Chapter Sixteen
The car slammed to a bone-jarring halt, the momentum thrusting Starbuck forward into the steering wheel. A stabbing pain in his skull heralded an ensuing blackness, but his reprieve was annoyingly brief.
A moment later, a shout and a tylinium grip on his shoulder demanded his return from insensibility. Vaguely, he became aware of cold water enveloping him, rising up his body at an alarming rate. For a moment, he thought he was back on Planet 'P', trapped beneath the ocean in a Cylon Raider. He was chest-deep before he remembered he was in an Earth car, which against all odds he had apparently crash-landed in some body of water in an agro worker's field. It could only happen to you, Bucko . . .
"Starbuck! " someone was screaming at him, a fistful of the warrior's shirt in his grip. "Wake up!"
It was hard not to when ice cold water was clawing its way up your body, hungry for a victim to drag down into its deadly depths. He hadn't come all the way to Earth to die in a crypt of his own making. He could feel the determined grip loosen, and then slip away, as the same voice cried out bitterly in failure. Starbuck sucked in a deep breath, while the bitter chill crept up his throat, swallowing him whole, as the car pitched perilously downward.
His body was sluggish, slow to respond to his demands with the shock of the cold. He clawed at the jagged edges of the window, feeling the warmth of his own blood mix with the frigid deep as he struggled to free himself. His chest ached with the urge to draw in another breath, while the weight of the transport pulled him further down. Then the vehicle shuddered as it abruptly hit a solid surface, his descent suddenly ending.
It should have been simple from that point. Just pull himself out of the window and float to the surface. But something he couldn't put his finger on called him back.
Drawn by an irresistible force, Starbuck reached behind him, his hand waving through the coldness of the backseat, needing to reassure himself that Dickins, Ryan and Mitch had made it out before he cleared the area. Instead of the emptiness he was hoping for, his hand brushed up against solid flesh. A milli-centon later, a hand gripped his arm, desperately clawing at him. Not only was someone else trapped in the cold darkness, he was still conscious!
Starbuck turned, pulling on the arm in the darkness, yanking with all his strength as the trapped man stubbornly stayed put. Something back there had him holed up more tightly than an Otori holy virgin before Sunstorm. Starbuck's chest burned and his head swam, but he renewed his efforts, reaching over the seat, trying to find whatever was snaring the man. Then something began pulling at his waistband, jerking him backwards from his would-be rescue attempt.
A powerful arm gripped him around his neck, pulling him backward insistently as he fought uselessly for purchase. He tore at the grip futilely, realizing he was losing the battle as the salvage scrape of the broken glass bit into his flesh on his way through the window. He felt like his lungs would burst as they headed upwards, breaking the surface a few microns later.
Starbuck sucked a breath into his starved lungs, sputtering and gasping as his head began to clear. Spotlights were shining in his eyes from the shoreline, and he couldn't see a frackin' thing. He twisted viciously in the determined grip, desperate to get back down there to help, assuming he could even find the car again in the darkness. Frack, what if it was Dickins . . . any of them, really . . . he had to try, damn it! He reached over his shoulder, grasping a hold of something solid—realizing it was a dive mask—and twisting it off. Then he jabbed his fist into the man's nose, feeling the satisfying crunch of cartilage giving way. There was a cry of pain as the grip on him loosened. He kicked himself free, taking a few strokes to put some distance between them. He had to get below the surface again before someone opened fire . . .
"Starbuck!" a familiar voice bellowed from the brightness that was blinding him. "This is General Roach! Stand-down, Captain! We're here to help!"
"Roach?" It came out more as a strangled croak as he inadvertently slipped below the surface, swallowing a mouthful of water, before coming back up for air. He tossed his head, shaking his sodden hair from his eyes, wincing at the resulting pain at the front of his brow. Warm ooze was trickling down his forehead from his hairline. Inexplicably, now that he realized he wasn't in danger of being imminently assassinated, he didn't feel so well. "Roach!" he coughed as he swallowed another mouthful of water. "There's . . . there's someone down there! He's trapped!"
"I have Special Operations Divers in the water, Captain. They'll get him!" the voice from the intense brightness replied. "Just stand-down!"
