Chapter Thirteen
It was a devastating event when the leader of a nation was assassinated. It changed perceptions, filling the hearts of her people with anger, fear, uncertainty, and a vulnerability that would echo throughout their generation and often beyond it. Citizens felt shock, then denial, they sought to understand, they yearned for condemnation, they demanded retribution . . . all through a haze of national grief and disbelief. In this case, it reeked of an inside job and all fingers were pointing in Mason's direction. So not surprisingly, everyone at Area 51 had spent the last several centons in a miasma of emotional turmoil, deliberating what would happen next while they hurled accusations and pondered if the succeeding Vice President, Owain Beglau, would support President Gibson's military initiative or bend Mason's way.
And Earth simply didn't have time for yet another debate right now.
"Well, I'm all packed and ready to go if someone could point me in the general direction of the landing strip," Starbuck said, climbing to his feet and out of his comfortable chair. The room abruptly fell silent as insult and indignation glared at him from every American present, with the exception of Dickins.
"Dear Lord, if I could only go back and make that come out in Colonial Standard," Baltar suddenly said from over his shoulder. "Where did you learn your etiquette, Starbuck?" he hissed. "At Sire Big Mouth's Academy of Insensitivity and Rudeness?"
It was ironic, to say the least, coming from Baltar.
Roach turned and took three slow deliberate strides towards him, coming mere centimetrons from the Colonial Warrior before replying in a scornful voice, "Our President is dead, Captain Starbuck. Have a little respect."
Starbuck met his gaze unflinchingly. "No disrespect intended, General, but you have to understand that where I'm from, all but the ragtag remains of an entire civilization some eight thousand yahrens old is dead and gone because of the Cylons. I'm talking over twenty billions lives wiped out, not just one. In less than six of your hours, I watched as President Adar, my president, was blown to bits along with almost our entire fleet. Heard the screams over the commlines as most of my friends were ripped to shreds. I've seen so much fracking death and destruction,so many cities and planets levelled to ashes, so many uncountable corpses that I guess I'm a bit calloused to it. And right now I'm trying to prevent history from repeating itself on your side of the galaxy." His gaze swept the room coolly. After what he'd been through here on Earth, he wasn't expressing remorse for anything that didn't reek of wrongdoing. "Hey, if you think I'm being insensitive, then I guess you'd better get used to it for the time being. In Colonial Society, I come from the lowliest of the low—what you'd call the 'wrong side of the tracks'—and I don't apologize for it. Ever." He shrugged, looking back at the Chief of Staff. "It gives a guy a . . . a sort of black and white perspective on things. As a result, right now I'm more concerned about the nine billion still living than the one who's dead, General. The way I see it, with the Endeavour out of communications and scanner range, the only way we can save Earth is to get your countries united in a military front against the Cylon Alliance, and if I have to go to Nuyuk to make that happen, then I'd better get started."
Roach frowned, studying the Colonial Warrior for a long moment. "Not bad for a first draft, Captain, but you're going to have to polish it up a bit for those high brow politicians." He smiled faintly as if it pained him. "And it's New York. Not Nuyuk."
A sat-phone rang shrilly, breaking the tension in the room.
The general pulled his out, snapping it open. "Roach." He listened for a few seconds, then: "Roach, zero-zero-five-two-four-six-one-zero." He waited a moment more. "Go."
Starbuck watched the lines around the man's eyes deepen as he listened to a faintly audible diatribe on the other side of the line. By the general's sudden widening of the eyes and energetic nodding, something important was being conveyed to him. Finally, after straightening his spine and offering a perfunctory "yes, sir", Roach snapped the small phone shut.
"Well?" Starbuck asked.
"President Gibson will meet you in New York, as planned, Starbuck." Roach grinned broadly. There was a burst of exclamations and murmurs from the rest, but Starbuck spoke first.
"How . . ."
