Dayton's mind suddenly went blank when Syphax demanded who he was. Only one point two maxims from the Armstrong Lunar Outpost, they had to get the Cylons to change course before impact. Fortunately, one thought of his best friend hastily corrected the abrupt mind wipe that paralysed the usual silver tongue of the Endeavour commander, inspiring him in a general direction.
"I-am-Commander-Vodka," Dayton adlibbed, ignoring the sudden eruption of a hiccough from Porter. "I-order-you-in-the-name-of-the Imperious-Leader-to-abruptly-alter-course-on-a-gamma-vector." A ship the mass of the Ravager would take too long to reverse course, but shifting it away from the lunar base would afford them the time and distance they needed to spare the small outpost.
"Who are you to issue orders to me?" Syphax demanded over the comm. "I have my orders, Commander Vodka."
"Which-were-distilled-over-a-centi-yahren-ago," Dayton reminded the Cylon. "Much-has changed-within-the-Alliance, which-is-why-the-Harrower-was-sent-to-pursue-and-stop-you. Again, I-order-you-to-change-course, Commander-Syphax. Obey-or-lose-command-of-your-ship. NOW!"
"This is a ruse!" was Syphax's determined response. "Maintain course!"
The Cylon wasn't buying the bluff, but then Dayton hadn't expected him to.
"Sixth-nested-memory-file!" barked Dayton, praying his memory of Iblis' words to Malus back on Mars was accurate. "Execute-instruction-sixty-six!"
As long shots went, he was probably better off betting on Ryan becoming the spokesman for the Sobriety Society, than counting on the evil one's "kill phrase" working on every IL of that class. Beneath his Cylon armour, he crossed his fingers, his toes and everything else he could shift without seriously injuring himself. Almost miraculously, like Malus before him, Syphax's lights fluttered, then went dark. The cyborg shut down. Now, if Dayton understood anything about Cylons, deactivation would be damn impressive to the subordinate class of centurion.
"In-the-name-of-the-Imperious-Leader, I-am-assuming-command-of-the-Ravager!" Dayton barked over the comm, waiting only a moment before a centurion took Syphax's place. "Alter-course-on-a-gamma-vector! Best-speed-now!"
"By-your-command."
xxxxx
"I don't believe it," Apollo said from the cockpit of the Hybrid, watching the Ravager slowly begin to alter course, gradually moving away from Earth's moon. Given the amount of damage the Cylon vessel had soaked up, it was remarkable she had any manoeuvring capability left.
"Seeing is believing," Baker said behind the two warriors.
"Now how do you figure they managed to pull that off?" Dietra mused aloud, checking the scanner for verification of the naked eye. Sure enough, the enemy vessel was slowly picking up speed and veering away from the moon.
"I'm sure we'll hear all about it," Apollo guessed, watching as Jolly's Hybrid targeted and destroyed the last enemy Raider. He activated the comm. "Rooke, how's your fuel?"
"Low," the Phoenix leader replied. "But we can make it back to our base ship."
"Then let's go home," Apollo ordered. "Phoenix Squadron, you have priority landing in Gamma and Alpha bays."
"Aye, sir."
xxxxx
"Why the hell don't you believe me?" Bruce Johnson demanded under the hostile stares of acting Barstow Station commander, Tom Curtis, as well as the latest arrival from WASA, Allan Carter. Initially, Doctor Mufti and Dillon Trent had also wanted to question the Barstow survivor, but the sanctity of the Life Station and the protective nature of its staff had cut his visitors down to two.
"We didn't say we don't believe you, Johnson, we're just saying it's hard to believe that someone who's been with WASA for thirty years—like Sam Chung—living and breathing life into the Mars program almost single-handedly, would blow up his own station," Carter replied. "Try to see it from our point of view."
"You're just looking for a scapegoat!" Johnson replied defensively. "Well, I'm not volunteering! There were only a few people with enough security clearance to deactivate those safety measures on the reactor's coolant system, and I wasn't one of them! I'm not even fully rated on the reactor system!"
Carter grunted as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Who else had clearance?"
"Obviously, Commander Chung did. As second in command, so did I," Curtis said. "So did Johl and Knutsen in engineering."
"But of the four of you, Chung was the only one who blew his brains out," Carter added.
"Allegedly," replied Curtis with a pointed look at Johnson.
"And of the four of them, Curtis is the only one still alive," Johnson returned. "Ever consider that, huh?"
"What the hell do you mean by that?" Curtis demanded, his face flushing angrily.
"Only that if you want to start ascribing blame, maybe you should look in the mirror!" Johnson snarled. "You're not pinning this on me! Check the logs, and just see who's been logging extra time on the commcircuit home! Maybe . . ."
"And the logs are on another planet, thirty-some million miles from here. Kind of convenient, don't you think?" Curtis spat.
"You're going to have to leave," Cassiopeia inserted over the languaphone, walking angrily towards them. "This is a Life Station, not council chambers! People need their rest."
"Sorry, Ma'am," Carter apologized, grabbing Curtis' arm. "Unless the Colonials found Chung with a bullet in his head when they were searching the base, we might not get to the bottom of this until we return to Mars."
