Chapter Fifteen
It was a set up.
Rage consumed Starbuck at the sick and twisted picture they were trying to paint of him as a murderer and defiler of young women. Obviously, they moved quickly, putting a secondary plan in place when their termination attempt on him had failed. Their efficiency scared him more than he'd like to admit. Catching them by surprise, he swung around as he reached for a chair. He picked it up with a roar, swinging it laterally and downward into the nearest goon. With a grunt of pain, the man smashed into two of his cohorts, the three of them crashing to the floor, while the fourth danced out of the way. There was a rewarding streak of blood on one man's face. He didn't get up.
"Kill him!" someone yelled.
Under the circumstances, to Starbuck it seemed like a damned good idea.
Starbuck threw himself on the fourth man, tackling him to the ground. A weapon went skittering across the polished floor, out of reach. Starbuck pushed himself up for leverage, pulling the man up by the collar and bouncing his head off the glossy floor a couple of times. He noted with an almost professional detachment that the goon's eyes were rolling back into his skull. He dropped him, gasping as he spied a weapon pointing his way. He dived to the right, just as the muzzle flashed, the shot skimming his left arm.
Then the door burst open, crashing into the would-be hitman, hurling him forward. The timing couldn't have been better.
"Freeze!" General Roach barked as he swept the room with his weapon. "Anybody moves and I'll blow his goddamned head off!"
The man who'd been clobbered by the door, pivoted around, his weapon in his hands. At the same time, his cohort reached inside his jacket.
The general fired twice at each assassin in quick succession, double-tapping both. They went down with a thud. Then he stepped further inside the room, his eyes narrowed as he examined it carefully for surveillance measures.
"Holy frack," Starbuck breathed, feeling as though he was trapped in some kind of nightmare. The two men he had incapacitated were still out cold. The other two had to be dead. And the young woman . . . from the looks of her she'd been dead before he had started his speech to the Security Council. He shook his head in anger and horror, simultaneously grimacing at the aches and pains he was taking stock of.
Grae Ryan, Dickins and Hummer exploded into the room.
"Starbuck! Are you okay?" Dickins asked, leaning down to pick up a stray weapon as he made his way over to the Colonial Warrior. "Geez, kid, saving you is getting to be a full time job! This keeps up and I'll have to fill out a W-4."
"A what . . .? What the frack is going on, Dickins?" Starbuck returned sitting up, his hand pressed against his left arm where it stung like Hades. A warm trickle of blood told the woebegone tale of another near miss. "I thought . . ."
"Not here, Starbuck." The old astronaut reached down, pulling Starbuck to his feet. "We have to get back on American soil. Now."
"I thought we were on American soil," he said.
"So did I," replied the Earthman. "But no longer."
xxxxx
"Esteemed members, ladies and gentlemen of the Security Council, I appreciate this opportunity to set the record straight. In particular, I'd like to thank the Honourable Samael Asar, Secretary-General of your prestigious United Nations." Lucifer bowed politely before the human assembly, his once-ratty robes now replaced and utterly immaculate. "Not all of your kind have been so generous, you see. Some of you may not be aware that I have been trying to address you for two of your Earth months." A few heads rose sharply at that. While they had been looking at him curiously before, now he had their rapt attention, not just because of what he was, but because of what he was saying.
"I came to Earth as an advance envoy to form an alliance with your people and warn you of the inevitable arrival of Colonial Warriors from across the star system. They offer you peace, yet mean to rape your world of its resources and enslave your people, as they once did mine far beyond the heavens." Disbelief and shock rocked the room.
"For two months, I sought your audience, and for two months I was detained and partly dissected by the Worldwide Aeronautics and Space Agency at their Armstrong Lunar Base. I warned them that soon my mothership would rendezvous with me, and that their unfounded suspicions and my resulting reprehensible treatment would be viewed negatively. Finally, fearing reprisals, they decided to move me to Earth, to hide me as it were." He paused. "How do you hide a being that looks like myself? I spent an entire week in the lighting section at Macy's wearing a lampshade." A few smiled.
