If he was being honest with himself, he'd rather face an entire Base Ship of Cylon Raiders screaming down in endless pinwheel attacks, than stand before an international Earth assembly as the representative of the Twelve Colonies of Man, his speech pivotal in deciding whether these bureauticians would let history repeat itself half a galaxy away. Starbuck's mouth was drier than a Borellian sandstorm, as he was escorted to the centre table in the Security Council Chamber, people rising to stand in some kind of presumed deference while he entered the room upon President Gibson's grandiose introduction. He'd been running through what he was going to say off and on since they'd sprung it on him at Area 51, but suddenly his mind was terrifyingly blank. Starbuck—a man who generally loved to be the centre of attention—had been suddenly struck with stage fright.
He sucked in a deep breath, grimacing at the resulting discomfort in his chest. Something in there was either broken or doing one Hades of an impression of the same. He pulled at his collar as he took his place, choosing to stand as he looked out over the sea of judgment. The room was full of people, and every one of them was currently sizing him up. Lords, what was he even doing here? Why had he agreed to this insanity? He belonged in a cockpit, not in a bureaucratic arena. His heart pounded in his ears and a wave of dread rolled over him. There was always the fleeting hope that another sniper was close by. Of course, the odds weren't great, considering . . .
"The key to public speaking is knowing more about your subject than your audience, Starbuck," Baltar suddenly said from beside him. "This is our history, drilled into you from the time you were old enough to sit still and listen. You can do this."
Not a single witty retort came to mind. That said it all. With considerable effort, he swallowed the large lump threatening to cut off his airway. Maybe if he was Apollo . . . or even Boomer. Maybe if he hadn't been shot in the last ten centons. Maybe if he hadn't skipped out of Sitting Still and Listening 101. . .
"Starbuck, I will start you off. Just repeat my words," Baltar coaxed him. "Nobody will know."
Starbuck sucked in another deep breath, considering that. A strange calmness began to sweep over him, despite a mongload of misgivings. The most despised traitor in Colonial history would be giving a speech to try and convince these Earth bureauticians to recognize a fictitious allegiant treaty with the Cylons for what it truly was. Verbatim, Starbuck would repeat it. He could just imagine Commander Adama's face, if he ever heard about this one . . . Taking a deep breath, and doing his best to trust implicitly that the newly evolved Ship of Lights being could somehow salvage this situation, he waited for Baltar to begin.
"Ladies and gentlemen, Leaders of Earth . . ." Baltar said quietly in his ear.
"Ladies and gentlemen, Leaders of Earth," Starbuck merely nodded at them, well aware that he lacked the diplomacy and social graces of a bureautician. President Gibson nodded his encouragement. At least that was one vote he could count on. Baltar continued on, Starbuck following: "*More than a thousand of your years ago, our war with the Cylons began abruptly—without warning, without even a formal declaration that war was to be." Behind and above him on the massive holo-screen that had lowered into position blocking out a mural, images of both Cylons and their fighters sprang to life, recovered from recent Earth data and others dating back more than a centi-yahren. Muted comments could be heard across the huge room, stuffed to capacity with observers. He ignored them, focussing on the people that he needed to make an impression on. Like the very attractive brunette two people down on his right.
"Like pirates, showing no threats and cowering beneath false colours, the Cylons opened fire on our merchant ships without even an invocation to heave to, or a cautionary blast from a laser cannon. They came to destroy, and they destroyed our ships by the thousands. A fleet of their warships headed for our Twelve Worlds —each ship armed with mega-pulsars that could destroy entire cities—much like the one now nearing Earth." Here, an image of the imposing Endeavour came up on the display, retrieved from WASA's telemetry at Mars. The same class Base Ship, these people didn't need to know it wasn't the Ravager. A few gasped in surprise at her firepower. "Arrogant beings that they were, the Cylons did not anticipate that we would be ready for them. We were ready for them and for the next thousand years we continued in battle readiness."
