Chapter Twenty-Two
Starbuck had lost all sense of time, microns feeling more like centars the longer they dragged by. Sleep deprived, immobilized and gagged, the ride on the helicopter was torturous. He'd catch little two centon felix naps until noise, motion or relentless discomfort would jolt him back to wakefulness. Those around him faded into the background, while the burning in his shoulders, the thumping of helicopter blades, and the oscillating hum of Lucifer close by became his unrelenting companions.
Where the frack had Baltar, his guardian weevil, gone?
With the wrist restraints so tight and his arms wrenched up behind him so awkwardly, he was slowly losing the sensation in his fingers, an earlier tingling replaced by a gnawing numbness. For a much needed diversion he glanced down at his socked feet, cuffed by the ankles to some bar he couldn't even see down there. Separating a man from his well-broken in boots was just wrong. In fact, it was demeaning and degrading. Especially in this well-shod company. His boots were about a metron away from him, crumpled over, looking conspicuously empty and maybe a little forlorn. It definitely added insult to injury that they were in sight and out of reach. Overwhelming fatigue, pain, a growing despair and a prevailing impression that maybe there was an alternate destination for the Fleet other than this planet dominated his tormented and socked feet existence.
He was really beginning to hate Earth.
"Starbuck? You okay?" her voice called softly. "Hang in there. Not much longer."
"How would you know?" Mason demanded, his voice cutting through Starbuck's haze of misery.
Starbuck couldn't help but smile, however briefly. Lauren annoying Mason had that effect on him. If fact, it was his remaining bright spot in an otherwise dreary existence. Gutsy and wilful, she reminded him of both her father and sister. Now and then Dayton's daughter would check in, offering a word of encouragement or concern, while he was staring into the black pit of despondency. It had taken her only a few centons to ascertain his identity when she had first boarded the helicopter. But his defiant attempt at communicating with her had resulted in his ineffective gag being initially removed, only to have a balled up piece of rag shoved into his mouth, and the gag once again secured as Mason sat across from him, staring at him thoughtfully. He seemed to be waiting for something, but what?
Mason was moving them away from New York City, that much was clear. But from what Starbuck could recall, this part of the eastern United States was so heavily populated that the Anakim's so-called "Anointed Lord" could be taking them anywhere. Lauren seemed to know where they were headed though. At least he hoped she was right and his suffering would end soon.
"I know more than you're comfortable with, which I presume is why I'm still alive," Lauren returned brazenly, taunting the director. Her voice sounded far away, which was a little alarming since she was all of a couple metrons away from him. "Washington, DC. One of three seats of power for the New World Order. The others being Rome and London."
Starbuck gruellingly raised his head to watch Mason's reaction. There was none. That alone spoke volumes.
"Director!" one of his men called from the front of the helicopter.
Mason looked forward expectantly, and then quickly joined him. What was happening now? And exactly how was it going to imprint Starbuck's current situation?
Starbuck dropped his head again, allowing his heavy eyelids to close. At least his eyelids, unlike the rest of him, had free range of motion. Actually, so did his toes, now that he thought about it. He flexed them rebelliously, catching Lauren's eyes on him again. He'd celebrate any possible movement for the moment, considering it one of those secret little victories that Mason wasn't even aware of.
Uh . . . how had he gone from Washington, DC to eyelids and toes? Evidently, he was losing track of what he'd been thinking about. It could be early dementia . . . or the cumulative effects of several days of abuse and sleep deprivation. But he was a Colonial Warrior. One of the very best. This was nothing he couldn't handle. Except maybe losing those boots. He forced his mind back to the consideration of what Dayton's daughter had said, refusing to dwell for too long on personal discomfort.
According to Lauren and Mason's back and forth sniping, the capital city of the United States was also a seat of power for the Anakim's Universal Government, otherwise known as the New World Order. It bespoke the level of penetration of Mason's people into established governments. And, from what he'd gathered by the flow of conversation, the only person who could identify the members of the Anakim with any accuracy was sitting across from him, Mason's prisoner. Somehow, against the odds, Starbuck had to turn this around. He had to free Lauren and get her to the right people. But at this point, he wasn't even sure who the right people were. He was relatively certain they hadn't covered this in the regulation manual. He could feel a rising panic begin to envelop him. There was something in the manual about panic being a negative influence during torture. Yep, another incredibly useful bit of regulation manual trivia leaping out of his memory to help him through a sticky situation.
