"Report, Centurion," IL commander, Syphax, of the Abaddon-class Base Ship, Ravager, ordered as he moved into the ship's Control Centre.
"By-your-command. One-of-our-recon-patrols-is-overdue."
"Which patrol, Centurion?"
"Patrol-Four. It-is-overdue-for-check-in-by-twenty-four-centons."
"I see. What else?"
"We-are-picking-up-transmissions-in-the-same-quadrant-originating-from-the-third-planet-from-the-sun. The-voices-appear-to-be-human."
"Appear to be?"
"They-are-not-speaking-any-language-known-to-Cylon."
The emergency beacon that they had first detected had originated from the single moon of this third planet. It was the signal Syphax had been programmed to expect. "Delta class, and if the Imperious Leader is correct, harbouring the lost tribe of Kobol." At long last he would fulfil his destiny, gaining victory and glory for the Cylon Alliance. Finally, he would be able to return to Cylon as a conquering hero and be recognized by the Imperious Leader for a dedication to duty that went far and beyond that of any other.
"What of our other patrols, Centurion?"
"They-have-detected-only-primitive-probes, Commander, similar-to-the-probe-we-brought-aboard-before-reaching-this-system. No-other-indications-of-life-forms."
The probe had been perplexing, as it had carried an auric-anodized aluminium pictorial plaque that crudely illustrated a human male and female in scale against the probe, as well as a group of planetary bodies, including what appeared to be the original trajectory of the probe. Other more abstract illustrations they had not deciphered yet. One showed fifteen lines emanating from the same origin. The other . . . thus far they had no promising hypotheses.
"More primitive probes. Interesting," said Syphax. He called up telemetry from one of the patrols. Sure enough, small, automated probes, heading outwards from the system had been scanned. Showing either low power or none at all, they had evidently been launched many yahrens ago. None presented any threat to them. They could have nothing to do with the overdue flight crews. Yet for the patrol to have gone missing, something unexpected must have happened.
Syphax checked the fuel status on the other patrols. Yes, it could be done. "Redeploy our recon patrols in that quadrant. Have them rendezvous and send the squadron to investigate the region of the third planet." Whatever had overcome the three Raider patrol would likely fall prey to a wing of seventy-five Raiders. If not, by then the other two squadrons assigned to reconnaissance in the outlying planets would have rendezvoused with the Ravager, and the capital ship would be on its way.
"By-your-command."
"Of course."
xxxxx
General Roach could barely believe it. Mason had looked so damned smug when they had broken off the holographic teleconference with the President that it was all Roach could do to not pummel the man to a pulp. According to a long-standing chain of command that had served the United States government well for nigh on fifty years, it appeared to him that President Gibson was actually considering following Mason's recommendations on a peace accord with these robotic Cylons in consultation with the Secretary of Defence, Jim Wright. A late arrival from the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Jack Edwards, had cinched it. In addition, as soon as the meeting had ended and Mason had disappeared, Roach had been notified of the sudden inexplicable murder attempt on Grae Ryan and a subsequent suicide by the accused. Now the general had far more questions than answers as he tried to track down Mason to demand an explanation.
Meanwhile, NORAD had updated him that the three Cylon fighters were still dead in orbit, so he wasn't getting any indications there about what the robotic aliens truly wanted. All eyes were on their still functional satellites, trying to pick up anything they could of Cylons or Colonial Warriors on approach to Earth. The worst part, as he saw it, was that when he had recommended to the President increasing their defence readiness condition to DEFCON 2, Mason had immediately balked, arguing that it might be perceived as a sign of aggression by their new allies. Insanely, they had stepped down the current level back to DEFCON 4. Even more absurdly, Wright and Edwards had agreed. It had left him wishing that he had the forethought to include the Chiefs of Staff of Naval Operations and the Army, as well as the Commandant of the Marine Corp in the emergency meeting. He had been outnumbered, and common sense had been overpowered by bureaucracy.
