Samael Asar's private office in the United Nations Complex was sparingly decorated, but with the finest quality and most discriminating taste of furniture and art, appealing to a sensibility that Baltar had acquired during his mortal life. While the names were new to him, the styles were not: A gold leaf rubbed Louis XIV desk below a Raphael on one side of the room, with both a Rembrandt and a verMeer on the other; a liquor cabinet, fully stocked with only the very best; glasses of hideously expensive lead crystal, over three hundred years old, and once the property of Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte; a conference table looted from an Italian Palazzo; books both rare and rich that filled a cabinet which had once graced the private apartments of Lorenzo the Magnificent; and a map of the world, drawn by the hand of the great Amerigo Vespucci himself. Above a fireplace was a portrait of the French Emperor himself, Jacques-Louis David's Napoleon Crossing The Alps. He wondered for a moment, as he assimilated this knowledge, if Asar took the same pleasure in the pieces that Baltar once had—pleasure in art and beauty, appreciation for the glorious talent of these craftsmen—or if he decorated his office with them merely because he somehow felt it was his due as Secretary-General of the United Nations.
Or if maybe it was all just ego.
The UN leader breezed into the room, heading straight for his desk. Once there, he accessed his computer, and a holoprojection come up of a dark-skinned man. Asar started talking through some communicator that Baltar couldn't even see. Apparently, Asar was mid-conversation, and for the sake of propriety was now face to face with the person he was speaking to.
"Yes, this Captain Starbuck seemed most convincing, but it seems there is much that he didn't tell us, and I for one, don't trust him. The way Lucifer tells it, presuming we can ward off a Colonial invasion, there are over a hundred thousand desperate refugees out there making their way towards Earth, victims of so-called Colonial brotherhood, Dosanjh. A hundred thousand! Can you imagine that? It's an immigration nightmare!" Asar snorted briefly. "Think about the reaction of the average citizen every time Boat People show up in your waters currently, jumping the queue. Imagine the vitriolic criticism when these refugees from the stars start arriving. And that's the best case scenario, assuming Earth isn't completely destroyed by then. These Cylons are our best chance at defending ourselves from both situations. Lucifer has already assured me he'll arrange to have Cylon military ships turn away any potential star refugees bent on abusing our goodwill, the media need not even know about it. Apparently, there are plenty of other planets in this part of the Milky Way which they could settle on without leeching off of us." He paused. "Yes, you think about it some more, my friend. I'll speak with you later, when Lucifer has made contact with his Cylon friends. My regards to your lovely Parminder, as always."
He nodded once, closing the discussion, then gave his computer screen his complete attention. After checking his correspondence, he finally paused to regard the security feed of Starbuck's Espridian Wraith, still under guard at the front of the UN Complex. Asar's face was impassive as he studied the alien ship. The dark-skinned man looked younger than his seventy yahrens, his hair still mostly black and his physique fit. Assuming political control of his planet apparently agreed with his constitution.
Baltar sauntered over, settling himself in the chair—once the property of Catherine The Great—opposite the powerful Earthman's desk. Asar couldn't see him. Yet. Timing was critical. As Baltar had learned from a thousand business and bureaucratic deals, the moment had to be just right.
Across from him, Asar gasped aloud as he watched the screen. His face twisted in angry disbelief, and he swore in his native Arabic. He reached for the communication device on his desk . . .
"That won't be necessary," Baltar told him, smiling as the other gasped again, this time in consternation, as he looked around trying to place the unknown voice. Baltar touched the bureautician's hand. "And now you can see me, Samael Asar."
Asar's mouth gaped open and he leapt to his feet in shock as he beheld the Being of Light in front of him. John was right. This really was the best part . . .
"Who are you? How did you get here?" Asar demanded, a glimmer of fear lurking just below the surface of his outrage.
"The same way Captain Starbuck's ship just disappeared before your security cameras," Baltar replied reasonably. He stood. "Allow me to introduce myself, Secretary-General Asar. I am Count Baltar."
"Count Baltar?"
"One, two, three, four, five . . ." the reformed traitor of humanity smiled lazily as the other stared at him dumbfounded. Then the look of realization and indignation that abruptly crossed Asar's face made Baltar laugh out loud. It reminded him all too much of himself at another time. He sat again, linking his fingers together, and leaning forward. "My apologies. Apparently, I've been spending too much time with a baser level of humanity. Where I come from, one goes where one is assigned."