"Something else you may not know, honourable members, is that three Cylon Raiders, one of our smaller craft for operating inside a planetary atmosphere, were attacked trying to liberate my person." He'd deliberately chosen the word. "They were attacked by Captain Starbuck, one of the most notorious war criminals in the Colonial Nation, responsible for countless Cylon deaths. Two Cylon ships and six Cylon citizens burned up on entering Earth's atmosphere, having lost all control of their ships after being subjected to a Colonial weapon. The third . . . the third was the one that made what Captain Starbuck has called an unprovoked attack on a passenger liner. They were gunned down over the region of your world called Kazakhstan."
"I cannot begin to tell you how much I regret not being able to do something to prevent the tragedy. Alas, my own people were trying to rescue me, and they responded in kind to an act of aggression causing the deaths of their fellow crew members."
"When I did finally arrive on Earth, I was subjected to the treatment of Colonel General Surkov, Russian Air Force Commander-In-Chief. Tragically, he has chosen to align himself with Captain Starbuck. Shortly thereafter, I found myself strapped to the nose of Captain Starbuck's fighter and launched into combat. I will never forget his cruel laughter as he watched Russian soldiers carry out his orders. It was humiliating in the extreme. They used me as bait to lure more of my compatriots—still believing they were responding to a hostile situation—into a disastrous trap over Kazakhstan. Two-hundred and ten Cylons died." He paused, hanging his head dramatically for a moment. Whatever else, Lucifer had learned a lot from Baltar.
"That was an advance force sent to find me." Lucifer raised his head. "Our mothership will soon be here. My greatest fear is a full scale attack, during which your planet will be laid to waste, all because of . . . Captain Starbuck's lies."
"While tragic, the attack on your civilian airliner was not unprovoked. Do not allow the senseless loss of life to continue. Instead, arrest Captain Starbuck as the war criminal he is. He alone should pay for the lives of those poor innocents lost in the Kazakhstan sky. I recommend you designate Secretary-General Samael Asar as your liaison to the Cylon Alliance. I know I can work with this man—a man who managed to miraculously liberate me from the military so I could come here this day to speak with you, to tell you the unadulterated truth. I know that all of us, together, can find a peaceful solution. I beg of you, in the immortal words of your John Lennon, give peace a chance."
"Oh felgercarb," sighed Baltar, watching unseen from a vacant seat in the back row. "That was low, Lucifer. Even for you."
xxxxx
As planned, they had applied circuit interrupters at specific junctions in the Endeavour's power grid. Dayton stepped into the Control Centre just as Apollo gave the order to initiate the shipwide powerdown. It was an eerie feeling when all but the emergency lighting blinked out. It was made all the eerier knowing that the Cylon Base Ship, Ravager, could very well already have scanned them.
"How long?" Dayton asked as the subtle drone and vibration of the engines was suddenly gone. He had to grab onto something as the main inertial dampers shut down and the back-up kicked in, if a bit slowly. The ship felt lifeless, as though they were sitting there impotently in a ready-made tomb.
"That depends on the Clavis," Dorado replied, looking over at the station where the Clavis sat. He checked his instruments. Ship's systems were totally on back-up. "Engaging circuit interrupters . . .now!"
Zzzzz . . .zzttsingg . . . pop . . .
As usual, the small sphere, made from an indeterminable element that had been found only at the Espridian poles, was glowing. Since it had started consuming power from the Endeavour, hijacking her systems one by one, the intensity of that light had only increased.
"Well?" asked Apollo.
"When Mal first showed the Clavis to us, it wasn't glowing at all," Baker mentioned. The presumption was that if it shut itself down to conserve energy, they would notice a correlating effect on the sphere's surface.
"Yeah, it was a dull metal until Bob touched it that first time," Porter added, moving to stand beside it. He put a hand over it, not quite touching it. "Remember, Bob, Malus said it represented the continuous flow of energy in the physical plane of the reality of matter, as well as in the abstract reality of the mind."
