Chapter Nine
Starbuck didn't have time to think, only react, as he was suddenly freed from his restraints. He lurched upright, reaching for the Earth-style stun baton that Lucifer had used on Colonel Katko, abruptly discharging it into the IL. The Cylon jerked and shuddered, emitting what almost sounded like a scream of pain, as hundreds of voltons of electrical energy shot through its circuitry, disabling it as it tumbled to the floor with a resounding crash.
"Guards!" a wide-eyed Borodin screamed as the warrior advanced. Fortunately, there were none that Starbuck could see.
"Ah, I thought so. You're not so tough when it's just you and me, Bub. Are you? Yeah, doesn't matter what planet you're on. You bullies are all alike," Starbuck told him, throwing the stun baton up in the air and watching in amusement as Borodin's eyes followed it. He punched the Russian in the gut. The man began to double over, eyes huge, mouth agape. Starbuck gripped the back of the soft head gear, slamming the man's head into his knee and saying a silent prayer of thanks that the protective head covering was softer than the original gear they wore before delousing him. The satisfying crunch of the impact more than made up for the any pain in his knee. The director collapsed in a heap.
Suddenly mindful of his nudity, he squatted on the floor beside Borodin, tugging at the protective suit, determined to make it his own. Liberty and then modesty, Bucko. Beneath the suit, the man wore his shirtsleeves rolled up. Starbuck blinked in disbelief as he noticed a mark on the man's arm that looked similar to the Empyrean talisman. What was it Borodin had said? The all-seeing eye? What the frack . . . It was damn close to the Empyrean mark on his chest. Absently, he ran his fingers over his scarred flesh. A variation of the ancient symbol of the Empyreans . . . what was it doing on an Earthman? It didn't make much sense. Hades Hole, what did make sense around here? Meanwhile, Lucifer sounded like he was short-circuiting as he smouldered in the corner. One red eye flickered on and off, but the IL did not move.
"You don't have time for that, Starbuck," Baltar told him hastily.
"Oh yeah?" Starbuck returned, jerking the jumpsuit down the director's legs with renewed determination. "While I'm sure you'd get a laugh out of me running around here naked, Baltar, I'd just as soon . . ."
"You think I've come here to humiliate you? To torment you?" Baltar accused him indignantly, before adding with a smug smile, "Although it does have a certain appeal, I admit."
"Ah, so I'm not the only one who's noticed there's a pattern?" Starbuck rejoined, standing up and hastily pulling on the protective suit. He squatted down beside Colonel Katko, checking for life signs. A steady pulse beat reassuringly beneath his fingers. "Katko? Wake up, sweetheart."
She groaned quietly, probably at his choice of words, but didn't stir.
"There's no time!" Baltar again insisted.
"Well, if you're really with the Ship of Lights, make some! I'm not leaving her here with these two!" His words were made a little less biting by the wracking cough that suddenly shook him. He pulled the colonel upwards, grunting as he manipulated her over his shoulder. As the effects of the drug they had given him dissipated, the symptoms of his Earth virus were beginning to return with full force. He sucked in a deep breath as he stood, feeling light-headed with the change in position. Holding a hand against the wall, he steadied himself, adjusting his load. The throbbing in his head and the burning in his chest were returning with a vengeance.
"It wouldn't be very noble to pass out and drop her on the floor, Starbuck," Baltar needled him. It wasn't very angelic of him, in the warrior's opinion. "Why don't you just leave her. I assure you, she will be safe."
"Sagan's sake, I feel like the swamps of Atilla and all its assorted creatures just climbed up my nose and took up residence in my head." The Endeavour captain glanced at the reformed traitor. "Can you do anything about that?"
Baltar smiled. "You're asking for a miracle? From me? I must say, that's somewhat heartening. But, alas . . ."
"You can't interfere," Starbuck supplied, heading out of the cell. It was just his luck; the SOL Beings could not interfere with the lives of microbes either! He looked both ways, trying to decide which way to go. Fortunately, his choices were limited by the single open door at the end of the corridor. There were still no guard. "Yeah, I know. Yet you just released my restraints as well as opened the doors."
"For which you don't seem very appreciative, I might add."
