Chapter Fourteen
A guy knew he was in trouble when breathing was proving to be a bad idea. Pain radiated from Starbuck's core, blazing outwards and gripping him in torment as he fought to draw in a breath. It only made it worse. His body taut, his hands clawed at the searing pain, while hands mauled him, bright lights blinded him, and loud voices jumbled together unintelligibly.
"Starbuck! Look at me!" Hummer demanded.
"Would you all just shut the hell up!" Dickins bellowed.
The din died down a bit. Starbuck blinked against the blinding light, trying to raise him arm to shield against it, but just moving his limb exacerbated the agony. He groaned aloud, almost sobbing in frustration as he tried yet again to fill his starved lungs. It felt like a landram was parked on his chest.
"He can't catch his breath! Help me sit him up!"
Abruptly, he was pulled into an upright position, his head spinning from the sudden change in position as well as the lack of oxygen.
"Breathe, Starbuck. Just breathe, for Sagan's sake . . ." Hummer begged him, leaning close and repeating his words over and over in a litany of reassuring Colonial Standard. He squeezed the warrior's shoulder in support, holding him up on one side. "That's it."
Starbuck tried to focus on the technician's words, doing his best to suck in one rasping breath after another. Lords, but it hurt! His vision was one big blur and vaguely he wondered where he was. What the frack had happened? He wiped at his face with a trembling hand. It occurred to him that he was shirtless. On the upside, he didn't seem to be losing substantial vital fluids from anywhere that he could see, although he had a couple grazes. He glanced to his left to find that on his other side, also supporting him, was Dickins. Instinctively, he gripped the old astronaut's forearm as he tried to make sense of what had happened.
"You're doing fine, kid."
"That's it. You're doing it," Hummer praised him. "Keep it up."
"I used to breathe . . . without a . . . a cheering squad," Starbuck panted, grimacing at what it cost him as he felt a crunching sensation high in his chest. He tentatively pressed a hand against the spot, feeling the heat radiating off the battered and broken flesh. Gingerly, his fingers travelled downward, finding another raw hotspot over his solar plexus. No wonder he couldn't catch his breath. He blinked furiously, looking around. People were gathered all around him, immuring him in a sea of bodies. Bright lights and loose, dark pant legs surrounded him, pressing in closer and closer.
"And you will again," Hummer replied, studying the warrior's face as the ragged breathing became more even, less laboured. He waited another centon. "Better?"
"Than dead?" Starbuck asked, wincing again with the pain. "Let me think about it."
"He's better," Dickins said, smiling thinly. "That ballistic protective vest the general made you wear worked, Starbuck." The military garment lay off to the side with his discarded clothes.
He nodded, starting to feel clearer-headed as a word came back to him that had been shouted out as he felt the impact of the first projectile. Sniper! He'd been shot in front of the United Nations Building. Twice in quick succession with ammunition that was powerful enough to gouge into his vest, if his minor injuries were any indication. He noticed suddenly that the field of pant legs was parting to reveal two more sets of legs striding purposely towards him. It occurred to him that he was inside the United Nations building, but he had no recollection of getting there. He must have blacked out.
"Captain Starbuck, you're looking reasonably fit, considering," General Roach said from a couple metrons above him. "Allow me to introduce you. This is Ethan Dalrymple Gibson, the fifty-second President of the United States of America."
"Oh, frack . . ." Starbuck murmured under his breath. Yeah, the image of him addressing the Security Council including the President was a neat and tidy one, but all Starbuckian things considered, it was actually a lot more typical that he'd be flat on his astrum, naked from the waist up, and hurting like a man who had gone ten rounds with a homicidal Orion Hasher when he had to suddenly present himself. "Help me up," he whispered to Hummer and Dickins, gritting his teeth as they slowly and carefully pulled him to his feet, each keeping a supportive hand on an arm until he stopped swaying. His legs felt rubbery and his torso throbbed. All in all, it was just another day on Earth.
"Captain Starbuck," the President held out his hand. "Welcome to the United States of America."
"Now this is more like how I thought it would go . . ." Starbuck said wryly, wiping his damp hand on his pants before reaching forward to grip the world leader's hand.