Easy, Bucko. Opportunity has a habit of staring you in the face. You just need to recognize it when it does.
A hand grasped him by the chin, tilting his head upwards. Starbuck's eyes flew open. Mason squatted in front of him, his penetrating gaze scorching him, searching for something. For a moment it seemed that the man could see right into his soul, laying bare his worst fears. It was more unsettling that the Anakim leader wasn't saying anything. Actually, Starbuck found himself fervently wishing that the guy would just start raving at him maniacally again to divert his attention from his own discomfort and building unease.
Mason nodded slightly.
"We started off badly, Captain. Personally, I blame it all on misunderstanding and circumstance, mostly contrived by my enemies. I am a reasonable man, in fact, given the chance I believe you will see we have more in common than you could possibly imagine."
Starbuck opened his eyes wide in disbelief at this new approach, wondering what had precipitated it. "Tell me another one, pal," he tried to mutter into the wadded up cloth sticking to the roof of his mouth. It came out unintelligibly, even to his ear.
Mason smiled.
"All the Anakim want is global governance, Captain. Coherent, rational unity. Surely, that sounds familiar to a man from your Twelve Colonies. You're aware of the advantages, surely. A streamlining of the bureaucracy. No more international wars. Just think of the money that could be saved and diverted from protecting borders. Instead, it could be utilized it for socio-economic development of the masses, and for eradicating poverty. Space exploration. A single solid currency. So many salient reasons that your own people figured out long ago," Mason purred in his ear. "We're striving for unification, Captain. Don't you see? We're following in the footsteps of our kindred ancestors, showing the rest of Earth's people the way. Now what, my Colonial brother, is wrong with that? We Anakim want what your people were able to achieve. You and I, we really aren't so different."
"Excuse me, Director Mason . . ." Lucifer began.
"Oh, give me a break! Don't listen to him, Starbuck!" Lauren spat. "You're worlds apart! His people have been manipulating and killing people across the world for millennia in order to destroy liberty and freedom. Every time an individual stepped forward to try and get the public to open their eyes, his kind would intervene, either assassinating them or labelling them traitors and villains. They even set up their own propaganda machines like Wikileaks, trying to make people believe they are independently and internationally run alternate media sources that leak classified government data, while all the time they are feeding people complete and utter crap, and destroying those that might interfere with their goals. We all know that propaganda is like rat poison. Ninety-five percent of it is tasty, healthy food, but the purpose of it is to get you to swallow the other five percent, the poison. So they feed us a bunch of old stories that people in the know are already aware of, and then use that to convince Joe Public that what's on the menu is tasty, healthy food. Except it isn't. Buried in the delicious, albeit past the expiry date morsels, are the bits of poison that the New World Order knows we will no longer accept at face value from the controlled media, but hope we will eat if handed to us by a con artist posing as hostile to their agenda."*
"Shut up, Dayton, or I'll gag you too," Mason threatened her quietly, releasing his grip on the warrior's chin while still staring insistently into his eyes. "I heard your speech at the UN, Captain, and our Cylon informant here told me the rest." Lucifer's oscillating eyes slowed almost imperceptibly. "When your exodus finally comes to an end, your people will need a home. I assure you in all honesty that our current national governments don't want a hundred thousand refugees arriving on their doorstep, especially knowing they may be preceding a death force of Cylons. Those are the deliberations that you missed in the Security Council chamber after you left. President Gibson might seem like the boy next door, but he'll be no friend of yours when the Cylon threat is no longer imminent. His allegiance is entirely circumstantial, based on his knowledge that you alone can defend us from that Cylon Base Ship in Earth's orbit. Face it, Captain, individually, none of our national governments could handle the burden of your people's mass immigration or rationalize it to their taxpayers. On the eve of the United States' Independence Day, that's what they concluded at the United Nations after you spoke. After all, you are strangers. Actually, worse than that, you're aliens. The average citizen would argue that it isn't their problem. They won't drop a coin in an extended hat on their local street corner, never mind take in what's left of an entire nation of struggling refugees. If you have a difficult time believing that, just look at how you've been treated so far by those in power."