"Which means what exactly?" Dorado asked as the orb continued to glow. He double-checked his readouts. All circuit-interrupters were in place . . .
And doing nothing.
"That we might be dealing with something more sentient than a time-space travelling machine," Porter replied, pulling back his hand, rubbing his thumb across his fingertips. "Malus also told us that the Clavis has its own power source, and that it creates an unlimited amount of power."
"It would have to, for it to do what it does," Dorado replied. "The energy to move anything through time and space would be unfathomable."
"Well, if it has its own unlimited supply of power, why is it tapping into ours?" Porter questioned.
Dayton stared long and hard at the sphere, willing the luminescent orb to fade to a dull, lifeless, innocuous grey. It didn't. Their plan wasn't working. He turned briefly when he heard a sound. It was Ryan joining them. "Go on, Jimmy."
"Symbiosis," Porter said.
"Come again?" Apollo said.
"The living together of unlike organisms," Porter replied. "Like bacteria inside termites that digest the wood fibres. Or the fish that keep a shark's teeth clean, but don't get eaten. Each needs the other to survive."
"Organisms are biological," Ryan said, moving to join him. He too placed a hand over the spheroid, not quite touching it, a quizzical look passing over his features.
"In our experience, organisms are biological," Porter replied. "It's really a kind of limited perspective when you think about it. Inside that casing . . . God knows what's really happening in there."
"You think this thing is alive?" Ryan asked, raising his eyebrows.
"In a manner of speaking, yes." Porter nodded. He looked at the instruments. Still zilchville.
"You would," Ryan sighed.
"Paddy," Dayton said.
Porter frowned, leaning towards Ryan, taking a loud sniff. "You smell like a bloody distillery."
Ryan looked at him darkly. "Are you accusing me of spilling good whiskey? Heavens to Murgatroyd! I'm mortified even!"
Dayton studied Ryan for a long moment. His friend was as close to the edge as he'd ever seen him, but seemed to be hanging in there, just like he always did. Coming home was tougher for Ryan than the others. While most of them had had personally fulfilling lives prior to 2010, over the years Paddy had seemed to compulsively dwell more on how he'd completely screwed his up, narrowly focussing on his career back then as his relationship with his wife and kids deteriorated. He'd figured himself doomed to have kids that hated him and an ex that permanently resented him. In perhaps some kind of need for atonement, he'd been obsessively and sacrificially loyal to his friends since then, seldom putting himself first. Mark took a moment to squeeze the man's shoulder, watching as Ryan's mask dropped for the fraction of a second it took for him to know it was the right thing to do. Their eyes met and Paddy nodded briefly. He'd be okay.
He'd better be.
Dayton returned his attention to the captain. "I hate to say it, Dorado, but this doesn't seem to be working. By now, the Ravager will either be even closer to Earth or on her way here. I for one would like to know which. Yesterday."
"Yes, sir. You're not alone in that," the captain replied. "Prepare to reinitialise systems!"
The crew jumped into action, following routine procedures. A centon later, nothing had happened. The screens remained dark, the lighting dim, and the ship almost lifeless.
"Well?" Dayton asked. In his mind's eye, he could almost feel the Ravager bearing down on them. Or maybe it was just time running out . . .
"Uh . . ." Dorado replied, "well . . . nothing's responding, Commander."
"You mean we powered down to try and disengage the Clavis from our systems, but instead we've totally lost any and all control of them?" Dayton demanded.
"It, uh . . .looks that way, Commander," Apollo cringed.
"Cox?" Dayton asked.
The young man looked bewildered. "It doesn't make any sense, Commander . . ."
"Maybe we ticked it off," Porter suggested.
Baker snorted. "Or maybe someone up there doesn't like us."
As if on cue, the lights died completely, the back-up system apparently failing.
