"Is this line secure?" the British Chief of Air Staff and Marshal of the Royal Air Force finally asked, after listening in absolute silence to Roach's monologue.

"Is there such a thing, Leach?" Roach asked over the sat-phone, sighing. He looked over at Hummer, sitting across from him in the back seat of the unmarked military vehicle that General McDermott of the US Army had sent, as they raced towards their rendezvous to pick up Starbuck and the others. Director Mason, Chairman Edwards and Secretary of Defence Wright had gone to ground since President Gibson had issued orders to have them detained for questioning. As soon as Gibson had made it out of the UN Headquarters, the USA had declared DEFCON 1. Now suddenly the other American Chiefs of Staff were with him, thank God. "It's a dedicated WASA communication satellite that Dayton set me up with. It's the closest thing to secure that we're going to get, Arch." He paused, letting his words to Leach sink in a little further. "Don't tell me that all of this is a complete surprise. I heard you and Metencourt were standing by to attack French Guiana. That must have come from your Chairman Whatley or Prime Minister Webster. Doesn't sound like your style."

"Well, after Director Dayton dropped one of our birds into the drink, I was feeling a tad irritable, Will."

"I yell at a subordinate when I'm irritable, I don't attack a civilian space centre."

"Yes, the epitome of restraint, you are," the other chuckled mirthlessly. "Berate me for almost securing the Guiana Space Centre on one hand, while on the other you suggest a military coupe."

"It's not a suggestion, it's a necessity. According to President Gibson, it was Sir Robert Gimbel at the UN Security Council who vetoed preparing a worldwide offensive in favour of further deliberations after listening to Captain Starbuck and then the Cylon."

"I'd have loved to be a fly on the wall there," Leach said.

"You're not alone."

Gimbel, the UK representative in the United Nations, held the Most Distinguished Order of St. Michael and St. George and was also the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service, which meant he was subject to Chairman Whatley of the Joint Intelligence Committee in the official British pecking order. "I tell you, Arch, Secretary-General Samael Asar is paralysing our only chance of surviving a Cylon attack through bureaucracy. Everything, including the toilet paper, must be in triplicate and vetted by committee, blah, blah, blah. You know the drill. And your prime minister and Joint Intelligence Committee are supporting that."

"You really think Prime Minister Webster . . ." Leach's voice trailed off as he thought about it. Even as he instinctively defended his prime minister to the American, he reminded himself how many times he'd thought Webster and his high muckety-mucks were operating under some hidden agenda. He'd refused to let himself explore that avenue in the past, but now, after everything that had happened, it was kicking him in the gut. "Blast! What about Surkov?"

"He's ready. Like President Gibson, the Russian President, Kuzmin, was also targeted for assassination. His people caught the assassin literally in his bedroom, Arch, two feet from him. It's getting so the only world leaders I'm prepared to trust are the ones that someone has tried to knock off. Japan is with us, not surprisingly. China too, thankfully. Seems that there was some world-renowned Chinese academic on that plane the Cylons buttoned over Russia, so they're pissed. I know we can count on the Canadian military, too, although Prime Minister Dosanjh will be surprised by that, if you get my drift."

"This is insane, Will," Leach said. "Worldwide defiance of the UN."

"A little insanity is good for the soul, Arch," Roach replied. "Can you do it? Do you have the support?"

"There is the trifling matter of the European Union's Common Security and Defence Policies."

"I thought the European Union Military Command was your private old boy's club, Arch?"

"Maybe over the billiards table with a fine single malt scotch, but this is a little more serious."

"I hope that's your annoying classic British understatement, Leach. You realize what's at stake here? Don't you?"

"I do," he replied. "Keep your pecker up, Will. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I'll be in touch."

"Good man."

Beep.

xxxxx

"Wraith One to Endeavour, come in." Hiss . . . crackle . . . hiss . . . "Endeavour, respond please!"

The ship's rotation was slowly decreasing in rate, only inertia maintaining the motion, as the Covert Operations Ship failed to power its systems back up after the emergency shut down. Luana hadn't been able to communicate with the Control Centre for over a centar. Meanwhile, the Cylon Base Ship, Ravager,was maintaining its course towards Earth. Either it hadn't detected them or it couldn't be bothered to investigate the apparent derelict with a nice juicy planet of humanoids ahead to exterminate.

"Wraith One to Endeavour. Hel-lo Endeavour! Pierus! Wake up! C'mon, you guys! I'm getting lonely out here!"