Weirdly, it made a certain amount of sense. In fact, he'd heard Ryan and Dayton say similar things when they'd had a few too many asteroid whiskeys and were speaking candidly. What if when the Fleet arrived at Earth they were turned away? What if they had crossed the galaxy for naught? Vaguely he recalled Dayton and Ryan discussing an old Earth biblical legend about a woman heavy with child being turned away at several inns and having to take refuge in a stable to give birth to her child. It had stuck in his mind, making him wonder about the benevolence of humanity on Earth. Just because surviving Colonial citizens looked to Earth as a refuge amongst their own kind didn't mean that Earth would feel the same way. They would either be turned away or treated as second-class citizens. Lords, it would kill Commander Adama on the spot.
"Why would leadership under the Anakim be any different, you're wondering. I can see it in your eyes," Mason continued. "Unlike President Gibson, we would welcome your people because your people carry the ancient bloodlines that throughout the millennia have been diluted and polluted here on Earth. While leaders like President Gibson think of your people as outcasts and displaced persons, I recognize they are descended from the Lords of Eden themselves. When I look into your eyes, I can see the fortitude of the exalted staring back at me. I know what you have survived since arriving on Earth, and I have spent long hours reflecting on that, as I can only imagine you have. I finally concluded there is a divine reason. You, my Captain, are a prophet and a saviour, a forerunner of tomorrow, sent to make me see the truth beyond my own limited knowledge of the heavens. I have been shown that you are to be spared, that you will join our numbers, that you will reign victorious with us as our blood brother."
"Starbuck, that is all so much bullshit!" Lauren protested, before Mason waved a hand. A micron later the woman was being ball-gagged and restrained with her hands in front of her, setting Starbuck's teeth on edge once again as he watched helplessly. Such treatment of any woman went against his grain.
"I did warn you, Ms. Dayton," Mason told her while she snarled at him incoherently.
Starbuck had felt that same defiance when he'd first been restrained. But now he was finding it harder and harder to separate his mind from his situation. Especially with Mason squatting in front of him, drawing him back in. He groaned involuntarily through the gag as a wave of pain, frustration and exhaustion battered him. At this point a relatively pleasant Cylon Brain Probe or Cold Cell was looking good. Why was it that humans could torture their fellow humans so much more effectively than Cylons? Why was it that they were willing to? What was wrong with mankind? Especially here on Earth.
Unexpectedly, the Anakim leader reached up over Starbuck, releasing the binding that had wrenched the warrior's arms up behind him. The pain was intense as his stiff shoulder and arm muscles abruptly shifted positions, and the blood began flowing back into deprived tissue. He groaned through the gag, and then surprisingly Mason began rubbing his shoulders, easing the transition. The director's touch was clinical, and it was clear he'd rubbed down aching muscles before, but if Starbuck wasn't cuffed to his seat he would have fallen out of it from shock.
"What are you doing, Director?" Lucifer demanded, standing up.
"Do not question my authority, Commander Lucifer," Mason replied. He stopped the soothing motion and held his hand out to Miller. The "policeman" placed an intimidating looking weapon in it, along the lines of a Cylon pulse rifle, but no doubt without the laser. Starbuck sucked in a breath between his teeth, expecting the worst, despite Mason's assurances he was to be spared. Across from him, Lauren's eye opened wide with fear as Mason turned and pointed the weapon directly at her. Above her on the monitor, the same scene was playing out. They were recording it! The director smiled sadistically, but Lauren refused to look away from him, even as her slender frame began to tremble. Starbuck stiffened, trying to get to his feet in a futile attempt to stop the insanity, but a firmly restraining hand from Miller subdued him far too easily. He screamed Colonial obscenities into his gag as a last resort.