"Seems there are a few grey areas around your definitions of interfering, Baltar. Makes a guy wonder why John and his bunch need to recruit more 'evolved beings' if you're all drifting around the heavens not interfering."
"Perhaps it's because there's a cap on the amount of disagreeable time such benevolent beings can spend in the company of antagonizing Colonial Warriors such as yourself," Baltar returned. "Now move! We have to save the President."
"Okay, fine. But I didn't exactly get the grand tour before ending up here. Where do we go from here?" He glanced at Baltar with low expectations. "Or are you not allowed to say?"
Baltar turned to go with a flourish of his white cape. "Follow me." Once out in the corridor, Starbuck swore he heard the former Councilman mutter something about "penance".
They turned a corner and Starbuck stopped short . . . faced with a unit of Russian soldiers. "Frack . . ."
They raised their weapons. The grey-haired one in front, wearing a highly decorated uniform, narrowed his eyes as the sight of Colonel Katko slung over Starbuck's shoulder. He raised his firearm, taking a step forward and resting it right between the Colonial Warrior's eyes. Then he cocked an eyebrow and smiled slightly.
"Things cannot get worse, so they are bound to get better. Yes?"
The warrior swallowed the lump of dread in his throat. Then he murmured, "Baltar, is it too late to ask for John back?"
xxxxx
There they were.
Three Cylon Raiders on Lu's scanner, dead ahead. All still in Earth's orbit and each one dead in space. The enemy craft were already beginning to show signs of atmospheric drag. Soon they would be ashes and dust, screaming their way to a fiery death in Earth's atmosphere. From further transmissions she'd picked up, she'd deduced that Starbuck must have intervened and used the Dynamo on these Cylons as they attacked some defenceless Earth ship. Not a bad way to make a first impression with an unknown human civilization really, but then Starbuck had a way of always landing on his feet.
So . . . where was their Base Ship?
Covertly collecting further data on Earth really didn't make any sense at this point, she decided. After all, Starbuck had already blown their cover, albeit for a damn good reason. Commander Dayton needed to know that. Fast. He also needed to know that not only had these Raiders reached Earth, but they had already attacked Earthmen. It seemed that the Edict of Extermination was no different in this star system than in any other. The priority was finding that damn Base Ship before it launched an entire offensive against Earth, assuming locating the behemoth hadn't happened without her knowing about it during her last eight centars of reconnaissance. She scanned as far as her instruments would reach. Aside from the Raiders in front of her, no Cylon craft were detected.
She glanced again at her scanner, seeing the graphic representing Earth's surface. There, in the middle of a huge landmass the data told her was referred to as Eurasia, was the insistent blip that marked the current location of Starbuck's Wraith. She concentrated her scans, collecting as much data on the area as possible. As it poured in, she sighed in frustration, all alone with no one to delegate the crucial assignment of contacting the Endeavour to. The responsibility lay entirely on her shoulders. As much as she was tempted to race planet-side and verify that Starbuck was alright, she had to rely on the transmissions that inferred her husband was holding his own with their ancestral brothers from another galaxy. Her duty, according to the mission profile, dictated that she instead contact her base ship, advise them of the situation, and await further orders.
And it left her with a bitter taste in her mouth.
Well, Lu, that's why they pay you the big cubits, girl! So you can make those gut-wrenching, galaxy-shattering de . . .She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, sending up a simple request.
Ama, if you're out there, keep him safe.
Then she altered course, heading for the Endeavour . . . never detecting the sudden commencement of a single oscillating red light in one Raider.
xxxxx
My God! My own people! Humans from home! I . . .
They've seen us!
They were the first Earthmen that Mark Dayton had seen since leaving his native solar system over thirty years before, which was the only reason he could possibly be ignoring the towering ruins and immense pyramid with inlaid hieroglyphics that his instinct told him would look exactly like those in Giza or Kobol on closer examination. Dayton's throat felt tight with an overwhelming emotion as the two groups of humans drew closer to each other. Baker and even Ryan were similarly effected, curiously quiet while Malus searched for their frequency. Then it was time to shake himself out of his reverie and focus on the moment at hand. C'mon, Mark! You've dreamed about this moment for thirty plus years! Get with it!
A tone in his helmet told him that Malus had found the appropriate frequency. Dayton cleared his throat.