"*But a thousand years is a long time, even when the duration of some years is compressed by the time twisting of space travel. We forgot the extent of Cylon treachery. Instead, we became slaves to our own myths. We figured we could not be subjugated, we were a resourceful people who loved freedom, we welcomed adventure." He could see several of those present nodding in agreement, identifying with Baltar's words as they listened to the translation through their earphones. "When the Cylons offered peace just as abruptly as they had initiated hostilities, we had forgotten that they were not to be trusted. We embarked on a peace mission with hope, with the expectation that ten centuries of unceasing warfare would finally be ended. Peaceably we had explored myriad diverse worlds of the universe, peaceably we had established the system of twelve worlds that became our main colonies, peaceably we would live again." He sighed, getting an out of place mental image of Commander Adama sitting in his quarters, dictating for his personal journal. "Joy grew in our hearts. Those of us whose lives had been totally committed to the war should have known better, should have perceived that the joy in our hearts had a strategic significance. The more we moved away from the facts that formed the structure of our design, the more we became like the bureauticians who governed us, men and women who had so misunderstood the words of the powerful when they smilingly offered peace."
Then Baltar's commentary stopped. Starbuck hesitated, waiting, trying to get over the mental image of "smiling" Cylons. Malus came to mind, weirdly enough.
"You're the only one who noticed," Baltar said wryly, leaning closer. "You have the floor now, Starbuck. Tell them what the Cylons will do to them. Make them believe it."
The dramatic pause seemed effective as those present leaned forward in anticipation, their eyes locked on him. The bureaucratic arena was a lot like a card game. Strategy, self-control, reading your opponents. He could do this.
"The Cylons have an Edict of Extermination," Starbuck told them. "It's a commitment to eradicate all humanoids. That edict is one thousand years old." He hesitated. "Yes, that's a long time. And people change. But Cylons don't."
"About two years ago, the Cylon Imperious Leader managed to convince our Quorum of the Twelve that they were tired of war. That they truly wanted peace, were prepared to sue for it, in fact. After a millennium of war, our leaders, worn down by endless conflict, decided to listen. Ultimately, we were betrayed by one of our own, but the complacency of our Council, our bureaucracy, sealed our fate. On the day the Armistice was to be signed, in an ambush the Cylons destroyed our military fleet, and then annihilated our undefended worlds, taking no prisoners. A single battlestar, the Galactica, was all that survived, leading our refugees, packed into some two hundred and twenty-odd civilian ships, from our battle-ravaged worlds. That's less than one thousandth of a percent of our population that survived. Just a fraction of those currently thriving in this city."
He looked around, watching their reactions, letting his words sink in. "Now the Cylons are here in your star system. I was told that some of you entertain the idea that they want peace, even after seeing the aftermath of the unprovoked attack on a defenceless civilian airliner. It was a brutal snuffing out of hundreds of innocent lives, simply because they were human. Take it from a guy who knows, Cylons aren't interested in peace. They only want the complete annihilation of the human race, and they won't stop until they achieve it." Naked fear stared back at him from one or two of them. He needed to change that, to shift their way of thinking . . .
"Here on Earth is the last branch of humanity, a beacon of hope shining across the galaxy for my people. If we stand together, we can beat them, that I promise you. We proved that over Kazakhstan just hours ago, wiping out almost an entire squadron of their fighters when their advance force struck us." Several of them nodded, reassured that they indeed had a chance.
"Now I realize I've probably raised far more questions than I've answered, and I swear on my honour as a Colonial Warrior that we'll provide those explanations in due time, given the chance. But for now, there's a Cylon Base Ship heading this way, its sole intent to exterminate every living thing on this planet. We have to act now to coordinate our defences, to prepare our forces, to brief each and every pilot that will be going into combat. I guess about all I can add at this point is . . . don't let the senseless tragedy of the Colonial holocaust be repeated here on Earth. Ladies and gentlemen of the United Nations Security Council, the fate of humanity is in your hands, and . . ."
An obvious sceptic looked back at him with a purposeful disdain, as Starbuck's words of conclusion trailed off into contemplation. Until this point, the young strike captain had felt fairly confident about both his speech, and his ability to sway consensus to his side. He could only hope that this man didn't hold what Gibson had called "veto power", when the time came to vote. Starbuck leaned on the table heavily for a moment, exhaustion, discomfort and desperation wearing on him. How could he get through to a guy whose head was as thick and ungiving as condensed tylinium? Someone whose mind was made up before Starbuck had even started speaking. If classic diplomacy didn't work, what then?
