Chapter Nineteen

The Earth pilot had prematurely released his towline that had snagged Starbuck, and now the Colonial Warrior was plunging downward, dropping out of the sky like a tylinium balloon! Now in Colonial physics, it was a well-established fact that forward momentum didn't necessarily stop just because the gallmonging aircraft pulling you along had released its decoy. Either it was different here on Earth, or he needed to have words with General Roach about his pilot's lousy timing . . . provided he ever got that chance.

His gut flipped in horror while the distance between him and a suspension bridge narrowed at a terrifying rate. The bridge was in ruin, its deck destroyed on the centre span, another victim of the strafing run, no doubt. Yeah, of course all this was running through his brain as he plummeted through the air, cringing as he waited for the impact. He was supposed to die heroically in combat, not fall to his death, splattering into a bloody pile of pulp on one of the only solid structures in the radius of a hundred frackin' metrons! Milli-centons before he would hit, he closed his eyes, holding his breath. For a fatalistic moment he conceded that the sequencing in the ejector seat's system had been royally fracked up; the main chute had failed. This is really it, pal, he reasoned even as his mind vehemently denied the inevitable. Then abruptly his harness and limb restraints released, and he was yanked painfully upwards out of the ejector seat.

A micron later, he jerked to a halt, before whipping through the air in a tight arc. He opened his eyes just in time to see a grid of bridge cables fill his vision before he crashed into them. The breath was knocked out of him on impact before he rebounded away again, flailing urgently at the end of the line. This time as he swung back towards the cables, he reached out, barely managing to get a grip and stopping his pendulous path. He clung tightly to the cables, as his forward momentum reached some sort of equilibrium, catching his breath raggedly as the air crackled and boomed with the sound of fighters battling in the distance.

Selfish relief swept over him, followed by an aching exhaustion that made his limbs seem to weigh a kiloton or three. Lords, even blinking seemed too arduous just now, and he swore that every jarred and jerked bone in his body was on fire. But he was alive. It was a frackin' miracle. After escaping a situation like that, someone up there was obviously looking out for him . . . maybe toying with him a bit too, which he was willing to forgive for now.

Then he heard it. The sound of an approaching aircraft. He knew that sound; he knew it all too well. He lifted his head wearily, letting out a breath of despair as he saw the Raider approaching from up river. It was headed straight for him.

"Why me?" he groaned, resting his forehead against a cool cable as he tried to figure out his next move.

It was about thirty metrons to the bridge deck below, such as it was, littered with debris and the remains of burning vehicles. He tried to draw on his reserves and gather what was left of his wits, sussing out the situation before the Raider screamed down on him for another strafing run to finish the job on the bridge that its predecessor had started. Despite the fact that dawn had recently broken, the bridge had been packed to capacity, a major conduit across the channel. Through the haze of wafting smoke he could see that vehicles in the direct line of fire were now burnt and twisted metal hulks. Shattered and savaged bodies littered a buckled and scarred car deck. One large heavy-duty commercial transport—what Grae Ryan had called an eighteen-wheeler while in the city—was wedged through the opening where the deck had partially collapsed, its trailer jack-knifed across the bridge. A support pylon underneath the bridge must have been hit, sustaining an unknown amount of damage. How many smaller cars had plummeted directly into the river before that monstrosity had wedged its cab into the chasm? Was the entire bridge in danger of collapsing? He didn't even want to think about it. In either direction, close to a hundred other vehicles were piled up in two solid masses of crumpled wrecks, as those people still capable fled the bridge in both directions, scurrying over the devastation en masse. The Cylons had to have been using at least fifty megon loads when they attacked to warp and destroy solid steel-reinforced concrete. It was mayhem down there, and people screamed in terror, especially with another Raider bearing down on them. They needed help now, damn it! But instead death was hurtling towards them at Mach Three, intent on incinerating them with Cylon laser cannons.

Starbuck hooked a leg and an arm around the thick network of cables in front of him, releasing his harness and shrugging his way out of it. He glanced at the approaching Raider one more time, and then did a double take. His mouth opened in silent astonishment.

It was waggling.

"Thank you, Lord," he muttered, raising a hand and waving as the Hybrid soared over him a few microns later. As he watched it pass, instinctively he knew they'd be back to try to protect the innocent victims that were unlucky enough to be in the right place at the wrong time. They were guardian angels camouflaged to look like the Devil. Little did Apollo know the all-consuming terror he struck into every person down there when he flew overhead.