She didn't want to admit it, even to herself, but she was scared to death. Her fuel was low. So low, in fact, that if she didn't get through some landing bay doors in the next twenty centons, she'd be adrift. If she'd been in a Viper, she could have put herself into sleep mode, decreasing the demands on her life support systems. No such luck with the Espridian Wraith. She throttled down her systems another couple of percent, anyway. However, realistically, there was one Hades of a lot more at stake here than just herself. The only chance that Earth had was sitting lifelessly in front of her, and she didn't even know what was going on inside that hulking piece of metal that was looking more and more like a death box.

"Lords, Starbuck, what do I do now?" she murmured, wishing he was on the other end of a comm line reassuring her that everything would be alright. What she wouldn't give to hear his confident voice telling her what they would do next, no matter how crazy it was. Somehow he would make it work.
She shook her head slightly, realizing he'd be waiting impatiently for them on Earth right now. There was no way he could know what had befallen the Covert Operations Ship that he was counting on to engage the Ravager. The gorge rose in her throat when she imagined the devastation the Base Ship would cause once it unleashed its mega- pulsar on the home of the Thirteenth Tribe. Here in space, she would eventually lose consciousness, succumbing to a lack of vital oxygen. It would be comparatively pleasant compared to the holocaust that would befall Earth.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, wondering if Starbuck would survive . . . if any of them would survive. It all seemed so hopeless. There had to be something she could do. Anything . . . She took a deep breath, trying to find some of her old resolve . . . Now that she thought about it, it seemed to Lu she'd been wallowing in self pity and helplessness ever since finding out she was infertile. That was no way to return to the Empyrean . . .

"Listen, you old crone," she growled at the stars around her, "if you're out there and there's anything you can do . . . well, frackin' well do it!"

xxxxx

Wearing his ankle length, flowing and loose white garment, Eckandar Shahhosseini looked more like a dramatic caricature than an actual man. Older than Methuselah, he had a lined and craggy bearded face, a baldpate, and a back that was bent and twisted. Yet, the frail man moved with a natural grace as he leaned on his cane, entering the stately sitting room where he received rare visitors. It was a showcase of Middle Eastern antiquity, and Lauren had found it impossible to sit still on the ornately carved wood furniture. Instead, she had wandered slowly through the room drinking in the eclectic display of vibrant and colourful tapestries, softly glowing copper lanterns, intricate ceramic vases, beautiful alabaster figurines, mosaic tabletops, antiquities ranging from ancient Sumer to the Umayyad Period, all adorning a hand-knotted wool carpet. Scented oils and the lingering smell of incense and exotic foods sweetened the air. The spectrum of colours blended harmoniously, adding to richness of the room, instead of making it a garish spectacle. She was by no means an expert, but she knew that the pieces around her were old and valuable. The "dead" man before her was, after all, a collector. Living out his remaining years in seclusion—or "hiding" as she more accurately referred to it—he had mentioned once before that antiques were his only pleasure left in life.

Silently, he waved her to a seat, taking his customary place. As she sat down, a young man appeared quietly from the adjoining room, carefully laying a beautiful brass engraved tray and tea set on the table between the only two chairs. She had always found it curious that the warm liquid was customarily served in small delicate and decorative glasses, a direct contrast to the western tradition of heavy ceramic mugs. Customarily, she waited, well aware by now that the drinking of the strong black tea was a tradition of cordiality. She had observed all necessary traditions—including covering her head and wearing modest clothing—to gain the audience and sceptical trust of this man over the years.

"Is it possible, Ms. Dayton, that more people now want to kill you than me?" His voice was hoarse, but his accent was distinguished, an interesting mixture of Saudi Arabian and Oxford English, denoting both where he was born and where he was educated. His teeth were startling white against his weathered skin.

"Do you have a spare room?" she replied, sipping daintily on her tea for his benefit. It was spiced with something she didn't recognize, but was delicious. "Truth be told, I could happily live in your hand carved buffet, Shaikh Eckandar."

He nodded, looking lovingly at the piece. "Eighteenth century Egypt, Mamluk revival. It is exquisite, isn't it, Ms. Dayton?"

It was bizarre to her that she could be sitting here chatting politely with a man who had been responsible for countless deaths over the decades, including—or so she had thought—that of her infamous father. It was a warped and indefinable relationship they'd formed when the daughter of Mark Dayton had first approached the 'retired' terrorist to pen his biography, meant to be published posthumously. "Mamluk?" She frowned, trying to date the dynasty. It seemed to her that there was more than one dynasty by that name, but that was the extent of detail that her memory could dredge up. "The ancient soldiers of slave origin that converted to Islam?"