Lauren turned her gaze to him.
Blue eyes locked on brown, cutting off his diatribe. Instantly, he was reminded of his recent narrow brush with death on Morlais. It was only ten days or so ago when he had locked eyes with Dayton, while the cold metal sting of a Cylon sword touched the back of his neck as a Cylon centurion lined up its blow for Starbuck's beheading. He had found strength in Dayton's steely gaze, which had given him to the courage to die with honour, instead of quivering in fear. Thankfully, his execution had been halted, but still the gesture had been a gift of friendship that he'd never forget. Now, helplessly restrained, as his friend had been the previous secton, that same strength, conviction and focus were all he had to offer Dayton's daughter in her final microns.
She nodded at him slightly, as though she understood. Visibly, she collected herself, straightening her shoulders as her eyes bored into his own, seeking something there he could only try to bluff his way through. Then her trembling stopped, as her courage replaced her terror. He nodded at her, strangely proud of her, despite barely knowing her. She was indeed her father's child. Then the Anakim's "Anointed One" glanced at each of them in turn, taking two steps back, tightening his finger on the trigger. Starbuck's stomach took a gut-wrenching plunge, but he refused to tear away his gaze from Lauren's. She held her breath.
Please Lord . . .
* Michael Rivero
xxxxx
"Report!" Dayton ordered, stepping into the Control Centre with Jess on his heels.
"Commander, the Ravager has just about had it. Colonel Apollo reports fires burning out of control, consuming the Base Ship." He put a scan of the enemy up for his CO. In the infrared, they could see the heat signatures as fires chewed the guts out of the Ravager. Some were perilously close to her engines. "It's only a matter of time before at least one of her fusion reactors blow," Dorado informed him. "She's done for, sir."
"Have our squadrons pulled back?" Dayton asked.
"Yes, Commander. They're finishing off what's left of the Cylon squadrons."
"The Ravager is changing course, Commander," Cadet Sagaris reported, looking up from his station. "It looks like they're heading on a vector for . . ." he paused as he examined his data on screen, "for Earth's moon, sir."
"The moon?" Dayton replied. "Why in hell . . .?" He turned to his bewildered daughter, eyebrow raised in question. It took him a moment to register that everyone in the Control Centre was speaking Colonial Standard and Jess didn't understand a word. He hastily translated.
"Because we have a lunar base there!" Jess replied, barely registering the control hub as concern for her people rose to the forefront of her mind. "A last minute gesture to kill out another three-hundred and eleven Earth people before they bite the dust?"
"Machines bent on revenge, apparently," Dayton replied, nodding his thanks as Porter ordered up a languatron from the science lab. He switched to Colonial Standard. "Hail the Ravager and get me my Cylon suit!" Dayton ordered.
"Dress Golds?" Porter suggested, collecting the hollow Cylon armour from their last performance. "I take it you have an idea, Robo-Cop?"
"Something that Jolly said. It's a long shot, but it might just work."
"The story of our lives."
"Don't I know it."
xxxxx
Once again, Cassiopeia looked over the biomonitor readouts, unconsciously frowning as she noted the climbing pulse, and dropping blood pressure, despite her best efforts. Bit by bit, tissue on a cellular level was being methodically destroyed, and there was nothing she could do to stop the process. Slowly, she was losing Xenia.
The woman's eyes flickered open and she looked around anxiously. "Is he here?"
"Not yet," Cassie replied, pasting on her best reassuring smile. They were still in battle and even if they weren't, the word was that Starbuck was planetside. She hadn't even been able to get word to him that one of his cadets was dying from a Cylon pulse laser blast, and that her last wish was to see him. "He'll make it."
Xenia smiled humourlessly. "Of course, he will. He always does, doesn't he? After all, he's Starbuck. When . . ." She broke off, hacking. "When doesn't he?"
Cassie didn't know what to say to that, instead opting to give the woman a bolus of analgesic as the warrior began to stiffen with discomfort. Once again, the med tech adjusted the drip rate of the medication.
Xenia sniffed at the awkwardness, then patted Cassie's hand sympathetically as her tortured body began to relax. "I'll hang on. As long as it takes. I need to know."