"Unbeknownst to all but a very select few, it seems the President decided to take alternate transportation at the last minute. He wanted to know just how deeply this conspiracy ran within his own government, and I guess he found out. He's not just another pretty face, after all," Roach let out a breath of relief. "An arrest has already been made."
"That was fast," Ryan suggested, raising his eyebrows. "Another Oswald?"
"Just shut it, Ryan!" Roach snapped. "Not now."
"Oswald?" Starbuck asked, eyes going from one to the other.
"Not important right now," Roach replied, grabbing the Colonial Warrior and ushering him out of the room as he gestured at Dickins and Hummer to follow. Ryan trailed behind them, obviously intending to accompany them, invited or not. "Let's get you gone, Captain Starbuck." Roach allowed the four men to fall in together, striding purposely ahead of them towards the airfield.
"I don't know about you guys," murmured Starbuck to the others, "but I don't like the way he said that."
"General Roach!"
All the men turned to see Colonel Hundal running towards them, his face red with exertion, a couple of men trailing behind him.
"Colonel?"
"The Cylon is gone!"
xxxxx
Iblis' low laughter didn't hold the slightest bit of amusement. He had recovered Lucifer, but she had saved the American president. "You played that well, Daughter. I admit it. I'm impressed." He gazed down at the Oculus in his hand, lifting it slightly as if testing its weight.
"Yes, I did, didn't I?" Ama returned with her gap-toothed smile. He smiled at her again, this time more genuinely. Apparently, her boasting had pleased him. She raised an eyebrow at him, eying the powerful orb in his grip. The gilded wrought iron glowed with an intensity that bespoke its limitless power. "Is it getting to be too much for you? I could carry it for a little while."
"I wonder . . ." he murmured, his voice seeming to echo through the cosmos. He studied her thoughtfully for a moment, and then he lobbed it to her.
She caught it, even more surprised at the immense weight than she was that he had turned it over to her so freely. Why? Her hand tingled with an intensity she hadn't been prepared for as she rotated it in her hand, turning it over and over, studying it. What the . . . ? She had thought it looked the same, on all sides, but unexpectedly, when she really concentrated, the imprint of her Empyrean talisman stared back at her from its core, seeing into her very soul.
She felt her body go rigid as her consciousness reached out to touch another, more ancient than all recorded history, more powerful than she could ever imagine. Her hands tingled with shock as her mouth went dry. She drew a sharp breath, feeling herself falling, falling, and falling into the infinite blackness. Images flashed through her mind unbidden. Planets. Suns. Mighty ships, greater than a thousand battlestars, dwarfing entire star systems. Terrible galaxy-shattering wars. Worlds, civilizations, whole universes, rising and falling. Creatures she had never seen before or even knew existed. Creation. The reality before that. For the first time in her life, she felt completely vulnerable. Naked. Humbled. Then as suddenly as it had gripped her, it released her, leaving her feeling spent. Her head jerked up, staring at Iblis, her eyes wide.
"Ah, yes. I thought so," Iblis said, studying her for a long moment before he continued. "For thousands of yahrens, child, the Great Powers bestowed the position of Keeper of the Oculus upon our kind, Ama. I alone amongst all the multitude of them had the ability to truly wield some of that power, to harness it, to make it my own. They claim I was seduced by its power, Ama. What they fail to understand is that the Oculus . . . the Oculus chose me. For without darkness, the light would go unprized; without evil, goodness would have no meaning*."
"No," she breathed. He was lying. He must be lying! He always lied! If what he was saying was true, then the Oculus was more than just an ancient and powerful treasure, it was a . . . a tangible connection to an omnipotent and sentient force, older than the cosmos . . .
"Ama, use the Oculus! See the Truth, child!" His voice seemed to echo within her. "Know I speak the truth, even if you do not want to hear it." Iblis smiled then. That particular smile could charm the vilest of serpents or the holiest of saints. "This is our rightful place in the universe, Daughter! Our destiny! OURS! It was thus decreed."
