbuck looked over, drawing a raspy breath as he bolted up against the restraints once again. On the other side of the barrier was Director Borodin, the man who had promised him he'd pass a few very unpleasant centars. Apparently, the man kept his word. Beside him, was an IL Series Cylon wearing a slightly tattered red robe.
"Ah, Lieutenant Starbuck," said a voice over the PA. A voice Starbuck knew . . . "Such an unexpected, yet timely diversion. What are you doing in this part of the universe?"
"Holy frack!" After all he'd been through since landing, he'd forgotten all about Jess mentioning that Lucifer had crash-landed on Earth's moon. He lunged against the restraints once again before demanding hoarsely, "Get these things off of me!"
xxxxx
"General! You have to see this!" Bradshaw announced, breaking into the small room where Roach had briefly sat down to finally cram in some long-delayed food and drink, while he kept his eyes on the vid-feed from Dickins' containment cell.
"What is it?" Roach replied with a touch of irritability, automatically rising to his feet at the other's tone of voice.
"We'll go . . ." The colonel paused, mid turn. "Never mind. Do you have a Sat-Phone, sir?"
"Of course." Roach pulled it out of his pocket, flipping it open, raising an eyebrow at the other. "And, Colonel?"
"Any news station. They have them all, sir," Bradshaw replied soberly.
"What does that mean?" the general asked as a multitude of possibilities ran through his mind. Thumbing his screen until he connected with CNN, Roach felt the colour draining from his face. Brian Hicks, long time respected and esteemed news anchor of CNN, was on the air. However, his story definitely hadn't been approved by mainstream media.
" . . . Yes, you are looking at actual satellite imagery taken only hours ago, when it was verified that spacecraft belonging to the cybernetic race of Cylons—long reported by government intelligence to be a WASA hoax—have actually entered Earth's orbit."
"What the . . . holy son of a . . ." Roach's jaw dropped as he took in the images. He began flipping through every channel available. Impossibly, Hicks was on every English speaking station that Roach could access. "It's all over the bloody . . ."
"Yes, sir. BBC, Reuters, AP, FOX, Euronews . . . It has to be WASA, sir. They've taken control of the entire commsat network, General. Right now, they are broadcasting over every available media outlet from television to the Internet. Every household, every Sat-Phone, every frequency, they're all getting this. And with Brian Hicks passing the word, the masses aren't even going to question the validity of this."
"Everybody?" Roach repeated incredulously as the reporter went on to describe how a "Colonial Warrior" in an advanced fighter craft of unknown origin had single-handedly rescued the WASA space shuttle Venture from certain destruction, as the corresponding images flashed across the tiny screen. Fuzzy images of WASA Director Dayton aboard the Venture flashed by, as well as an accompanying voice attributed to the Colonial Warrior inside the mystery vessel. The tension, the danger, the rescue, the victory, it was Pulitzer Prize winning material.
"Everybody. I'm guessing that alternate media sources from around the world have teamed up with WASA, replacing mass media with whatever they want to report, until we regain control."
"Earth is in peril, yet WASA tells us that we have allies that we didn't even know about. Brothers from far across the universe, whose own civilisation was itself destroyed by the Cylons several years ago. They refuse to let history repeat itself. They have come to help. It can only be described as a miracle."
"How?" Roach demanded.
"Those new GPS satellites that WASA launched a few months back," Bradshaw explained, "well, during the last four hours they've manoeuvred within range of every functional major communications satellite in low Earth and geosynchronous orbit . . ."
"We've been watching this happen?" Roach exploded. "They've screwed us over right in plain sight, and we've been watching them do it?"
"As far as NORAD knew they were GPS sats, sir! How were they to know that officially twelve minutes ago the satellites would simultaneously emit a concentrated electromagnetic pulse, basically hijacking and replacing the entire commsat network?"
"Where from?" Roach demanded.
"French Guiana."
"Oh, it would be!" Roach roared. Bloody Hell! He had no jurisdiction there. "Drag Major Ryan up here! I know he and Jess Dayton are two peas in a pod. He must know something about this project. And get me Leach, Marshall of the Royal Air Force. He knows the French Chief of Staff. Uh, what's his name . . . General Metencourt. We have to shut them down."