"Know what?" Cassie asked.
"The truth," Xenia whispered, her eyes drifting shut under the influence of the narcotic. "He owes me that. I need the tr . . . t . . ." Her body went limp.
"Holy frack, Starbuck," Cassie murmured, as she watched the shallow rise and fall of the mature cadet's chest, "what happened between you two?"
And did Luana know about it?
xxxxx
Mark Dayton had promised himself that the theatrics were over, but with the Ravager on a vector that would put Earth's Armstrong Lunar Base in danger of being impacted when the Cylon Base Ship finally blew, he needed to dust off the ole Cylon suit once again.
"How do I look?" he asked Porter, pulling on the gold centurion's helmet, hoping the oscillating red light was functioning normally as his friend checked him over.
"You look marvellous," Porter replied, already in his own centurion armour, but without the helmet, as he made some adjustment on Dayton's. "Absolutely marvellous. Kinda sexy, even. If you didn't smell like scorched wires and lubricants, I'd kiss you."
"Thank God for Cylon smells, then. You know what today is?" Dayton asked, before glancing over at Sagaris. The cadet nodded, confirming he had the Cylon commander on the unicom.
"Hard to nail that down floating up here in space . . ."
"July fourth. Independence Day."
"Really?" Porter smiled. "Are we going to have fireworks?"
"Abso-bloody-lutely." Dayton grinned. "Am I oscillating, Porter?"
"Just like Knight Rider's Trans Am."
"So this is the whole KITT and caboodle then?" Dayton asked, nodding in satisfaction as the corrugated tubing for the helmet assembly was tucked in under the torso assembly.
"Who has more fun than us?" Porter returned with a grin, smacking the top of his friend's helmet. "You're good to go."
"Not without a can opener," Dayton replied, watching as Porter pulled on his own helmet to stand dramatically in the background of their Cylon "set".
"We're ready, Commander," Dorado inserted, looking at the scanner. "Distance from the Ravager to the lunar base is one point five maxims and closing."
"How about some bodies?" Dayton suggested. "We're supposed to convince the Cylon we turned this battle around."
"I volunteer," Dorado replied, unfolding himself on the deck, playing dead.
"Show time," Dayton said.
A moment later, an image of Syphax filled the screen.
"You are not Malus," the IL stated over the comm.
"Affirmative," Dayton replied, his word affecting a Cylon tone through the magic of the vocal modulator on the Unicom. "I-am-not-Malus."
"I was told that Commander Yugra was no longer in command. Who are you?"
Oh shit!
xxxxx
"Lost him? What do you mean you lost him?" General Roach demanded, his face flushing red.
"I don't like it," Dickins added, frowning.
The squadrons had returned to McGuire Air Force Base, but the Colonial strike captain wasn't with them. From all reports, Starbuck had bailed out and then effected a near impossible rescue of a civilian on the Brooklyn Bridge, just before part of it had crashed into the East River. After that, he and the woman had been set down on a pier with a New York Police helo in sight. That was the last anyone had seen or heard from him since the surviving Cylon Raiders and Colonial Hybrids had headed back for Earth's orbit.
"I told you over the radio, New York City Police N914P0," Grae replied, climbing down from the Lightning cockpit.
"Are you sure about the serial number?" Roach double-checked as the three men started crossing the tarmac together. "Records show it's undergoing repairs at Floyd Bennett Field."
"Sure, I'm sure. What did NYPD say?" Ryan asked.
"Besides them having more on their plate right now than one down-time chopper?'
"Well . . ."
"Or that they had better things to do than trace two survivors that were still in one piece, you mean?" Roach returned.
"Ah, c'mon. Didn't you lay that Chief of Staff charm on them, and threaten to pull their tonsils out through their assholes?" Grae grinned.
The general's answering glower confirmed he'd done just that. Then Roach added: "With grappling hooks. But I got nothing."
"Well, there is a disaster going on," Ryan pointed out.
"I don't like it," Dickins said again.
