Chapter Twenty-One
"Ohhhh . . ."
The dull thudding in Starbuck's skull seemed to shake his whole world, pulling him unfairly from the blessed sanctity of oblivion. Normally, at this point, he'd tentatively palpate his skull, making sure it was reasonably intact. However, secured behind him, his arms were refusing to obey, preventing that simple luxury.
It just wasn't fair.
His heavy eyelids blinked their way open to peer through a diffuse haze. He could feel his head loll back towards his chest, and jerked it back upright with a little effort, abruptly detecting the oscillating lights of a Cylon above him.
An IL Series Cylon.
"Mal?" he murmured, disoriented for the moment. No, he realized, that wasn't right.
"Malus the Traitor? Hardly," the IL replied, before adding, "You call him 'Mal'? How degrading."
"I say it with love," Starbuck slurred, the comeback coming naturally.
"Disgusting," spewed the IL.
"Well, I call you 'Neon Nob'. Isn't that worse?" Starbuck returned, knowing that voice. After all, how many IL class Cylons were there in this star system? He had wondered what had happened to Baltar's one-time adjutant after Samael Asar had thrown himself off the top of the United Nations building. Why didn't it surprise him that the Cylon was still in the picture?
"Things will go better for you, Captain, if you treat me with a little . . ."
"Respect. Yeah, I know. Same old song, different verse, Lucy. Is that line in the Cylon protocol manual right under 'by your command'? Or is your speech mode stuck in an audio loop?"
"Hmm."
The exchange had cost him more than he wanted to admit. Starbuck swallowed down a faint wave of nausea, drawing in a deep breath as he pressed his face against the cool surface. Beneath him, he detected a vibration that reminded him of his brief trip from the car wreck in the farmer's field to McGuire Air Force Base. His mind was beginning to clear, reminding him just where he was and all that had happened. His clothes clung to him, still wet from the river, as was his hair. He blinked again as things began to come into focus. As he suspected, they were in flight in the helicopter. He was lying on the deck between two rows of seats. Above him he could see a couple monitors, one split four ways. It seemed that they were being fed data from the vid-cams he had spotted on the outside of this helo. Similar to the military gunship he'd been in, there were mission screens displaying live footage from the streets below. One officer was touching the screen, accessing additional data on a dark car they were tracking. Starbuck surmised that he was some sort of tactical commander. The screen flashed between data and live footage so fast it made his head pound as he tried to catch up with what was happening.
Still wrapped in a blanket and sodden, Snow White was seated a few seats down from him. Her eyes were wide and fearful, tears tracking down her face as she leaned towards him anxiously. Thankfully, she appeared otherwise unharmed, and unlike him, she wasn't restrained, her hands enfolded in her lap, tightly wringing a corner of her shirt. He gave her a brief nod and smile, trying to reassure her . . . while lying subserviently on the floor trussed up like a Winter Solstice game bird. Not exactly a vote of confidence in his favour, he realized. He counted one Cylon and two officers back here with him, another uniform up front with the pilot, and noted the weapons mounted at the rear of the helicopter. Additionally, the officers were armed with handguns.
"Sky Command's got 'em, Director. ETA three minutes," the tactical commander reported.
"I see that," came the reply from the other side of Snow White.
Starbuck arched slightly upright, trying to see this "director" he hadn't noticed till now. An officer nudged the warrior in the back with his foot. Starbuck glared back at the man, recognizing him as the one who had coldcocked him. Then his gaze flickered over to a darkened corner of the helicopter where a curl of smoke licked its way up from a glowing thin, white fumarello. A figure leaned forward and a pair of calculating eyes looked back at him. The man was of average Colonial build and size, his three-piece Earth style suit immaculate, considering that parts of his planet had been shot to Hades Hole. What struck Starbuck the most was that other than his smoking, he seemed to be utterly ordinary, to lack any discernible features that would set him apart, demanding a long second look. And he took it.
"What do you know of the Anakim?" the man asked softly, taking another drag of his smoke. Sandy, grey-streaked hair, a soft middle age build, yellow-stained fingers on his right hand, he rolled the smoke between his fingers awaiting an answer. "Hmm?"