"Who are you? And what the hell is that?" demanded one of the others pointing a shaky hand at Malus, and coming to a halt at a safe distance from the Endeavour party when the lift hit the surface. Their suits were white, much as NASA's had been in the old days. It made sense on a dusty red dump like Mars. Easier to see. The primary life support system on each suit was, however, smaller than those he remembered, and the suits had articulated joints, making movement presumably easier. One had red stripes around the upper arms, designating a mission commander, again, like the old days. Over the heart was the WASA logo patch, portraying an image of Earth cradled in its star system with a stylized spaceship pointing upwards, riding a tongue of flame and capped by a swath of light. The Latin logo, Ad Infinitas Et Ultra!,completed the image. He grinned.
Again a voice came over the helmet speaker, tinny and badly modulated: "Identify yourself."
"I'm Commander Mark Dayton of planet Earth, born in Chicago, Illinois, Colonel in the US Air Force, Mission Commander in NASA, transported across the galaxy in 2010, and more recently put in command of the Colonial Covert Operations Ship, Endeavour." Then he added, "I'm back."
For a moment there was only a stunned silence. The suited figure in the lead came a little bit closer, staring at them. Now that they could see his face, it appeared shocked and confused.
"Mark Day . . . Holy . . ."
"Lo and behold, I think they've proclaimed a religious holiday in your name, Mark," Paddy said.
And then . . .
"Why you. . ."
In a sudden rage, another of the men threw himself at Dayton. The Endeavour commander startled, not expecting it. Instantaneously, Baker and Ryan came between the two men, not allowing the Earthman to put so much as a hand on their friend in the lower gravity environment, and backing him up as they had done now for over thirty years. Malus moved a step closer, putting a "hand" to his weapon. Together Ryan and Baker shoved the younger man backwards towards his own people, and the Mars crew caught him, restraining him for the moment.
"Things must have really changed on Earth. In our day, the correct response was to hold our your hand, say 'nice to meet ya', and introduce yourself in kind," Ryan growled across at the others.
"Yeah. I guess they don't read Emily Post, anymore," snarled Baker.
"What the hell was that all about?" Dayton demanded, waving a restraining hand at Lia, Jolly, Giles and Dietra who all had their hands on their weapons in readiness.
"Traitor!" shouted the young man. "We thought you were dead. Hell, my father defended you, you bas-tard!" He spat out the word, hatred etched in every line of his face through his faceplate. With a shake, he tore himself free from his comrades. "It was all true! You sold them out! You killed them!"
"Whoa, now!" another man cried, stepping forward from the Mars group. His suit bore the command stripe. "Shut the hell up, Johnson! Right now if Benedict Arnold, Brutus and Judas arrived and offered me a lift home, I'd take it! We don't exactly have a hell of a lot of options, here!" Others murmured their agreement. They were desperate men.
"Well, aren't you in good company," Ryan remarked, looking back at Dayton.
"Who?" asked Malus. Ryan turned to him, and mouthed 'later'.
"Care to explain?" Baker demanded. "What the hell are you guys talking about?"
"What is that?" someone again demanded, pointing to the IL.
"Think of him as a computer on legs," Baker inserted.
"I prefer to think of myself as an alternate sentient life form," Malus replied.
"Is that a . . . a . . . Cylon?" someone gasped. "I thought . . ."
"Hey! Everybody slow down here!" Dayton barked. "This here cyborg is with us. He's not with the Cylons!"
"Commander, I am touched . . ." Malus said, his head glowing warmly.
"Not now, Mal," Dayton snapped. "Who's in charge here?"
"I'm Tom Curtis, in acting command of the Barstow Station here on Mars. Look, cut us some slack. We've just been through hell and back and lost quite a few of our people, including Commander Chung. Tell me again just who you guys are and how you came to be here." He ran his gaze over the rest of the party and it lingered on Malus. He shook his head incredulously before locking his stare on Dayton once again. "We weren't expecting help from any other quarter except our own. We'd pretty much reconciled ourselves to . . ." He paused, drawing a ragged audible breath that everyone heard on the channel. "Well, never mind that. Everything's changed now. Who are you?"