"Remind me," Dayton muttered irritably to anyone brave enough to reply, "what was Plan 'B' again?"
xxxxx
Acastus looked at his scanner with a mixture of triumph and trepidation as he checked the warbook for verification of what he suspected. It was an Abaddon-class Cylon Base Ship.
Smack dead in front of them and closing.
"Well?" Cadet Xenia asked nervously from beside him. She looked out the viewport, seeing Lambda and Trevanian in formation in their Hybrids, knowing they were awaiting the same news.
"It's the Ravager, alright," Acastus replied, sending his encoded report to the Endeavour on a gamma frequency. "We've found her."
"Or maybe they've found us."
"Oh."
"Isn't she moving kind of fast?" Xenia asked.
"Uh . . ." He checked the scanner again. Sure enough, she was right. The Base Ship had been speeding towards Earth, but was apparently now slowing to pick up stray Raiders along the way, or so the sudden deceleration indicated as it neared the two Cylon fighters they'd been tailing. "Oh, frack."
"What do we do? It must have scanned us by now!" Xenia pointed out.
"Well, we have two options. We either try to outrun it or we board it."
"Board it? Are you insane?"
"Remember that briefing from Malus when we got back from Morlais?" he asked.
"Which one?" She paused as he looked at her expectantly. "Oh, that one! I think I went into sleep mode when he started discussing the finer points of interrogating signals and the frequencies used to discern them."
"Malus tweaked our Cylon identity codes so the Ravager will read us as belonging to her. We'll just be three more stray Raiders returning from Earth. They have no idea we're Colonial. Meanwhile, we activate our Colonial frequency if we go into combat so we can determine friend or foe. Remember, for security purposes, we switched to the old gamma freqs while hunting for her in this system. By the time the Cylons figure it out, if they even detect it, it'll be too late. The day will be ours."
"Aside from the fact that they outnumber us," she mentioned, seriously considering what he'd said as she looked at the scanner again. "We'd never outrun a Base Ship, Acastus." Then she paled as it occurred to her . . . "Oh sufferin' Sagan! You want to pull a Starbuck and Apollo. Like when they boarded the Base Star!"
"Isn't Starbuck always telling us to use some initiative?" he countered with a grin. "We'll go down in legend!"
She smiled tremulously as a Cylon voice from the Ravager came over the comm giving them landing instructions. "I suppose it's better than going down in flames," she replied, reaching for the vocal modulator to respond.
"Infinitely."
xxxxx
Trying to hunch down and make himself shorter than normal, Starbuck casually walked out the door of the United Nations Headquarters behind Grae Ryan, his head bowed and eyes lowered, as he'd been instructed. Roach had said his blue eyes would be the giveaway, and to keep from making eye contact with anyone and to keep his hands tucked into the folds of his billowy getup at all costs. Studiously, he tried to keep his gaze on the swirl of the robes in front of him, shaking his head slightly in silent amusement, following Ryan down the stairs and towards the waiting transport, as people brushed against him, some more aggressively than others who merely moved out of his way. Media types swarmed the area like locusts, awaiting news from the Security Council. The area was artificially lit to such an extent that it was hard to believe it was almost 0100 centars, the middle of the night here in New York. With everything going on, he supposed it was only natural that his gaze would eventually swing upwards, noticing that his Wraith was being dissected by men in suits, crawling over her, under her, inside her. His step faltered and he gritted his teeth, fighting the irrational urge to do something about it while he reminded himself it was just a ship . . . not his wife.
"Eyes down," Ryan grunted, turning briefly to address him, adopting an accent Starbuck was unfamiliar with. Like himself, Ryan was attired in flowing robes, though of a different cut, and his face was exposed. His skin had been darkened, he sported a heavy black beard, and he wore a short, bladed weapon at his belt. "Do as you're told, woman!"