"That their hospitality leaves a whole fracking lot to be desired," Starbuck replied, this time rolling on to his side and pulling himself into a sitting position. He winced, closing his eyes, sucking in a breath through gritted teeth as his head throbbed with a new intensity. He felt as weak as a newborn felix. He felt even worse when one of the gunsels grabbed him by the chin, squeezing hard. The thug drew back his fist . . .
"Milligan, that's no way to treat our newest ally," the guy in charge said, his voice calm, yet commanding, causing the other to stand down immediately.
"Ally?" Starbuck scoffed. "If this is how you treat your allies, I think I'll pass on the secton-end card game at your place."
"The cuffs were necessary until we had this conversation. They need not be permanent. You need to decide whether you are friend or foe. Now that Samael Asar is dead, I'm the most powerful man on Earth. I am the Anointed Lord of the Anakim. I can make an alliance very advantageous for you, Captain Starbuck." The man leaned forward, smiling cruelly. "And, of course, you and your attractive companion here will still be alive by the end of the day if you accept."
The words chilled Starbuck to the core as Snow White whimpered softly, a fresh trail of tears spilling from her eyes. "Who are you?" Starbuck asked. He waited while Sire Nasty opened up the door, and then tossed the butt of his smoke out the side of the chopper, blowing out another great cloud of smoke.
"The name is Mason."
xxxxx
Apollo checked his targeting system, seeing there was no red dot. While on Earth they had had to activate their tracking beacons so the Earth fighters could differentiate between their Raiders and the Cylons', but out here, where Colonial Warrior was pitted against Cylon, it wasn't necessary. Their birds had been programmed for this since Morlais, when it had become evident that checking ID beacons in battle could put them at a definite disadvantage during a skirmish. They needed a quicker, more reliable way to tell their fighters apart from the Cylons', and Boomer's inspired idea from almost a yahren before was the perfect solution. His thumb caressed the control and he fired. The Raider's left wing was sliced clean off, then a moment later the rest of the Cylon exploded into spacedust.
"The Cylon fighters don't know if they're firing on their own Raiders or ours!" Dietra announced beside him, seeing this latest battle was quickly going their way now that their forces had engaged the enemy.
"Man, I hope Dayton's daughter made it," Baker said, squinting in the Endeavour's direction from the rear third seat.
"Yeah, I hope Starbuck made it too," Apollo replied, diving towards the Ravager, and letting loose his lasers on a battery. Molten bits shot into space as he screamed by, but the enemy's gunnery made no reply. It appeared that fires were raging out of control in three major locations, attributed to Colonial sabotage. It was time for Triton Squadron to make their mark.
"He'll make it," Dietra said.
"Or Dayton will kill him," Baker added, reflexively wincing as a laser salvo shot past them from the Ravager.
"Any word from the Endeavour?" Apollo asked.
"No," Dietra replied. "They haven't recalled us."
"Alright. Lieutenant Rooke, this is Colonel Apollo. Phoenix Squadron is to engage the remaining Cylon Raiders. I don't want any of them making a run for either Earth or the Lunar Base. Triton Squadron, continue strafing runs on the Ravager. Seems Commander Dayton needs a little more time."
"Yes, sir!"
xxxxx
"Return fire!" Syphax ordered, registering more battle damage from strafing runs on the Ravager. "Before we have no laser batteries left to fire with!"
"We-are-unable-to-differentiate-between-Raiders."
"Then let me make it clearer for you. The ones firing on us are the enemy!" Syphax replied. "Is that plain enough, Centurion? Alert our squadrons that all Raiders within firing range will be targeted."
"By-your-command."
"Now fire!"
xxxxx
About the only improvement in being in a car over a motorcycle while being pursued by gunmen was the relative comfort level, especially with a flesh wound. Lauren stretched her injured leg out across the back seat of the dark sedan, feeling absurdly guilty about getting blood on the leather upholstery. She pressed on her oozing wound with a large pile of gauze that Fred had handed her from a first aid kit, staunching the steady trickle of blood.
"Looks minor," Fred said, looking across the seat. "How's it feel?"
"Like I was shot," Lauren replied sourly, staring back at him. "Listen, Fred, I've heard of just about every fraternal organization from the Loyal Order of the Water Buffaloes to the Free Masons, but I've never heard of these Brothers of Eden. How about you tell me who they are?"
"They're the guys who just saved your neck," Barney said from the front seat, cranking the wheel hard to the right and tearing around a corner.