His sat-phone rang and he glanced at the display curiously. After all, it had become a useless piece of junk after WASA had seized the satellite grid and started transmitting their propaganda. He snorted in disbelief. He couldn't believe she had the gall to call him. She was as tenacious as a junkyard dog . . . or a reporter. He snapped it open viciously, answering in much the same tone: "Roach."
"What's going on, General? The President doesn't seem keen on my press conference," LM Dayton said. "The American people have a right to know what's happening."
"How dare you . . ."
"Lighten up, Roach. Listenup. There are a few truths that you're not going to like, but I'm going to tell them to you anyway. I'm that kind of gal."
"Dayton . . ." Roach growled.
"Ever hear of Albert Pike?"
"I get the feeling I'm about to . . ." replied Roach, closing his eyes and rubbing them to ease the growing ache building behind them.
Dayton sniffed in apparent amusement. "He was an attorney, a writer, a soldier and a Freemason. He's the only Confederate military officer to be honoured with a statue in Washington, DC which stands in Judiciary Square."
"Yeah, I remember hearing about him at the Academy U.S. military history. So?"
"His remains," Dayton went on, "are in the House of the Temple in the Home of the Supreme Council, Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite of Freemasonry, Southern Jurisdiction, in Washington D. C. He was Sovereign Grand Commander, a thirty-third degree Freemason . . ."
"A what?" he asked, somewhere between a sigh and a groan.
"The degrees represent stages of development in the Order, General. First degree is an apprentice, second degree is a fellow-craft, third degree is a master, etcetera. The first three degrees are considered Symbolic Masonry, the average member. Four through thirty-two are referred to as Philosophic Masonry. Everything after that is considered Esoteric Masonry. Pike was at the top of the ladder. He wrote several books, one of which was published in 1871 called Morals and Dogma of the Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite of Masonry.In it he stated that Masonry conceals its secrets from all except the Adepts and Sages, or the Elect, and uses false explanations and misinterpretations of its symbols to mislead those who he says deserve only to be misled. Masonry conceals the Truth, which it calls Light, from the majority of the members, to draw them away from it. Truth, he said, is not for those who are unworthy or unable to receive it, or would pervert it. Only the top five percent of Freemasons were enlightened, leaving the other ninety-five percent totally unaware of the inner workings of the elite."
Roach grunted.
"Pike went on to say that every man's conception of God must be proportioned to his mental cultivation and intellectual powers, and moral excellence. That God, as man conceives Him, is the reflected image of Man himself. That the Masonic religion should be, by all of the initiates of the high Masonic degrees, maintained in the purity of the Luciferian doctrine . . ." She stopped, holding a few beats.
"Lucifer?" Roach croaked, a feeling of dread sweeping over him.
"Yes, Lucifer was the god of those high ranking Masons. Pike said in his book that Lucifer was God, and that 'unfortunately' Adonai—one of the biblical names for God—was also God. That the Eternal Law is that there is no light without shade, no beauty without ugliness, no white without black, for the absolute can only exist as two gods, darkness being necessary to light to serve as its foil. I quote from Morals and Dogma: 'the doctrine of Satanism is a heresy; and the true and pure philosophic religion is the belief in Lucifer, the equal of Adonai.' You see, in Luciferian doctrine there is no Satan. Instead, God has a dual nature of both good and bad, as do we all."
"Nifty," he downplayed it. "When they start a course of Masonic theology at the Academy, I'll put a word in for you with the Secretary."
"That may be sooner than you think, General," she replied wryly. "Pike also wrote that Adonai was the rival of Osiris, the Egyptian sun god, a prominent figure in Masonic traditions." She paused a moment. "By the way, Lucifer, the 'light bearer' recently arrived on Earth, in the physical form of a Cylon." Another pause. "How does that grab ya, Roach? Personally, it scares me silly."
"Are you done?" Roach asked, instinctively rebelling at what she was suggesting.
"Far from it. Moving on now. Both Director Mason and Secretary Wright have something in common that you probably don't realize."
