"Revel in the power, Ama. Feel it! Feel it coursing through you," Iblis said, his words seeming to echo through the ages, reverberating through the very corridors of time. "Together, we will be invincible. This is your destiny, daughter, you have only to seize it!" He reached out his hand to her. The aura around him glowed with such energy, such barely harnessed power, that no mortal could have looked upon it.
Ama laughed, filled to capacity with the headiest feeling of pleasure and contentment she had ever known. Her grey eyes twinkled with devilry as she pirouetted gracefully, like a young girl, tossing the Oculus high above her like a plaything. "They're all just peons, really, compared to us, Father. They really are, aren't they?" She stopped, and looked at Iblis, her expression like a child, uncovering some new wonder. "Why do we even bother with them? Are you so bored that they seem interesting to you?" She laughed, and it tinkled enchantingly like the spilling of water over silver. "Come, take me on a real adventure, Father! Teach me all that you know, the places that you have been, show me all that you've born witness to. There is so much I have yet to see . . ."
Iblis smiled in satisfaction as she took his hand.
He had her!
xxxxx
Running at full ECM, Luana throttled back as she came in from behind the Ravager, where there were far fewer signs of battle damage. On her wide course around the short-lived battle, she had had time to observe the damage sustained by both vessels. So far, they were definitely emerging the victors. On the Cylon ship, the hangar door to each still-functional landing bay was closed, preventing access. The Cylons knew that humans had already smuggled themselves aboard, and no matter how impossible it seemed during a capital ship battle, Commander Syphax wasn't about to let them get away with it again.
Or so the IL thought.
"This better work, Dorado, or my husband will kill you," Luana murmured, her ship moving ever closer to the closed hangar door. She reduced speed so she was merely drifting towards the menacing behemoth, moving at only a few centimetrons per centon, relative. It went against every instinct.
In the worst-case scenario she would nudge the Base Ship, certainly pick up a dent or two. She was sure the Espridian craft could withstand a smooch with a Cylon capital ship, no matter how revolting the thought. However, if Dorado was right, that wasn't going to happen.
It had only been a few days before they launched on this mission that Dorado had received his newly constructed cybernetic eye from Malus. She'd known that the captain had been afflicted with headaches from his temporary prosthesis, as his nervous system adjusted to the artificial presence. To his credit, their resident IL had worked tirelessly to improve the bridge officer's situation, both medically and aesthetically.
Typically, Starbuck had talked Dorado into "taking a spin" in a Hybrid fighter, the first time the Colonial Warrior had co-piloted anything since his near fatal accident on Planet 'P'. Not that it had taken a lot of persuading, actually. The man missed being in a cockpit so much, he could almost smell the tylium fumes in his sleep. It was while he was out there that Dorado had noticed that when Luana did a fly by in the Wraith on full ECM that he could see a slight ripple in space with his naked eye, but that his cybernetic eye couldn't detect a thing. At the time he'd reasoned he merely needed to get accustomed to his new "eye", or perhaps it needed some slight adjustments. However, later when he mentioned it to the IL, Malus had theorized that Cylon optical sensors functioned outside of those wavelons of Espridian origin. Further, Malus suggested that with an ECM so advanced as to make a ship escape even the most sophisticated detection, there was only one reasonable explanation. The Wraiths could actually travel and exist within an alternate quantum reality while at the same time travelling through this one. From a human's narrow point of view, it was much easier to rationalize that the Espridian ECM was "top notch", rather than consider a seemingly impossible alternative.
But hey, whatever worked.
Luana sucked in a deep breath, feeling a shiver pass through her as the Wraith nosed forward, melting into the hull. It was a little too close to what she and Starbuck had undergone a few sectars ago over Planet 'P', being molecularly disassembled and then reconstructed again in the Dynamo network. Instinctively, she closed her eyes as the recon ship kept advancing, cutting through solid metal as easily as a boat through the ocean.
When she opened her eyes again, she was in the landing bay. She shouldn't have been surprised that it was empty. After all, every available centurion they had left had to be either manning a weapons station or attempting to control the fires raging around the ship.
Adroitly, she brought the Wraith in for a landing in the empty bay. After selecting a spot on the deck, then powering down, she sat in the cockpit for several microns before opting to leave her auxiliary power on and her ECM running. It was something that she admittedly hadn't even thought about doing before, but the mere fact that it seemed to be possible led her to believe that the Espridians had once left their ships "camouflaged" in this way while they explored other worlds. The problem was, of course, that she didn't have any personal Espridian force field that she could hide beneath once she left the relative safety of her Wraith.