"Don't panic! It's one of ours!" Starbuck yelled down at them, before realizing he was using Colonial Standard. He tried again in Earthspeak, but his voice was lost in the pandemonium. He began to scramble down the grid of cables, the foul stench of burning flesh and rubber filling his senses as smoke enveloped him. A car exploded nearby, and the sudden compression wave of heat and the deafening roar almost knocked him from his precarious perch. He coughed as he sucked in a lungful of foul, thick air, clinging to the cables once again. Meanwhile, the pressing masses raced in frenzy towards either end of the bridge, screaming in terror, and probably stampeding those in their path that moved too slowly. He shook his head at the horror of it all. They were out of control, survival instinct driving their mass exodus. In the distance he could hear sirens.

Was this what it was like, when the Cylons destroyed the Colonies? Did all the terror and confusion boil up into one great miasma of horror?

Finally, he jumped down to the surface, his knees almost buckling in sympathy with the bridge as he felt the heat coming off a nearby inferno where cars had exploded. He ran a hand over his sweaty face, pausing in indecision. His conscience told him to look for trapped survivors, while his instinct told him to run like the very daggits of Hades Hole were nipping at his heels. Then he heard a faint cry. He turned, straining his ears to trace the source, while another fire licked to life in a nearby car.

Get out of here, Bucko; you've pushed your luck far enough for one day!

No, he didn't listen to it this time either.

He turned, picking out a hasty path through the debris before beginning to scramble over wrecked vehicles, following the plea for help. It led him towards the buckled car deck and the commercial transport wedged through the chasm left by a Cylon laser cannon. There were few vehicles left on the ragged slope that was pitched at about a forty-five degree decline. Likely, they had disappeared into the chasm when the deck had partially collapsed, just before the eighteen wheeler had plugged up the hole like a cork. He climbed onto the roof of the jack-knifed trailer hanging over the precipice between the buckled and intact decks, trying to see some sign of life as he looked down the twisted, battered downgrade that extended about thirty-five metrons. Lords, but it looked like a bad idea to go down there . . .

"Where are you?" he yelled at the top of his lungs, remembering his Earthspeak this time. He broke out coughing as his seasoned lungs protested the lack of curing, not to mention the distinctly foul aroma of the smoke wafting his way. "I'm here to help!"

"Oh, thank God!" shrieked the reply, distinctly female, from beyond the buckled car deck. The fear in her voice was palpable. "Here! I'm down here!"

xxxxx

"Did you see the way they reacted?" Dietra asked Apollo and Baker, the image still vivid in all of their minds. While Starbuck—still alive and miraculously in one piece as he clung to the savaged bridge—had been waving victoriously at them, every other living soul had been desperately and hysterically trying to get away when they did their fly by.

"I guess we're too covert for comfort," Apollo replied soberly.

"Better let someone else watch his back," Baker replied, taking over the comm suite once again. "This is Triton One of the Endeavour trying to raise the Eighty-Seventh Airbase wing leader. Do you read?"

"Affirmative, Triton One. Colonel Baxter here. Go ahead."

"Colonel, Captain Starbuck is an official member of the Martin-Baker fan club; he's punched out. We have a visual sighting of him on the Brooklyn Bridge. He looks okay, but I can't say the same for the bridge or the poor people who were on it."

"Roger that, Triton One. Emergency crews are on their way. They'll get him."

"Triton One, this is Major Ryan. I've got Starbuck's six."

"No need for that, Major Ryan, I repeat, our emergency crews will affect rescue. Maintain formation."

"Roger that."

"Ryan," it was only a moment later, "where the hell are you going?" an annoyed Colonel Baxter suddenly asked, as an F-35 changed heading.

"Wherever the hell I please. I'm not actually under your command, Colonel."

"You are while you're flying our bird . . ."

"I made a promise, and short of you shooting me down, I intend to keep it."

"Tempting, Ryan . . ."

"Ryan?" Apollo asked, glancing back at the Earthman.

Baker shook his head. "Coincidence." He glanced at the scanners. There were still two Raiders over New York City, each making strafing runs over Manhattan. "Let's go bag us a trashcan."

xxxxx

They'd had to double back and change their route a couple times, due to destroyed passageways and sealed compartments on the Ravager, many of which could be attributed to their sabotage. Rising urgency aside, finally Xenia and Acastus had arrived at the emergency escape hatch that was located on the deck above the brig. Although they had to wonder why a ship full of robots would even need an emergency escape hatch.

"What do you think we'll find in there?" Acastus asked as he punched in the access code, identical to the Endeavour's, then carefully turned the wheel on the hatch. It obeyed smoothly, giving them no trouble.