"Who are you? What are you doing here?" Asar's hand hovered over a security alert pad on his desk.
Baltar shook his head. "I assure you, that won't be necessary. I won't harm you. I'm not actually capable of harming you." He hesitated for a moment, while the other pulled back his hand ever so slightly. "That's better. For the sake of simplicity, your people would refer to me as an angel, a Being of Light. My purpose here is to prevent you from selling out your people, as I once did mine."
"An angel . . . selling out . . ." Asar's lips continued to move, but no sound came out. Until: "You're insane!"
"Count Iblis can be very persuasive, no matter what form he takes," Baltar assured him, recognizing how the bureautician suddenly paid rapt attention when the name "Iblis" passed his lips. "Oh yes. He and I are old . . . acquaintances. And by the time he finally approaches you, you have already realized that you are different from your peers, better . . . more deserving of prominence and recognition. You are a breed apart, singled out by the gods, predestined for a position of supreme eminence." Asar narrowed his eyes. "Iblis promises power. Riches beyond belief. He vows he will spare those under your immediate protection, those that your somewhat limited conscience keep in mind during the negotiations. Speaking for myself, I was so overcome by my own importance and by his reliance on me that I believed everything he said. Does that sound familiar, Asar?" Baltar asked, seeing the answer plainly written on the other's face. If he looked hard enough, he could see Asar bowing down before Iblis, granting him dominion. "But the power is Iblis' alone; the riches a lie; and the death of your own humanity and civilization, the only certainty."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Asar grunted, but his pallor and hesitation to call for help said otherwise.
"Captain Starbuck told your people the truth. The Cylon, Lucifer, is not the Light Bearer that you believe him to be, but another instrument of evil utilized by Count Iblis to do his bidding." Baltar paused. "As are you, Asar."
"I do no man's bidding, save my own!" Asar avowed.
"Yes, I said the same," Baltar said bitterly, "but then Iblis is not a mortal man. My own ego would not let me believe I was being tricked by a creature so old and so evil that many were afraid to even utter his name aloud."
"Bah! Supernatural nonsense!"
"Is it?" Baltar asked. "Then tell me where Captain Starbuck's ship went." He nodded towards the vid feed that showed security personnel running around in an almost comedic way at the front of the UN, trying to find the spacecraft. "Explain to me how the Endeavour Space Shuttle could suddenly reappear forty-four of your years after it disappeared. Rationalize why every termination or frame-up you've recently ordered has failed. Tell me it was simply a coincidence that at the very time a nuclear accident occurred at Barstow Station on Mars, a Colonial vessel arrived in time to save the survivors, also recovering proof that an ancient civilization had once thrived there."
Asar's mouth dropped open, his face even more a mask of shock. He sat heavily in his chair.
"Yes. We know about that as well." He waved a hand and Asar's holoprojection flickered to a new image. They could see the damaged base on Mars, the corpses of those murdered inside, the mountains of treasure in the ancient tomb, and many other of his group's "secrets". Now, it appeared, they were secret no longer. "There are powerful forces representing both good and evil in our universe, Asar. Strangely, even learned men have difficulty telling them apart." He glanced up at the Raphael, Madonna dei Garofani, then pointed a finger at the man. "You are on the wrong side."
Asar opened his mouth, but only a gurgle passed his lips. He swallowed.
"Only once did Count Iblis speak the truth to me. He said I would go down in history," Baltar continued. "And I did. Amongst the scant remains of my people I will forevermore be known as Count Baltar: the Betrayer of Mankind." He drew in a ragged breath. "Eternity is a long time to churn in the acrid depths of guilt and regret, Asar, forever humbly trying to repay your debt." Asar stared at him in a fascinated horror. Baltar stood again. "But I have not come simply to berate you—although you certainly deserve it—instead, I offer you a gift, Samael Asar."
"A . . . a gift?"