"General," an officer jogged up to them. "We've got a Detective Lieutenant William McKay from the Nutley Police Department on the line. He claims that he knows something about Captain Starbuck's disappearance. Apparently, McKay's sister, a trucker who uses the handle, Snow White, was the woman that Captain Starbuck rescued from the Brooklyn Bridge. She said she heard your name mentioned when he was speaking at the UN Complex. She'll only talk to you, sir."
Roach sighed, gesturing for the officer to precede him. "Snow White in Nutley. Why do I feel like I'm on the latest reincarnation of Candid Camera?"
"We often have that effect on people," Dickins replied, following.
xxxxx
Starbuck was certain he was about to see Dayton's daughter get splattered all over the wall of the helicopter, but instead, at the last micron, Mason suddenly turned. He fired twice on the IL, unleashing some kind of heavy-duty projectiles on Lucifer.
The Cylon was hurled backwards, sparks shooting out of the chest plate as it teetered back towards the edge of the chopper, its red lights dimming. Mason stepped forward, kicking out with surprising agility and force, knocking the Cylon out the door where it disappeared from sight, plunging to the ground below. Starbuck glanced up at the security monitor, watching as Lucifer was impaled on a flagpole atop a stately white building. The American flag was flying at half-mast just below where the cyborg came to rest. Now what in Hades were the odds of that happening?
"Hmm, rather symbolic, don't you think?" Mason said. "Capture that and send it to our public relations department, along with the security feed of me destroying Lucifer. I want it broadcast on every sat-phone, television and computer ASAP."
"Yes, sir," Miller replied.
Mason handed the weapon back to Miller. He sat in the empty seat next to the Colonial Warrior, leaning towards him companionably as though they were two old friends discussing the latest triad rounds. Across from them, Lauren looked both relieved and bewildered. For a change she looked as confused as Starbuck.
"I never aligned myself with the Cylons, Captain," Mason said. "I didn't even know they existed until recently. I only used Lucifer for information, the way that your commander has been using you."
Starbuck's head shot up at that.
"Your commander is an Earthman, is he not?" Mason reminded him. "Commander Mark Dayton of Chicago, Illinois, late of NASA, before that of the U.S. Air Force. An inbred ingrate, just like his daughters."
Starbuck tried to control his instinctive reaction to Mason's words. Dayton may have been a total equine's astrum in some ways, but they had been through way too much for him to not want to defend his friend and mentor against any unjust accusations. However, there wasn't a lot he could do about it right now, other than stare daggers, hoping that somehow a little Empyrean magic might give them sustenance. An amused smile spread over Mason's features.
"Ah, I've hit a nerve. I can see that," he said, reaching behind Starbuck's head and beginning to undo the gag. "Listen carefully now. The situation you find yourself in is largely due to a misunderstanding. You simply fell in with the wrong crowd when you landed on Earth. I need to straighten out a few things, and make you understand that you're on the wrong side, albeit innocently."
Lauren raved incoherently through her gag, shaking her head at the warrior. Mason ignored her as he removed Starbuck's gag and eased the wadded up cloth from his mouth. It was a blessed relief, since inside of his mouth was drier and rougher than the sun-baked tarmac at the main landing field on Borallis in the height of summer.
"I can tell you respect your commander and hold him in high esteem," Mason said softly, nodding as one of his officers handed him a bottle of water. Slowly and purposely he began to open the cap. "But you need to realize that the people of Earth, and those of our mother world, are on divergent paths, and have been since the dawn of creation. Mark Dayton is driven by his need and motivation to get himself back home. He's like a carrier pigeon, inexorably impelled to return to Earth." Mason paused, searching Starbuck's eyes as he rested one hand on Starbuck's shoulder and tipped the bottle slowly to his parched lips. The first taste was pure nectar. "Think about it, Captain. I'll bet you can remember instances where you realized that your commander would put his people above your own, risking all of your lives for his own selfish determinations. Does anything come to mind? Take a moment to reflect as you quench your thirst, my Captain."