"We're both warriors and envoys, representing the Colonial Nation of Man," Apollo inserted through the languatron, stepping forward. He kept it simple. "I'm Colonel Apollo of the Endeavour. We've come to help in any way we can."
"What kind of doohickey is that?" someone muttered pointing to the languatron.
"Some kind of translator, I'm guessing," another said.
"Colonial Warriors? Then it's really true! There really are other human colonies! Twelve actual planets!" Curtis gasped. "The Guardians are for real!"
"Come again?" Apollo replied.
"Then Nibiru is. . ." someone gasped.
"You're the Anunnaki . . ." Curtis mumbled simultaneously in disbelief. "Those Who Came To Earth From Heaven." He paused for a moment."But how did the crew of the Endeavour end up hooking up with the Anunnaki . . .? You're supposed to be dead . . . unless what they said all those years ago was actually true . . ."
"What? The Anunnaki?" Dayton repeated incredulously, casting his mind back to his younger days. Growing up as the son of scholars, he'd once been immersed in this stuff, whether he liked it or not. It took a second or two. "The Sumerian gods? What the devil are you talking about?"
"All this," Curtis replied, waving an arm around him at the remnants of the ancient extraterrestrial civilization that the Colonials had immediately connected to the Thirteenth Tribe.
"You think this has something to do with Enlil, Enki and the rest of the Sumerian gods?" Dayton asked, momentarily letting go of the fact that they had classified him in the same company as some of history's most infamous traitors, but were apparently willing to forgive him, at least for as long as it took to hitch a ride home. "You've lost me, Curtis."
"Zecharia Sitchin?" Ryan asked. Dayton looked at him inquisitively, trying to place the familiar name. From somewhere wafted an image of his father, the Egyptologist, saying something about this. Curtis was nodding.
"He developed a theory that attributed the creation of the Sumerian civilization to the Anunnaki, but furthermore insisted that the Anunnaki weren't just your average gods of ancient mythology, but an alien race from a planet called . . . jog my memory. What was it again? One of you mentioned it," Ryan paused, looking back at the Mars crew.
"Nibiru," one of the Earthmen supplied. "Dr. Ahmed Mufti." He bowed his head slightly.
"Paddy Ryan, originally of Earth." He nodded at the other. "Thanks, Dr. Mufti. It's been a while. Anyway, I remember Sitchin claimed that recovered ancient Sumerian clay tablets actually recorded their true history, not their mythology, as traditional scientists and historians believed. That those same tablets indicated that beings came down from the stars and founded the earliest civilizations. That there was some kind of cataclysmic event that had planets colliding, creating Earth, the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter, and the comets in the Kuiper Belt."
Mufti nodded again. "The ancient Sumerians accurately described and diagrammed the planets Uranus, Neptune and Pluto, even though at that time those planets couldn't have been seen without the aid of a telescope. It was convincing even to sceptics."
"Wait a minute, didn't Sitchin's time line start almost a half million years ago?" Baker asked. "After the Ice Age?" He added by way of introduction, "Lieutenant Colonel Bob Baker, US Air Force. Retired and then some."
"Give or take fifty million years," Commander Curtis replied. "He also theorized that humans were created by the Anunnaki as a worker race for the purpose of mining gold all over the world. He founded several of his theories on the Book of Genesis, tracing those directly back to detailed Sumerian texts as the source. It wasn't a popular theory . . . unless you were one of those crazy conspiracy theorists that was trying to attribute everything from Jesus Christ to just about every war that ever happened to the behind the scenes machinations of secret societies that went all the way back to ancient Egypt."
"But what we've discovered here on Mars will erase most scepticism," Mufti continued, pointing towards the pyramid. "We've theorized that the Anunnaki were actually one of Thirteen Tribes from a star system far from our own. Sitchin had it wrong. The cataclysmic event had nothing to do with colliding planets and an original twelve planets in this star system, but with the death of the ancient mother world of all of mankind's creation, with some references to ensuing ancient wars. The twelve planets from the Sumerian texts didn't refer to ones in this star system. Instead, they referred to a star system with twelve other planets. All habitable. The missing Twelve Tribes of Mankind." He looked at the searchingly, waiting for them to confirm it all. "But then you know all this."