"For which I thank you," Lauren replied with a smile. "But if you've really been watching me and my sister all our lives like Fred said, then you know I'm a journalist with a thirst for knowledge and a passion for secret orders. If this order exists, then I should at least have heard its name whispered in the wind. You said my grandfather was a Brother of Eden?"
"Yes. The last of a long line in your family."
"How long?"
"Your direct bloodline's involvement with the Brotherhood goes back all the way to ancient civilization, Lauren. To the first settlers."
"The first . . . I take it we're talking further back than the Mayflower, here?"
"Oh, yeah," said Barney.
That stunned her. "This brotherhood that I've never even heard of goes back to some ancient civilization?" When she'd once asked her grandfather how far back he could trace his roots, he'd told her to the "Brazen Head Pub in Dublin, first bar stool to the right of the Guinness tap." Had he been holding out on her? "Which ancient civilization?"
"The Old Testament refers to them as the Nephilim. The Sumerians called them the Anunnaki. The Egyptians, the gods of the Zep Tepi."
"The ancient astronauts, predating our earliest civilizations," she translated. Hadn't she drilled all this into General Roach recently? Then how come it sounded insane when it came from someone else's lips, instead of her own? "But all those societies thought they were gods or demi-gods. Not men."
"And how else would an early Earthman view those who had crossed the heavens in space ships? Or beings that wielded energy weapons, and other technology they couldn't fathom? They had a highly advanced technology, not to mention a generally overbearing nature, combining to make them nearly invincible in the eyes of primitive man. Not surprisingly, they were seen and worshipped as gods. When they first came to Earth they built the lost civilizations of Atlantis and Lemuria, using the slave labour readily available to them."
"Slaves?"
"Serfs, peasants, servants, vassals, proletarians, labourer, working stiffs; same worker, different century. I guess the space farers considered it the natural order of the universe and their due. Docile workers, who also doubled as worshippers. Slaves to self-proclaimed demi-gods and the establishment."
"Not much has changed," added Barney. "Did you know that a mere two percent of U.S. families control fifty-percent of the nation's wealth? And only ten percent of those people own eighty-six percent of the net financial assets. The majority of American families—about fifty-five percent—have zero or negative net worth."
She nodded. She knew.
"There is a theory that these space travellers also started to build settlements on the moon and Mars," continued Fred, "although only vague references of that remain in ancient records, and I personally can't see them suiting up their workers, or in contrast doing the hard work themselves."
"But the jury's still out on that," Barney said. "You probably know more on that score than us, since you work for WASA. Is there really a Mars Station?"
"Barstow Station, yes." Some claimed it was a hoax, created to support WASA's longstanding claims of ancient astronauts. "And there are ancient ruins on Mars, as well," Lauren conceded. "I haven't seen all the data though. But it seems as though all the civilizations they built were destroyed."
"Others from their tribe integrated with early Earthmen. We believe they became the forefathers of the Sumerians, the Egyptians, and the Mayans."
"So what happened to Atlantis, Lemuria and Mars?"
"There was a war between the Great Houses of that day, from what we gather over the treatment of Earthmen. I don't know if you're familiar with the Sumerian mythology of Enlil and Enki, but we've surmised that those legends are based on what happened then. Both Atlantis and Lemuria were destroyed, probably due to some kind of nuclear holocaust. Many have concluded it was the same war that eradicated the settlement on Mars, its only legacy that which eventually recognized Mars as the ancient God of War. Sumerian, Egyptian, Greek, Roman, they all had their own take on it. Unfortunately, most records didn't survive, and much has been lost from the oral tradition."
"Two houses?"
"Yes."
"The Brothers of Eden and . . .?"
"The Anakim."
"That sounds . . ."
"Familiar? Yes, from the Bible, the Anakim or the Children of Anak.
"From the Myceanaean Greek Wanax. King of Men?"asked Lauren.
"You sure learned your stuff," said Barney. "Yes. Simply put, they were the offspring of the Nephilim."
"Which is accurate if the Nephilim are merely considered to be ancient astronauts," Lauren replied.
"Exactly."
"How does the New World Order fit in?" she asked.
Fred smiled. "That's everybody else's name for the Anakim, Lauren. We're talking about an ancient powerful and secretive elite, conspiring to eventually rule the world through a dominating global government. What happens politically isn't due to conspiracy, it's due to dedicated and exhaustive efforts. Samael Asar was their rising star, destined to be their first global ruler. They are the original ruling bloodline from across the heavens, deriving their right to rule and dominate directly from God, or so they believe."