In contrast, Starbuck's eyes were the only things someone could make out in the all-encompassing dark cloak that he wore. According to Ryan and Roach, it was a garment worn by a religious minority of Earth women, to hide their faces and bodies when they were out in public. Ironically, it wasn't vastly different from traditional costume worn in most of the Colonies, save the veil and the fact that the robes were loose flowing, rather than cinched in with a belt. By comparison, most of the Earth clothes that he'd seen so far on women like Jess or Katko had accented their femininity, instead of hiding it. However, in this instance, the cloak granted him an apparently untouchable anonymity that he could only be thankful for as he followed Ryan towards the yellow transport that suddenly pulled up directly onto the curb, the rear door swinging open.
"New York Mosque!" a voice called out from within. "As close to Mecca as you can get without crossing the ocean!"
Ryan held the door as Starbuck piled in, noting Dickins in the front seat with the driver, an unusual hat with a bill pulled down low over his face. A moment later the Colonial Warrior was fighting with his plentiful robes on the backseat, ensnarled in their folds. A low voice was coming over a media player in the front, reporting news events much like he'd been accustomed to on the IFB.
"Frack," he muttered, adjusting his robes. "If Boomer ever gets word of this . . ."
"Don't you look enchanting in your drapery," Dickins replied in a tone reminiscent of Boomer, as Ryan pulled the door shut behind him. "Go, Mitch."
The yellow transport sped off, its engine strangely silent. It looked kind of like a hovermobile without the repulsor units, and smelled like a typical Caprica City hoverhack. He opened the window a bit to get some fresh air. With an exaggerated wrinkle of his nose, so did Ryan.
"Starbuck, this is my grandson, Mitch. Mitch, Captain Starbuck from the Colonial Nation and Major Graeme Ryan from WASA," Dickins introduced them. "Mitch has already taken the family somewhere safe."
"Welcome to New York," the young man said, screaming around a corner and dodging an amazing amount of traffic in the busy centre for the late centar. His dark brown hair was military short, except for a braided tail that stemmed from the crown of his head and trailed down to his neck. "The city that never sleeps."
"Then I know how it feels, Mitch. Thanks for the ride," Starbuck replied, pulling the veil from his head and rubbing his eyes. His vision blurred, while the kaleidoscopic view rushed by. He'd been rushed out of the room where they'd tried to set him up for termination so fast that there was no time for questions or answers. Before he knew it he was disguised as a "Muslim woman"—whatever that was exactly—following Ryan back to what they were calling "American soil". They'd split up with the others in order to attract less attention. "Where are Hummer and Roach?"
"They're going to meet us in Jersey, kid. McGuire Air Force Base. Roach wants us to keep a low profile while he tries to sort out who is with us and who is against us. That's why we're in this taxi; it's one of about fifteen thousand in the Big Apple," Dickins replied, a faint smirk on his face as he tossed some civilian clothes into Starbuck's lap. "Blue jeans, t-shirt and running shoes. Put them on. We don't want you sticking out like a sore thumb. Might even stop for a coffee to fit in with the rest."
"Starbucks?" grinned the younger Dickins, hitting the brakes hard as they stopped at a light.
"Huh?" Starbuck said, sticking out a hand to steady himself, while struggling out of the robes.
"Where else?" returned his grandfather with a wide grin. "In our boy's honour, of course. Too bad Dayton couldn't be here for this."
"Come again?" Starbuck said as they chuckled around him, clearly at his expense.
"Starbucks. It's a coffee shop," Mitch filled him in with a snort.
"I'm a java shop?" Starbuck asked as Ryan's arm shot in front of his face, pointing out one window, then the next, and then another. He leaned across the man getting a better look. Sure enough, on all four corners of the street were busy java shops, the name "STARBUCKS"—which was probably the only thing he could consistently read in Earthspeak—prominently displayed over a logo of a woman, with the word COFFEE beneath her. It explained all the smirks and probably most of the nicknames, unfortunately, most of them were inconsequential babble to him. For the middle of the night, all four java stops were incredibly busy, people sitting at tables, only two of them that he could see engaged in conversation, all the rest plugged into something that they were apparently watching or listening to. "What are they doing?"