Not deterred, she opened her canopy, reaching beneath her seat and pulling out her survival pack before agilely scrambling down from the cockpit. She pulled the burdensome pack on, instinctively checking the Colonial blasters on either thigh and the solenite charges on her belt. A quick glance back at the Wraith revealed only a barely detectable ripple in the air. Determined to come back, she checked a couple of landmarks, silently hoping no centurions came along and blundered into it.
Then she headed for the brig.
xxxxx
The Endeavour shuddered under the impact of the Ravager's lasers, but their shields were holding. Damage was negligible, and they were drawing the enemy further away from Earth. For now the trick was to stay out of the effective range of the Cylon mega pulsar, while trying to appear that they were attempting to lock on with their own, while in reality Dayton really just wanted to keep the orbiting killer away from his home world long enough to effect a rescue for their cadets.
Strategy wasn't just about overall planning; rather it required quick and appropriate responses to changing conditions. If anyone had told him a year ago that he'd be risking the lives of billions of Earthmen for a handful of young Colonial Warriors, he'd probably have punched them. Or told them they'd been sampling too much asteroid whiskey.
Even now, analysing it all, he wondered how he'd been talked into this. You're getting soft in your old age, Dayton.
"Commander, forward lasers locked on," Dorado reported somewhat reluctantly from the Endeavour's Control Centre. "We're at full power."
Dayton nodded, glancing at the data scrolling up his screen on the enemy vessel. Between the mega-pulsar blowing and the other hits she'd suffered at their hand, if they battered her any harder the old Ravager would be blown to Hell, unfortunately taking their cadets with her. Telemetry told the tale as they watched the fiery red glow indicating that severe damage had been done to the enemy warship. Visually, they could see the ruptured hull plates and the shedding debris from the blast that silenced the weapon. "We need to give them some time, Captain. Stand by. But if there's even the slightest inkling they're going to use their lower mega-pulsar, hit them with everything we've got."
"I figured you'd say that, sir," Dorado replied.
"You'd better be right about this, El Dorado," the Earthman said after another moment. He glanced at those arriving in the Control Centre, shaking his head at what was yet to come. It was like a scene out of Galaxy Quest, only real life wasn't supposed to be a sci-fi comedy . . .
Dorado swallowed hard, leaning forward over the console. "Don't I know it."
xxxxx
"By-your-command."
"Speak, Centurion," Syphax ordered, almost wearily. Sometimes protocol was so tiresome. Especially when dealing with these dim-bulbed centurions.
"The-Harrower-is-withdrawing, Commander."
"Withdrawing?" Syphax turned around, head snapping up. "What?"
"Affirmative. They-are-withdrawing."
"Why?"
"Unknown."
Emergency crews and automated fire and damage control were failing at containing the fires raging throughout the Ravager. Their shields were down to barely ten percent. Electromagnetic impulses levelled at Earth to disrupt their defensive weaponry were intermittent, at best. And the somewhat lacklustre and feeble attack by their counterpart had still done enough damage that about the last thing the IL had expected was a retreat. Something peculiar was happening aboard that Base Ship.
"Incoming-message-from-Harrower, Commander."
"On screen, Centurion."
"By-your-command."
A micron later Syphax was gazing in astonishment at the melee in the Harrower's Control Centre. Lasers were firing erratically and smoke was belching from consoles and downed centurions. Several humans lay unmoving, presumably dead. One human seemed to be engaged in arm-to-arm combat with a Cylon, the two spinning in a tight circle. Another centurion was moving to attack a human with his sword. Then, in a burst of static, the screen went dark.
Had he made a tactical error?
"Humans-have-boarded-the-Harrower-as-well," one centurion helpfully pointed out to him. "They-are-under-attack."
"I realize that now, you idiot!" Syphax replied. "Hold fire! Recall all Raiders!"
"By-your . . ."
"Yes! My command! I know!"
xxxxx
The detonator cords embedded in the F-35s glass blew, cracking the canopy along the edges and down the centre line, as the ejection seat punched its way out of the disintegrating aircraft. All in all, it had worked a damn sight better than the ejection seat in his Viper back on Atilla, Starbuck reckoned. Yes, much better, considering that on that occasion, it hadn't worked at all, and he'd come down in a Cylon-infested swamp! He clenched his stomach muscles as he was catapulted through the air while his fighter spiralled downwards in a trail of debris, fire and smoke. He couldn't help but look upward, abruptly inspired to renew his faith in the Almighty, as he waited for his drogue parachute to open.
A welcome jolt indicated his chute had indeed deployed, and he let out a relieved breath as his lofty descent was slowed. The gentle rocking motion was so diametrically opposed to the battle going on around him that he almost laughed aloud.