"Sagan sakes," Apollo murmured wandering near a collapsed pillar. He shone his illuminator over the pictorial symbols etched in the stone.
"I remember now," said Dayton. "Dad mentioned Sitchin's theories once. Hell, he mentioned them a lot, usually in conjunction with terms like crap, garbage, trash, bunk, and such. He was a scholar, not a goofball monger. Still . . ." He looked up, and around. He could not deny the evidence of his own eyes. "This particular goofball monger was obviously on to something. You know, I hadn't really given it much thought before, but the Twelve Tribes of Mankind . . . they could be a Biblical parallel. The Twelve Tribes of Israel in reference to Jacob's sons."
"But there were thirteen actual tribes that left Kobol," Apollo pointed out.
"And there were thirteen actual tribes of Israel," Mufti clarified. "Jacob adopted the two children of Joseph—Ephraim and Manasseh—and their descendants are counted as separate tribes. But the number twelve certainly repeats itself in world history and mythology. Don't forget the historical references to the twelve disciples of religious lore and mythology pertaining to Jesus Christ, as well as dozens of other well documented historical messiahs, such as Horus, Krishna, Dionysus, Mithras, and countless others. "
"Then there are the twelve signs of the Zodiac being almost identical to those planets in the Colonies," Baker mused. "Gemon, Piscon, Caprica and so forth," he elaborated, seeing Curtis' brow furrow.
"As well as a common ecliptic coordinate system," Dayton added, "with the ecliptic being the origin of latitude, and the position of the sun at vernal equinox being the origin of longitude." His head was swimming from all the information. He glanced at Cassie who was quite obviously champing at the bit to run her biomonitor over the Mars crew and ensure they were all right. He realized guiltily he hadn't even enquired as to any injuries or as to what had happened inside the base. But since Curtis hadn't brought it up, it could obviously wait a few more minutes. "Are you saying that inside the remains of that pyramid is historical documentation that substantiates where and when the Kobollians first settled on Earth, and the effect they had on our civilization?"
"Kobollians?" Curtis asked haltingly. "Who or what are the . . . Kobollians?"
"Who gives a rip?" snarled Johnson, arms crossed. "Damned traitor."
"Stow it, Mister!" snapped Curtis. He turned back to Dayton. "Ignore him. The rest of us do constantly."
"But . . ." Dayton began.
"Water under the bridge. We'll discuss it later."
"I want to discuss it now," Dayton countered, voice brittle. "I'm sensing a little hostility here."
"Just a little?" Ryan asked.
"Fine," Curtis replied, taking a deep breath and letting it out. He shook his head, his reluctance to broach the topic clear. "When the International Space Station exploded back in 2010, a terrorist group associated with al-Queda claimed responsibility. With security being as tight as it was, it was decided that it had to be an inside job."
Dayton could feel the colour draining from his face. All those years of hell, dreaming of the chance to get back home, only to find out that he was Public Enemy number one. "You actually think . . ."
"Shit, I remember them blathering about Nazis and occultists in NASA, but terrorists?" Ryan exploded. "What the hell is wrong with you people?"
"All those references to Nazis and occultists went way back, some of it prior to World War II," Curtis tried to explain. "Back in 2010 that stuff was easy to ignore. Nobody was left living to point fingers at, after all. Nobody much cared about von Braun and his SS affiliations anymore, or whether Masons ran NASA, but international terrorism was different. America was waging war on it, in fact. Hell, we still are."
"Sounds like the international terrorist became the newest bogeyman, if you ask me," Ryan remarked, scowling.
"Yeah," Dayton breathed, still stunned by this revelation.
"Maybe so, but it was pointed out by various sources that you had a longstanding relationship with the Middle East, from your father's archaeological studies, Commander Dayton, to your own experiences in the Air Force," Curtis replied, looking incredibly uncomfortable, even through his helmet visor. "Your mission in country during the Second Gulf War became public knowledge. And since no remains of the Endeavour or her crew were ever found, it was even theorized that somehow you managed to destroy the Space Station and disappear."
"Disappear where?" Baker asked incredulously. "Off the radar? You ever try and fly one of those shuttles, boy? It's like trying to fly an elephant with a busted butt! Not easy to get . . ."