"Lords' sake, honoured members . . ." he began a final appeal to them, straightening up and raking a hand through his hair. As if on cue, the holo-screen behind them showed the lone Cylon Raider beginning its attack on the Earth Supersonic jet. A nail-biting moment later, the disaster was complete as the jet exploded in a fiery ball, taking its three hundred passengers with it. Once again, he waited as Security Council Member Lunkhead sat in silence, ruminating dispassionately. It made him wish he could get the guy up there, closer to the action. Strap him onto the nose of a fighter, next to Lucifer! It wasn't the first time he'd thought that about a bureautician. It likely wouldn't be the last.
Again his gaze moved around those gathered, willing them to listen, to understand, while they waited for his closing statement. Whatever he said next would decide how they played their hands. He noticed Baltar sitting at the opposite end of the table, nodding his approval. "You alone hold the power that will decide whether we lead Earth's forces to victory over the Cylons . . . or frack this up completely."
There was a long silence, and then President Gibson stood. "Captain Starbuck. I'd like to thank you for your candidness on behalf of the United Nations Security Council. If anybody here was unsure of who the Cylons are, or what they represent to the people of Earth, it's more than clear to them now."
"Yes, thank you, Captain," the dark beauty rose to her feet, inclining her head towards him. As tall as himself, she had black, almond-shaped eyes in a face of classic proportions, lustrous black hair that cascaded in waves down her shoulders, and a set of curves that even God would have trouble improving on. He didn't know what country she was from, unable to read what the letters GREECE on the nameplate meant, but he was sure he'd like it there.
"Anything I can do to be of service," he hastily replied to her with a smile, as most of the others followed suit. Lunkhead didn't, he noticed.
An aide came towards Starbuck, an arm outreached, motioning for him to follow. The man looked like a pit-taurus in a simian suit, his neck thick and his muscles bulging through his dark suit of clothes. He smiled innocuously. "This way, Captain, if you'd follow me, sir."
"Sure," Starbuck said, letting out a breath, more than a little relieved it was over. He crossed through the chamber, not really listening to the murmuring around him as people discussed his speech.
His speech.
Lords sake, what was the universe coming to?
Following the aide, he rounded the corner, heading down the corridor to where he would wait with the others until he heard the results of the council's deliberations. In short order, they should be heading to an airbase, coordinating their defences and starting the pilots' briefings. He slowed his pace, getting a niggling idea that something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
"This way, Captain," the aide said, waving a hand down the hall, a faint note of urgency in his tone.
"Easy, pal, keep your shor. . ." Inexplicably drawn, Starbuck turned around, just in time to see an IL-class Cylon dressed in a shiny golden robe enter the Security Council chambers. "Holy frack!"he swore aloud, instinctively reaching for his weapon, his hand grasping air instead of reassuring metal.
Then the aide body checked him through an open door.
*Adapted from Battlestar Galactica—by Glen A Larson and Robert Thurston
xxxxx
It was enough to drive a guy to drink, Paddy told himself, taking another swig from his bottle, and then chuckling as he realized he couldn't remember what "it" was. After all, there was so much to choose from, and in typical Ryan fashion he'd rather not dwell on any of it. Heck, if he spent too much time dwelling on negative stuff, he might just end up drinking too much!
He put his feet up on Starbuck's desk, tipping himself comfortably back in the chair, reasonably sure that nobody would bother him in here. After all, who wanted to go into an MIA senior officer's office anyway? One leg fell heavily to the floor, knocking over a pile of crap alongside it that had been precariously piled on the desk. Not too surprisingly, his other leg followed the first.
"Dagnammit!" he mumbled, staring resentfully at the fallen items, attached to him or otherwise. Gravity was a force of nature that was mightier than he could ever be . . . thus decided, he drained the rest of the asteroid whiskey from the bottle and left it to the cosmos to decide whether or not to set Starbuck's office straight.