If he could only remember . . . in cases like this was he supposed to go towards the light or run away from it as fast as he could? He dipped below the waterline again, his head swimming much better than he was, in fact. His limbs felt heavier than usual, responding woodenly, now that he'd stopped punching people. His shoes seemed to be filled with condensed tylinium, pulling him downward . . . the water rising up around him.
A strong arm came around him from behind, pulling him upward, a gruff voice warning him a moment after he'd broken the surface, "Hit me again, and you'll regret it."
"I already . . . do . . ." Starbuck coughed, feeling himself get pulled degradingly towards shore on his back, but able to do little about it as the thudding in his head began to keep time with the thumping of the helicopter blades in the background. It seemed like only a few microns later that he was being pulled out of the water, a blanket draped over his shoulders. Something was ablaze in the distance, and it occurred to him that the attack helicopter had been targeting their pursuer, not them. He was supported between two burly Air Force officers and led towards the gunship. Within, a glassy-eyed Mitch was already being bandaged up, while his grandfather and Hummer looked on in concern. The Colonial technician's face lit up with relief when he spotted Starbuck.
"You're all right!" Hummer exclaimed.
"Yeah." Starbuck staggered to a halt, looking back over his shoulder anxiously towards the small lake. Evidently, it was Paddy's son still down there . . .
"We'll get him out," Roach said, suddenly in front of him. He turned Starbuck towards him, looking at him critically. "Are you okay, Captain?"
"Who were those guys?" Starbuck asked, as a medic suddenly attached herself to his forehead. He weaved slightly on his feet, swallowing down a wave of nausea. Apparently, since married life, he didn't react so well to soulful eyes, dark brown hair, and soft hands that gently guided him to a sitting position. For some reason, he figured Lu would be glad to know that. He perched on the edge of the helicopter cabin, while the medic stroked the hair out of his face, tenderly examining his head wound with a sorrowful expression before applying some kind of ointment that stopped the bleeding and apparently sealed the wound. He smiled at her.
"He's probably concussed, General," the beauty claimed.
Starbuck frowned. At second glance, was that the shadow of a moustache on her lip . . . ?
"Mason's men," Roach was saying. "I'm guessing they tracked the signal on the Sat-Phone when Ryan sent that coded briefing to me. It wouldn't take much in the way of brains to figure out where you were going."
"General! We have Ryan!" a voice called out to him. "He's all right, sir!"
"Thank the Lord," Starbuck said, looking at Dickins in relief. "How's Mitch?"
"Whiny," the old astronaut replied, grinning when his grandson protested. "You'd think he'd been shot or something." He nodded at Roach. "You came through for us, General. Thanks for that."
"It's what I do, Captain Dickins," Roach replied. "The UN is still deliberating. The United Kingdom exercised their veto after the Cylon's speech. Some of those idiots are still convinced that the Cylons are going to offer some kind of Armistice."
"You've got to be kidding me," Starbuck replied, shaking his head. His words to the Security Council had fallen on deaf ears, apparently.
"In my experience, idiocy is limitless in a bureaucratic arena, Starbuck," Roach replied. "WASA is tracking that Cylon ship. We're almost out of time."
It was like President Adar and the Council of Credulous all over again. Adar. Asar? Starbuck coughed sharply at the coincidence, and then looked up. "And?"
"We've taken things into our own hands, Starbuck," Roach said. "There are military coupes going on all over the world, many of them unofficially sanctioned by their own governments to get around Asar's Universal Law. Despite the chaos, we're as ready for the Cylons as we're going to get. Asar's losing control. Even he must realize that by now." He let out a mirthless chuckle at the thought, turning as Ryan appeared, sodden, but on his feet. "I've already transmitted your briefing to our allies, Starbuck, but President Gibson wants you up there, leading our attack. We're trying to figure out some way to get your Wraith back from the UN. Can you fly, son? Are you up for it?"
Starbuck looked skyward, letting out a deep breath. Getting back in the cockpit—any cockpit—would feel like paradise. "Yes, sir. It's what I do."
xxxxx
The Base Ship scanned as she orbited, making detailed, meticulous maps of the surface. Every city, town, settlement and military or economic installation of any appreciable size would be laid waste before this day was done. The planet would, as the Imperious Leader had directed, be cleansed of the human infestation.