"More likely Satan," she replied. "And you oppose them?"
"Damn right we do. To them the rest of the people were, and still are, a glorified worker race of debt slaves, here to support the banks and industry. Once, they were pharaohs, war-gods and wizards. Today, they are politicians and UN Secretaries General. Instead of thunderbolts from Mount Olympus and so called miracles, their power today is money and its manipulations: through it they exercise control over people and resources."
"Sounds like something I'd say," she commented. "What about Count Iblis?"
Fred raised his eyebrows. "I know who he is . . . I'm just not sure what he is."
"But you have a pretty good idea, don't you?" she replied. "You must."
He nodded, turning and narrowing his eyes as a soft thumping sound drew closer.
"Chopper!" Barney yelled. "They've seen us! They must be using the Sky Command system!"
"Damn!" Fred cursed, putting a hand on the dashboard as they careened around a corner. "Head for the subway! It's our only chance!"
"It's too far!" Barney replied, leaning on the horn and winding his way around vehicles in their path.
"Maybe these aren't Mason's goons," offered Lauren as she looked out the window. It was a NYC police chopper, after all. Then again, what was a New York City police chopper doing all the way out in Newark, New Jersey where the State Police had jurisdiction? Especially when the worst of the Cylon attack had taken place in the heart of the Big Apple.
"Yeah, and maybe they'll just let us go our merry way out of the goodness of their hearts!" Barney replied sardonically.
A bullet struck the windshield, crackling the glass, and burying itself in the dash.
"Okay, maybe not," returned Lauren.
xxxxx
Cassiopeia checked the diagnostic results on her scanner a third time, her gaze drifting over to Cadet Xenia. It was the most difficult part of the job, doing everything within her capability, and then finally realizing that it still wasn't going to be enough. Colonial medical science could cure malignant tumours and rebuild men like Cain and Dorado, but it still couldn't reverse the damage of a Cylon pulse laser when it cut through a warrior, causing irreversible damage that continued to eat at healthy tissue, changing it from viable to friable within centars.
She'd already opened Xenia up, removing necrotic tissue, repairing what she could with antibiotics and enzymes, and grafting a synthetic artery into place where the cadet's aorta was threatening to blow wide open. Now she could see from her latest scans that the superior anastamosis was in danger of coming apart where the damaged tissue had continued to demarcate and necrose. It swept her back to Doctors Paye and Salik trying to save Serina so long ago. She could still remember vividly the agonized look on both Boxey and Apollo. It was the first time she'd realized that even advanced Colonial medicine could still fail its patients.
Dang, some days I really hate this job.
Xenia's eyes flickered open and her head tossed restlessly from side to side, her breath ragged. Cassie abruptly moved to the woman's side, her innate compassion for her patients not allowing her to wait for Rhiamon to attend the woman.
"You're in the Life Station, Xenia," Cassie told her, unsure if the woman would remember much from her harried trip from Control Centre to operating room.
"Want to see . . . " the cadet took a deep breath, her face contorting in discomfort. "Need to see him."
Cassie abruptly reached for the medication administration pump they had connected to the patient's intravenous, adjusting the dose and giving her a bolus. Xenia's features relaxed within microns and she smiled wanly at Cassiopeia in thanks.
"Who do you want to see?" Cassie asked, leaning closer to the woman.
"Before I die . . ." Xenia gripped the hand offered to her with the sort of strength that only the dying possess. "I want to see Starbuck."
xxxxx
As the WASA shuttle Venture landed in the massive Endeavour bay, Mark Dayton felt as apprehensive as a sixteen-year-old boy waiting to set eyes on his first date. His stomach flittered with butterflies; only these winged wonders were wearing combat boots, body armour and expelling acid-causing toxicants. He drew a deep breath, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops in order to still their restless wringing and fist clenching. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, waiting for his first live glimpse of his daughter in thirty years, while his experienced eye took in the signs of battle damage on her ship. The scorch marks on the fuselage were superficial, lasers fired in warning instead of with the intent to destroy.
"Good thing the Cylons were only trying to herd them," Ryan said aloud what Dayton was only thinking.