She felt ill, disheartened, beaten. If what she suspected was true, then the battle between good and evil was an immortal one. Meant to continue through the ages.
She had been naive to think in absolutes. Victory or defeat. Never had it occurred to her that it would go on and on in endless futility. There was no immortal paradise, no idyllic condition of everlasting peace, harmony and stability. It was unattainable. A dream.
"Why?" she murmured quietly as her faith began to crumble around her. She drew in a shuddering breath, trying to find something to sustain her, something to turn to . . .
"Do what thou wilt, my daughter. Your destiny is undeniable. Do what thou wilt."
Then a shrill noise began to build, foretelling their coming. They had not abandoned her after all. But now it seemed pointless. Too late.
"No!" protested Iblis, his ire once rising against her. "I forbid it!"
An energy engulfed her, filling her body and soul. Iblis' vile presence began to recede as the light consumed her.
"Take me," she murmured, giving in.
*R. S. Thomas
xxxxx
He'd been rescued, he'd been fed, he'd been medically treated, his injured and irradiated crewmates were going to be okay, and he was on a spaceship that he'd only seen the likes of in science fiction movies. And he was headed home, but all Bruce Johnson could manage to feel right now was an all-consuming, burning hatred for Mark Dayton.
He closed his eyes, running a shaky hand over his unshaven face. He was in the Endeavour enlisted crew's quarters, surrounded by the surviving Barstow crewmen not currently hospitalized, their conversation a hum in the background that he had all but blocked out. He forced himself to listen to them, over the vibration of the ship's engines, instead of imagining ways to avenge the death of his mother. Mark Dayton had once bounced little Bruce on his knee while drinking wine and laughing with his parents. He even had vague memories of playing hide-and-seek with Jessica forty-five years ago. Maybe that was why the betrayal of the Endeavour commander was so far under his skin that it occupied his every waking moment since the traitor had re-entered his life.
"It's like taking your first ride on a double-decker bus, only to get to the upper level and find out there are no windows," Hicks, a born-and-bred Londoner, was saying, sitting at a table and thumbing through some cards that no one could make any sense of. Several other of his cohorts were sacked out on narrow bunks that made it clear that not a lot of space had been allotted for the creature comforts of the crew. "Nothing but metal walls."
"Well, they don't put windows in submarines either, for a similar reason," Scott replied with a chuckle.
"Still, wouldn't it be nice to get a better look around?" Hicks replied. "Me, I'd like to see the stars."
"Who cares about stars?" opined a third, a woman "At least we got rescued." She picked up a small device, much like a remote control for a TV. With a click a screen on one bulkhead came to life, showing the solar system slip by as they headed for Earth. "Voila. Stars."
"Always aiming to please," Hicks said, looking at his watch. "When's lunch around here?"
"Wild horses couldn't drag me to that mess hall again, Hicks," said Scott. "Why did I think that their food would taste better than that freeze dried stuff WASA passes off as nutrition?"
"Hey, food is food," shot back Val. "Remember Cervantes? 'Hunger is the best sauce.'"
"What's Cervantes? An Italian restaurant?" Scott asked, looking up.
She shook her head. "Johnson. Tell these cretins who Cervantes is."
"Miguel de Cervantes. He wrote Don Quixote," Johnson replied quietly, not looking up.
"Dawn Coyote?" Scott asked. "What's that?"
"Oh, for Christ's sake . . . yes, it's a nice Italian restaurant in La Mancha, Scott," Val conceded.
Johnson did look up at that. He met her eyes and smiled slightly. It felt good to connect, however briefly. Then the bitterness began eating away at him again.
"Either way, stop bitching," Val continued. "They saved our hides."
"Good point," said Scott.
"Remember," said Hicks, "the nurse did say that our taste buds might be off for a while after those treatments she gave us."
"Speaking of which, I could develop a taste for her,"said Scott. "What was her name? Cassiopeia?"