"But, Sir . . . if this is true . . . all of this about the Cylons . . ." He waved a hand helplessly towards the image of Captain Richard Dickins captured on screen.
Roach pulled off his hat, running a hand through his bristly hair. "Shit . . . Bradshaw, better get me the President too."
xxxxx
Grae Ryan had never met a more suspicious man than Dick Dickins, but after he'd heard his story, it made sense. Utterly. After all, the WASA astronaut should have been the one questioning the validity of the identity of a man who was supposed to have died when the International Space Station exploded back in 2010. Instead, Dickins had grilled him, plying him with questions regarding a father that he had vague and distorted memories of at best. Grae remembered his astronaut father being the best of weekend playmates with a memorable laugh and an unlimited bag of tricks, practical jokes, adventures and goodies. Yet that had been balanced with the early memories of his mother's tears and her rants that her ex-husband was better suited to Romper Room than NASA. Then of course there had been the accusations that the Endeavour crew had had something to do with the tragic incident in space. That perhaps they were responsible for the beginning of the end of the NASA program. Patrick Ryan had fallen from grace, from hero to terrorist, within a short time. Grae hadn't known what to think, only being a small child when his father had been reported missing after the Endeavour's fateful last mission. His parents had been separated for well over a year by then, and his mother had allowed her bitterness and anger to overrule any maternal instinct to protect her children.
Finally it was a simple phrase that had turned the tide in Grae's favour with Dickins: "Jaysus Murphy, what is this, the Spanish Inquisition?"
Dickins had grabbed him by his flight suit, his grip unrelenting. "What did you just say?"
Jaysus Murphy.
It was a phrase that generations of Ryans who had settled in the Maritimes had used over the years, and he'd been no different. Family reunions at Granny Ryan's were legendary. His first ever word was "Mama". His second "Murphy". It was a long standing family debate whether "Jaysus" or "Dada" came next. An American friend had once told him that he didn't think real people actually said that. That it was a "quaint phrase used only in folklore". Now he included his friend among the enlightened ones.
"Ryan, you're coming with us!"
Two guards were opening the containment unit. At this point, Grae was feeling just a little overwhelmed as he tried to comprehend the story that Dickins had told him about how the Endeavour crew had actually passed through some kind of wormhole, or whatever, and had ended up far across the universe in a base run by pirates and cutthroats. His father was alive. Actually alive! However, Dickins had also claimed that he and his compatriot had been sent here to help prepare Earth technologically for an impending Cylon arrival, insinuating that those known as the Guardians were at work elsewhere in the universe. Meanwhile, here Dickins and Hummer sat locked up in Cheyenne Mountain. Apparently, that hadn't exactly gone to plan.
"Where exactly?" Ryan asked the guards.
"General Roach wants to see you," a guard replied after a moments hesitation. He turned his attention from Ryan to Dickins when the other's foot moved. "Back off, old man," he warned Dickins. "Unless you want some more."
"I'm insatiable," Dickins shot back. Then, ignoring the guard, he looked to Ryan. "Watch your back, kid. Don't drop your guard." Then he grinned cruelly, leaning closer. "Or if you drop one, make sure you can drop the other."
"Right," Grae replied, turning to go.
xxxxx
"Shall we, old chaps?" Ryan asked the others, poised at the internal hatch to the airlock. He glanced at Lia and Dietra apologetically. "And chapettes?"
"By all means, good sir," Baker agreed with a flourish and bow as Dayton nodded at them.
"What's a chapette?" Lia whispered to Dietra, once more lost in Earthspeak.
The lieutenant shrugged in reply. "What's a chap? Sounds painful."
Within a few centons they had all passed through the airlock and at first thought they had stepped out onto the surface. They were in an area of enormous expanse, with the lowering sun shining through something overhead. It took a few moments to grasp that it was . . . dirt! Swaths of plain old dirt were suspended above them by the structure. They were standing at the entrance to a wide tunnel, its walls made of some different material than either the base or the native stone.