"Yes." Shahhosseini nodded briefly, taking a sip of his tea. "'There are none more hopelessly enslaved, than those who falsely believe they are free.'"

"Goethe."

"Yes. I find it useful at times to be well versed in the classics, both Eastern and Western. And time is plentiful in my retirement."

"A fellow lover of books," she smiled, nodding towards a shelf lined with books in a far corner.

"Of course. After all, A cella vacuus libri est ut a somes vacuus a animus."

"Yes. A room without books is as a body without a soul. Cicero is always good for a drop of wisdom. My compliments."

"I am honoured," he replied, with a slight bow of the head.

The Goethe quote opened the door to what she wanted to talk about, but it seemed to her that he usually knew what train of thought she was pursuing. She'd been interviewing him for years for a biographical novel, not publishable until his death due to the nature of the many and varied criminal allegations and associations. Most of the world already believed that the one-time leader of the Islamic World Front—one of the world's most wanted men—had died over a decade ago in Pakistan, executed after being brought to justice. Instead, he was living as a recluse in an undisclosed location in New York City, she suspected, under the "protection" of the United States government. Every time she visited, she arrived in Shahhosseini's car, blindfolded for the duration of the trip. Making this trip at this time was either gutsy or foolhardy, but she needed answers. "Tell me about Samael Asar's family, Shaikh Eckandar."

Her host was quiet for some moments, looking off into space. When he spoke, his voice seemed equally far away. "It is very old."

"I've heard his bloodline can be traced back to ancient Egypt. Even to the earliest dynasties."

"I've heard that too, but then I've heard the same about the King of England." He smiled mysteriously and she wasn't sure if he was ridiculing her or suggesting just that. "Asar is a firm believer in what was once known as the divine right, Ms. Dayton. That he has a mandate from God to rule. And he very much sees himself in the role of world monarch."

"Divine right was a doctrine of royal absolutism. A European one at that."

"Yes, but do not forget Imperial China. The Mandate of Heaven. Or the ancient Sumerian King List 'The Kingship once more descended from heaven.'"

"My error," she took another sip. "But Egypt hasn't had a king since the 1950's when the monarchy was overthrown during Nassar's revolution, King Farouk and his family exiled, and the country became a republic."

"All true. But Asar has no interest in claiming a throne that no longer exists, save in a museum. He wants to rule the world."

"That's crazy!"

"Is it?" Shahhosseini paused. "Asar has been . . . strongly influenced, shall we say."

"By whom?"

He paused just a moment too long, studying her. "Difficult to say, really."

So, taking a chance, she said it for him: "Iblis."

Shahhosseini's eyes narrowed slightly and his breath hitched. "You know of Iblis," he finally said softly. "By that name?"

"I do."

"A legend. A myth." He seemed to be feeling her out, not disputing it.

"An immortal being, not of this world," she replied. "As real as you or I."

He sniffed in derision. "Billions would mock you."

"Then he has fooled them all."

After a long moment, he said, "I did not give you enough credit, Ms. Dayton. My apologies."

"Accepted."

He smiled faintly. It was rare.

"Let's back up a bit. Asar has been prominent in Egyptian politics for twenty years, his father before that. Did he ever employ the Islamic World Front?" she asked.

Shahhosseini was quiet an even longer moment.

"Information like that can get you killed, Ms. Dayton."

"I've stopped worrying about that."

He raised his eyebrows, and then nodded. "Money was exchanged in payment for . . . services rendered, yes."

"Asar paid a known terrorist organization to do his dirty work."

"Not directly, of course. Often when a necessary job is . . . distasteful, politicians or others who wish to remain unconnected with the deed, find it effective to manipulate the situation to their advantage. This has been illustrated time and time again as significant historical documents are declassified. Take the sinking of the Lusitania, for example. A prime example of pushing a recalcitrant public into war. Winston Churchill once wrote, 'The manoeuvre which brings an ally into the field is as serviceable as that which wins a war'." He paused. "The ship's construction and operating expenses were subsidised by the British government with the proviso that she be converted to an Armed Merchant Cruiser if need be. Contrary to United States President Wilson's claims of neutrality, Ms. Dayton, the Lusitania carried six hundred tons of gun cotton explosive, six million rounds of ammunition, over a thousand cases of shrapnel shells, plus other war materials when she left New York. She was a floating ammunition dump. Meanwhile, Winston Churchill also ordered British ships to remove their hull names and to fly the flags of neutral nations when in port to maximize German confusion when they targeted the enemy. Later, he freely admitted his orders were a ploy to involve other nations in the war. On the seventh of May, 1915, a German U-boat mistakenly sunk the Lusitania. Churchill's plan worked."