"The sniper has been apprehended, Captain. We got him," Roach assured him.
"Alive?" Ryan asked, from the general's other side.
"I'm not at liberty to say," Roach replied.
"Dead then," Ryan said, not surprised.
"I can't tell you how relieved we are that you're alright, Captain," President Gibson told Starbuck. "When we saw the news report from inside . . . " He paused, frowning as his eyes swept downward, studying the excoriated flesh and the deep bruising on the warrior's torso that was already declaring itself. "You are alright, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir," Starbuck replied. "It's an honour to meet you, Mr. President. On behalf of my people, I'd like to offer the allegiance of the Colonial Nation of Mankind. Together, I believe we can destroy this Cylon threat, sir."
"Thank you, Captain," Gibson nodded, releasing the grip. "I'm anxious to hear about your people and your experience with these Cylons, as are my peers on the Security Council."
"Earth already had its first taste of the Cylons and what they're capable of when that Raider destroyed your civilian airliner, Mr. President," Starbuck replied. "Thank the Lords, we were able to find a way to destroy that squadron over Kazahkstan."
"I understand your input was vital in that," Gibson replied with a glance at Roach.
"I guess you'd say I'm the Cylon expert here, sir," Starbuck replied unassumingly. "But somewhere out there is a massive Cylon Base Ship carrying more squadrons of Raiders, as well as weaponry capable of destroying this planet. And since two fighters escaped to report back to their commander, that same strategy might not work again."
Gibson nodded. "You need to convince our Security Council of the same, Captain. Can you do that?"
"I'll do my best," Starbuck replied. Hummer nudged him, and it hurt. "This is Captain Richard Dickins, formerly of the United States Navy, and Technician Humuhumunukunukuapua'a of the Colonial Fleet."
"Gentlemen. My sincerest apologies to you both for your treatment." After a brief moment, Gibson saluted the older man. It was due respect for any former Congressional Medal of Honour winner.
Dickens regarded the gesture impassively for a long moment. "That was a long time ago. I'm not that man anymore . . ."
"I doubt that. Just you being here tells me otherwise, Captain Dickens." Gibson didn't waver. "You're a survivor, sir."
Dickens narrowed his eyes slightly, then slowly returned the salute. Then, tentatively, the President held out his hand again to them.
Dick gripped it, using the moment to pull himself in closer. Roach bristled at the bureautician's side. "This country has gone to hell in a hand basket, Mr. President," the old astronaut said quietly. "It's a cesspool of corruption, paranoia and distrust."
"I know it must feel that way, Captain Dickins," Gibson returned, meeting the older man's eyes. "Especially with what we've put you through."
"Captain Dickins," Dick repeated hollowly. "Captain Dickins wants to see his wife and family, Mr. President. Especially after all those years in hell."
"Of course you do," Gibson replied sombrely, lightly taking the astronaut by the elbow and turning him around. "And they felt the same about seeing you when I spoke to them personally before I left for New York."
They were lined up as if posing for a family photo. Four middle-aged adults, seven younger adults, three children, and one mature woman. Dickins stood there mutely like a statue, trying to find some familiarity in any of them. On Earth, forty-five years had passed, and it was clear that Dickins was feeling every one of them.
"Dick?" the older woman asked, her voice brittle as she slowly approached him, almost warily. Her blonde hair had long ago turned a radiant white, and her fine wrinkles evinced a life well-lived. Her figure was petite and she was sharply dressed in a blue skirt and jacket. She held up a shaking hand, reaching out to him silently across the space that separated them, studying his face, searching for the husband she had lost and believed dead so long ago.
"Anna?" he asked brokenly, tears filling his eyes. But still he didn't move. He didn't dare believe . . .
Starbuck gave him a gentle push from behind.
A moment later, Dickins had closed the distance between them, pulling his long lost love into his arms, and holding onto her with every bit of strength he possessed. "Anna," he murmured over and over again, tears spilling down his cheeks, his frame shaking with emotion, as he caressed her silken hair with a calloused hand. "It's really you. It's really my Anna."