Seventy-one percent of the blue and white planet below was covered in water. Curiously, humans were composed of a similar percentage of water. Most of that water was saline, and, curiously, humans also contained appreciable amounts of that compound. Commander Syphax wondered momentarily why this colony was so far from the others. Also, how had the Imperious Leader known it even existed? That these humans descended from the same stock as the rest was beyond doubt. However, why it was so far removed and why it was far less advanced puzzled him. It made no sense. He weighed if these points were relevant in any way as he prepared to destroy Earth and her inhabitants, not only in retribution for annihilating his squadron, but also as his primary objective for this mission that had lasted over a centi-yahren.
The primary objective of every Cylon: The Edict of Termination.
"Receiving-transmissions-from-Earth," a centurion reported.
"I am not surprised," Syphax replied. Humans were inclined to talk. It was one of their many failings and had served the Alliance well in the past. Get them talking, deceive them, then attack. A moment later he was listening to the incoherent babble of their primitive race. However, even their vast translation matrix couldn't decipher it all at once. It would take some time.
Another conundrum. Not one of the languages being detected from below showed any appreciable similarity with Colonial Standard or any of the other dialects used in the previously human colonies..
Why?
"Commander. I-have-located-several-targets-that-match-your-criteria," a centurion reported.
"On screen, Centurion."
"By-your-command."
Syphax had somewhat expected that there may be more than one such structure, but the endless choices before him were surprising. Apparently, these humans had a propensity for the pyramidal structures that their forefathers—on their legendary and possibly mythical motherworld—had once favoured. Considering the language difference here on Earth, this coincidence was intriguing. "Cross reference with population density in each location, Centurion."
"By-your-command."
Within centons the correlating data came in. If the first strike was to be symbolically significant in a Colonial historical sense, then he might as well annihilate as many humanoids as possible at the same time. Efficacy in termination was one of his most impressive leadership qualities . . . if he did say so himself.
"Prepare the mega-pulsar, Centurion. Coordinates: thirty-six degrees, five centons, forty-three point six seven microns north. One hundred and fifteen degrees, ten centons, thirty-two point nine four microns west."
"By-your-command."
"Commander. Receiving-emergency-encoded-message-from-Harrower-Patrol-Leader."
"Harrower Patrol Leader?" Syphax repeated incredulously, glancing at the scanner. The squadron had suddenly appeared from behind Earth's moon. The Harrower had been one of three Cylon Base Ships sent on separate trajectories into deep space over a hundred yahrens ago, its largely exploratory mission to discover and map out new star systems. What was it doing here?
"Affirmative."
"What does it say, Centurion?"
"Abort-mission-on-orders-of-the-Imperious-Leader."
xxxxx
The Cylon Base Ship had decelerated into orbit and was now at an altitude of three hundred and fifty kilometrons over Earth, at an inclination of twenty-five degrees to the equator. She would complete one circuit of the planet every fifty-seven minutes. Precisely. Signals of all frequencies and amplitudes were being beamed at it from ground sources and various satellites, but all attempts at communicating with the imposing vessel had thus far failed. The Cylons just didn't seem chatty. Jess had no expectations of forging any kind of amiable relations with the ship that had presumably arrived to eradicate the last known bastion of humankind; however, establishing communications would buy them a little more time.
"Contact General Roach. This could be as simple as the Cylons not understanding our message," Jess told Orlov. "We need Starbuck to translate before he launches."
"Captain Starbuck is much in demand," Surkov commented, turning his attention from his own duties. "If he runs after two hares, he will catch neither."
Jess glanced at him, a sudden image of Starbuck with two Playboy bunnies came to mind. She shook it away. Surkov was right. Starbuck had enough on his plate right now without wasting his time talking to Cylons. "Nix that, Orlov."
"Affirmative." Orlov replied.
"Surkov, do we have anything? Anything at all?" Jess asked, racking her brain. "What about the exoatmospheric kill vehicles on the missiles? Do we have any chance at detonating their—what did Starbuck call it?—their laser torpedo pulsar where it can do the least amount of harm to Earth?"