"Yeah, but don't bother. I hear she's tight with their commander."
Johnson stood up.
"Where do you think you're going?" Hicks asked him.
"To the infirmary," replied Johnson. "I'm not feeling well."
xxxxx
"Do you want me to get out and push?"
Dayton let out an audible groan, slamming a fist on the console in front of him in response to Porter's germane suggestion. His face like a thundercloud, he glanced down at the now-dented console, then up at Dorado.
"Uh . . ." began Coxcoxtli, but Dayton held up a hand.
"This is best speed?" he demanded of anyone brave enough to answer. "Zero point five-one C?" Although Mars was fading to a mere dot behind them, at this rate it would be a long stretch before they reached Earth. Latest ETA, eleven hours, seven minutes. Once, in another life, when such a journey would have taken eight months, Mark Dayton the astronaut would have flipped at the possibility of crossing the void between planets in just over ten hours. Now, faced with the crisis at hand, it seemed like being in a smoking old junker with the tranny stuck in first.
How one's perceptions of reality change.
"We need warp . . . light-speed, Captain, and we need it yesterday!" Impatiently, he glanced at his watch, awaiting the arrival of Apollo on the bridge, just back from Phobos.
"Yesterday. Aye, sir," the captain replied with a maddeningly calm nod, as if that was possible. "You understand that the Clavis . . ."
Dayton held up a hand again, stopping the explanation before it even started. His teeth were clenched. "Is it Iblis or is it just the bloody Clavis?"
"Are you asking me if the ship is possessed by demons or just alien technology, Commander?" Dorado rejoined, his voice tinged with a hint of asperity. "I'm not really qualified to say, sir."
"Well, when you put it that way," Dayton muttered, blowing out a harsh breath. "What systems has it infiltrated?"
"The Main Propulsion System, obviously," Dorado replied, double-checking a readout. "Each reactor is putting out at least one hundred and five percent of its rated capacity, yet the main engines are only getting a portion of that. Also, it's breached the Primary Electrical Power System grid, Environmental Control and Life Support, Auxiliary Power Units on decks three through seven, as well as those in Alpha and Beta landing bays, Hydraulics, Caution and Warning Systems, Data Processing, main weapons batteries, all the galleys . . ."
"What bloody systems hasn't it . . . never mind. Damn!" Dayton exploded..
"And every one of the turbo flushes above deck six," added Dorado.
"Ah, holy son of a . . ."
Apollo walked in, a grin on his face and a spring in his step. The way he looked, if the ship's main energizers ever failed, or maybe Earth's entire electricity grid, they could just wire him up and have all the power they needed. For a second, Dayton wished he hadn't waited to hear from the young officer until after Apollo had cleared decon.
"Report, Colonel," Dayton turned to the young man.
"It's a frackin' space dock, Commander!" Apollo announced, barely holding in the grin, his colourful and uncharacteristic language in the Control Centre accenting his own jubilation. "Complete with three . . . well, I guess we would call them battlecruisers, all in various stages of completion." He looked over at Dorado. "It's like the Cyrannis Prime shipyards, only bigger! It's massive!"
Dorado snorted in amazement.
"Get outta town! You're shittin' me," Dayton replied, shaking his head in disbelief. How many times had he scoffed at Soviet astrophysicist Shklovsky's 1960s report that the "artificial satellite" was made by an advanced "Martian" race?
Porter let out a low whistle. "Seven thousand year old spaceships not even out of space dock. Wonder if they're still under warrantee?"
"Porter?"
"Yeah, Mark?"
"Shut up." Dayton turned back to the colonel. "You saw them?" he asked Apollo. "You actually saw them?"
"Lords, yes! There's a crater on Phobos . . ." Apollo began, holding up a data chip.
"The Stickney Crater," Dayton said instinctively, almost to himself. How many crazy rumours had abounded about the apparent grooves and grid pattern on the surface of Phobos, back in his day? How many times had NASA supposedly and "definitively" debunked those same rumours? "The biggest crater." He took the chip and slid it into the reader at his station. At once, an image of the Martian moon came up on the holo-grid.