"Illuminators," Apollo said.
The team began pulling them out to light their way. The colonel shone his light upward and then around the tunnel walls. They appeared ribbed and translucent where they allowed in glimpses of light.
"Holy Triquetra," muttered Lia looking up.
"It like a major priory," said Dietra, her voice filled with awe. "So . . . so huge." It appeared that the passageway had been artificially buttressed. Of course, the worry was that if the tunnel to the Mars Shelter within the base had collapsed, that this could too.
"Glass?" Baker asked incredulously, his gloved hand running over the surface. "Holy crap! I don't believe this!" he gaped, turning to look back at Dayton. "These aren't part of the base, Mark . . . These look old. Damn old! And these ribs . . . ain't a speck of corrosion on 'em."
Dayton shook his head, murmuring, "Can't be . . ."
"It appears to be constructed of condensed tylinium," Malus concluded, analysing the structure. "Interesting. I was unaware you Earthlings had condensed tylinium."
"We don't," Baker replied. "Or at least, we didn't." He looked down from the archway overhead to the floor. It was mostly covered in sand, and there were booted footprints in it heading away from the airlock. Some looked very recent.
"Well, somebody did," said Jolly. He looked up to where a gap had been broken in the transparent tunnel. "And these beams . . . even where they're bent, they haven't cracked. This is condensed tylinium, for sure."
Ryan snorted, striding ahead of his commander. "Wasn't this one of those weird Mars conspiracy theories, Mark? Like that image of a face in Cydonia? What was it, now? Glass worms, right?"
"NASA concluded it was some kind of optical illusion. That we were looking at valleys and sand dunes," Dayton added slowly and disbelievingly. "They swore it wasn't tunnels."
"Conspiracy theory?" Giles asked.
"Mars was a hotbed for conspiracy theorists. They figured NASA was hiding the existence of a previous civilization, although there were some prominent scientists who believed it was exactly what it appeared to be," Baker supplied.
"Clarke, wasn't it?" asked Dayton. At the time he'd been more inclined to believe NASA. After all, he worked for them.
"Yeah. But some people went Freaksville at the idea."
"Idea?" asked Malus, the confusion in his voice clear. "Of transparent tylinium tunnels?"
"Of aliens," Ryan corrected.
"Why would they do that?" Cassiopeia asked.
"Well, any suggestion that aliens might have, at some point in the past, populated Earth always came in a distant third to Creation and Evolution," Ryan replied. "Although, I remember reading a Jim Marrs book that stated scientific testing showed that modern human remains in prehistoric Israel predated Neanderthal remains pretty drastically. Hey, that pretty much struck a severe blow to the theory of continuous evolution."
"How could they exist concurrently?" Baker asked. "That doesn't make sense."
"Ryan's suggesting that 'modern man', as he's calling them, obviously were extraterrestrial," Dayton replied. "Right?"
"That's what Marrs—the man, not the planet— suggested. And he certainly wasn't the only one," Ryan replied with a grin. "Although I will admit it's been a while since I read Rule By Secrecy."
"Man, are you a closet conspiracy nut job and we're just finding out now?" Dayton asked him.
"Finally, at least he's out of the closet!" Baker joined in. "I knew this day would come."
"Hey, I haven't even seen a closet since joining the Fleet!" Ryan protested, with a wry look at the Colonials. "Hmm, I'm having an incredible urge to kiss Starbuck right now. Wish he was here."
"I too miss Starbuck, Dr. Ryan," Malus added rather sombrely. "Although I never understood the human compulsion for kissing."
"Plant a big wet one on Half-Caf next time you see him," Baker suggested. "See if you get anything out of it."
"Wet one?" Malus asked.
"Moving on," Apollo inserted, his expression completely bewildered. He shook his head, glancing at his scanner and getting back to business. "Well, it looks safe enough."
"And presumably, the others came this way," Jolly said, taking a few more steps. "The boot prints."
"Mal?" Dayton asked.
"I am not picking up any seismic activity, Commander. There have been no further aftershocks since we have arrived."
"Chance of precipitation?" Dayton asked glibly.