"Are you trying to tell me they're closet Masons of the highest degree?" Roach snorted sceptically, a scepticism he wasn't certain was as solid as it might have been five minutes ago. "I'll be damned. Director Mason is a Mason! Why the hell didn't I see that coming?" he laughed aloud.
She paused, as though innately understanding he needed a minute to absorb all of this. "Actually, Roach, they're Yale men."
He blinked. "Why the helldoes it matter what university they graduated from, Dayton?" Roach exploded.
"Ever hear of the Order, Roach? Skull and Bones?"
That story was as old as the hills. He knew that Skull and Bones, with all its ritual and macabre relics, was founded in the 1800s as a New World version of secret student societies that were common in Europe, especially Germany, at the time. Since then, it had reportedly chosen or "tapped" only fifteen senior students a year who became patriarchs when they graduated— and lifetime members of the ultimate old boys' club. The Order boasted some of the most powerful men of the 20th and 21st centuries: Presidents, Supreme Court justices, leaders of industry, and often their children, comprising a social and political network like no other. However, those goddamned conspiracy freaks had taken the venerable old circle and had turned it into something nefarious, claiming that the highly secret and once completely fraternal order had furthered the globalist aims of their brethren in other equally covert groups. "That's utter and complete crap!"
"Just like the Cylons, Roach?" LM Dayton replied. "Wasn't it only a few hours ago that you thought the Cylons were the mad ravings of WASA with the intent to secure more private funding through terrorizing the public?"
Roach drew a deep breath. As much as he'd never concede it, she had a point. He lowered his voice to a conversational level. "What do you want, Dayton?"
"Researchers have traced the origins of the Bonesmen back to even more ancient Secret Societies, Roach, like the Illuminati, the Knights Templar, the Freemasons, and the Rosicrucians. Are you still with me Roach?"
"Yeah," he murmured.
"Now, imagine a pyramid of power with you, me and the rest of the peons grovelling down at the bottom, with these secret societies somewhere in the middle, and, if you will, the World Monarch at the top. I'm not going to waste your time drawing you a picture, Roach. You're a bright fellow. But some very powerful people, that same top five percent in these ancient secret societies, have been moving towards an ultimate goal for longer than most of us care to contemplate. At the very heart of it is a being—yes, that's right, I said a being— that wants our civilization either destroyed as we know it, or subjugated through his new world order. Loyal to him is a group known in some circles as the Crown Council of Thirteen, made up of the world's richest and most powerful people. I have it on good authority that our Colonial brothers and sisters have a Council of Twelve that is the ruling body of their nation, originating from each of their twelve tribes that migrated to their colonies from their mother world. The Thirteenth Tribe—the missing member of theirCouncil—is the one that left that same world thousands of years ago for Earth. They're the ancient astronauts that researchers, astronomers, ethnologists, and mathematicians—better known in your sandbox as crackpots and freaks—have been investigating and writing about since at least 1897. Interesting parallel, don't you think?"
"Dayton!" Roach snapped. "Get where you're going with this or I'm going to hang up!"
"Where I'm going with this, Roach, is the fact that not only are our Secretary of Defence and our Director of National Intelligence members of an influential ancient order that its members are sworn to secrecy about, but they're currently putting the full court press on our new President."
He suddenly felt sick. "What about Jack Edwards? The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff."
"His father belonged to another old and powerful group known as the Bilderbergers, but I don't have time to go into that right now." Again, she paused. "Happen to know where President Gibson went to school, Roach? Hmm . . .? Any guesses?"
"Oh, shit. Yale?"
"Give the four-star general a prize! Now, I'm going to tell you straight that even though President Gibson is a Bonesman, he's not a member of the inner circle, like Wright and Mason. I maintain hope that with the right support and evidence, he'll come through this with his honour and his country intact."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Answer me something first."
"What?"
"Is Grae Ryan still alive?"
"Of course!" She didn't need to know that it was by the skin of his teeth.