"Actually, it's another one within that that I'm talking about. It's about two kilometrons across, Commander." He pointed to the screen as the recorded data began to roll across it, taking them on a virtual tour of the secrets that were hidden on the mysterious Phobos. Others crowded around while Apollo enthusiastically described everything he and Dietra had found.
"A self-contained world . . . just like down on Mars," Dayton mused. "How the hell did they do it?"
"I wish we could have stuck around to find out, Commander," Apollo replied. "One of the battlecruisers was entirely intact, almost as if it was ready to launch."
"You think one of them was completed?"
"It's a big assumption, I'm afraid," Apollo admitted. "But the possibilities . . ."
"Yeah," Dorado added. "In an ideal situation, we could move the crew onto the battlecruiser and let the Clavis take the Endeavour wherever it wants to."
"Commandeer a seven thousand year old ship? We might get more than we bargained for," Dayton replied.
"Or a lot less, which might be worse," Porter added.
Dayton sighed heavily. "Apollo? Recommendations."
"The amount of time and manpower it would take to do a thorough diagnostic on the battlecruiser versus the fact that we need to get to Earth now . . ." He let out a breath, grimacing and shaking his head. "If we had Malus, then maybe, but without him . . ."
"Why is the solution always Malus? Didn't we get along without him before Planet 'P'?"
Either it was his imagination or the entire crew squirmed uncomfortably. He turned to the captain. "Dorado?"
"We're working on it, sir. In the meantime, I agree with the colonel. It's so damn tempting to stay and check those ships out that I can taste it, but we just don't have the time."
"I really hate to play it this way," Dayton admitted, sensing that they felt the same. "I'm going to the Science Lab to see how Ryan and Baker are coming along with Mal." He nodded at his executive officer. "You have the Bridge of this flying tortoise, Apollo. Tell Engineering to begin power economy measures at once. Try and boost propulsion and life support."
"Yes, Commander."
"And I want computer projections on our power utilization curve, and how much we'll really have when we do reach Earth."
"Yes, sir. I'll comm you if I need you, Commander," Apollo nodded.
"Providing we still have communications, that is," Dorado replied.
Dayton raked a hand through his hair, waving a hand at Porter to accompany him as he headed through the hatch and into the Core. He opened another hatch, climbing down the ladder. He stopped a moment midway down. "What do you think, Jimmy?"
"It's the best we can do, Mark. They're right. Not enough manpower, not enough time."
"I suppose." He shook it off, turning his mind back to the Clavis as he resumed his descent. "You've been aboard these last hours, Jim. What about the Clavis? Aliens or demons? Espridian technology or Count Iblis?"
"Well, ET did want to phone home, Mark," Porter called down to him, his tone light as he followed his friend.
"Damn you, Porter! Can the jokes! This is ser . . . Wait a minute . . ." He looked back up at the other as the lights dimmed slightly in response to his economy order. "Sorry, old buddy. That was out of line. You have a good point. You . . . you think the Clavis is just trying to get back to the Espridian planet? That it has its own . . . consciousness?"
"Or a pre-programmed set of instructions we never knew were there, which have now been triggered. Either way, sure sounds a helluva better than the alternative, don't you think? A base ship possessed by Count Iblis. Personally, I'd rather not be rolling through the heavens in the Hellmobile. And it's a self-defensive mechanism when you look at it the other way. When in a potentially dangerous situation, return to home ground."
Dayton snorted, trying to wrap his brain around this newest theory. "I suppose. But how do we reverse it?"
"Maybe it will reverse itself when we go back."
"That's one hell of a big 'maybe', buster."
"Remember, the Espridians weren't a hostile people, Mark. They were explorers that believed in a global consciousness through some kind of psionic spirituality. Maybe this infiltration of our systems is just another aspect of the Clavis' programming. A hard-wired attempt to attain global consciousness with us."