"Two theories, both involving a massive cover up. Either you landed at a private air strip on Earth and went into hiding, or you were all executed to prevent everybody from finding out the truth," Curtis replied, unable to hold anybody's gaze. "Look, not everybody believes it. Most of us at WASA think it was all a hoax, some kind of bullshit story to subject NASA scientists to a new era of McCarthyism." He shrugged. "Those people went through hell. It was no surprise when funding was pulled and NASA was 'temporarily shut down' as they called it to 'reassess the political ramifications of the incident and continued terrorist threat'."
"And after all that, we were recorded in the history books as the NASA astronauts that turned traitor and blew up the ISS," Baker muttered. "Shit. I'm glad Porter isn't here. Hell, Torg would be laughing his butt off if he could hear this!"
"There's no place like home," Ryan muttered darkly. "No bloody wonder Dick and Hummer ended up in the clink. And we sent them back to Earth in the goddamned getaway car . . ."
"Listen!" Dayton growled. "The explosion that destroyed the ISS had nothing to do with us! We had friends on the station! One of my best friends . . ." His voice betrayed him, growing thick with long repressed emotion. He hesitated a moment, clenching his fists and willing himself to regain control. He glanced at Johnson who stared back at him with contempt. Marilyn Johnson had been crew on the ISS. Could this man be her son?
"Then how can you be alive?" Johnson demanded, his voice raw with anger. It was clear their current state of life didn't sit well with him. "You should have died with her!" Then he added as an afterthought. "With all of them!"
"The explosion opened some kind of wormhole," Baker explained, his voice tight with anger. "We ended up light years from here. At least twenty-thousand, maybe more. Those people who died on the ISS . . . they were the lucky ones."
"What the hell do you mean by that?" snarled Johnson. "Total bull . . ."
"Johnson!" snarled Curtis.
"Ever been to hell, Johnson?" Baker replied. "Well, we spent thirty years there. We were slaves to tyrants, struggling to survive from one day to the next. Torg and Bex made the Taliban look like a Glee Club. Believe me, there were days that death would have been preferable."
"But it wasn't an option," Dayton spat between gritted teeth. "If we didn't survive, we couldn't escape. Lynn Bond died in one of our early escape attempts. Ben Zuskin got away, only to die in a prison, isolated through a difference in language, star systems away."
"If the Colonials hadn't come along when they did . . ." Baker said, his words breaking off as he glanced at Apollo.
"These men aren't traitors, Commander Curtis, they're survivors," Apollo told them. "It's a sad commentary when men like Commander Dayton, Doctor Ryan and Lieutenant Colonel Baker aren't recognized by their very own people as the heroes that they are."
Curtis nodded, taking a moment to absorb it all. "Could be you're right, Colonel. After all, they could never defend themselves. If you don't mind, right now I want to know about the Kobollians? Who are they?"
"In a way, I guess we are," said Jolly, looking at the digital readout in his helmet display rendering the English words. The Barstow crew only heard Colonial Standard in return. Apollo pressed a key on the languatron.
"He said 'we are'. Descendants, anyhow. Kobol was the mother world of humanity that you're speaking of, at least from our perspective," Apollo elucidated, again through the languatron. He briefly described the death of Kobol and the exodus to the colonies, as well as how the colonies had lost contact with the Thirteenth Tribe millennia before. It was obvious they were even more in the dark about this ancient settlement than the Earthmen were. "Now as to whether there were already humans on Earth when the Thirteenth Tribe arrived, I was under the impression that there were. That somehow the Thirteenth Tribe knew that humankind already populated Earth. As far as I know, our ancient records didn't make any reference to the introduction of mankind on Earth."
"We also believe that mankind inhabited Earth before your . . . Kobollian Exodus," Mufti deduced. "And our current population is the blend of two separate genealogical lines of humans, explaining the long-standing historical question of the recorded controversial appearance of Cro-Magnon Man at the same time as Neanderthal Man. So. . . the Anunnaki and your Kobollians . . . are they one and the same?"
Dayton nodded towards the pyramid. It looked to be around the same height as the Pyramid of Khufu in Giza, maybe even taller. Like it or not, he felt the old curiosity, the "inner archaeologist", squirming to get out. To be satisfied. "Let's go look at what you've found and find out."