He let out a loud belch, leaning forward and using his momentum to help himself out of the chair. Somewhere around here would be Starbuck's bottle of ambrosa. He knew the strike captain had one because the kid had seen season one of Baa Baa Blacksheep, and had picked up on some of the more important aspects of command from Major "Pappy" Boyington himself. Ryan began searching through drawers and cabinets, intent on finding it.
"Why?"
"Why?" Ryan echoed. It was only the alcoholic haze that had prevented him from jumping out of his skin.
"Why are you drinking, Paddy-Ryan?" she asked again.
"As the saying goes, it's either a bottle in front of me or a frontal lobotomy, at this point, Ama," he replied. "What are you doing here, anyway? Aren't you supposed to be Iblis' hostage? Not here watching me get drunk," he added, getting down on his knees and rifling through a drawer without even looking at her. "Go away."
"I cannot."
"Try wiggling your nose. It always worked on Bewitched." He tossed a few items over his shoulders, listening to them crash on the deck as he continued to search.
Ama crossed her arms over her chest, sighing in resignation. "It's on the shelf. Inside the Regulation Manual."
"Inside? Ah!" Paddy grinned, climbing to his feet and running a finger over a line of books on the indicated shelf. He blinked, trying to focus on print that suddenly looked as though it was in a different language. Oh, that's right . . . He jerkily pulled out the Manual, chuckling when he opened it to find it had been hollowed out, a bottle of questionable vintage ambrosa inserted inside. "Good to know he finally found a use for it."
"It was a gift from Boomer when Starbuck was promoted."
"Always liked good ole Boomer," Paddy replied, fingering the bottle and putting the manual aside. He pulled out the cork, taking a long, blissful sniff, followed by one very satisfying swig.
"How does it taste?"
"Didn't really notice," he admitted, finally looking at her. She was carrying the Oculus.
"Isn't that a bad sign?" she asked. "When you don't taste it?"
"The bad signs usually have sinister music accompanying them. You know, spooky organ music. Evil laughter in the background." He cocked his head to the side, listening. "Nope. Must be okay."
"Maybe I should join you?" she nodded at the bottle. "I've been known to enjoy a wee dram."
He frowned, quirking an eyebrow at her. He held out the bottle. "I should have offered. Sorry, darlin'."
"Quite alright," Ama replied, taking the proffered bottle and taking a seat in the chair. "Do you really always drink this much, Paddy-Ryan?"
"Not usually. It interferes with my suffering."
She took a swig, looking at him with a twinkle in her eye, drinking from the bottle like he had done. Somehow it didn't seem the least bit inappropriate with the old broad. Then she handed it back to him.
"I know you like a drink, dear heart, but usually you wait until the crisis is over." She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing as she studied him. "What's going through that thick skull of yours, Paddy-Ryan?"
Ryan tapped his temple. "As little as possible. I have it pleasantly numbed, Ama. I'm as good as gold."
"You're not going to be much use to Mark-Dayton that way."
"Mark's a big boy, and doesn't need me. He'll be alright."
"I would ask if you've lost your faith . . . but I know you're not that way inclined."
Ryan let out another belch. "Life has no meaning other than what one makes of it, Ama." He smiled. "It's . . . freeing once you realize it."
"Then why are you hiding in a bottle of ambrosa?"
Paddy smiled, holding up the bottle. "This is freeing, too."
"There appears to be scant room in that bottle for freedom."
He tapped his temple again. "This is where freedom lives. Freedom or imprisonment."
"'Life has no meaning other than what one makes of it'," she repeated, seeming to consider his words for a long moment. She looked nonplussed by the idea. "You really believe that?"
"Yeah. Problem is . . . I've never been a great one for making something of my life." His words trailed off as he turned away from a lifetime of bittersweet memories.
"Then why go on?"
That got his attention. "What?" he asked her incredulously.
"You heard me."
"Are you kidding me?"
"No."
"Shit, Ama, what did he do to you?" Ryan asked, crossing to where she sat. He kneeled down in front of her, putting the bottle on the desk and taking her hands, prying them off the Oculus. They were cold. Deathly cold. "Those are about the last words I ever expected to come out of your mouth."
She glanced at the bottle.
"Do you know how many people are counting on you, Ama?" Ryan asked her, innately rubbing the warmth back into her hands. The Oculus fell off her lap, hitting the deck with a loud crash. He ignored it, but she stared at it long and hard. "How many people believe in you?"