"Excuse me?" the IL replied, looking up at the ceiling.
"Never mind," Dayton replied, waving a hand forward. "Let's move it out."
Moments later, they were heading down the tunnel, following the path. Within a dozen steps they felt a sharp "jerk" upwards, as if they had been lifted slightly.
"We're in Mars gravity, now," said Apollo, scanner in hand. "Out of the base's artificial grav field."
"Yeah. Lighter," said Baker, lightly jumping into the air a few inches further than he usually could. "Man, I finally shed all that mushie weight. Who needs Jenny Craig!" Dayton made a rude noise in response.
"I read it as only thirty-eight percent that of the gravity inside the base," announced Malus. "This region appears to be largely igneous rock, Commander. Overlain with thick deposits of highly mafic basaltic lava flows." He swept his scanners over the walls. "How odd . . ."
"Nice digs," Baker quipped with a grin at his commander as they passed an abandoned pile of equipment. Arc welder, portable generator, tool bag. "Reminds me of Early Garage. Or perhaps the transition to the Middle Warehouse Period."
"Commander Dayton," said Malus, "I am picking up highly anomalous readings ahead. It appears as if . . ."
"Well, let's find out for sure," Dayton replied, briskly leading the way down the tunnel. Had NASA been lying about what was on Mars all those years ago? What the hell for? Weren't they scientists? Wasn't exploring their star system and discovering the existence of life the reason they all got into this? Wasn't NASA's mission statement: To improve life here, to extend life to there, to find life beyond. He glanced at his chrono, wincing. This was taking too long. They needed to find the survivors and get the hell out of there. They had a Base Ship to destroy. And a recon team to rendezvous with.
The tunnel ended and they came out into a dimly lit huge gallery, bigger than a basketball court, which appeared to be a partially excavated site of ancient ruins. Drills, work lights and more mining equipment lay scattered about. A little shiver of excitement ran down his back. For a second he wished his father could be there. How many similar sights had he seen as a child when his father, an Egyptologist and archaeologist, had often dragged him around the world to whatever ancient ruin he was working on to broaden his horizons. It appeared that the Earthers had built their base above some kind of ancient subterranean city that had dissolved into ruin long ago. If he was right, it was thousands of years ago! "I don't believe this."
"Holy von Däniken, Batman!" Baker agreed.
"Lords of Kobol!" said Jolly as they took it all in.
Across the gallery the floor ended. They looked down into a seemingly bottomless chasm, gasping in surprise as they gazed upon the half buried remains of an immense pyramid.
"Like Kobol," Dietra murmured.
"And Egypt," Dayton added.
"How far down?" Apollo asked.
"It's too dark to tell with the naked eye," Dayton replied.
"Malus?" Baker asked.
"Over a thousand metrons deep," the IL replied.
And filled with machinery! Refined metals, tunnels, massive pipes and conduits the thickness of a house, platforms, the works. It was dark and eerily silent. A vast and forgotten . . .
What?
"Forbidden Planet, anyone?" muttered Baker.
xxxxx
"The Endeavour has been delayed, of course. Starbuck is in trouble, as usual. He needs help, like always, and Sweet Triquetra, if I can't give it to him, then you will. Do you understand your assignment?" Ama asked.
"Perfectly. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate the opportunity to help. I feel as though this is my destiny, my chance to contribute what I've learned through my own rather considerable mistakes. And I owe Starbuck so much, of course." He lightly touched her arm. "Stay safe, Ama. For you alone can keep Count Iblis in exile."
Ama studied the beatific smile, sensing only a fellowship and altruism that she had never before detected from this individual. So much time had passed for him. She could only celebrate the spiritual growth and exaltedness of this man that she had once deemed worthy of her faith, albeit sceptically. Still, it was disappointing to step aside at this point. She would watch over them all, inserting herself once again if she saw fit. No matter what John said.
"Starbuck will be surprised," Ama warned him.
A familiar wicked laughter rolled out of the other that seemed out of place with his celestial appearance. "That, my dear lady, would be putting it mildly."
Ama couldn't help but smile.