Until he lurched suddenly sideways at approximately mach one point eight.
"Fra-ack!"
xxxxx
"Colonel!" Dietra exclaimed. "You've got to see this!"
"I see it . . . but I don't believe it!" Apollo replied, eyes glued to the scene unfolding before them. One missile and one Raider were out of the fight, but so was Starbuck.
"What the hell?" Baker muttered from the third seat, behind them. "Star . . . what is it with that guy?"
"It could only happen to Starbuck," Dietra concluded, shaking her head.
One moment they were marvelling that the Endeavour strike captain had actually survived his close encounter with a missile, which had blown up the Raider he was targeting. The next, they were watching with jaws agape as the warrior's ejector seat had been caught up in something an F-35 was trailing, pulling him along behind it, his chute now a tangled mess as he disappeared into the wisps of a cloudbank.
"Must be the decoy towline," Baker suggested.
"The what?" Apollo asked, carefully eying up one of the two remaining missiles on a downward trajectory as he fired his lasers. The missile exploded in a billowing plume of fire and smoke. Two down, one to go.
"Nice shooting, Colonel!" Dietra enthused.
"Decoy drones," Baker replied, clapping Apollo briefly on the shoulder in congratulations. "They're released for countermeasures, creating a radar image to mimic the aircraft. They get dragged about a hundred of your metrons behind the aircraft on a thin cable. That's the towline," the Earthman explained, as the distance between them and the city narrowed. "It's non-metallic and made of radar-absorbent materials. At least our scanning equipment can't pick it up."
"Can they release it?" Dietra asked, holding her breath as another F-35 fired on the remaining missile. It looked too close . . . Sure enough, the missile exploded, its blast radius enveloping the Earth ship. She flinched and sucked in a breath between her teeth, momentarily wondering if it had been heroic sacrifice or bad judgment. Three missiles down, two Raiders to go.
"Sure," Baker replied after a pause. "But do you want him to drop from twenty thousand feet?"
"Not this centon, but ask me again tomorrow," she replied lightly, her eyes narrowing. "How does it work? He actually goes down in the ejector seat?" She frowned. "I'm not sure that I like that."
"There's probably a sequencer that senses altitude and speed," Baker explained. "Normally, the drogue chute would slow him enough that the automatic system would release the harness and the arm and leg restraints. Then the main chute would open, pulling him from the seat. But that's just not going to happen . . ."
Apollo spared her a glance. "Baker, try to raise the pilot. Let him know he's dragging Starbuck behind him."
"Down one chute with the sequence all screwed up, Starbuck might not survive the fall, Apollo, and I hate to tell you, but that pilot is the one best situated to catch up with those Cylons right now. He isn't going to slow down."
"I know, but we still need to warn him. If the Cylons plan on doing a strafing run, they'll need to get a lot lower to the ground."
"You figure he can release the towline then," Baker ventured.
"Especially if we're still over a body of water."
"Right! Modern ejection seats are equipped with automatic life raft inflation units. If the fall isn't too far or fast . . ."
"Exactly. It's the best chance he has," Apollo replied tensely.
xxxxx
The pavement exploded in a blinding swath of destruction that tore through Manhattan. Lauren lay dazed in the backseat of the overturned sedan just long enough to realize that the Cylons were ripping apart the heart of New York City. She forced her sluggish limbs to respond, climbing out through the shattered rear window, wiping at a trail of blood that trickled down her forehead. One of the occupants had a piece of windshield rammed through his eye. She didn't even taken the time to figure out if her captors were still alive. It wasn't like she was going to offer them her assistance, after all.
People all around her were screaming in terror, the rest were dead, incinerated by Cylon lasers, burned to death in their vehicles, or buried under flaming rubble. How a vibrant neighbourhood could be completely erased off the map with one strike from a futuristic weapon was mind numbing. She covered her mouth, fighting back the tears that were welling up in her eyes. The acrid smoke from burning debris and burning flesh made her cough and choke, as she ran back down the street in the direction they'd come from, joining the terrified fleeing masses. Somewhere in the back of her mind beyond the horror she realized that complete chaos was an effective distraction to affect her escape.
Suddenly, there was a searing pain in her left leg, and she tumbled to the cracked pavement, grunting as the wind was knocked out of her. She took a look, quickly assessing the bullet wound as a mere graze and unworthy of any further consideration. She forced herself to her feet, gritting her teeth against the pain as her pant leg quickly became saturated with blood. Through grid locked traffic, she ran with a heavy limp, the name "Hopalong Cassidy" springing into her mind, unbidden. She now knew that her captors were still in hot pursuit. She also realized she should have grabbed a weapon from one of them, but she had always been better with the pen, as the saying went. It just figured that she'd get the dedicated maniac-assassins after her, instead of those who decided, "to hell with the meddlesome journalist, let's worry about the end of the world instead".