She smiled, looking back at him. "Do you believe in me, Paddy-Ryan?"
"Yes," he nodded, not hesitating.
"And what do you believe I am?" she asked, looking amused. "Honestly."
"Some freakish old woman with a lousy dental plan and a bad hairdresser who is part human and part . . . part something else."
"Something else?"
"Some kind of advanced being, I suppose. Maybe from another world, maybe from another dimension. Kinda like those Espridians that Malus was so bloody fond of. Maybe what people on my planet believe are angels. Just what does your kind call themselves, Ama?"
"The foolhardy."
"No." Ryan shook his head. "Not you. I've never met a kinder, wiser, more selfless woman than you."
"Shall we discuss your track record with women until you met our dear Dietra?" she asked wryly, a hint of a smile creeping up one corner of her mouth.
"I'd rather not." He stood up, pulling her with him. "Life is what you make of it, Ama. Don't you dare give up. Whatever happened with Iblis, whatever he told you . . ."
"Showed me." She shivered. "Do you want to know?"
"I already know. Life is for living. Beyond that . . . " he shrugged. "We fight with everything we have to keep on living for a reason, Ama."
She nodded towards the bottle. "And what part of the fight is that?"
"It's just a coping mechanism. I'm not saying it's a good one, and it plays shit with the liver, but it is a coping mechanism. My name is Paddy Ryan, and I'm an alcoholic. I haven't abused in almost one full minute, and I'm so proud. See you at the bar after the meeting."
"Your friends need you, Paddy-Ryan."
"And yours need you too, Ama."
"Then where do we go from here?"
"Back into the fray?"
"I suppose we do."
He paused, considering her. "Why me, Ama? Why did you come to me? Of all people."
"There is so much we can all learn from those who do not share our core beliefs. Yet tragically by nature, we shy away from those affiliations and conversations, unless it is in the nature of argument. Rarely do we want to listen to opposing viewpoints to learn, instead we intend to debate. To learn is to grow, Paddy-Ryan. Stagnation is our enemy. I needed to know where you draw your strength from . . . as I might find some there myself."
He glanced at the ambrosa bottle.
"No, dear heart." She shook her head, tapping him on the chest. "This is where your strength is. It's all heart. It's your faith in humanity, in your fellow man, in your friends, that both inspires and humbles me."
He felt tears pricking his eyes at the generosity of her statement. "Let's murderize them, Ama. Let's give them hell."
She smiled at him; it was truly inspiring. "Yes, let's."
xxxxx
It wasn't often that Cassiopeia visited the Control Centre. Unless there was a crisis unfolding, she rarely had reason to. So, Dayton realized, this had to be important. He crossed the room where preparations were still being made to free them from the energy-draining Clavis.
"Sorry to disturb you, Commander," she offered, "but I've discovered something you probably should know about. Can we speak in your office?"
"Of course." He nodded, turning around. "Colonel Apollo, I'll be back in a jiffy."
"In a . . . yes, sir."
With a wry smile, Dayton took Cassie's arm, leading her through the hatch and along the corridor until they reached the meagre room he had claimed as his office. "How are the Barstow crew doing?"
"All those suffering from Radion Poisoning are responding well, Mark," she replied, stepping inside and waiting as he closed the hatch. "Certainly better than I expected, given how long they went without treatment. But I really wanted to discuss Bruce Johnson with you."
"Brucey," Dayton murmured, his memories jogged of a summer day about a year before that ill-fated launch of the Endeavour Space Shuttle. "You know, Cassiopeia, the last time I saw that kid I was giving him airplane rides in my backyard . . ." He saw her quizzical look. "You take the kids by the hands and swing them around in a circle until they're airborne."
Cassie smiled. "Orbitals."
Dayton sniffed in amusement. They weren't so different half a galaxy away.
"Mark, I asked for Johnson's permission to disclose this to you. I had to from a confidentiality perspective, since he's my patient. You understand."
"Of course. Go on."
"He says that it was Commander Chung that sabotaged Barstow Base. Johnson also said he saw the commander commit suicide after he realized he'd been discovered."