"I'd rather not think about it," Xenia replied, sucking in a deep breath as long buried memories of interrogation by the Cylons hit her like a tsunami. She could feel an old familiar panic sweeping over her as images of another brig worlds away replaced the here and now. Her heart pounded in her chest painfully as she tried to force those nightmares back into the vault where they'd lingered for close to ten yahrens . . .

"Starbuck said there were guards in the brig on Arcta," Acastus recalled. "Two, I think."

"Yeah, I know. I suggest you shoot them if he's right," she replied, her voice tight.

He looked over at her, suddenly concerned. "Are you still with me?"

She nodded sharply, sucking in a breath between her teeth. Her hands were shaking.

"You're sure?" Acastus demanded. "I can't do this on my own, Xenia."

"Why not? Starbuck did," she countered, a touch of . . . what in her voice? Asperity? Anger? What on Kobol . . ..

"I'm not Starbuck," he replied, taking her by the arms and turning her towards him. "Something that people keep reminding me of. Remember?"

She looked up at him, fighting down her emotional need to curl into a ball and find a safe place. There wasn't one. She cleared her throat, but her voice still sounded raspy as she pulled out of his grasp. "I can't do this, Acastus. I can't do this again."

"You have to. That's all there is to it," he replied. "But I won't let anything happen to you. I promise."

"You don't have the right to make a promise you can't keep," she whispered.

"I don't know what to say to make you realize you just have to do it, Xenia. We don't have any other choice just now."

"I know. Just give me a micron." She closed her eyes, forcing back her demons.

"That might be all we have," he reminded her. From somewhere far away, a rumble passed through the ship, and the lights dimmed for a moment.

"You're a pushy bastard, aren't you?" she replied, rallying. "Did our hero teach you that?" She opened her eyes and nodded at him. "Okay, let's do this."

He lifted the hatch, looking at her again. She nodded at him. He jumped.

xxxxx

"I think they're buying it, people!" Dayton announced, setting down the centurion armour he'd been "fighting" with, and waiting while Paddy undid the zap strap that had held its "hands" in place, making it look as though it had been choking him. Porter—resuming his role as Centurion Portex in full Cylon regalia—had already switched off the laser light show he had created for their next Officer's Club party when they had abruptly stopped their transmission to the Cylons. Grinning at the commander, he sheathed his sword. Others also removed their "costumes" as science techs and other "extras" prepared to return to their stations. The staged "attack" in the Control Centre had been Porter's idea, as they stalled for more time while trying to rationalize their relatively half-assed attack to the enemy.

"And you told me I should be a thespian not an astronaut," Porter ribbed his friend.

"Cudgel thy brains no more about it," Dayton returned with a grin.

"For your dull ass will not mend his pace with beating," added Paddy, slipping the Cylon head off.

"Speaking of dull asses, Hamlet," Porter quipped.

It had been a solid minute since the Ravager had fired on them. Not only that, they'd picked up long-range communications directed towards Earth in Cylon code recalling their Raiders. Fortunately, they had that same code on record in the Endeavour's data banks. Not for the first time, Dayton sent up a silent prayer of thanks for Cylon predictability.

"Uh, Commander Dayton, sir," Technician Arcadius said tentatively as he unhooked some equipment to return to the lab, "Commander Curtis is pressing to find out what's going on. He and Dr. Mufti have been in the lab a few times, sir." From his tone, it was clear the visits had been both unsolicited and annoying.

Dayton frowned. The Barstow Base commander had been far from his mind since they'd rescued his crew on Mars. "Did you tell him we're a little busy? That we're in combat, Arcadius?"

"Yes, sir." The young man cleared his throat. "As I was getting the laser display and the smoke machine . . ." his voice trailed off as he shrugged. "I don't think they were entirely convinced. Looked more like I was going to a party, sir."

"Well, we do combat a little differently around here," Dorado said, checking his chrono.

"Whether we like it or not," Dayton added. There was a brief moment when he'd decided to crush the enemy, making them pay for the death and destruction they'd unleashed on his home planet. Suddenly, that focus had shifted to retrieving their young warriors, while keeping the Cylons sufficiently busy . . .

Then he'd crush them.

xxxxx

Lauren Dayton hung onto "Fred" for dear life, doing her best to ignore the throbbing in her leg. He rode the high-powered crotch-rocket like a stuntman, zipping down alleyways, sidewalks, stairwells, across parks, and whatever else got in their way as they put some distance between themselves and Manhattan. The smouldering landscape passed her by in a blur, the wind whipping her hair relentlessly as tears of frustration, sadness, fear, pain and horror tracked down her face. When they headed over the George Washington Bridge, weaving between the fleeing vehicles and striking out for Jersey across the Hudson River, she couldn't help but hold her breath, almost expecting Cylon lasers to destroy their escape route as the sound of strafing runs pummelling New York echoed behind them. Once again, Fred hijacked the sidewalk, with little apparent regard for any pedestrians as they leapt to get out of the way.