"But then you are not naïve, Ms. Dayton. You already know that politicians search for provocations to gain the support of the public with no regard to the ultimate cost. Examine more closely the controversies of Pearl Harbour, the Gulf of Tonkin, the World Trade Centre, and the Korea Life Insurance Building. It is expedient. So it shouldn't come as a surprise to you that, yes, the Egyptian administration secretly funded radical Islamic groups with ties to the IWF. The same could be said of many national administrations."

This time she raised her eyebrows. "What are you getting at?"

"You asked me once before if there was any hint of American political involvement when the Islamic World Front claimed responsibility for destroying the International Space Station,and with it your father's ship."

"That was ten years ago. You said 'no'." Her heart pounded in her chest.

"I am older and much closer to Allah now than I was then. Ask me again, Ms. Dayton. This time I will answer truthfully."

"Why would the American government sanction the destruction of the ISS?" She needed to hear it, despite figuring it out for herself long ago.

"It was relatively early days in President Obama's administration and he was rapidly losing popularity, as he worked to introduce universal medicare while trying to assert a leadership role in overseeing one of the worst publicized oil spills in history," Shahhosseini told her. "Initially, he'd announced a proposal to cancel the Constellationprogram—a leftover of the Bush administration which some described as 'Apollo on steroids'. At that time the International Space Station was scheduled to be deorbited five years later. Two months later he amended his decision, committing to increasing NASA's funding by six billion dollars and predicting a crewed orbital Mars mission by the 2030's, at the expense of other programs. Obama's decision wasn't popular. In fact, some declared that NASA would spend a hundred billion on manned spaceflight development over the next ten years, in order to accomplish nothing. They claimed that the President, while apparently calling for an historic flight to Mars, was actually terminating the programs that would make it possible."

"At face value, they were right," Lauren replied. Obama had to have known about the technology at Roswell.

"I will cede to your greater knowledge in that regard." He inclined his head. "President Obama was also trying to reach out to the Muslim world, and had in fact directed a NASA administrator to engage much more with Muslim nations to help them feel good about their historic contribution to science, etcetera. So it was . . . intriguing, shall we say, when I was contacted with instructions to destroy the space station. I knew it would again ignite the Western world's age-old passionate hatred of the East. Then again, passion has been known to cloud judgment, which was their intent all along."

"Instructions? You mean they told you how to do it?"

"The people were already in place. We only had to complete the cycle and then claim responsibility."

"An inside job."

"Yes." He raised a hand and shook his head. "But having nothing to do with your father or his crew, as the media later claimed. They were entirely innocent. Sacrificial lambs, as it were. The agent—a Russian of Arab decent, coincidentally—was already in place on the space station. The explosives were in the payload from the previous resupply mission."

"But NASA was still implicated and the space program with its multibillion dollar budget was scrapped. Obama's attempt at ameliorating relations with the Muslim world was kyboshed."

"Yes."

She placed her delicate glass back on the tray, leaning forward. "By whom, Shaikh Eckandar? Who was really behind the Islamic World Front destroying the ISS? Tell me."

"You already know, Ms. Dayton. While you and I could sit here cordially ascribing blame to numerous men, myself included, they were merely puppets, their strings pulled by the ultimate puppet master."

"Iblis."

xxxxx

They were dead in space. Life support and gravity were the only functional systems on the Endeavour, and only because they were backed up by reserve power cells. The crew had tried everything humanly possible to disengage the Clavis from their systems, all to no avail. Even communications were down, so they couldn't even warn Phoenix Squadron that the Cylon Base Ship was on its way. Dayton glared at the mysterious orb that glowed cockily from where it rested in the Control Centre, delaying their mission, and possibly jeopardizing the survival, if not the very existence of Earth, not to mention his sanity.

"Does anybody have any other ideas?" Dayton asked, doing a three-sixty of the Control Centre. "Anything at all?"

"Human sacrifice?" Ryan piped up.

"Step right up, Paddy," Dayton volunteered him, letting out a sigh, and turning back to face Apollo. The young colonel shook his head dispiritedly, and then looked beyond his commander, his mouth opening in surprise as his eyes grew wide.

"Ryan! NO!" Apollo shouted instinctively, left hand raised, moving towards the other.