Dayton frowned sceptically. "That's quite the allegation."
"I know what you're thinking, Mark. The man attacked you, not only physically, but also verbally. But just imagine his mental state at the time. Not only did he think he was going to die in some crumbling cave on Mars, but he had just experienced the disaster at the base, as well as the betrayal of his superior officer, add to that that he'd seen a man commit suicide, and suddenly his deceased mother's long-dead friend from over forty of his yahrens ago shows up . . ."
"I get your drift. Not a good day," Dayton conceded.
"Thank you for that, Commander Understatement."
Dayton chuckled, reaching out for Cassie and pulling her against him tightly. He sighed, breathing in the enchanting fragrance in her hair as her hands slipped casually around his waist. It was rejuvenating; he hadn't realized how much he needed it. Finally, he stood back to look into those stunning blue eyes. "Recommendations, Med Tech Cassiopeia?"
"I'm treating him for Combat Stress Reaction, Mark. It's a classic case, I'm afraid. Almost right out of a module." She combed her fingers through the back of his grey hair, playing with it. "You know, a kind word or two from you wouldn't hurt. After talking to Bruce, I had the feeling that he reacted so strongly towards you because he felt so betrayed as a child. It might help him to understand how the Endeavour disappeared, and that you had no control over what happened."
"If you think it will help. His mother was a good friend, after all. I'll talk to Curtis, as well. He should know." He brushed a stray lock of her hair back from her cheek, lightly stroking her cheek. "Is that your only recommendation, Cassiopeia?" he asked.
"Well," she replied, "I thought you might want to talk about your daughter, Lauren, and Starbuck."
He raised his eyebrows, feeling blindsided as fear and uncertainty over his daughter and the young man who was like a son to him hit him anew. "News travels fast."
"Paddy told me."
"I see." Should he have told her about Starbuck? Confided in her about Lauren? Suddenly, he was unsure. "I . . ."
"It must be very . . ."
Beep!
Cassie frowned, unfolding her arms slowly from around his neck. "Or it could wait."
"Sorry, sweetheart. Duty calls," he told her, reaching for the telecom, barely noticing the strange look that passed over her features. "Dayton."
"Commander, Ensign Luana is cleared to land in Alpha Bay," Dorado reported over the small screen. "We've delayed shutdown until she sets down."
"Did she locate the Ravager?"
"She sure did . . . " He looked away, cocking his head as if listening to a report, but Dayton couldn't catch it. " About that, Commander . . ." Dorado started.
"Captain?"
"Commander, Apollo here," the colonel interjected. "We just picked up the Ravager on the very edge of scanner range. She's heading towards Earth at sublight-speed. If she sees us, sir, in this shape . . ." The Clavis had compromised every vital system necessary for combat, including weaponry, propulsion, life support . . .
"We're toast," Dayton replied, with a glance at his lady.
"If we don't do something soon, sir, we'll be burnt toast," Apollo added. There had once been a discussion of "toast" and all its implications on Planet 'P'.
"Her precise speed, Colonel?"
"Ah . . . zero point five one c, sir."
"Understood. Apollo, tell the landing bay to skip all touchdown procedures, and Lu to haul ass and to report to the Bridge when she lands. Prepare to shutdown and reboot this baby. All crew better be in grav boots as a precaution, and everything else battened down. I want all systems go before that ugly bucket of bolts gets within weapons range."
"Sir, Lu isn't on final approach."
Dayton paused, having not considered that. If they had to wait for the ensign to board, the Cylons might just notice them moseying their way across the solar system at slightly-faster-than-crippled-tortoise-in-a-wheelchair speed. "How long?"
"Five centons."
"How's her fuel?"
"Good enough," confirmed Apollo. "Order the Wraith to full ECM?"
"Affirmative. Then power down ASAP, Colonel."
"It's gonna be close, Commander. "
"I like it close, Colonel. Dayton out."
xxxxx
"Director, it's Hayashi," Miirski reported from her station at Baikonur Space Centre. "On Channel Four."
It took Jess a few seconds to focus, her mind still on her sister. She had confided in Surkov, and Alexei had promised to speak to General Roach. They needed to pull Lauren out of the field, to bring her home safely. Suddenly, being on the opposite side of the globe was too damned far away. "Put him on!"