"Yeah." It was all Dayton could manage. It would have been a cruel twist of fate to have her stolen from him when he was this close to a reunion, providing Fate actually had any cruel twists left in its vaults, after all he'd been through.
The Venture's hatch opened and a tall, slender woman emerged, and then paused at the entrance, brushing a lock of her tawny hair behind her ear. She looked around in amazement, her mouth slightly open, as the vastness of the Base Ship hit her for the very first time. He remembered that feeling when he had first laid eyes on the Galactica.
She wasn't the only one rooted to the floor. He just stood there, his legs unwilling or unable to move. It seemed so surreal after all this time . . .
"Go to your daughter, Idiot," Ryan said, giving him a small push forward.
"Uhh . . ."
"You've dreamed about this for thirty years, Mark! C'mon!"
"What if . . . I mean . . ."
"You don't measure up to her memories? News Flash, old thing, we're all old, grey and sagging." Ryan gave Dayton a slight shove. "Get a move on, Plebe!"
Dayton slowly started forward, crossing the distance between them. Jessica dropped her gaze from the rook of the cavernous bay, and her face lit up with a faint look of surprise that turned quickly into a warm smile as her eyes locked on him. She launched herself forward, the distance closing between them in a heartbeat. For a long moment, they just looked at each other, neither saying a word. Dayton could feel the tears welling up as he took in the sight of the daughter he'd worried about ever day since he'd last seen her. She took a step, shaking, and then threw herself into his arms.
"Dada . . ." she murmured into his chest.
Her hair was darker, the child's curls gone, her features more angular. Like her mother.He shook his head. Why he was even still looking for the child inside of the adult at this point, he couldn't really say. Regardless, she'd grown into a beautiful, intelligent woman, heading up the Worldwide Aeronautics and Space Agency. As proud as he was of that fact, he couldn't help but feel robbed of thirty years of fatherhood. He'd missed all her childhood "firsts", from her first day of school, her first adult tooth, and her first date, right up to graduating from . . . wherever it was that she had graduated from. He didn't even know.
Damn you, Torg! God damn you and Bex and all your vermin! Burn in hell for all you did!
She was squeezing him so tightly it seemed she was afraid to let him go. He understood. He felt the same desperation, afraid he'd suddenly startle and wake up, finding himself light years away from her once again.
Tears burned his eyes and his chest hitched almost painfully. Thirty years of separation, worried sick and wondering if he'd ever see them again, not knowing anything about his family. Bitterly it hung over him. He had a million questions, but couldn't put voice to a single one of them just now. She pulled back and looked up at him, studying his face exhaustively. The ravages of thirty years of being treated and acting more like an animal than a man, while koiveemining in the filthy, vermin-ridden guts of an asteroid had left their mark. Jess' sharp eyes didn't miss that. She smiled tenderly at him, reaching up and wiping away a renegade tear from his cheek.
"God, I missed you, Dad," she said huskily.
"Sweetheart, I can't even begin to tell you . . ." he started throatily, before emotion betrayed him once again, his throat constricting. He squeezed his eyes shut, starting to turn away.
"Where do you think you're going?" she replied, putting a hand on his arm, pulling him back. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she simultaneously wiped them away. She shook her head slightly in bemusement as she gently touched his face. "You look . . ."
"What?" he asked.
"You look . . . younger than I thought . . ."
"Clean living," he replied, pulling her into his embrace once again. This time it just felt right. Like he had come home at last.
He had a hard time accepting that this was 2055. Although thirty years had passed for him, forty-five had elapsed on Earth since the Endeavour had disappeared in low Earth orbit, presumably destroyed in the blast that had consumed the International Space Station. Jessica was older now than he had been when he'd left. The Clavis had actually brought them forward in time to the year when the Ravager was destined to reach his home world. It was the first time he'd considered they might be altering history in the making, breaking those same rules that Adama had presumed existed for the Ship of Lights beings. Then again, this was hardly the time or the place to spend time pondering theories of space warps and time vortices. They made his head hurt.
"Clean living, huh? The way Grandpa used to tell it, you had some years to make up for," she murmured with a low laugh, pulling back to look at him in amazement once again. Then her lips trembled and her eyes filmed up with tears. On her face was such an aching vulnerability that he was swept right back to 2010. "What happened to you?" She blinked furiously, forcing herself under control. For a moment, she was that little girl once more, wanting to know when Dada would be home.