He'd called himself a "Brother of Eden" and had intimated that her grandfather had also belonged to this group. But as much as she'd been wracking her brain, trying to recall every legitimate and otherwise organization of that or any similar name, she was coming up blank. The Biblical reference was a no-brainer, of course, but she couldn't exactly recall Adam forming a club after the whole "apple, serpent and Eve" scene.

Had an ancient organization snuck past the collective notice of mankind? Had they shut themselves up in secret chambers, sworn fearful oaths, employed emblems which they alone interpreted in one way or another, spoken in a coded language peculiar to themselves, exchanged special signs with one another, whispered mysterious words, engaged in ancient rites, and actually maintained anonymity? Had they done all this, and somehow managed to survive the tumults and changes of countless centuries?

She wasn't quite sure if she should be impressed or terrified by that.

xxxxx

Starbuck picked his way reluctantly down the ruptured, uneven downgrade, refusing to let himself be propelled along by urgency or gravity, while he gingerly tested the partially collapsed deck for stability. It seemed to quiver in indecision, and he froze for a moment, wondering if the groaning he could hear was the section of bridge or his inner sense of self-preservation haranguing him for even thinking about this. Admittedly, he was no structural engineer. Could the weight of one devastatingly handsome, albeit overtired Colonial Warrior tip the scale in favour of the whole thing crashing down into the river? It seemed unlikely, but then again the way his day was going, he wouldn't rule it out, either.

The slope was a mixture of jagged concrete where the surface had broken and crumbled or melted road top with slagged rebar sticking out where Cylon lasers had laid everything to waste. He made his way past the front end of the jack-knifed trailer, past the lines and cables coming off it, to find the main tractor wedged tightly into the space where the car deck had partially collapsed on top of it. Most of the rig was hanging suspended in mid air, dangling about fifty metrons over the river. The vehicle was huge, almost forty metrons long, and tall enough to . . . well to get jammed between two levels of destroyed decking and stop it sliding into the river below. On the side door two words were painted in Earth Speak that he couldn't make out. SNOW WHITE. It probably didn't matter what they indicated, provided it wasn't some hideously volatile cargo. Enormous chunks of concrete and twisted metal from what was left of the severed deck above him were strewn around, some of them crushing the frame of the transport.

"Where are you?" Starbuck yelled from the edge of the precipice.

"In the rig!" a voice hollered back from inside the commercial transport that was sharply pitched downward. "Down . . . down here!"

"That's what I was afraid of," Starbuck murmured quietly, trying to figure out how he was going to reach her. There was a casing for a fuel tank that stretched out horizontally beneath the door, a mounted footstep above it. Hanging onto the rig he could make his way carefully along it. But at a downgrade of fifty to sixty percent, it would only take one slip, one misstep, and he would drop into the river far below. It would take a man of courage, a man of uncanny ability, a man just crazy enough to take the risk . . . well, one out of three wasn't bad, he figured.

"Please hurry!" she pleaded, this time leaning out of the open window, her eyes wide as she looked below at the shear drop before turning her plaintive gaze to him.

His breath caught in his throat. She was well . . . endowed . . . uh . . . yes, very much so . . . with a . . . a pretty, yet terrified face, her large blue eyes staring at him fearfully in a face fringed with golden blonde hair. Her low-cut shirt was stretched tautly and hazardously across her chest, possibly making it difficult to breathe, or so he reckoned, from the shallow heaving the buxom beauty was doing. She filled the window completely and attractively. He took a deep breath . . .

"Hey! Soldier boy!" Her tone of voice completely changed from tremulous to sharp. "Wanna get a move on!"

His head snapped up a notch and he looked her in the eye. She appeared to be a bit on the indignant side of outraged. He gave her his best "caught in the act" smile, rationalizing that there was plenty of room in her heart for a little forgiveness if he was going to risk his neck for her. "Uh, the name's Starbuck. I'm going to get you out of here," he reassured her. "What's your name?"

"They call me Snow White, and you can pass on the wisecracks, buster, I've heard them all before," she replied., her eyes going wide when a chuck of concrete fell from above, hitting the frame of the truck. The whole vehicle wobbled. "Get me out of here!" she shrieked.