"Alright, then. I'm telling you all this because I know that underneath that gruff US Air Force Academy graduate exterior, is an honourable man who loves his country. Who, more than anything else, is one of the vast majority that is simply ignorant of what has been going on all around them. Those conspiracy theorists—as you all like to call them—have been hitting the nail on the head for a long time now. Only, it's easy for those same powerful men in the know to twist and mutilate verifiable facts to make researchers look as though they're not playing with a full deck, from David Icke claiming that we originated from green lizards to all those wing nuts that insist Jesus Christ was actually Satan. It's the classic turd in the punchbowl, Roach, designed to make the public lose all confidence in anyone or any theory that deviates from established history. As the old Schopenhauer quote goes, 'all truth passes through three phases. First, it is ridiculed, second, it is violently opposed, and third, it is accepted as self-evident'. This is a time for heroes, General. And I'll take a military man of simple origins over a Blueblood politician of the Order any day of the week."
Roach's mind was reeling from the implications. It was impossible. He couldn't believe it! "That's absolutely . . ." He cut himself short before Dayton did, as it occurred to him he was in phase two. Violent opposition. But what else was a man to think? He'd dedicated his life to serving his country, for Christ's sake! He'd been mocking this exact kind of propaganda since he was old enough to think . . .
Phase one, Roach. Ridicule.
Hadhe been thinking, or had he just believed what he and everybody else had been told? Wearily, he ran a hand over his face. "Shit, Dayton. Where the hell do we go from here?"
"I thought you'd never ask. Okay, General, as to where to start, how about you have a look at the dope on Roswell. 1947."
"Oh, come on! That . . ." He stopped, shaking his head. Hadn't Grae Ryan made reference to Roswell just hours before? Why were they so damned determined to open up that old can of worms? "Tell me why."
"Look, General, if we can prove that certain powerful people within the government actually covered up the appearance of what we already know were Cylons back in 1947, well, it would sure raise questions about why the government had been accusing WASA of fear mongering for all these years. Imagine just how far that would go toward making President Gibson actually listen to us now. Especially with all the lies that Mason has been poisoning him with since all this began."
Strangely, it felt almost profane even thinking about going into files that had long been closed, even buried, and had even longer been contentious. He'd always supported the official story. Now his belief in so much more than the questionable existence of spacemen was being challenged. "Is this legit? I mean . . ."
"General," she replied, her tone softening a bit, "you are the United States Air Force's top man. The Chief of Staff. You've got more fruit salad on your uniform than the buffet line at Golden Griddle. You can look at any file you like. But I recommend you look deeper. Talk to Grae Ryan. He'll know what we need."
"Alright," he said reluctantly. "I'll get back to you."
"Thank you, General. And your country thanks you too."
Roach made a rude noise.
"Over the top?" LM Dayton chuckled.
"From you, yes!"
"A girl's got to do what a girl's got to do."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Roach replied irritably before he severed the connection.
xxxxx
Starbuck had to be hallucinating. He just had to! The sight of Baltar had acted like a bucket of ice water down his pants, bringing him down from his mind-altering high, but still leaving him feeling befuddled. Baltar was in Morlais with Eirys, in a dimension utterly separate from this one! There was no way in Hades Hole that he could be smiling down at Starbuck now on Earth.
"But I am, my young friend," Baltar corrected him calmly, fanning his hands wide. He was dressed in a shimmering white robe and cape that looked curiously like Council wear. "I most certainly am."
Starbuck shook his head in disbelief. It had to be the drugs!
At least he hoped it was.
"Did you say 'Baltar'?" Lucifer asked from a metron away, his head popping up in a very human fashion, disbelief in his tone. Not only had the flashing of his brain core sped up, but his eyes had stopped dead, focused directly on the pilot. "Answer me, Starbuck!"
"You don't see him?" Starbuck whispered, still staring at the resplendent form above him. Baltar had that same ethereal radiance that the warrior associated with John. Either the universe had tipped over on its side or these drugs were reallygood!
Possibly both!