"It's a long story, Jess," he sighed, turning as the two men who were piloting the ship drew closer. "After all this time we're still piecing it together ourselves. We have a lot of catching up to do. I swear I'll tell you all of it when we have the time, Sweetie Bear."
She nodded soberly. "Dad . . . can we stick with 'Jess'? Especially in front of my crew."
"Affirmative, Director," he smiled, putting an arm around her shoulders and pulling her in for another squeeze.
She put an arm around him, returning the warm embrace, and wiped her eyes before turning to greet her two-man crew. "Alan Carter, Dillon Trent, this is my father, Commander Mark Dayton."
"Thanks for your help out there, Commander Dayton," Carter said, extending a hand. "I thought we were goners."
"Yes, sir," Trent echoed the sentiment, also offering his hand as he distractedly looked around the bay. "This is amazing! Do we get a tour?"
"That could probably be arranged," Dayton grasped each man's hand in turn, "provided the Cylons cooperate. Welcome aboard the Colonial Covert Operations Ship, Endeavour. Glad we could help out." He turned towards Ryan who was inevitably sauntering over. "Paddy, come meet my daughter and her crew."
"Paddy?" Jess echoed. "Paddy Ryan?"
"The one and only, darlin'. So good to finally meet you," Ryan said, stepping forward and pulling her into his embrace, holding her tightly and rocking her from side to side as though they were dancing.
She laughed aloud at his effusive nature. "Not exactly shy around women, are you?" she smiled.
"I'm the man your mother warned you about, m'girl!" he said with an exaggerated wink.
"She's warned me about quite a few. I'll have to review my records." Jess grinned.
"Now I know we've only just met, but your father's been regaling me with stories about you for so long that I feel I've known you most of my life," Ryan explained, releasing her.
"Actually, I think it's charming. It's kind of like meeting extended family for the first time," she replied sincerely. "Starbuck hugged me too when we met face to face."
"That doesn't surprise me in the least, eh Mark?" Ryan said, a twinkle in his eyes.
"Hmm."
"Doctor Ryan, I know your son," Jess told him.
"Grae?" Ryan asked, taking a step back and holding her at arm's length, his features suddenly serious. "How do you know Grae?"
"We used to . . . well, that is we . . . well he's sort of, uh . . ." Jess was turning as red as a beet and looking none too pleased about her discomfiture.
Carter frowned.
"Dear God, strike me dead where I stand," Dayton murmured, looking between his flustered daughter and the idiotically grinning Paddy.
"Mark, I think maybe we're related," Ryan guffawed, turning and clapping his friend on the shoulder. "Or we should be."
"No, no, no! We're just friends!" Jess hastily amended, quickly finding her composure again, her face still flushed. "He's retired Canadian Air Force and an astronaut in WASA. We work together."
"She doth protest too much, me thinks," Ryan quipped. "An astronaut, eh? He took after his old man? How about that!"
"He did, yes," said Jess. "You made quite an impression on him as a child. He talks about you a lot, reminiscing about the fun you used to have."
Ryan's face was a mask of shock. "He does?"
Jess nodded exuberantly, before turning back to her father. "Dickins, Ryan, you . . . How many more of the original shuttle crew made it, Dad?"
"Five of us made it: Ryan, Dickins, Porter, Baker and I. We lost Bond and Zuskin early on. Paddy, after decon, how about you take Carter and Trent on up to see Commander Curtis and Doctor Mufti while . . ."
"Wait a minute!" Jess interrupted. "You have our Mars team? We lost contact with Barstow Station three days ago. One of our probes picked the Endeavour up over Mars, but we weren't sure . . ."
Dayton quickly brought her up to speed on the recovery of the Barstow Mars Station survivors, as well as Bruce Johnson's accusations about Commander Chung sabotaging the base.
She literally growled. "I knew it was something like that. WASA has been plagued with suspicious accidents and occurrences for years now. Our previous director, Glen Moore, I'm certain was murdered. And I can't begin to tell you how many close calls I've had since becoming Director . . ."
"What?" Dayton asked, looking up sharply.
"I'm a survivor." Jess shrugged it off. "Chung though . . ." She shook her head in apparent disbelief. "Sam Chung was a prince. He had real vision and dedication. He was part of the Mars research and development project for years before the program saw the light of day. I can't believe he would have anything to do with sabotage."