Dayton pivoted around to see Paddy standing in front of the Clavis, hands resting on it, his eyes closed and his face drawn. The same soft glow that normally suffused the orb now seemed to be emitting from his friend, the light more intense at the point of contact. Any number of the men had touched the thing before now, but this had never happened before. A few moments later, as a luminescence completely engulfed him, Ryan looked eerily resplendent, except for his unnatural pallor.

"Paddy?" Dayton murmured uneasily, feeling a strange energy in the air as he approached the other. He waved a hand in front of Paddy's face, but there was no response. He seemed like a statue, eternally frozen. Dayton's hair prickled at the back of his neck, and he hesitated to touch the delinquent astronaut as his fingertips tingled almost painfully at their sudden proximity.

"Mark," Porter said. "Don't touch him."

"But Jimmy . . ."

"Don't!" Porter repeated sharply, moving to pull his friend back.

"You crazy Canuck," Dayton murmured. "Let go, Paddy. Just let go."

"I don't think he can hear us," Porter said.

"I don't think he could let go if he wanted to," Baker added.

"Go get Cassiopeia, Sagaris," Apollo ordered. "Tell her to bring her med kit and scanner."

"Yes, sir."

Centons later, Cassiopeia arrived, biomonitor in hand. By now Ryan was glowing like a lighthouse. Dayton didn't know whether to be alarmed or not when an ambient glow began to crawl over the deck around Ryan, apparently now infecting the ship. It was as though a shimmering coat of dust was resting on the deck. The more Ryan glowed, the quicker the evanescent blanket infiltrated the Endeavour.

"He's alive," Cassie concluded after running her biomonitor over Ryan. "But I'm getting some strange readings that . . . that I can't make any sense of."

"What kind of readings?" Dayton asked.

"I can't pick up his bio-rhythm. Normally, electrical impulses from the sinoatrial node travel to the atrioventricular node with successful contraction of the two atria, which contract the ventricles of the heart. I'm reading electrical impulses so accelerated that the biomonitor can't even track them accurately." Cassie shook her head in consternation.

"What did she say, Sir?" Sagaris asked.

"No idea," Dayton replied. "In plain language, Cassiopeia? For me."

"I can only theorize that somehow the energy from the Clavis has affected the physiology of Ryan's cardiovasculature. His heart and circulatory system. They're . . ." she shrugged, "joined together."

Everyone took a step back from the glowing man, looking in increasing alarm at the shimmering nature of the deck. It was now creeping up the walls.

"So, first it took over the Endeavour and now it's going to take over all of us?" Baker asked.

"Unless the alcohol content of Ryan's blood lulls it into a sense of complacency," Porter returned dryly.

"Suddenly, those abandoned ships on Phobos are looking good," Dayton said. "How many crew can we evacuate if it comes to that?"

"Let's just say that they had more lifeboats on the Titanic," Baker replied.

"From the pictures, I'd say they were in about as good a shape as the Titanic," said Porter.

"We have one Cylon shuttle and another squadron of Hybrids," Apollo told him. "Stretching the capacity of all available ships, I'd estimate we could evacuate about one hundred and sixty people."

"But including the Barstow Station crewmen, we have over eight hundred people aboard!" Cassie protested.

"We're closer to Phobos than Earth," Dorado pointed out. "Apollo, how functional did those ships in that spacedock look?"

"One looked almost completed, but that doesn't factor in thousands of yahrens of neglect, Dorado," the colonel replied. "And I have no way of knowing her structural integrity, or if she's even air-tight."

"We don't need a Battlecruiser, Apollo, just something that will carry more of our people to safety," Dorado replied. "I'm sure I saw some transport vessels on your vid-feed."

"Apollo's point is that we could send a crew to Phobos only to find out that those ships need total overhauls." Dayton agreed with his executive officer.

"What other choice do we have?" Dorado replied.

A flash of light from behind them nearly knocked the eyeballs out of Dayton's head. When the spots cleared from his vision, Ama was standing there, shimmering like a vision, holding the Oculus in her hands, her Empyrean talisman glowing on her chest just as vibrantly as the Clavis and Ryan.

"Well," she said, "there's always me."

xxxxx

Falling into position with the other Raiders being picked up by the Ravager on the way to Earth, they had made it into the landing bay of the Abaddon-class Base Ship without a hitch. One thing that could be said for the average Cylon centurion, it didn't ask a lot of questions. Acastus decided that the centurion "mindset" was such that humans were meant to either engage Cylons or run away from them. This brash new approach to dealing with the enemy through surreptitiously boarding their vessel was evidently something they hadn't given much consideration to in the last thousand yahrens. It made him feel bold, courageous, adventurous, heroic . . .