"I believe he's hallucinating, Director Borodin," Lucifer said. "Baltar—a former prisoner of the Alliance—is now dead."
Which made a certain amount of sense, Starbuck reflected, in an hallucinogenic way.
"Are you?" Starbuck asked as Lucifer and Borodin's ensuing conversation blurred into the background. Normally, his uniform would turn white when he was contacted by a Being of Light or transported to their ship, but in this case he was as naked as a newborn babe and had no real frame of reference. Well, other than the white sheet that discreetly covered him. Did it have a slightly diffuse glow to it, or was that his imagination? He held his breath a moment, considering it. Then his imagination started talking to him again.
"Death is so narrowly defined by our people, Starbuck," Baltar said patiently, with an unfamiliar air of dignified wisdom so unlike the odious man he had once known. "I prefer to consider myself 'spiritually evolved'."
"You?" Starbuck echoed hollowly.
Baltar frowned, affecting a pained expression. "I'm hurt, Starbuck. I've honestly come to help, I swear to you. By all the Lords of Kobol. Ama sent me."
"Ama sent you? To help me? Is this a practical joke?" Starbuck gasped.
Baltar chuckled. "I had a feeling you might react this way." He leaned closer, smirking as Starbuck pressed himself into the mattress, instinctively recoiling. "I know it seems like last secton to you, but for me deca-yahrens have passed in Morlais, Starbuck. You know that the Angylions are much more spiritually enlightened than the Colonials. Since you helped free Morlais, we have . . . evolved as a race. I'm not the man you knew."
"Really? Who are you then?" he replied as a spectrum of colourful lights began to dance across his vision.
"Think of me of your . . . guardian angel," Baltar replied with a saintly smile.
The former Betrayer of Mankind as Starbuck's guardian angel—it was just his luck. Even after all they'd gone through on Morlais and afterwards, it was simply too much to contemplate. "Oh Lords of Kobol, take me now," he muttered.
"My young friend, that's what I'm trying to prevent," Baltar told him. Then a glimmer of a frown crossed his features. "Oh, that's unfortunate."
"What is?"
A sharp pain stung the right side of Starbuck's face. He blinked as he realized that Borodin had just slapped him. Hard. The colourful lights disappeared leaving the murderous visage of the Russian in its place. "Couldn't have prevented that, Baltar, could you? Being my guardian angel, and all."
Baltar appeared to be trying not to smile—and was failing miserably. "I'm afraid I do have my limitations, Starbuck."
"He appears to be rambling nonsensically and has lapsed back into Colonial Standard, Director Borodin. You may have miscalculated with your truth serum," Lucifer was saying.
"I'm only going to ask you one more time," Borodin snarled, grabbing Starbuck's jaw roughly, forcing the warrior to meet his gaze. "Where is the Galactica?"
"Not very original," Baltar commented.
"Yeah. You know, Baltar, if I only had a cubit for every time that someone asked me that," Starbuck mumbled, "I'd be a rich man." He smiled, recalling that he'd recently seen one of Dayton's Earth movies with a song about that. A catchy little tune where he hadn't needed to learn much more Earthspeak. For some reason, singing it now seemed like a good idea. Baltar nodded his encouragement. Or maybe he was nodding off. Yeah, they probably got tired even in the other dimension. Anyway, let's see now, how did it go? Ah, yes . . . he cleared his throat. "If I were a rich man . . .Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum.All day long I'dbiddy biddy bum. . .if I were a wealthy man. . .I wouldn't have to work hard . . ."
Slap!
"Ow," Starbuck murmured, the other side of his face now stinging with the same intensity. He glanced over at his so-called guardian angel, who so far didn't seem to be doing much to guard him, and also didn't seem all that angelic. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying himself. "Didn't see that one coming, huh Baltar?"
"Actually, I rather thought you deserved it," Baltar returned in amusement. "You'd better stick to the Colonial Service, Starbuck. You have no future on the Star Circuit."
"I'll try to keep that in mind," he replied as Borodin screamed incoherently over him, his face turning red with rage. "Huh?"