"What about Bruce Johnson?" Ryan asked her. "He's the one who accused Chung."
Jess frowned, glancing at her father. "I'm afraid my opinion of Bruce isn't exactly impartial. For a lot of years he blamed Dad for his mother's death . . ."
"Yeah, he filled me in on that personally," Dayton told her. Johnson had accused him of being responsible for the destruction of the ISS and everybody aboard back on Mars. He'd even tried to attack him. "But our medic . . ." Bringing Cassiopeia into the mix at this point wasn't even a consideration. At least not a good one. "Well, she thinks the guy is suffering from some kind of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome."
"Yeah? Well, seems to me that he's had it since he was in diapers," Jess replied coldly, before turning to the WASA astronaut. "Carter, what do you make of Johnson?"
"Any guy who'd rather read poetry and paint rather than drink beer and play cards is suspect to me," he replied with a shrug.
"He does his job," Trent inserted. "But he doesn't make friends. He just sort of hangs out in the background watching everybody else."
"What does Tom Curtis think?" Jess asked.
"Been kind of busy to ask," Dayton admitted. "Paddy, why don't you take Carter and Trent on a two bit tour and hook them up with Curtis. Maybe we can get to the bottom of this. I'll take Jess with me to the Control Centre."
"Will do," Ryan agreed, steering the others towards decon. "See you in the OC."
"Finish the tour there, don't start it," Dayton counselled.
"Party pooper."
"Sticks and stones."
Jess smiled as she watched them walk away. "By the way, this ship . . . it's obviously Cylon in origin. Where in God's name did you get it?"
"We stole it."
"You . . . of course."
xxxxx
Starbuck had heard the highlights about Director Mason from General Roach. The self-proclaimed "most powerful man in the world" was the American Director of National Intelligence and the one who had been behind Dickins and Hummer's imprisonment at Cheyenne Mountain, not to mention the prime suspect in the assassination attempt on President Gibson.
It didn't take someone with a degree in bureaucratic science to figure out that Mason could see that the Colonial Covert Operations ship, Endeavour, would be the victor in the battle between Cylons and humans. Now he was scrambling to align himself with the mighty Colonial Base Ship, choosing to recruit Starbuck to his side . . . apparently through intimidation and threats. However, what Starbuck didn't know was how powerful or prevalent these "Anakim" really were. While he was escaping the United Nations Complex with Grae Ryan, it had certainly seemed that Samael Asar called the shots on Earth through his Universal Law. But what about now? After all, General Roach had told him about the worldwide military coupes. Had those outside of the Anakim's circle managed to regain control of their infiltrated governments? Or had the attempts been unsuccessful? Was the Anakim leader bluffing?
"Well, Captain?" Mason prompted him.
It was a delicate situation, requiring finesse. Admittedly, that wasn't Starbuck's forte. The Colonial Warrior's gaze flickered once again to Snow White. He needed to get her out of the picture, somehow. He needed to "minimize the civilian casualties" as it were. "Will you let the girl go?"
Mason smiled, taking a long drag on his skinny white smoke, the scent wafting Starbuck's way. He wrinkled his nose. In comparison to his fumarellos, the odour was foul. Acrid, like smouldering Viper lubricant.
"No," Mason replied. "She's my insurance."
"Does the most powerful man on Earth need insurance?" Starbuck asked, with as much sarcasm as he dared.
"My offer is not without a time limit, Captain," said Mason, eyes even colder than usual.
"So . . ." Starbuck mused aloud, "basically if I sign up, we get to live. If I don't . . ." He left the words unsaid as Snow White gasped in horror at him. Then he dredged up a smile, forcing the repugnant words from his throat for her sake. "That bit about it being advantageous to me . . . how exactly?"
"I thought you might see it my way," Mason returned.
"Director, we're coming up on Dayton," one of the director's associates said.
"Dayton?" Starbuck gasped.
"L.M. Dayton. I believe you know her father," Mason replied, standing to look at the screen. He glanced at his officer. "How many are with her?"
"Infrared indicates three occupants," the man replied, checking his data. "Two in the front, one in the back."
"Stop that car, Milligan," Mason ordered as calmly as if he were regarding the shine on his shoes..