"This is astrum-kicking, get-me-killed-before-my-time crazy," Xenia muttered tensely, crouched down beside him.

"Where's your sense of adventure?" he countered, keeping out of "sight" as the centurions ritualistically filed out of the landing bay. Trevanian and Lambda's ships had also landed without incident, those cadets laying low as well.

"Buried somewhere beneath my terror," she replied, biting her lip. "I think I should have listened to my mother and kept that archivist's job on the Bodleian."

"Wouldn't you rather make history, rather than archive it?"

"Let me think about that," she replied, scrunching down even further out of view. "On further introspection, no, I wouldn't."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "You're taking this reluctant hero role to a whole new sub-level, Xenia."

"Mother always told me to aim for perfection," she replied shakily. "Besides, just what are we going to blow the mega-pulsar with? Your dynamic personality and mega-volton smile? We didn't exactly leave the Endeavour prepared for this mission."

He turned to look at her. Really look at her.

She was several shades of pale and trembling, one hand to her mouth, the other clenching her laser, white-knuckled. A good deca-yahren older than most of her squadron mates, she was stocky and plain, with limp light brown hair that was tied back from her face. As he had first assumed, it wasn't comedic reluctance at all on her part, but actual fear. She was a cadet after all, not a seasoned veteran like their strike captain who had, in a round about way, inspired this impromptu mission. And while Acastus and most of his relatively young squadron mates aspired to match the heroics of legends like Starbuck and Apollo, Xenia clearly wasn't under the same spell that suspended terror in favour of striving for glory.

"Hey, you're going to be fine," he reassured her in a soothing voice. "We'll get out of this. I promise."

Her gaze shifted to him and she smiled tremulously. "You really believe that, don't you?"

"Damned right, I do," he replied with a grin. "And we'll pick up a Gold Cluster for our trouble."

She looked at him incredulously for a long moment. "Sagan," she sighed, "you've got it bad." She shook her head, drawing a deep breath, shifting her position. "I'd better come along, if just to keep your head out of the clouds."

He shook his head slightly, unable to figure her out. He sneaked a peek out of the port. It was just like Starbuck had recited it; there wasn't a centurion in sight. "Okay, let's go. You watch my back, I'll watch yours. Okay?"

"Not quite sure how that's physically possible . . ." she murmured..

"Xenia . . ."

"Yeah, yeah."

xxxxx

"Yeah, we should be getting our orders any time now," Lieutenant Rooke said, glancing at his co-pilot as they both watched the blip on their scanners gradually become a visual on an Abaddon-class Base Ship. There had been no word from the Endeavour or Luana. He had, however, received an encoded message from Acastus' patrol, informing him after the fact that they intended to board the Ravager and try to wipe out the mega-pulsars. The kid gave new meaning to the word "ambitious". He may have refined "wild-astrumed-crazy", as well. Meanwhile, on the far side of the Earth's moon, Phoenix Squadron was standing by, as instructed.

Still.

"Await my orders, I believe Commander Dayton said," Alecto reminisced. "Awaiting, yes, awaiting."

"Still a-waiting," Rooke replied, with a snort. "Don't much like it, either."

"Yup." Alecto looked over at the acting squadron leader. "Do you have a plan?"

"Besides a-waiting? Several. All of them are reactionary."

"Come again?"

"If Acastus manages to destroy the mega-pulsars, it will change the battle dramatically. It will go from us worrying about Earth being annihilated in a day, to the Cylons performing strafing runs on Earth while trying to repair their primary weapons."

"Two ensigns and a bunch of cadets boarding the Ravager and destroying her primary weapons? That's a mighty big 'if'."

"I know it."

"You know, the Cylons might negotiate for Earth's surrender. That would buy us some time," Alecto suggested.

"They might. But they might not," Rooke replied.

"You think they'll just attack?"

"Wouldn't you be a little trigger-happy after arriving at a target that took you over a centi-yahren to reach?"

"I see your point. So, what do we do?"

"This," Rooke said, reaching forward and sending an encoded message to the other members of Phoenix Squadron. "Harrower-squadron, stand-by."

xxxxx

Starbuck could write a briefing on Advanced Fighter Tactics Against Cylons with his eyes closed. Ironically, he was so tired that he'd almost done just that, as they sped out of New York City, over the Hudson River and into New Jersey, changing cars along the way. Grae Ryan had been indispensable, essentially representing Earth pilots and their perspective, while Starbuck tried to cram his considerable yahrens of combat experience into a pilot-friendly document that would prepare his newest allies worldwide for their inevitable confrontation with an unfamiliar enemy that was far more advanced. He'd also learned a whole lot more about Earth fighter technology along the way. Finally, Ryan had keyed in something on the electronic felgercarb they'd been using, transmitting the briefing to General Roach, wherever he was.