"He still wants to know where the Galactica is," Baltar replied calmly.
"Baltar, the Galactica . . ."
"Quiet!" Baltar snapped, cutting off the explanation. "You realize that they can hear you too!"
They couldn't hear or see Baltar, but they could him. It struck him he'd played this game before with John. Without the drugs. It was all a little too confusing just now. "Why is that exactly?"
"Yes, tell Baltar where the Galactica is, Starbuck," Lucifer said suddenly, leaning over him. "He would certainly like to find out."
"Huh?" He looked between Baltar and Lucifer. The rules kept changing. "You can see Baltar now?"
"Quite plainly," Lucifer replied, his lights flashing. "I would know that unctuous smile on his face anywhere. Oh, yes, that is Baltar."
Starbuck glanced at the former bureautician. "I thought you said . . ."
"He can't see me," Baltar shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. "He's lying, like all the rest of his diseased race. Only you can see me, Starbuck."
"Lucky me," Starbuck replied wryly as Baltar chuckled quietly in return. The warrior looked back at the IL. "Lucy, you can't trick me. I'm smarter than that." Starbuck grinned widely. "Plus I have my very own guardian weevil. Your old commanding officer, in fact."
"Guardian weevil?" Lucifer echoed.
"Don't antagonize me," Baltar frowned, looking more like his old self. "That's angel,"
"So far you're more of a weevil, Baltar. I'll tell you when you earn your wings, Bub. I'll have you know that I've seen It's A Wonderful Life. I understand how this guardian angel thing works now."
Baltar rolled his eyes upward. "Nobody said it would be easy." He sighed. "Listen closely, Starbuck. I'll say it slowly so you can keep up." He leaned in closer, passing through the IL who was still leaning over him. "Lucifer has convinced Borodin that there will be an allegiant treaty between Earth and Cylon. That he is the Light Bearer that Borodin's people have been waiting for. That you are, in fact, the enemy."
"Light Bearer? Old Bulb Head? How could . . .?"
"Iblis has already left his mark on this man," Baltar glanced at Borodin. "Although Borodin doesn't understand the complexity of it himself, he has been moulded his entire life for this moment. As have others like him who have reached positions of importance in their societies." He frowned bitterly. "Power is an intoxicating thing, Starbuck. It makes a man lose his insight, his judgment and his humanity."
Starbuck felt his chest tighten as he realized that Baltar wasn't only talking about Borodin. He was speaking of himself. Did Count Iblis somehow coerce or manipulate Baltar into betraying the Colonies . . .
"Borodin has convinced some world leaders—or those who have their ear—that this treaty will strengthen mankind's position. In reality, Earth as they know it will be destroyed." Baltar said. "Does this sound at all familiar, Starbuck?"
News like this had a way of bringing a guy all the way down from his happy cloud. "Holy frack! It's. . . it's the Twelve Worlds all over again!" History repeating itself light-yahrens away.
"Precisely. There was a passage in the Book of the Word, Starbuck: What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun," Baltar told him. Then he said slowly: "I can't erase what I once did, but if I can help prevent another disaster . . ."
"You'll get your wings." Starbuck nodded slowly.
Baltar's mouth gaped open as he gazed at him in frustration. "I'm not trying to get my wings, you dimwit! I'm trying to save your life!" he hollered. Then he drew in a long breath, turning away to compose himself. This time his tone was mollifying. "Your life and that of every living man, woman and child on Earth, Starbuck. When the Fleet finally arrives, do you want this planet to be a burnt out husk or the thriving centre of humanity?"
"Well, when you put it that way," he murmured.
"Quite," Baltar agreed. "Shortly, there will be an attempt on the Russian President's life. We must intervene. Are you ready?"
"For what exactly?" Starbuck asked hesitantly, not liking the way Baltar had prefaced it. His guardian weevil smiled altogether too smugly. Then the warrior's restraints suddenly dropped from his wrists and ankles, and the door of the containment unit slid open.
"To escape."