His wife laughed joyfully in return, tears streaming down her face while she held him tightly, as though she was afraid to let him go.
Starbuck smiled as Dickins' family surrounded the long-parted lovers. Suddenly, he thought about Lu. He had no idea where she was or if she was okay. Fleetingly he wondered if someday their own family would surround them like this . . . he swallowed a sudden lump in his throat, drawing in a deep breath.
"Are you ready, Captain Starbuck?" President Gibson asked, handing him his tunic and flight jacket. "Or do you require medical treatment?"
He'd had his fill of Earth's medical treatment at Baikonur. "As Commander Dayton likes to say, Sir, 'let's get this show on the road.'"
xxxxx
"Okay, let me have it," said Dayton, looking directly at Coxcoxtli as he entered the Control Centre. Porter returned to his station.
"Since the Clavis is, essentially, a sort of computer, sir, we might try and get it to reset."
"Reset. You mean, basically, crash it?"
"Crudely put, sir, but yes." He led them to a systems monitor board. "Here is a schematic, sir, of all the systems the Clavis is currently drawing power from. Over forty percent of everything we have. Now, we ran a sim," he showed another screen, full of equations and squiggles, "and while we cannot disengage the Clavis from our power, maybe we can get it to."
"Like when my old computer used to louse up, you give it the 'ol three-fingered reset," said Baker.
Coxcoxtli looked at him and blinked. "Uh, well I . . . anyway, if we carry out a full ship-wide emergency powerdown—I mean everything at one go—the Clavis will suddenly find itself starved of any more power and shut down."
"That happened with my ex every time she lost an argument." Ryan grinned. "Sounds like sure grounds for divorce to me."
"How can you be sure it will shut down?" asked Dayton. "After all, it's sucked a lot of our power into it already."
"Well, we can't be a hundred percent sure, Commander, but we don't have many choices."
"And then?"
"Just before the power is down, we apply precisely timed circuit interrupters to the points where the Clavis has integrated itself into our power grid." He pointed to several flashing spots on the schematic of the Endeavour where the alien device's depredations were the greatest. "Once we break its power taps, we then begin to power back up and reroute the energy flow, restoring main power to the drive and other affected systems."
"Around these junctions?" asked Dayton, looking at the schematics.
"Yes, sir. It'll work, Commander."
"You hope," he half-smiled, glancing at Porter. Surprisingly, he had a headset on, and rather than bringing up his theory about the Clavis being a sentient being, he was instead staring intently at a monitor. Dayton looked back to the young man. "How long, Coxman?"
"We can be ready to cut in the circuit interrupters and do an emergency power down in under fifty centons, Commander."
"When deprived of power, the Clavis may elect to shut down to conserve energy," said Dorado. "Like a computer reset, yes. After all, it sat for centuries, inert, until we found it. When we power back up, the probabilities are that it will attempt to re-integrate itself into the ship's grid at the same points as before. How long it will take for the device to realize that it has been locked out, we don't know. But, we hope that that delay will give us a window of opportunity to lock it out permanently, Commander."
"What about gravity and life-support?"
"Ship's gravity has an independent emergency power cell back-up from the refit," said Apollo. "As does the life-support."
"And your back-up plan?" asked Dayton. "In case this doesn't work?"
"It's weak. As we draw closer to the sun," shrugged the engineer, "we can feed more power from the solar arrays into the auxiliary drive. It could boost our speed by a few percent."
"And if Porter is right and this thing really does have some kind of consciousness, and we make it mad?" asked Ryan, he edged closer to the distracted Porter.
"Then hopefully we can calm it down," sighed Dayton.
"I'd recommend whiskey," Ryan advised.
"For the Clavis?"
"No, for the crew."
"Make mine a double, Paddy. Okay, go for it, Coxman. Call me when you're ready."
"Sir."
"Dorado," said Dayton. The other looked at him. "Good work, Captain. Damned good idea."
"If only I'd thought of it yesterday, sir."
"Don't beat yourself up."
"Mark . . ."
It was the tone of voice more than anything that made a chill run down Dayton's spine as he turned to look at Porter. His friend's face was carefully controlled, masking his emotions. It didn't bode well. Jess? Lauren? "What now?"