"Missile Defence Systems are standing by worldwide, Jess," Surkov nodded. "We have no way of knowing how successful it will be at this point."
"Dayton, Armstrong Lunar Outpost is reporting a squadron of Cylon fighters . . ."
"What? Another one?" She checked the data. "Oh, just great."
"Director, Colonel Bradshaw on line," Miirski reported.
"This had better be good news." Surely, it could only mean . . . "Put him on."
"Director Dayton, this is Colonel Bradshaw of the 721st Mission Support Group at Cheyenne Mountain. NORAD is with you."
"Well, it's about bloody time, Colonel."
xxxxx
His ship and his best friend possessed by some kind of alien contraption that would ultimately consume everyone aboard, Earth about to be attacked by Cylons as he sat idly by, it was one of those complex situations that Mark Dayton could readily admit to not being qualified to handle. He came damn close to hugging Ama when she mysteriously appeared from nowhere for the second time since arriving in Earth's system, a weird glow shining from her talisman that reflected onto the Oculus she was holding. He'd never been so happy to see anyone in his entire life, and he suspected the rest of his crew felt the same way.
"What took you so long?" he asked her in his characteristic manner.
"I was flossing," she replied with her maddening gapped-tooth smile.
Dayton shook his head at her, not wasting any more time on chitchat. "It's the bloody Clavis. It's infiltrated our systems, taking them over one by one until we were dead in the water. Then it took over Paddy." He waved a hand at Ryan, still physically attached to the Clavis, but looking wan and spent, as if his very life force was being devoured. "I don't know what he was thinking when he grabbed a hold of it, but he's been upright, comatose and shining like a neon cigar store Indian since he did."
"What is it, Ama?" Porter asked her.
"An ancient entity, Jimmy-Porter," she replied, the Oculus in her hand seeming to spark at one point, the light following the seemingly endless path of the intricate metal knot which comprised it, signifying a mystical eternity. "It feeds on whatever energy is available until sufficiently sufficed."
"You couldn't have mentioned this after Morlais?" Baker groused.
"I did not know its nature then," she replied.
"But you do now?" Apollo asked.
"I know many things now that I didn't before." She sighed, raising the Oculus in her hands, regarding it almost distastefully. "Maybe too many."
"Do you know if Starbuck and Dayton's daughter are still alive?" Apollo asked.
"Lauren," Dayton interjected.
"They're alive." Ama nodded.
"Are they in danger?" Dayton demanded.
"All of Earth is in danger, Mark-Dayton. The nature of Starbuck and your daughter put them more at risk than most. They are warriors for goodness and light."
"We don't have time for the mystical mumbo jumbo, Ama," Dayton told her. "We're in trouble. Real trouble."
"It is not the Clavis itself that attacks your ship, Mark-Dayton, it's the source of its power. A separate, yet symbiotic entity that once thrived contentedly on the collective psionic powers of the whole Espridian people, it became dormant for over a hundred yahrens after consuming the considerably more powerful quantifiable energy of Cylon mega-pulsar blasts and nuclear fusion warheads which destroyed the Espridian nation."
"Are you saying that after a long hibernation, this . . . this entity woke up hungry?" Dayton asked in disbelief, looking over at Baker and Porter. With Ryan, Malus and Jolly, they had brought it aboard the Endeavour to transport their ship through time and space, the way the Espridians had once done.
"And it's consuming all available energy sources, both mechanical and organic, in an attempt to regain those same energy levels as it acquired after the Cylon attack?" Apollo asked.
"Sounds like a junkie trying for an all-time high," Baker mused.
"So if it took a nuclear holocaust to put it into a state of dormancy the last time," Dorado said, "how the bloody hell do we stop it now?"
Ama smiled. "I do have an idea, but first I need to attend to Paddy-Ryan." She walked over to him, raising a hand towards his forehead, stopping just short of touching him. "Couldn't you have just told them that you sensed it was dangerous, Dear Heart?" She smiled slightly, her gaze flickering to Dayton and back. "Ah, yes. Then it would be Mark-Dayton standing here, and not you. I understand. Stubborn as a mountain caprine, you are."