"Yes, a cherished gift. A gift I wish someone had offered me before my ego became the instrument of death for billions." He swallowed down his self-loathing, remembering when Ama had finally considered him worthy of consideration for redemption. He had to prevent Asar from following the same path he had once chosen. He had to prevent history from repeating itself on this side of the galaxy. "I offer you the opportunity to change your mind before it is too late. Too late for your immortal soul, and too late for the people of Earth. Decide."
xxxxx
"First stop, explosives and sundry items," Ensign Acastus quipped, sweeping the room with his weapon as he paused in the hatchway. Alas, it had been decided that solenite charges were not part of the requisite survival gear carried by an Endeavour pilot. It was an oversight in Acastus' opinion, and one he'd be certain to mention to his superior officer at the next opportunity.
Provided he got one.
So far their luck had held as they made their way from Beta Bay to the armoury. As bizarre as it seemed, they'd managed to avoid engaging any Cylons. It raised the question, just where did centurions go when they finished patrol? Did they have a barracks, like human pilots? Did they get debriefed, and then put on some sort of stand-by? Perhaps, like human warriors, they had other duties beyond flying combat? It made him realize how little, after a thousand yahrens of war, they actually knew about their enemies.
"It's exactly where the armoury is on the Endeavour," Trevanian said, standing at the hatchway. It was a non-descript door, labelled, imaginatively, ARMOURY. Mentally crossing his fingers, he keyed in the code to the panel. After what seemed like an eternity, the panel beeped, a flashing light stabilized and the door slid open. After a last check of the corridor, they stepped into the room and began to collect solenite charges.
"Did you ever think you could learn to appreciate the monotony of Cylon design?" Lambda joked, picking up a pulse rifle, weighing it in one hand.
"Or the fact that Malus was right about the slight variation in the Abaddon-class access codes from one ship to another," Trevanian returned. The IL had identified the correlation after "plugging in" to the Harbinger's systems over Morlais.
"I sure won't complain," said Xenia.
"What do you wanna bet their ships were built by the lowest bidder?" Acastus grinned, examining the timers on the charges.
"Do Cylons bid?"
"Only at a pyramid table, according to Starbuck."
"I just hope they're agreeable to sticking with our plan and allowing us to blow up the mega-pulsars," Cadet Teles said lightly, pushing a tendril of blonde hair back from her forehead as she moved to help Trevanian.
"Hopefully, they read the rewrites for the new script," Xenia added as she kept watch by the door.
"All right, everyone, listen up," Acastus ordered. "Those Raiders will be refuelling and getting ready for another attack on Earth. So while our centurion counterparts are getting briefed, lubed, recharged or whatever it is they do, getting around on this barge should be relatively easy. These guys don't exactly have the change of shift running around, overcrowding the corridors, if you know what I mean. He pulled the data pad from the holster on his leg. Holding it up, he said, "Okay, team, one more time." He pressed a key and a holographic image sprouted to life. The same with the rest. The image of the Ravager zoomed in to magnify a section off the Main Engineering room.
"Yes?" asked Lambda.
"Highlighted in red," said Acastus as a flashing red dot indicated the area under discussion. "This is the main power conduit trunk from the Engineering Section to the pulsar batteries." The view shifted once more. "Unlike the more recent ships, this older model has less redundancy in the internal power distribution net. It's part of the reason they scrapped them and developed the Hades-class. As you can see here, just three metrons aft of the main ammunition hoist, the power conduit splits at this relay station." Once more the view shifted, zooming in on a mass of equipment and accessways. "The main power conduit for the pulsars splits at this point, one going up, the other down."
"On the Hades-class vessels, there are several redundant back-up energizers near both pulsars," said Trevanian. "Power loss can be rectified quickly."
"Exactly," continued Acastus. "But on this class of ship, there are only half as many back-up energizers, and they have a lower rating than that of the newer ships. Meaning that if we blow the power conduits here . . ." he zoomed in again on the relay junction. "power to both upper and lower pulsar batteries will be knocked out."
"And," Trevanian picked up, "if the blast is powerful enough, there should be enough blow-back into the energizers to cause massive overloads all over the ship."
"But, we must be certain, so we still set charges at each pulsar," said Acastus. "Each battery is cooled by vent shafts, here . . ." the holograph moved in, "so climb up there and set your charges. Okay, everyone know what's what?" Apparently they all did. "Final checks on the equipment which the Imperious Leader has so kindly provided for us."