"Those are media players," Ryan said, shrugging. "They let people stay in touch, watch the news as it happens, chat with someone on the other side of the world." He grunted. "All the time ignoring the people and the real world all around them."
Starbuck frowned. If he was over there, he'd be doing his level best to chat up the attractive blonde sitting by herself at a table, holding a small device that she was intently concentrating on as she thumbed it. He was betting he could be much more charming and engaging than that little box. You're sealed, Bucko. You should be worrying about your wife, not thinking about lonely mysterious blondes with shapely legs and incredibly short skirts. "All those people are communicating with someone else that isn't there?"
"Or listening to podcasts, or watching the news, or playing a game," replied Ryan. "Hell, I get more texts and emails these days than actual phone calls."
"But don't your people have something like this, Starbuck?" asked Mitch, barely missing a large truck emblazoned with The 7 Santini Brothers, while looking back at his passengers. "Gramps says your technology is way, way ahead of what we have. Surely you have cellular and digital communications."
"Yeah, but it was also susceptible . . . hey! Watch out!"
Mitch swerved, missing a large transport by centimetrons. "Watch where you're going, idiot!" he hollered out the window, before returning his attention to Starbuck. "Susceptible?"
"Holy . . ." Suddenly, Starbuck wished he was driving, even though he didn't know how. He leaned forward over Mitch's shoulder, watching. It didn't look difficult. "Yeah. Susceptible to Cylon tapping and jamming. We utilized buried optical fibre nets more than satellite links for basic civilian traffic. High security and encrypted systems were reserved for military or government use from early on in the war. As a result, we never lost the art of direct communications, interacting with other people on a personal level. The war drove people together, not apart."
"I see. Heck, we hardly ever write letters, anymore."
"No fracking wonder this planet is in trouble."
"It was going this way when we left," Dickins said. "We called it the Worldwide Web back then. Hell, the younger generation. They didn't understand the art of socializing. They spent more time on Facebook or playing with their multimedia players or gaming systems than actually interacting with real people. Jojo's break-up with her boyfriend in Austria was more tragic than the little old lady down the street whose husband just had a heart attack. I heard about a guy who hosted an Olympic hockey game party and spent his whole time on his iPod belittling some guy in Medicine Hat. They were more in tune to their internet friends than their neighbours." He glanced at his grandson, who was again accelerating and ripping up the pavement.
"Easy, Gramps. Not everyone is like that. Most of us grow out of it."
"How long since you've updated your Facebook account, Mitch? Or whatever social networking website is popular these days."
"Facebook is ancient history. I use Pal. And I checked in just before I left for the UN. I'm having a torrid affair with Semillon in France."
"My point, exactly. You're courting a bottle of wine, son. Not a real person."
"Hey, most of my generation think your age group are what Gran calls 'Nosey Parkers'," Mitch defended himself.
"Great, now I'm an 'age group'! We're not nosey, son, we're interested," Dickins replied. "Rest easy, Granddad's home, I'll straighten you out." His smile could have powered a small country.
"Oh, I feel much better now." Mitch grinned crookedly. "Whew!"
"Alright." Starbuck smiled. It was good to see Dickins this animated. He pulled off his combat boots, now noticing there seemed to be a Starbucks almost every block or two. "So how did I go from United Nations guest of honour to a mark in the space of thirty centons? Tell me what happened back there. That woman was violated and then murdered, and those goons were cold-blooded killers."
"Samael Asar happened," Ryan replied, starting to strip out of his costume. He peeled off his fake beard and pushed back his odd headgear. "He's the current Secretary-General of the United Nations as well as the Minister of Foreign Affairs for Egypt," he explained, wiping the dark makeup off his face. "He had to be the one giving the orders back there. Whatever he says goes inside the UN."
"Egypt?" Starbuck echoed, remembering a bizarre coincidence that Dayton had told him about. Or maybe it wasn't a coincidence, after all. He leaned against Ryan as Mitch took a hard right. "Isn't that where the Kobollian pyramids are?"