"Easy, now! Don't panic. You're going to be fine, but you have to stay calm," Starbuck said, holding his hands up innocuously as he started to climb up onto the rig. Lordy, but it was a long way down . . . This is insane even by your standards, Bucko. He climbed back down. "You, er . . . don't have a rope in there, do you, Snow White?" he asked hopefully.

She frowned at him, looking down at her ample bosom pointedly, before looking back. "In where exactly?"

"The truck," he replied with a faint grin at her sauciness, waiting when she disappeared back inside. "A tool kit? Equipment compartment?" he called.

At a closer glance he could see the decking had crushed the main transport frame and the door was buckled. There was no chance in Hades hole that it would open without cutters or even a good, old-fashioned pry bar. He didn't like the idea of her climbing through the window and trying to keep her balance as she pressed herself against the truck . . . especially weighted the way she was.

A rope was suddenly thrust out of the window. "Should I throw it to you?" she asked.

"Can you secure it to something in the truck first?" he asked, waiting again while she disappeared inside. He could hear her muttering in her own language, and didn't need his languaphone to figure out her message of frustration.

"Okay. I tied it to the wheel!"

"Good!"

A few moments later, she was leaning outside the window, letting out the slack on the rope before tossing its coiled length to him. He caught it, and climbed up onto the back of the rig, crossing its solid width to the trailer. There were latches mounted onto the front of the trailer that would work perfectly. He tied the rope off, making the length between the door and the trailer taut, before securing a loop around his waist as a safety line. Then he put the rest over his shoulder.

"I'm coming out there," he told her. He looked up, hearing an explosion in the distance, and the whine of Cylon lasers. Lords, how many were dying across the city?

"Be careful," she said, biting her full bottom lip.

"That goes without saying."

If it hadn't been for the steep downgrade, it would have relatively simple. He pulled sharply on the rope, testing the knots, before tentatively making his way downhill towards Snow White. The drop to the water was about fifty metrons. He tried not to think about the people who had fallen to their deaths already, trapped in the confines of their vehicles. Eerily, he couldn't see any sign of them. Perhaps a watery grave was preferable to burning alive in their vehicles. He tried not to think of that, returning to the problem at hand. How strong was the current in the river? Was their best bet to lower themselves to the water, awaiting rescue, or to take their chances back up on the bridge? He could hear sirens in the distance.

"I see a boat!" Snow White called.

He looked to where she was pointing. A small passenger boat was heading towards them, a man on the bow holding something up to his eyes as he followed their progress. Some sort of vid-cam? He was waving an arm and yelling something, but at this distance there was no way Starbuck could make it out over the sound of the boat's engine or the scream of emergency sirens in the distance.

"Can you swim?" he asked Snow White as he came up alongside the window, looking in. Some sort of huge inflatable device had been activated on impact, which still filled the driver's side of the cab. It had evidently done a good job of keeping her from being pulped against the wheel. She was a real beauty, dressed in snugly fitting denim shorts that accentuated her long, shapely legs. And in his strictly professional opinion—that of the totally detached, heroic potential rescuer—she certainly looked buoyant.

"No," she whispered, looking past him down at the river fearfully. No wonder she'd been scared stiff and hadn't moved from the cab. She looked back at him, perhaps actually seeing him for the first time in her anxiety.

"Neither could I until I had a swimming instructor who would crack my knuckles with a pointer every time I reached for the edge of the pool. Trust me, you have it in you. Just suck in a breath of air and you'll float. I'll do the rest."

"I don't want to die."

"Who said anything about dying? Look, the Air Force conveniently gave me a life preserver. Personally, I think it would look better on you."

"Really?" she asked a little breathlessly, as he began to struggle out of it while holding onto the truck door with one hand.

"Really," he replied.

"What about you?" she asked, even as she started to pull it on.

He looked down at the unfriendly waters below. "Me? I swim like a piscon . . . er, a fish. All part of the military training. I'll be just fine."

She nodded gratefully as he helped her fasten it. "Did you actually say your name is Starbuck? Like the coffee? Or is that just a call sign, like in the movies?"

"It's really my name." He grinned at the incredulity in her tone. "You can pass on the wisecracks, Sweet Lady, I've heard them all before."

She actually cracked a smile. At that moment, he knewinstinctively that they were going to be all right.

Abruptly, something exploded above them. Snow White screamed, lurching backwards into the cab as large fragments of concrete began to fall around him. He leaned forward, pressing himself against the door, hissing aloud as a fragment raked his back.

Apparently, his instinct in this instance was dead wrong.