They did so.
"Ready," they all verified within a centon.
"Now," said Acastus, "once we set the charges and make it back to the bay, we don't want their fighters taking off, if we can help it. With whatever charges you have left, tail-pipe any Cylon fighters you can. Once they fire up their engines, the heat . . ."
"Kaboom!" smiled Xenia.
"Right. Kaboom! We do it right and the launch bays will be out of commission until they control the fires. Okay team, Lambda, you two take the Upper Pulsar Station. Xenia and I will take the Lower."
"What about us?" Ensign Trevanian asked as Cadet Ligea cocked her head to listen. Then he grinned. "We get to be Starbuck and Apollo?"
"You owe me, buddy," Acastus chuckled at the other's excitement at having the chance to recreate what was possibly the best-known tactical infiltration mission in the Fleet. "You get the scanners." On the holoreader, he swept the image to an area just above the control centre. On the other side of the bulkhead were the massive data lines and control cables that tied the computers and scanners together. Completely reconfigured on the newer ships, this was a vulnerability not to be passed up. "You guys move down this ventilation duct, part of the cooling system for the computers. Place your charges on these cable trunks here . . . and here, and then get the Hades Hole outta Cyrannis. When the Endeavour arrives, we want to give her every advantage we can. Any questions?"
"Won't Commander Dayton be testy if we destroy the Base Ship for him?"
"Yeah, the way he tells it," Trevanian grinned, "that's his favourite part."
"Mine too," Acastus grinned broadly, raking a hand back through his hair, inadvertently mimicking his strike captain. "I'm willing to live with the consequences. Anything else?"
"Yes. While the Cylons are refuelling and getting ready to attack Earth, the chance that some centurions might stumble upon our Hybrids inadvertently is pretty high. What do we do when they notice the adaptations and report them to their commander?" Xenia asked sceptically.
Acastus opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
"That's a damn good question, Xenia," Trevanian said, a faint shadow of concern crossing his dark features. "I never thought of that."
"I suppose I figured that if the Hybrids didn't give us away, that the frackin' big explosions blowing the top and bottom off this base ship just might," Acastus finally inserted, pausing as a couple of the others chuckled. "When we're done setting the timers, we head for the nearest landing bay and take whatever fighters we can get to get out of here."
"And how will the Endeavour be able to tell us from the rest of them when we try to land again?" Xenia asked cynically.
Five bright young faces lit up with exuberance as they replied together, "We waggle!"
Xenia couldn't help but grin at their enthusiasm in the face of danger. "You guys are having way too much fun . . ."
xxxxx
Lauren would only have a couple minutes before she was blindfolded again. Flanked by two of Shahhosseini's bodyguards, she sighed loudly, checking the messages on her sat-phone as she took the elevator from the penthouse down to the garage. How her sister had time to pester her incessantly about accepting General Roach's offer of a safe house, while simultaneously running the operations of WASA, while at the same time fending off everybody else who wanted a piece of her time, she'd never figure out. Then again, Jess was the multi-tasker and worrier in the family. Even when they were kids. Write an essay, download her favourite tunes, talk with her boyfriend, all while watching TV. God knows how she managed it.
Lauren pushed her dark brown hair back from her face, closing her eyes wearily. She smiled humourlessly, as she digested the mind-numbing fact that it was the Prince of Darkness, literally, who had been responsible for taking her father away from her at such an early age. Ironically, yet another generation of the Dayton family was embroiled in an ongoing war with Count Iblis, as they fought to expose long-hidden secrets regarding who was really ruling the planet and towards what end.
The elevator stopped, and the doors slid open. She suddenly found herself staring down the barrel of a semi-automatic while Shahosseini's guards stepped back. Part of her mind at once noted it was a Makarov 9mm, the Baikal-442 sporting version with the silencer from Hell. It was a nice piece, and should have been in a collection somewhere. Instead of here, pointed at her . . .
"Whoops, wrong floor," she said, wishing the elevator wasn't pre-programmed from the other end. Damn Eckandar! He'd obviously gone along with this. She couldn't go anywhere and she didn't have anything to defend herself with. Such accoutrements weren't permitted in Shahhosseini's presence.