As the ambrosial water snaked down his throat, the thought leapt unbidden into Starbuck's consciousness. When Dayton and his men had first been found on the pirate asteroid, the Earthman had almost single-handedly planned the destruction of the Galactica, with himself aboard. Starbuck would never forget the moment he realized that Apollo and Boomer on the asteroid base were about to be blown to Hades Hole, and that the blast would destroy the Battlestar that protected the Fleet, leaving their civilians relatively defenceless. To his credit, Dayton had at the last moment intervened to stop his own murderous plan, citing a visitation from the Ship of Lights as his provocation for coming to his senses. However, it had left Starbuck with an unshakeable scepticism regarding the Earthman, and had motivated him to become Dayton's personal watch daggit until enough water had passed under the bridge—as Dayton liked to say—that he had relaxed his unrelenting scrutiny. But how could Mason know about that?
Starbuck moved his mouth away from the water bottle, a cooling stream running down his chin, dripping off the end. "How . . .?" he began to rasp, coughing when the water went down the wrong way.
"Easy, now," Mason said, patting him on the back. "Mark Dayton has had two objectives: mislead your people and return to Earth. Think about it, Captain. Really think about it. You want a home and a future for your people, a place where they can rebuild their lives, their culture, and traditionally worship the way they have for millennia. I'm honestly telling you that in this current cultural and political environment, it's impossible. Even amongst Earth people, there is hatred and intolerance between cultures and creeds. Hatred that runs as deeply as that between your people and the Cylons. Your people are looking for sanctuary, but instead they will find condemnation and bigotry here in the current political environment. However, we Anakim have been working to change things. Many times in Earth's history we have come close through war, creating empires that upheld our traditional class systems, which the late Lucifer assured me dominate your society. Imagine that here on Earth common men aspire to hold office! Is it not preposterous?"
That did surprise Starbuck a little. The Council of Twelve had almost exclusively been selected from Colonial lines of nobility. You could count on one hand the number of times since Unification that someone new, someone from outside the traditional bloodlines, had achieved a seat on the Council. It was their way.
"For the first time, we are on the brink of uniting all Earthmen under a Universal Law through political means, instead of force. Gradually, we intend to reinsert the class system that is so necessary to create peace and harmony on Earth, as it did in your Twelve Worlds. If your ship, our deliverer, were to join me, it would cinch the deal. I give you my word of honour that when your people finally arrive at Earth, that under my leadership they will find a home here. How could I promise that? Well, just minutes ago over a secured frequency on our radio I was informed that I have been appointed as the new Secretary-General of the United Nations. My colleague, and the current American ambassador to the United Nations, has stepped down in my favour."
Lauren went ballistic.
"That shouldn't surprise you if you're as informed about the Anakim as you claim, Ms. Dayton. We are the United Nations, after all," Mason told her, voice slightly condescending. "It's a historic day, since it's the first time that a national representative of the Security Council will serve as Secretary-General. A treaty with the Colonial Nation and a plan to ease their transition on Earth when they arrive will be at the top of my agenda once that Cylon ship is destroyed."
Lauren glared at him.
Mason smiled, not even acknowledging her. "Join me, Starbuck, and as a descendent of the mighty Anakim, you will share our prosperity, inheriting what is rightfully yours. We will shape and mould Earth in the image of our great mother world, as it should always have been. But to do so, we will need to relieve your commander from duty. He stands in the way of Earth's Unification. You understand that, don't you? Like most of his ilk, he's an American first and foremost. He will put his nation's independence before all else. He would never accept Unification."
Starbuck looked at Lauren and the hostility in her eyes made him realize Mason was right about that. All those debates between Dayton and Ryan where the Canadian teased the American about his apparently limited and self-centred perspective abruptly came to mind. Wasn't this the very day that the American nation celebrate their independence every yahren, the same way that the Colonials celebrated their unification? Hadn't Dayton talked about immigrants being expected to integrate and assimilate? Hadn't he despised those that hadn't learned their language or adopted their culture? Frack, why hadn't any of this occurred to him before? He and Dayton had aligned themselves first to survive Torg and his pirates on the asteroid base. Their friendship and camaraderie had continued as they fought side by side to destroy Cylons, and then to find Earth. But was all common ground behind them now?