"Are you actually suggesting that we pray?"
Porter shrugged.
Dayton stopped again at the bottom of the ladderwell, looking up at his friend. "Do you have any idea just how totally head-up-the-wazoo crazy that sounds?"
Porter chuckled. "No crazier than you becoming the commanding officer of a stolen former Cylon Base Ship turned Colonial aircraft carrier pretending to be a Cylon Base Ship again."
"Good point."
xxxxx
Silhouetted by the rising sun, the wind moving through her hair, Jess Dayton looked absolutely beautiful, tilting her head upwards as if to receive the blessings of the heavens as she shielded her eyes with one hand. Slender, graceful, intelligent, with a steely determination, many men had tried to win her over, but had finally conceded victory when they realized she'd put no man before her career.
"I thought you were going to get some sleep, Jess," Orlov said, quietly stepping up to join her. "Slava Bogu, you must be exhausted after everything that has happened."
"Who can sleep, Sergei?" she replied distractedly, letting out a sigh. "With all this going on? I couldn't even if I tried."
"Then join me in a drink," he replied, producing a bottle of chilled vodka and two glasses from behind his back.
"Isn't it kind of early?" she asked with a smile, tucking a stray lock of her light brown hair behind an ear.
There were streaks of gold and even some red in her luxuriant hair. Sergei guessed it was all-natural, since she wasn't the kind of woman who would spend idle time sitting in a beauty salon. "I thought it was getting late, myself," Sergei replied, pouring her a measure and passing it to her.
"Then I suppose somewhere we must be right on time," she smiled, taking the glass and waiting politely until he poured himself a drink.
"Who is on your mind, my friend?" Orlov enquired, downing the drink in one swallow.
"My father." She paused a moment before knocking back her own drink in the traditional way. "The fact that he's alive still seems so . . . so unreal. I can't help but wonder, is he really out there? For crying out loud, I was barely five when he disappeared. Will I even recognize him? Will he recognize me? Am I really going to get to see him after all this time?"
"Yes, of course," Sergei replied, holding up the bottle to her. "The only question is when."
Jess shook her head to the top-up. "I hate waiting."
"I know."
She turned to regard him, smiling up at him after a moment. It lit up her face, making her look carefree and years younger.
"You know me so well. You're a good friend, Sergei Makshin. Thank you."
He leaned closer, brushing his lips against her cheek. "Every man with vodka is a good friend, Jessica."
She laughed. "And vodka is a good friend to every man."
"Let us drink to that!" He raised the bottle of comfort again.
xxxxx
"How in God's name do you lose a seven foot tall, glow-in-the-dark talking robot that was secured in the stockade?" Roach demanded, spittle flying from a face that was seemingly frozen in a rictus of rage. "It wasn't exactly inconspicuous, Colonel!"
"Three of my men are dead, General," Hundal reported. "It wasn't like they were playing cards and let him walk out of there."
"Sounds like another inside job," Starbuck said, looking between the two American officers. "He could still be on the base somewhere."
"Has anything lifted off in the last hour?" Roach demanded.
"At an airbase?" Hundal replied sardonically.
"Don't take that tone with me, Hundal, or I'll have you reassigned to the Thule Air Base to test out thermal underwear on the ice flows," snarled Roach. "Do I make myself clear?"
"Before or after the Cylons try to destroy Earth?" Starbuck reminded him. "I vote for after. We're going to need every man who can fly a fighter."
Roach blew out a harsh breath, taking a step back and clenching his fists. He was obviously trying to get his anger in check as he was once again left wondering just who was working for Mason. His gaze raked over Hundal. The colonel didn't flinch.
"I'll organize a search of the base and make sure the two planes that took off will be searched when they land," Hundal said, pausing before he added, "Sir".
Roach nodded curtly. "You do that, Colonel."