Dense traffic congestion and eye-blinding neon began to wane as they "got on the turnpike" and headed south, their speed picking up as they left the "Big Apple" behind. It was Starbuck's chance to finally close his eyes, succumbing gratefully to an all-encompassing exhaustion. He'd been going full tilt without much reprieve for two solid days. By his calculations, he'd be able to squeeze in a centar of much needed sleep before they arrived at McGuire Air Force Base to rendezvous with Roach and Hummer. Oblivion beckoned and he thankfully sank into her comfortable depths.

Until . . .

"Grandpa. I don't have a good feeling about this."

Starbuck woke up abruptly, sensing they'd stopped. They appeared to be on some kind of rural road, trees surrounding them on both sides, the glow and glitter of the city far behind. As he looked about, the only lights around in the middle of the night aside from their headlights were those far ahead of them on the road.

"Some kind of check point?" Dickins asked, rubbing the sleep hastily from his eyes and peering into the distance. He glanced at his chrono. It was two o'clock in the morning. "Where are we, Mitch?"

"According to the GPS, about four miles northwest of the base."

"There's no reason to have a check point on a rural route," Ryan chimed in, opening the car door and climbing out. The others followed suit, leaving the engine running.

"Unless they're afraid we're stealing fresh vegetables or smuggling horses," Dickins added dryly over the roof of the vehicle.

"This is an agro community?" Starbuck asked, sucking in a lungful of air tainted with bovine or equine manure. Thankfully, he'd lost the ability to discern between the two long ago. In the distance he could hear the distinct whinny of equines. Lords, he hadn't ridden since he'd been on Attila. Fleetingly, he wondered about Miri and her family; it seemed like another lifetime, so far apart from this one.

"Agro?" Ryan echoed. "Oh, you mean agricultural. Yeah, with some low-density housing thrown in."

"Hey! It looks like they're bringing the mountain to Mohammed, Gramps. What do we do?" Mitch asked tensely.

While the statement made no sense whatsoever to Starbuck, two sets of lights were now slowly heading their way from the roadblock.

"We get the hell out of here!" Dickins replied. "Somehow, if General Roach was giving us a welcoming committee, I think we'd know about it!"

That was when all Hades broke loose.

A staccato burst of gunfire filled the air. Using the car door like a shield, Starbuck dropped to the ground instinctively as the windows shattered. The attack was coming from the field on his side of the vehicle, disputing any faint hope that those manning the roadblock were friendly. Mitch cried out, then crumpled to the ground beside him, his eyes wide with shock. He'd been hit.

"Mitch!" Dickins yelled from the other side of the car.

"Get inside! I've got him!" Starbuck called back.

"Freeze!" a bodiless voice ordered from the darkness, as the two vehicles drew closer on the road.

"In the car!" Starbuck countermanded, grabbing Mitch and hoisting him upward, then shoving him into the backseat. Ryan and Dickins hastily pulled the young man in from the other side, settling him across their laps in a panicked jumble. Starbuck slammed the door shut and climbed into the driver's seat, deftly sweeping broken glass off the seat. Gunfire erupted around them again. He ducked down in his seat, orientating himself to the car's controls.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Dickins hollered at him from the rear seat. "You can't drive this thing!"

"Wanna bet?" Starbuck replied, his study of Mitch's earlier actions paying off as he put the vehicle into gear and shot forward towards the two oncoming cars. It wasn't his intention, but, after all, this was his first time behind the controls of an Earth vehicle, and anything was better than sitting still at this point. "We don't have a lot of options, guys!"

"Other way!" Dickins yelled as his grandson groaned aloud. "Turn around!"

"Too late! I'm committed!" Starbuck replied, heartened by the sudden lack of live ammo flying around him. He stomped down on the accelerator until it hit the floor. The car lurched forward with renewed vigour.

"You should be committed if you're even contemplating playing chicken with those turkeys! This car is lightweight! It'll crumple on impact like an eggshell!" Ryan announced from the backseat, applying pressure to Mitch's wounded shoulder.