"I presume that your crew is mostly made up of Colonials who would be motivated towards ensuring a safe and nurturing home in the future for your people. And that you carry some weight with them as their strike captain. According to Commander Lucifer, your record is impressive, to say the least. Is that information accurate?" Mason asked.
Starbuck nodded, swallowing hard, trying to find his voice as he tried to get it straight in the swirling maelstrom that was his mind. Again, he glanced down at socked feet, still cuffed to the bar as he tried to find fault with Mason's words. "Of course, but Dayton . . ."
"If you wish it, I will give you my word that I won't harm him," Mason assured him, this time gently pushing him forward and then reaching behind him to release the wrist restraints. "Slowly now, the change of position will be painful."
And it was. Bit by bit, Starbuck brought his arms forward, barely registering the bleeding around his wrists as his muscles went into spasm, screaming painfully. He held his breath, feeling a gradual shaking building in his frame. He felt light-headed. Sick. Especially when he envisioned him and the Earth astronauts on opposing sides . . .
"Head between your knees, soldier," Mason said, pressing Starbuck's shoulders firmly, but gently forward until he was again doubled over. The director stood beside him, again beginning a dispassionate massage of spasming muscles. Strong fingers kneaded the flesh beneath his flight suit, making him groan in pain and relief at the same time. Finally, the fuzzy feeling around the periphery of his existence faded. Gradually, Starbuck's head began to clear. But something still didn't seem quite right. He licked his lips, a residual acrid taste on them. He glanced at the water bottle on the chair beside him. Another twenty or so just like it would quench his insatiable thirst . . .
"You said that the . . . the United States current administration wouldn't support Unification. What about the other nations?" Starbuck asked.
"Other Earth nations have been moving towards the inevitable for over half a century. First we had the European Union. Quickly, it was followed by the Union of South American Nations, the African Union, the Pacific Union, and the Asian Union. I'm not sure how familiar you are with our political history, but the road towards a North American Union has been more difficult. Men such as your commander and President Gibson live in a past where they fiercely hold on to outdated ideologies and symbols that set the United States apart from other nations, isolating it. Their so-called tolerance of other cultures is dependent on knowing that theirs is the dominant one. The only way to ease the way for Unification in this crisis situation is to eliminate those in opposition by way of relieving them of power and position."
"You make it sound like you're ready for that."
"Politically, we are poised to act. Our membership is strong in world leadership already. If the public understood that your Colonial battleship would continue to defend us against more impending Cylon attacks—especially seeing the devastation of Mexico City, Las Vegas and New York—then they would support the change. There would be little any opposing world leader could do about it. A show of allegiance between you and I would forge bonds that will secure your people a real future here on Earth, I give you my word."
"A show of allegiance, huh?" Starbuck murmured, his gaze drawn back to the final set of restraints holding his ankles in place.
"Choose, my Captain," Mason added, squatting down in front of him once again, this time releasing the restraints. "Your people or your commander. A hundred thousand or one. If you Colonials align yourselves with the Anakim, the imposing might of your warship could very well prevent a worldwide revolution here on Earth as we Anakim strive towards Unification with you as our allies. Not only will you be giving your own people a home, but also billions of lives here on Earth will be spared when they realize the futility of opposing the inevitable unity of Earth's nations. We will ascend to power. We will take our rightful places as the Lords of Earth, just as our forefathers—yours and mine—did on our motherworld so long ago. What do you say, Captain? Can what remains of your war-torn nation rely on you to do what's right for them? To secure them a place to call home? Do we have an understanding?"
Starbuck cleared his throat, licking the bitterness off his dry lips as he straightened up slowly and glanced once again over at Lauren. It looks could kill both he and Mason would be deader than the hopes and dreams that President Adar had once engendered through an armistice with the Cylons half a galaxy away. Mason pressed another water bottle into his hand and he took a swig of the cool contents, feeling it slake his thirst, ease his throat and wash away any doubts as to his course of action. He ignored Lauren's incoherent scream of protest as he met Mason's eyes. "Not until you give me my boots back."