"I know," Curtis growled, forcing himself to calm down. "But as far as I'm concerned, that's only circumstantial evidence at best. Anyone could have shot Chung in the head." Again he looked at Johnson suspiciously.
Johnson's mouth gaped open in disbelief.
"That's enough!" Cassie said sharply, inserting herself between the visiting Earthmen and her patient. "If you don't leave now, I'll have security remove you. Get out of my Life Station!"
It was a collision of cosmic forces such that the universe hadn't seen since the Great Powers had clashed with Iblis millennia ago over Earth and Mars. This time the battlefield was the planet Empyrean, and she shuddered beneath the onslaught, continents rent apart by her shifting core, tectonic plates created in an instant, spewing steam and magma into the sky. Landmasses were pulled in different directions, while mountain ranges either hurled in ruin or thrust up where none had existed before. The crust of the planet was torn away from her core, nature's ensuing fury devastating what fragile life had budded since the Cylons had ripped the world to shreds sectars before. Celestial warriors for evil and goodness unleashed limitless energies at one another, one bent on destruction, the other merely fulfilling her destiny, as the planet below screamed aloud in its agony.
And, silently, the Great Powers watched.
xxxxx
"Angry accusations from both sides of the aisle here on Capitol Hill are calling for President Gibson's resignation in light of the new President's inaction during the early stages of the Cylon invasion. Inside sources say it was only the courage, determination and decisive action of the Director of National Intelligence that allowed American defences to organize in time to turn back strike forces over New York City, Chicago and Los Angeles. Such leadership in a time of chaos and uncertainty makes it seem only natural that the former Director Mason was only an hour ago appointed by the General Assembly as the fourteenth Secretary-General of the United Nations, making it the first time ever that an American has held office. Previously, the Secretary-General could not be a national of any of the permanent members of the Security Council, of which the United States is one . . ."
"That's the biggest load of horse shi . . .!" Dickins exploded, while his eyes widened in astonishment as the story went on to broadcast footage of Mason finishing off the IL Cylon known as Lucifer. In an unwinding series of events that could have only been staged, the IL went on to plummet to his "death" from a helicopter, ending up impaled on the flagpole atop of the . . . "Holy crap! The White House?"
Roach nodded, gritting his teeth. "Yeah."
Hummer watched tensely, trying to make sense of the unfolding scene without a full grasp of the language.
"The symbologists would love that," Grae Ryan inserted.
"How so?" asked the general.
"I remember L.M. talking one night about how according to Masonic and Occult symbologists, certain points in Washington supposedly form a Devil's pentagram. I forget most of the other landmark points, but I do vividly remember her saying that the White House formed the fifth and bottom point of the pentagram, which was supposed to symbolize the spirit of Lucifer."
"The spirit of Lucifer," Dickins repeated, still looking at the image of the skewered IL. "You know, those damn Base Ships are in the shape of a pentagram. There's got to be a reason for that other than coincidence."
"Where exactly do we draw the line between symbology, reality and Iblis?" Grae Ryan returned.
"You two are getting weird again," Roach pointed out. "I don't have time for weird. I need to get to Washington."
"Then what are we waiting for?" Dickins asked. They had been holding back, waiting for some kind of lead as to Mason's whereabouts since finding out about his abduction of Starbuck. "We know he has Starbuck, and now we know they're in Washington, D.C. Let's go!"
"As Secretary-General of the United Nations, Mason now has diplomatic immunity. So do his staff," Roach replied, considering his options. Official channels just didn't seem to be the best way to go. He didn't know whom to trust anymore.
Dickins swore softly under his breath.
"And if members of the House and the Senate are agitating for Gibson's resignation in the middle of an international disaster, I'm willing to bet that Mason is going to try to push forward Samael Asar's agenda for Universal Government," Ryan added. "That's why he's there! To address the Congress!"
Roach scoffed aloud. "He doesn't have that kind of support in Congress!"
"Are you sure about that?" Ryan countered, glancing back at the news report. "Lauren said President Gibson was put in office because they thought they could control him. When they realized they were wrong, they blew up Air Force One trying to assassinate him. Didn't you say yourself that both the Secretary of Defence and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff seemed to be working with Mason?"
"Why in the hell isn't that on the news?" Roach demanded, pointing at the screen. "Not to mention the fact that Mason is moving towards a worldwide political union on Independence Day!"
"Because they own the media," Ryan replied. "Mason is an international hero now, not a cloak and dagger boob. It's all in the presentation of the propaganda, like everything else they've been feeding us on the mainstream news for as long back as we can figure. If we don't find a way to either murder or discredit Mason soon, Earth is going to be in big trouble."
"Going to be?" Dickins asked.
Hummer stood up, moving closer to the image of Lucifer. He frowned. Then smiled.
xxxxx
Apollo burst into the Control Centre of the Endeavour with Baker on his heels. All eyes were glued to the real time scans of the Cylon Base Ship. Infrared indicators were off the map. The Ravager didn't have much time left. Beside Commander Dayton there stood a tall, slender, and quite beautiful woman whom he recognized from the holo-vid they'd seen on Planet "P". It was Jessica Dayton, the commander's oldest daughter, apparently unharmed from her encounter with the Cylons. She was speaking over the communicator, but her words were coming out mostly unintelligibly. He could pick out only a few words of her Earthspeak until he drew close enough to hear the translation on the languatron someone had just activated.