"Depends on your point of view, Ms. Dayton," replied a man in a dark suit. Short-cropped black hair, overcoat heavy but open, and mirrored sunglasses that gave nothing away. Cruelty with a smile. "Step out of the elevator, if you please, or we'll shoot you dead right now."
"Tell Eckandar the book deal is off," she said over her shoulder to the bodyguards as she stepped forward. "He can write his own damn biography."
xxxxx
Flat on his back, his body heavy and tingling, his vision blurred, his stomach roiling, drool running down the right side of his jaw, Mark Dayton awakened feeling as though two lightning bolts had just played tug-a-war with him. There was a low groan to his right. It took some concerted effort for him to recover enough motor function so he finally could turn his head. Even then, he had to blink several times before he could focus in on Colonel Apollo. His executive officer was inch by inch raising himself up onto all fours from the Control Centre deck, breathing labouredly and shaking his head like a dazed dog.
"C'mnder . . ." Apollo muttered thickly, noticing Dayton watching his progress, or lack thereof. "C . . . ."
"Y'kay?" Dayton managed, feeling as though his tongue was an alien piece of flesh, sitting in his mouth, just taking up space. The thought nauseated him. Actually, so did the lights, the sounds, the smells, breathing . . . All around the bridge, the rest of them seemed to be either in a similar state or completely unconscious. "Wh'ar we?"
"Nah shthh-ure," Apollo replied, tediously forcing himself back onto his haunches where he stopped and rested from his efforts. All around them, familiar lights and sounds indicated that the Endeavour's systems seemed to be powering back up. It was a damn shame the crew wasn't.
Dayton couldn't even begin to explain what had just happened. Ama, now conspicuously absent, had dropped the Oculus onto the Clavis, and then their world had seemed to explode. It was hard to figure out, but he'd felt as though he'd being jerked through a shredder, ripped back and forth between time and space, caught in some kind of battle of power between celestial entities.
Dayton tried to turn over and failed, while beside him Apollo was gruellingly pushing himself to his feet. Here Dayton was on the deck, weak as a kitten, while Colonial Kid Invincible was about to stand up and start dancing. Yeah, it would be nice to be thirty-something again.
"Wh'ar we?" Dayton asked Apollo again.
The colonel took a clumsy step forward and fell flat on his face.
Dayton tried hard not to feel vindicated . . . and failed.
xxxxx
Still soaked to the skin, Starbuck barely gave McGuire Air Force Base a cursory glance in the night lighting as the gunship headed in for a landing. The general layout was not unlike bases back home, and Lords, he'd seen enough of those. By now they'd heard the latest reports from WASA, which had been independently confirmed by another agency called NORAD, that the Cylon Base Ship was now in Earth's orbit, and a squadron of Cylon fighters was standing by to attack. Jess Dayton was certain it was the Ravager and not the Endeavour, but Starbuck couldn't be so sure about the sudden appearance of fighters, which had without warning appeared near Earth's moon. The only ways to find out for certain, other than waiting for the inevitable attack, was either through an attempt at communications, or to go up there himself and take a look. But so far no one in orbit was responding to the codes he had volunteered and spaceworthy ships, at least as he defined the term, seemed few and far between in twenty-first century Earth.
The skin on his chest prickled irritably, and he scratched it idly through his unbuttoned shirt, as the powerful Earth ship near the ground. So far there had been no luck retrieving his Wraith from the well-guarded fortress of the United Nations, which seemingly only let down their guard when there were snipers nearby attempting to assassinate innocent and unsuspecting Colonial strike captains. Meanwhile, according to his chrono, there was only about seven centars until the Clavis self-initiated its way back to the other side of the galaxy. That wasn't a lot of time. Lords, but he wished he knew what was going on up there . . .
A hand clamped down on his shoulder. He knew it was Dickins. Mitch was resting fitfully nearby and would be just fine. Ryan was huddled in a blanket, recovering from his near drowning, and Hummer was actually dozing, apparently lulled to sleep by the motion of the attack helicopter . . . or his exhaustion. Starbuck turned his head to raise an eyebrow in question at the Earthling.
"What do you think?" Dick asked, shifting his weight as the gunship set down.