"You'd better see this." Porter looked over to the colonel. "You too, Apollo."
Both men crossed to the station where Porter had been monitoring signals he'd picked up on Earth, most of them from the media. Porter's jaw was rigid as he adjusted the controls, getting ready to reply the data he had just viewed with sound.
It was surprisingly clear footage of the Wraith landing in front of what looked like the UN Building. The female reporter said something about Captain Starbuck addressing an emergency assembly of the UN Security Council upon the request of President Gibson. There were some "oohs" and "aahs" about the Espridian recon ship he was flying which seemed to lend credence to the fact that he was really from another star system, or so she intimated. Then the file sped ahead to Starbuck standing up in the cockpit wearing that classic smile as he looked around, a spotlight on him. He looked like a superstar and his image would undoubtedly be on every major newspaper, web page and magazine by the morning. Dayton couldn't help but chuckle when the reporter started using adjectives like "dashing" and "handsome" after that as she started to talk about him like the next messiah, giving their people hope and renewing their faith when Earth's future looked bleakest.
"That's our boy," he murmured softly, surmising that Iblis' claims about Starbuck's condition had been more lies. Evidently, they'd been worried for nothing. Then they panned in for a close up, and he frowned. Were those bruises?
"He's going to want a copy of this," Apollo said.
Then abruptly, Starbuck's body arched, his head jerked back, and he was flying backwards over the side of his bird towards the ground. People began to panic and scream in the background as the reporter started to lose it on the air, raving about a "hit". Then the signal died.
Dayton heard Apollo's exhalation of disbelief beside him. Those two had been friends since the Academy, had been through thick and thin . . . Dayton's chest hitched and his throat convulsed. His only word came out plaintively. "Jimmy . . ."
"That's all I can get on Starbuck, Mark," Porter replied, eyes still on his station. "I'm monitoring every frequency to find out more."
"Until we hear otherwise, he's not dead," Ryan stated, crossing his arms over his chest and coming to stand beside the commander. "He's not bloody dead.
"Star . . ." It was all Apollo could manage.
Dayton didn't dare look at the young warrior. Then it occurred to him: "What do you mean that's all you can get on Starbuck?"
"There's more," Porter replied as if he were announcing a funeral.
With the flick of a switch, another report came to life on the monitor. A building was consumed in flame, fire fighters attacking it. Dayton's chest grew unbearably tight as it was reported to be the home of LM Dayton, freelance journalist and Media Relations Advisor for WASA. So far, no bodies had been recovered and it was unknown if the controversial journalist was even in the country.
For a long moment, silence hung heavily in the Control Centre. Then Dayton groaned, catching himself on a console for support. He squeezed his eyes shut.
"Mark," Ryan began, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder and gripping it hard. "A lesser man might let this beat him down, but remember, right now it's just conjecture. We don't know what's really going on down there. It's all smoke and mirrors."
"Smoke and mirrors, huh?" Dayton said throatily, shrugging away from Ryan. "Are you drunk?"
"No, but not a bad idea . . ." Ryan said quietly, turning away.
"Keep monitoring, Jimmy," Dayton said, forcing calm over himself, the words coming out in a tortured whisper.
"I won't leave this station until I hear something, Mark. You have my word on it."
Dayton nodded.
"Paddy has a point. That looked like I was watching it in HDMI, it was so clear," Baker suddenly said, stroking his jaw thoughtfully. "What's with that?"
Porter shook his head in bemusement. "You're right, Bob. Everything else I've looked at up until now was as grainy as a prairie. It was like the signal was boosted somehow."
"What are you guys getting at?" Dayton asked, suddenly feeling old beyond his years.
"Two seemingly random signal accelerations aimed right at us . . . both of them pretty damn relevant," Porter replied. "I think it was a message."
Baker nodded his agreement.
"Who the hell . . .?" Then a cold fury began to simmer inside of the Endeavour commander as logic asserted itself. "Iblis."