"Kobollian?" Ryan asked, hesitating as he peered through the window at a woman who had jumped back from the curb as they suddenly rounded the corner. "That looked like LM . . . nah, couldn't have been. Sorry, Starbuck, what were you saying?"
"Never mind," Starbuck said, shedding his familiar uniform. "Long story, no time."
Ryan let out a low whistle as light from the city fleetingly illuminated the back of the transport. "Jaysus, you're black and blue, Starbuck."
"And red all over," Dickins added, seeing the streak of blood down the warrior's arm from his most recent flesh wound.
"It's nothing," Starbuck assured them.
Dickins tossed back a small first aid kit to Ryan. Within centons, the arm was cleaned and field dressed. "Nice job. Your Dad would be proud, Grae."
"Oh?"
"He became our unofficial medic."
"My Dad? Why?" Grae sniffed in apparent amusement. "Because he has a doctorate?"
"No, because he was the only one who could stand the sight of blood," Dickins replied with a grunt.
"Thanks, Ryan," Starbuck said, beginning to pull on the unfamiliar clothing. Someone had sized him up pretty well. They were a comfortable fit. "So what's this Samael Asar guy got against me?"
"Hard to say, exactly. But I get the idea that Lucifer showing up at the Security Council meeting right after your speech translates to Asar's involvement with securing the Cylon. I don't quite understand where they come off thinking that the Cylons could possibly be our allies."
"So he has people on the inside in the American military," Starbuck said. "Just like with the Russians."
"He has people everywhere. This is his second term as Secretary-General. I expect he'll go for a third. Some say he's the most powerful man in the world," Ryan replied. "Frankly, after what just happened, I'm beginning to believe it." He nodded up front. "Asar introduced what the media calls Universal Law. It currently dictates that whatever happens on UN soil is no longer subject to the laws of the United States. He's pressing for it to go global. That Universal Law would replace all individual national law, along with a global currency, economy, and security. Eventually, we'll see a global totalitarian and authoritarian government too. Some countries are buying it. You would have never seen that fifty years ago"
"Asar is more powerful than our president?" Dickins asked in disbelief.
Mitch snorted, cranking the wheel over hard.
"Rumour has it that Gibson is only in office because Asar condoned it," Ryan replied. "He figured he could control him. After all, the way L.M. tells it, most of those supposedly working directly for President Gibson, actually answer to Asar first. Their allegiance lies elsewhere."
"Frack, these guys make the Quorum of the Twelve look good," Starbuck ventured. "Sire Uri would fit right in."
"How the hell do we beat them?" Dickins asked. "We can't keep getting lucky forever."
"People have been trying to expose them for more than sixty years for what they really are," Ryan said. "Only now . . . I'm thinking we never realized how far back this conspiracy truly went."
"To Egypt?" Dickins figured. "More than five thousand years ago?"
"And Iblis," Starbuck added. "Maybe even Kobol."
"Yup. I'd say that something's definitely rotten in the state of Denmark," Ryan added.
"Yeah? Well, it doesn't exactly smell like rosas back here, either," Starbuck returned with a sniff, slumping his head back against the seat and settling in for the ride. Fatigue was quickly becoming his worst enemy. On the upside, at least he'd shaken Baltar for the time being. Maybe, if there was time, he could actually get a little shut-eye. "How long will it take to get to the airbase?"
"Roach directed us to swap cars outside the city. The yellow cab blends in here, but not so much in Burlington County, New Jersey," Dickins replied. "How long will it take, Mitch?"
"About eighty minutes, Grandpa."
"Right. So don't get too comfortable," Dickins told Starbuck. "You're still the poster boy for our side for a good reason, Starbuck . Roach wants you to have a pilots' briefing all ready for him to forward to our allies, similar to what you did in Kazakhstan." He handed Starbuck a thin black box. "Ryan can help you with the finer points of that. Meanwhile, Granddad here is going to catch forty winks while you young 'uns get to work."
Starbuck nodded wearily.