Starbuck shook his head, giving a half-hearted shrug, feeling the wetness of his shirt cling to his skin. He had no way of knowing what would happen next. It was a waiting game. "Fortunately, improvisation is my specialty."
"I thought dumb luck was your specialty."
Starbuck smiled. "Maybe that's why improvisation works so well for me."
Dickens smiled thoughtfully, squeezing Starbuck's shoulder and pushing him towards the door as it slid open. Starbuck disembarked, running a hand idly over his stubbly face as he hit the tarmac. A shave would have to wait, but dry clothes were imperative.
"Hit the dirt!" Roach suddenly shouted from behind him.
Everyone around Starbuck dropped to the ground, while he was still trying to figure out why he should be abusing the landscape. A languaphone failure. He was about to follow their lead when his skin began to crawl, and he turned to see a bizarre shimmering effect eclipsing part of the lit runway.
"What the . . .!" someone yelled.
"Ama . . ." he murmured, squinting against the coalescing evanescence. He rubbed the innervated scar on his chest, knowing she was somehow behind this. Then he slowly started jogging towards the anomaly.
"Starbuck! Get back here!" Roach was yelling from behind him.
The general was getting a little demanding for a guy who technically had no authority over him.
A few microns later, two shapes began to emerge from the diffuse light, taking form. Starbuck's heart leapt and his pace picked up. They were Wraiths!
"Ama, I could kiss you!" he declared as he entered the code to open the canopy. His foot hit the solid metal of the Espridian recon ship and after a quick leap he was peering into the cockpit. It was empty. It was his. He dropped to the tarmac again, ducking under the ship's nose and once again entering a code on her sistership. This time when he looked into the cockpit, he saw the helmet of a Colonial Warrior. "Lu!"
She didn't respond, and he quickly pressed his fingers to her neck, detecting a reassuring pulse there. He recalled feeling a little discombobulated himself when he'd been pulled from Kazakhstan airspace to Nevada. Then he had associated it with the Clavis. This time, as an outsider, he'd thought it had something to do with Ama. But then again, every time the scar on his chest—burnt there by his Empyrean talisman—bothered him, he associated it with the Empyrean necromancer. It occurred to him it could be a sign or portent . . . either that or he was getting a rash.
"Wake up, sweetheart," he said quietly, gently releasing her harness and undoing the chin strap holding her helmet in place.
Her shaking hands came up to grasp his own. Finally, together they pulled off her helmet. Her head lolled forward before jerking back, like a person catching herself falling asleep. It took a few more microns before she focussed on him, a relieved smile lighting her beautiful face. A milli-centon after that, he was catching her as she leapt into his embrace.
"Innamorato . . ." she whispered throatily.
"Miss me?"
She squeezed him harder, and the twinge of pain in his chest somehow seemed more tolerable this time around. He laughed aloud as she filled his arms and his heart. "Thank the Lords you're okay, Lu," he murmured, stroking her silken hair. "Welcome to Earth."
She laughed too, pulling back to drink in the sight of this planet they had been journeying to for so long. Then she glanced back at him and startled, before looking at him searchingly. Her hand gently caressed the shadow of a bruise on his face. Her radiant smile disappeared and she frowned as she obviously took in his sodden state and his array of contusions. "What the frack happened to you?"
"Earth did," he replied soberly. "But I'm fine now. We're with allies." He nodded towards the approaching soldiers.
It didn't take long for them to make introductions, exchange information and for Luana to brief him on the dire situation with the Endeavour, as she knew it, and that the squadron of Cylon fighters scanned near the moon were most probably Hybrids. Starbuck hadn't noticed they'd reverted to Colonial Standard, but Roach's scowling face finally tweaked him to his oversight.
"Sorry, General. I was just saying to my wife that I think it would be best if I took my Wraith back up there to find out the current situation from Lieutenant Rooke." He turned to take a look at his Wraith, ready to begin his pre-flight checks. In his survival gear was an extra pressure suit, but he'd still need to get some dry clothes or he'd begin to chafe.
"I don't think so, Captain," Roach replied in a low, dangerous voice.
That was it! Lords, but he was sick of Roach pulling rank on him when they weren't even in the same military. "Now look, Roach . . ." He pivoted back.
And found himself staring down the barrel of the general's deadly weapon.