Dayton turned away, bowing his head, shaking it, raking his fingers through his hair. Now it was getting personal. "You know," he said in a low, dangerous voice, "generally it's not a good idea to mess with the family and friends of the guy who has the biggest, baddest ship in the neighbourhood of the planet." He turned around, meeting the eyes of each and every crewmember present. "What are we waiting for, people? Everybody, posts!"
xxxxx
"Hi Sis."
Jess felt two tons of weight fall off her shoulders at her sister's casual greeting over her sat-phone. She walked away to a corner of the Control Room for some privacy. "I heard . . ."
"I figured," Lauren replied. "But I wasn't anywhere near my apartment when they blew it to Queens."
"Are you okay? I was so damned worried, I . . ."
"Sure. Just tired. Getting tired of running, you know?"
She sounded tired.
"Laur . . ."
"People are dying, Jess. Because they know me . . . tried to help . . . they got Carl, Rex, they even tried to grab Mom, for Christ's sake . . ." Her words trailed off.
The despair was plain. "Lauren . . ."
"I have a friend in the U. N." The journalist abruptly changed the subject. "Seems your Starbuck is alive. So that's good news."
"You, uh . . . don't sound too optimistic about that."
"Well, someone came within a hair's breadth of waxing him right in front of the U. N. building. I'm sure you saw the media coverage. They had someone waiting when he landed in that snazzy ship of his. Besides that, the Security Council needs nine votes to pass a resolution, providing no country exercises its veto."
"You think someone will?"
"The United Kingdom or France would be my guess. After all, they were poised to attack French Guiana." She snorted. "Hey, between us, we've pissed off over half the world, Jess. Why wouldn't they be choked?"
"But surely when they hear what Starbuck has to say . . .!" Jess protested.
"Maybe." It was said in that tone that parents use when they are merely trying to get their kids to shut up. "Look, I wanted to check in, but I have to go. I'm meeting someone."
"Who?"
"My Pulitzer."
"Your what?"
"I have a lead I need to check out. Love ya, sis."
Click.
For some reason, her sister saying those words scared the living hell out of Jess Dayton more than the Cylons.
xxxxx
An ethereal reality, apart from her own. Utterly apart. Ama could understand why Starbuck—a man of dubious faith—had once been awed, frightened and simultaneously sceptical in this existence when the Great Powers had brought him and Sheba here to restore Apollo's lifeless body. She could feel the vital energy all around her, but she refused to be a part of it. It was as if she could now wall herself off from the limitlessness that had once flowed through her as naturally as her Empyrean blood.
She resists.
As did her father.
We all knew this could happen.
She smiled mirthlessly, feeling a bitter joy that she was defying them, those whose great and powerful presence she could sense. They had hoped she would embrace the light as she once had. But now within her was an eternal pit of darkness, steeped in acrid disappointment and betrayal.
"Whose betrayal, Ama?" John asked, suddenly beside her. His voice was calm and compassionate.
Ama sniffed in self-derision. "Perhaps betrayal is too strong a word, John. It's my own foolishness that I cannot tolerate. Why did you not tell me the truth? Why did you let Iblis reveal it to me?"
"Tell me this truth of which you speak," John coaxed her.
"That the oldest and greatest power of all may be omnipotent and omnipresent, but He is also indifferent to our misery and suffering, as He is to our joy."
"Has Iblis really convinced you of that, sister?" he asked sadly. "Has he truly?"
"I felt it, John," Ama told him, lifting up the Oculus still within her possession.
"What did you feel?" John asked, looking mystified and a little awed. "Define it for me."
"Can anyone truly define such a thing?" Ama asked, turning the Oculus over in her hand, avoiding looking too deeply into its mysteries.
"Try."
"Very well," she conceded, feeling an affinity for this being that had been mentoring her. "I felt an eternity of existence with the Almighty—the source of everything—as a casual and impartial observer." She smiled bitterly. "Everything has a balance, John. Cause and effect, goodness and evil, light and darkness, beauty and ugliness, allegiance and betrayal, victory and defeat. They co-exist in a horrifying symbiotic relationship that will go on in perpetuity."
"I don't quite understand . . ."
"I thought Iblis was the epitome of evil. A vile and despicable creature that had to be destroyed. I believed that to be my destiny. But he is just as cherished in Creation as we are. He is crucial to the balance of the universe."