She raised the Oculus in both hands, letting it rest just above the Clavis. The necromancer closed her eyes for a micron, and the metal thread of the Oculus sparked again, and then began to glow. Bit by bit, the infinite thread that wound its way through the intricate design began to shine resplendently. An eerie hum began to fill the air, and an electrical charge seemed to pass from one orb to the other, the spark constant between the two.
"How do you like that, Ancient One?" Ama said, slowly removing her hands from the Oculus, and dropping them to just above where Ryan's were resting on the Clavis. Impossibly, the Oculus stayed in place, suspended in mid-air over the Espridian orb. "Taste its power, Venerable One, feel its energy. So much better suited to one such as you over this old bucket of bolts and her crew."
"I hope to God she knows what she's doing," Dayton muttered, every muscle taut as he noticed the glowing light begin to retreat from where it had encroached on his bridge. It was as if the Oculus and the Clavis had formed some kind of energy conduit.
Then Ama drew in a deep breath, an almost angelic smile on her features, as she slipped her hands beneath Ryan's, breaking his contact with the Clavis. He slumped to the deck limply.
"Cassiopeia!" Dayton said sharply.
But the med tech was already at Ryan's side, her biomonitor in hand. One of these days she was going to get herself killed leaping into some unpredictable situation for the sake of a patient. Dayton was on his knees across from her a moment later, leaning over Ryan, feeling a warm breath on his cheek as he watched his friend's chest rise and fall. Ryan groaned quietly, his head lolling to one side. His eyelashes fluttered. Still, Dayton looked up at his lady expectantly.
"Well?"
"He seems fine," Cassie replied, shaking her head in confusion as she leaned back on her heels. "Bio-signs are reading normal. I don't understand. At the very least, his electrocardiogram should be irregular. But . . ."
"Man, that was some trip," Ryan murmured, raising a trembling hand to his face. "Reminds me of that Def Leppard concert in Halifax in 2000 . . ." He tried to rise.
"Idiot!" Dayton cursed him, grabbing two fistfuls of his friend's shirt. "What the hell did you think you were doing?"
"Hey, I didn't see it coming; she seemed like such a nice girl." Ryan blinked blearily, slurring his words, and gripping Dayton's hands. "Next thing I know, she's got my wallet, my clothes and my dignity. Shouldn't have started on that Acapulco Gold . . . Oh, Mexico." He began to sing quietly, smiling and closing his eyes."It sounds so simple I just got to go. The sun's so hot I forgot to go home. Guess I'll have to go now."
Dayton shook his head, letting his friend go. He could feel a strange prickling at the back of his neck . . .
"Commander," Apollo said tensely.
Dayton looked up, following Apollo's gaze to the necromancer standing above him. Like the Clavis and Oculus, her robes were glowing resplendently, but her face was also effulgent with a seraphic quality difficult to define. Her hands remained wrapped around the Clavis, as though she had simply taken Ryan's place as its latest organic victim. The difference being that while Paddy had looked haggard and drawn, Ama looked magnificent, as though she was the benefactor of the latest exchange of energy.
"Cassiopeia," Dayton murmured in warning, backing up. He reached an arm around Paddy, pulling him along the deck as the three retreated. His friend was still singing softly, doing a passable James Taylor.
"Americano got the sleepy eye, but his body's still shaking like a live wire. Sleepy Senorita with the eyes on fire." Ryan opened his eyes again, looking directly at Ama. "Oh, Mexico. It sounds so sweet with the sun sinking low. Moon's so bright like to light up the night. Make everything all right."
"Ama?" Apollo said.
"The life force of endless ages," she said, her grey eyes snapping open. "I didn't realize how intoxicating it could be. I suppose there are some things that one must figure out for herself."
"Ama . . ." Dayton growled, getting a bad feeling about this.
She smiled at him then, holding his gaze for a long moment before looking back at the Oculus. It was still suspended in place over the Clavis, a sparking energy current pulsing between the two. Ama pursed her lips slightly, as if to gently blow.
Abruptly, the Oculus dropped, and a blinding blaze of energy engulfed them all.