On the mission screen in the helicopter, Starbuck could see them zeroing in on the car they had targeted. One of the men jumped up, grabbing a high powered weapon and moving to stand in the open doorway. It was the guy who'd knocked him out earlier. He broadened his stance, aiming downward.
"I want her alive, Milligan," Mason said. Something in his voice told Starbuck what the result would be if she wasn't taken alive. "I need that list."
"Understood," replied the killer, his own voice making it clear he'd picked up on the veiled threat.
Starbuck couldn't help but wince as the semi-automatic weapon started cracking, the sound stabbing through his skull. On screen, the car below raced in a serpentine path along the road, weaving between other drivers, trying to evade fire while also returning it. Other vehicles as well as civilians were down there, running for cover. He didn't have a lot of choice; he had to do something. Under the pretence of an aching head, Starbuck leaned forward, abruptly launching himself into a forward roll across the deck, then pivoting his body around on his back and kicking out with both legs. The cry of warning from a fellow officer came too late. The Colonial Warrior connected squarely with Milligan's astrum, sending him flying out of the helicopter, his weapon still in his hands, screaming in fear and shock. The gunsel plummeted, the scene captured on vid-cam as he first struck the car they were pursuing, then bounced off to vanish under the wheels of a truck. Starbuck couldn't help but nod in a perverse satisfaction.
One down, four to go. Lucifer was extra.
"Bastard!" a team mate cursed, leaping out of his seat and grabbing Starbuck by the flight suit, pulling him towards the edge of the cabin.
"I wasn't the one firing on innocent people!" Starbuck found it necessary to remind him, trying to grab onto something, anything to prevent the forward momentum. He dug in his boots, but they merely scuffed across the deck as he was dragged forcibly and helplessly.
"Starbuck!" Snow White screamed.
"Let me drop him, Director," the man begged. "Seems clear to me that he's already chosen sides!"
Wind whipped through his hair as Starbuck's shoulders hung over a precipice. It was a long way down, and his chest hitched in fear that he'd be soon be following Milligan. The officer's face was red, his lips curled back over his stained, crooked teeth in a furious growl. If Mason really needed the warrior, there was little chance he'd be allowed to go through with this impromptu plan. After all, Starbuck was his best chance at liasing with the Endeavour. At least, that was the warrior's theory and he was sticking with it.
"Stand down, Miller. You might get your chance later," Mason promised with a smile. "Right now, I want Dayton."
Starbuck was jerked to his feet and slammed into a seat beside Lucifer. Miller reached above him, grabbing another weapon off the gun rack, leaving himself exposed. Starbuck lowered his head, letting out a roar, as he propelled himself upward and forward, hitting the gunman hard and driving him backwards into a monitor. One screen sparked and died as the man's skull connected.
"Shit!"
They grappled awkwardly for a moment, and Starbuck thought for a moment he might be sending this one to join Milligan in Hades Hole, when a pair of mechanical hands grabbed Starbuck by the shoulders from behind, throwing him to the deck. One of the others from the front joined the melee. This time Mason didn't intervene as his men did their best to subdue him, using whatever force they deemed necessary. He was picked up and thrown into a seat, his wrist restraints attached by a chain to a cross bar over his head, and his arms pulled upwards from behind him, forcing him to lean forward. Suddenly, his jaw was seized and he staring up into the dark eyes of Mason.
"That was foolish," the director told him, the grip surprisingly strong for a man who appeared so sedentary. "The girl will pay for your insolence. And you . . . you will still play a role in achieving world domination for the Anakim."
"Don't count on it," Starbuck returned, unable to even look in Snow White's direction. Not only had he put her in a perilous position, but he'd failed to protect Dayton's daughter. If only he'd had the good sense to play along, he might have been able to help them both . . . but he'd let his temper and instinct get the better of him. After all, he was a warrior, not a negotiator.
Mason snickered, releasing Starbuck's jaw, patting his cheek tolerantly, as if he were a dull-witted, disobedient child. "That was a promise, Captain." He pointed at Miller, issuing an unspoken order, before returning to his seat. The crack of a high-powered weapon filled the air once again as they resumed their attack on the vehicle below.
"You strike me as a guy who breaks a lot of promises, Mason," Starbuck said, unable to let the director get in the last word.
Mason's cold, predatory gaze settled on the warrior. "I also break a lot of men."