John watched her silently.
"Tell me, John. Is it the Almighty's will that I join my father?"
"You're the only one who can answer that, Ama," he said quietly.
"For you know not God's will any better than I do," she said matter-of-factly. "Nobody does." Carelessly, she tossed the Oculus into the air, catching it again.
John winced at her recklessness. "I know Iblis' will. And I believe you are under his spell."
"His spell?" she snarled. "I thought my father was evil, but he is merely fulfilling his place in the universe. Starbuck would call it 'doing his duty'!" she spat. "Isn't that a fine how-do-you-do?"
John waited.
"What am I? What am I really?" she asked, desperate to understand.
"A gift."
"A curse!" she replied, swallowing down a burning anger as those things that had been revealed to her by the Oculus replayed in her mind. "There is so much I never understood. So much I couldn't even contemplate!"
"Most beings in the universe cannot, Ama. Do not feel as if you are alone in this. They define the Almighty as they feel comfortable perceiving Him. Words . . . concepts that they can grasp. And they are content."
"I am not!"
"I can see that," he replied. "But you alone are a child of two realms, Ama, thus allowing you to walk between dimensions, now that your spiritual energy has at last blossomed. You defy the rules as most creatures define them."
"As did my father."
"Yes."
"And the Oculus—this link with the source of all power—it is merely a looking glass to the Truth. It doesn't give me any more power or ability than I already had, it merely lifts the self-imposed limitations of my mortal knowledge."
He looked surprised by that. Worried. He looked upward, seeking council . . . or possibly reassurance. For if it was true, then the Oculus did not augment Iblis' powers at all. Those powers were his to wield as he saw fit . . . once he realized that his only limitations were the ones he had unwittingly imposed upon himself.
"Ah, even the Great Powers are limited by their preconceptions." She smiled, sensing only bemusement and disbelief in the spiritual energy flowing around her. "Maybe I'm not as dim as I thought. You've been guarding the Oculus for an eternity, haven't you, John? At least since you ascended, at any rate, if that was indeed necessary with your kind. And that whole time it wasn't what you believed it was. Perhaps the Almighty has a sense of humour, after all." It pleased her more than it should have that he was now flailing in unknown territory, as she had been.
He shook his head. "It simply cannot be."
"Do you feel betrayed, John? Just a little bit?" she asked, her tone almost taunting as she turned, waving a hand to include those present. "We're all just pawns."
"No, Ama . . . we're warriors. For goodness. For light. For truth."
"And from the beginning of time, warriors have fought the good fight, most of them never really understanding the complexities that took them to the battlefield." She let out a deep breath. "Dying for the illusion of glory."
"And do you really think that all of this really matters to Starbuck? Or Luana? Or any of those that you protect so fiercely?" John asked her. "Stop dwelling on the celestial complexities and focus on the simple facts. If Earth is destroyed, it will mean certain extinction for an entire race of sentient beings."
"Just like the Espridians," she murmured, seeing him look up sharply. "But while their physical entities ceased to exist, their spirits did not. They are among us here."
"As are the spirits of all living beings whose organic form has withered and decayed. The mind dies not, for it is kindled with the Flame Imperishable."
"Then what does it really matter, John? Life, as we define it, is eternal. Death is only an illusion. A horizon, if you like."
"Go ask one of your fold, Ama," John counselled her. "For if you've already forgotten the answer, you need to revisit your own mortality through them."
xxxxx
The whole body of the royal and sacerdotal art had been hidden carefully over the centuries in the High Degrees, passed on from Adept to Adept. It often had been said that it was impossible to solve many of the enigmas contained in their historical teachings, traced back to the Ancient Ones. Much had been forgotten, lost, or possibly even misconstrued. No one really knew for certain. And now the Light Bearer, the Son of the Morning, The Illumined One himself, had arrived from the Heavens, favouring them with his august and ineffable presence, and reinforcing that they must indeed move forward toward the Light—that which is truth. Since God was obviously with them, who could then be against them?
"Are you ready, Lucifer?"
"By your command."