"How in God's name did I ever get so lucky?" she muttered to herself.
"Lauren Michelle!"
Now there were only three people who were allowed to call her that, and one of them had been missing in action since she was three years old. Yeah, suffice it to say it got her attention. She turned towards the voice, dodging parked cars and keeping her head down as her heart began to pump like a locomotive on steroids, just about pounding its way out of her chest. She nearly tripped over a body in her path, barely evading the bullet that sailed past where her head had been a second before.
Then a stranger, dressed in slightly old-fashioned motorcycle leathers was suddenly in her face, grabbing her arm, pivoting her to the right like a maniacal dance partner, as he fired off several shots in the direction she'd fled from. She heard a cry of pain, but didn't turn to look. She was too stunned to even react in any sensible manner as she gawked at him. He was short and stocky with thinning grey hair and brown eyes, somehow not what she was expecting from a would-be hero.
Oh God! Please, don't let him be a . . .
"I'm Fred. I'm here to help," he told her in a soft, yet clear voice.
"D-do I . . . do I know you?" she stuttered. Something about him gave her the creeps, yet she also sensed truth in his words.
"No, but your grandfather did, Lauren. He used to talk about you and your sister. The Sweetie Bear and the Pumpkin Girl." He pushed her down behind a mailbox, using it for cover as he returned fire once again. Bullets blasted into a building behind them, peppering them with bits of concrete and brick dust. Once more he fired, and there was a scream somewhere.
The old childhood nicknames hit her out of the blue, but they substantiated his link to her family. Nobody had used those names in ages. Even her grandmother had uttered them only once, after their grandfather had passed on. No one alive even knew them, save she and Jess. "My grandfather's been dead for years," she told him.
"A real loss. Especially considering he went before his time." "Fred" looked at her and she understood at once what he meant. More shots were exchanged. "But that doesn't mean we haven't been keeping watch over you and Jessica throughout the years."
"Who are you?"
"A Brother of Eden."
"Huh?"
"Just . . ." Bullets pinged off the wall, and "Fred" let loose with a barrage. "C'mon. Let's go!"
xxxxx
Starbuck couldn't see a bloody thing, zipping through the clouds in an ejector seat that was supposed to be attached to a parachute, not a fighter! The howling wind tore at him, making him feel as if he were in the midst of a storm. Even with supplemental oxygen, his heart was doing its level best to leap up out of his throat and choke him, which was a probably a good thing considering how his stomach was feeling just now. He spun crazily, his knuckles white as they gripped his harness. It was the most gut-wrenching, raucous, wild ride he'd ever been on, and the crazy thing was that it might have been fun if he couldn't hear the blast of Cylon lasers and the staccato of Lightning cannons all around him. One stray shot and he was dead.
Sagan's sake, Bucko, that might be the best-case scenario up here . . .
Suddenly, he cleared the clouds, sunlight hitting him in the face as he came out over the city at an altitude of about fifteen hundred metrons and dropping. From the looks of things, an F-35 was dragging him along in pursuit of a Raider. He snorted in disbelief. What were the odds of that happening to a guy? Then again, when the guy was Starbuck, the odds abruptly changed.
The city spread out for kilometrons in all directions, till it met the waterways. They had made it to civilization, what part exactly he had no idea, since at this altitude and velocity he couldn't exactly make out any street signs. Below him he could see a trail of fire, smoke and debris cutting a swath of death through a metropolitan area as he continued to spin on the end of the line. Even as he watched, something below exploded violently, adding to the mayhem. The devastation had to be the result of a Cylon strafing run. It took him right back to the night of the Destruction when he'd finally made it to Aurora's house, her home and the entire neighbourhood a sea of flaming rubble and charred bodies. A shudder ran through him at the thought of what was happening on the ground. Usually, there was a blessed distance between fighter pilots and civilian devastation that as a group they seldom dwelled upon.
Abruptly, a wide body of water appeared below him again. He clawed at the manual release on his harness, determined to get off this ride from Hades Hole at the right time, even if it meant taking a cold swim in whatever river was below him if his main parachute failed. He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, ready to force his cold fingers do his bidding. Just ten more microns, then they'd be past the next bridge . . . Then his stomach lurched and he suddenly dropped like a stone while still in his ejector seat.
Great, Bucko! Just great!