"And theirs won't?" Starbuck returned, gritting his teeth as he careened towards the oncoming vehicles, the wind ripping through his hair. They didn't call it "chicken" in the colonies, but he'd still played it . . . and was alive to tell the stories.

"Not sure," Ryan admitted, as the distance between the cars narrowed. "Depends. Most police cruisers are . . . Oh shittttttttt!"

Survival instinct versus will; it was a test of nerve. If someone didn't yield, it could very well end up that they'd all die. But then Starbuck had a strong suspicion they'd all be dead anyway if they allowed themselves to be captured. At the last moment, he veered to the left, singling out one car, hoping he'd spook the oncoming driver. Of course, a hasty prayer to the Goddess of Luck about now wouldn't go amiss either . . . The driver suddenly swerved to his right, lurching into the field to avoid a head-on collision.

"Yee-haw!" Starbuck whooped, shooting past the other car. For an instant he caught a glimpse of the other driver, mouth wide with shock

"Now what?" Dickins demanded as they screamed towards the roadblock.

"Don't run it, Starbuck!" Ryan shouted. "Their ammunition will cut through this car like butter!"

"What's butter?" Starbuck yelled, cranking the wheel hard to the left. The vehicle become airborne as it left the road and flew into a farmer's field, amidst the terrified yells of his reluctant passengers. It was official; he was piloting a ground vehicle. Starbuck gripped the wheel tightly, and then the Earth car hit the ground hard, giving them a bone-jarring jolt. They lurched and bounced, crashing through tall foliage, as he headed roughly southeast . . . or so he hoped. He couldn't see a damn thing. "Don't suppose your electronic navigator works in an agro worker's field?"

"No!" Ryan replied, holding on for dear life. "Slow down! You don't know what's in front of us!"

"Well, I know what's behind us!" he replied, not backing off the power when he spotted headlights behind them. "How's Mitch?"

"The bleeding's slowing down. I don't think it's critical," Dickins replied in a measured voice. "Anna's still gonna kill me . . ."

"I'm shot!" the young man wailed. "How can it not be critical?"

"It's not critical until your heart stops," Dickins replied pragmatically to the boy. "You're a Dickins; you're going to be fine, son."

"What's that noise?" the young man asked.

"Me biting my fingernails in terror at Starbuck's driving," Ryan replied, cocking his head to the side as a slight whomping noise began to grow in volume. He inadvertently smacked his head against the door as the car lurched to one side. "Ow! Chopper blades?" he then asked Dickins.

"Oh, that's just great!"

"What is it?" Starbuck asked, getting a bad feeling that he knew, despite not knowing.

"It's an attack helicopter, I'm guessing," Ryan replied as the thundering noise filled the night and a search light far in front of them cut through the darkness. "Could be the new Defender. It's a transport and gunship combo."

"Gunship? That doesn't sound good. Targeting capabilities, Ryan?" Starbuck asked as the car pitched to the right, two wheels coming off the ground. He gritted his teeth, holding on tight, determined not to lose control. "C'mon, baby . . ." The car obediently dropped back down on all fours.

"Deadly. It has radar that can easily lock on us, infrared tracking scanners, a full suite of electronic jamming gear, EMP pulse, missiles, rockets, even a 30 mm Chain Gun that can finish us off! Pick one!"

"Right now, being the constable back on Serenity is looking good by comparison!"

"Huh?" asked Dickins.

"I'm beginning to wish the Thirteenth Tribe went the other way when they left Kobol," Starbuck said. "Somewhere on the other side of the universe could be a veritable paradise that I'm missing out on right now, all because some idiot went left instead of right when they entered the void."

"You don't like Earth, Starbuck?" Ryan asked wryly, grunting as the front end dipped dramatically and they screamed down a hillside that none of them knew was there the micron before.

"I'm gonna throw up!" Mitch promised.

"So far Earth is not my idea of salvation!" Starbuck replied, as retching in the backseat replaced the deafening thumping of the attack helicopter as the primary sound effect filling his ears. An acrid odour wafted forward.

"Well, at least you're not covered in blood and vomit!" Dickins reasoned.

"Give me time," Starbuck returned, wincing against a blinding light that engulfed them as the attack helicopter swept towards them like a giant bird of prey. Behind them, their pursuers were still coming. Somehow, Starbuck knew instinctively the gunship was targeting and acquiring. Abruptly, he heard the horrifying scream of incoming fire. He saw trees to his left, and cranked the wheel hard to try to evade enemy fire, the car abruptly corkscrewing through midair. "Fra-ackkkkk!" he screamed as they shot into the blackness.