"Jess, we have telemetry in from our Sentinel Six probe showing what we think is a Cylon Base Ship," the Flight Director from Guiana Space Centre reported.
"You think. How can you not be certain?"
"It's moving so goddamned fast, Jess, it's hard to say. Sending telemetry via satellite."
"How fast?" asked Jess.
"Best estimate . . . about half the speed of light. Maybe a little more. Hard to be precise, our stuff wasn't designed to track things at these velocities."
"Any visuals?"
"Sending them now, Jess."
"Put it up," Orlov ordered a technician as the data came in. "Main screen."
In real time, the image appeared and disappeared in the blink of an eye. When frozen and digitally enhanced, the imposing killer was captured on screen for a positive identification.
"Heading this way, Atsuo?" Jess asked.
"Yes."
"Which one is it?" she asked the others, fearing the worst. "Ours or theirs?"
"Seeker Five picked up some activity near Phobos, and we saw the Endeavour Base Ship leave Mars' orbit. She wasn't moving anywhere near as fast as this ship," Orlov reminded her.
"I was afraid you were going to say that." She took a deep breath. "Best ETA?"
"It's a guess, considering either ship could alter speeds, but at this point we'd estimate that the Cylons will reach Earth eight hours and thirty-three minutes before the Endeavour,"reported Miirski.
"Get Surkov down here. Now."
xxxxx
Starbuck hit the floor hard, innately reverting to his training and rolling on impact, then jumped to his feet again. He pivoted, turning back to face the "aide" that had just hit him like a landram, forcing him into this room when he'd moved to intercept Lucifer.
They weren't alone.
Three other men wearing identical dark clothing flanked their cohort, facing Starbuck like a wall of aggression in the small room outfitted meagrely with a table and several chairs. Several large windows were overlooking the darkened river outside. The warrior rocked on the balls of his feet, stopping his forward momentum, realizing that his first instinct to grab the "aide" and shove his fist down his throat had suddenly become a bad plan.
"You have the wrong guy," he told them, taking a step back and raising his hands conciliatorily before him, hoping this was a misunderstanding. "I'm the one here to help save the planet. You're looking for the Cylon . . . about two and a half metrons tall, wearing a shiny gold robe, head flashing like a firefly, wants to exterminate mankind. You can't miss him." He nodded at the now closed door, praying that a sudden look of dawning realization would come over each ugly face in front of him. It didn't. "In fact, I'm sure I just saw him about to enter the Security Council chamber."
"President Gibson made a miscalculation bringing you here, Captain," one man sneered. "This is international territory, and since 2050, the United Nations Headquarters has operated solely under Universal Law."
"Sorry, but I'm from out of town so I'm a little . . . uh, unsure of how things work around here. Who's calling the shots, exactly?" he asked, his eyes darting around the room, taking in the details he hadn't noticed until now.
"The Honourable Samael Asar, Secretary-General of the UN."
"Honourable, huh? I'm getting the idea that word translates a little differently here on Earth."
His internal klaxon was screaming at him to get out. Starbuck knew he was on the second or third floor, but by the looks of the windows, he'd never be able to break through them without a pulse rifle. He looked around again, noticing a wetbar in the corner. What the . . . He took a couple steps, clearing the end of the table to get a better look. A figure lay there. Long blonde hair wrapped around her neck, tongue sticking out between her lips, her blouse ripped, the swells of her abused breasts spilling out, a short skirt riding up her slender hips leaving her exposed . . . her skin deathly pale. He suddenly felt sick. "You mong-raking Borays!"
"So they like it rough where you're from, huh?" the aide said, leering in the woman's direction. "The public isn't too understanding about brutal attacks and murder. The penalties can be quite. . ."
"Severe?" asked another thug, laughing softly.
"Yeah. Severe. That's the word. And after the media puts the proper spin on things, they'll understand why you were shot dead when we found you ravaging this poor young woman. From hero to monster. Oh, the gossip rags are gonna love this." He smiled despicably as he reached inside his jacket and sneered at Starbuck. "You sick bastard."