"Hutch, if you're not talking to me from the nuclear shelter, get your ass down there right now!" she ordered. "Or I will kick it myself on my first opportunity!"
"When we saw them coming at us like a ticking time bomb on steroids, we didn't think there'd be any point!" came the reply. "A million gross tons of alien ugly! We were sure they would impact . . ."
"Well, look again! They've changed course!" she said, her voice steady but determined. "Hutch, there's no destructive blast or thermal radiation when one of these ships explode in the vacuum of space, but there's still nuclear radiation! I don't have any definitive answers about the degree of attenuation over distances or how you'll hold up under our usual shields. Your best chance after screens at maximum is that shelter!"
"Understood, Jess! I've already evacuated most of the crew to the shelter. The rest of us are on our way! Hutch out."
"They have supplies and rations to last them six months, providing they make it," Jess told them.
"What kind of shielding do they have?" asked Porter.
"The usual radiation and electromagnetic protection, but it wasn't designed for short-range nuclear explosions. Also, there's a plasma deflector shield in the event of solar flares or cosmic ray bursts. The emergency shelter is a hundred feet below the surface, under solid rock and lined with lead." She watched as the Endeavour's computer ran through an algorithm, holding her breath until she saw the outcome. She frowned at the final formula and then glanced at Dorado. "What does that mean, exactly, Captain?"
"Are they far enough away from the lunar base?" Apollo asked, joining them.
"Not knowing the precise specs on that shelter or the screens, it's theoretical at this point, I'm afraid," Dorado replied. "Any chance the base could send them to us?"
"Everyone will be down in the shelter by now," said Jess. "If you can put me through, I could get the specs transmitted up here from Baikonur."
"Do it," said Dayton to Pierus.
"Is there any risk to Earth?" Jess asked, tucking her hair behind an ear as she leaned over the comm station to help.
"Not from nuclear radiation, it's three hundred and ninety thousand maxims away," Dorado replied.
"Maxims? I'm not following . . ."
"Roughly a space kilometre," Commander Dayton told her. "Just over two hundred thousand miles, Jess."
"What about us?"
"Our shields are up. We'll be fine," Dayton replied before turning to Baker. "Have fun?"
"A blast," Baker replied. "Hey, maybe it's kind of late in the game to mention it, but has anybody taken into account the effect of the EMPs on Earth when that baby blows?"
"Should we?" Dorado asked. "I guess I'd just assumed it wasn't a consideration."
"Oh, shit," Dayton winced, running a hand over his face. "Jess, when I left there had been over twenty years worth of commissions formed. Reports almost as thick as Paddy's skull were piling up on desks recommending hardening key infrastructure systems and procuring vital backup equipment in the event of EMP terrorism. Did they do anything, or are they still just talking about it?"
Jess straightened up, giving Pierus some room. "WASA has a Space-Based Solar Monitoring and Alert Satellite System in deep space which includes a satellite-based multispectral sensor package to monitor the entire solar electromagnetic spectrum. However, that's more for detecting long-range solar flares than EMPs at close range to Earth. We're more concerned with protective measures right now. As far as the United States goes, and keeping in mind the Cylon impact, the Defence Satellite Communications System, the Air Force Satellite Communications System and the Navy's Fleet Satellite Communications System are fully hardened and operational. Besides that, the Military Strategic Tactical and Relay Satellite and all their military communications satellites are state of the art, second only to WASA's," Jess replied with more than a little pride. "The command, control and communications systems of western tactical commanders should be secure in the event of massive EMPs. The European Union, Japan, China, Brazil, Canada, India, Russia, Australia, and South Korea would be in similar states of readiness. That said, your own Captain Starbuck recently used strong microwave bursts of a precise frequency to blind Cylon scanners over Kazakhstan, and before that we used a WASA electromagnetic pulse beam system to knock down an F-35 over the Atlantic Ocean, but bear in mind, military secrets being what they're not, we had an inside line on its weaknesses. Obviously, they're still effective weapons."
Dayton raised his eyebrows at that. It was news to him that his daughter was knocking down F-35s from the sky.
"Go on," Baker encouraged her.
"You're Lieutenant Colonel Robert Baker, aren't you?" Jess asked him.
"Sure am, but I'm retired," the astronaut replied. "Call me Bob or Baker. I don't use my rank anymore."
Jess nodded. "The biggest weakness all along has been civilian industry, since EMP hardening adds significantly to the cost of any new system, and retrofitting would be even more expensive. No matter how often civilian industry was warned, big business is all about the bottom line, except in a few rare cases where CEOs recognize the potential monetary loss involved in all computer and communications systems going down. I'm talking the big guns like British Petrol, General Electric, AT&T. You get the idea." Nods from the Earthmen present indicated that at least they understood. "Anyhow, I guess what I'm saying overall is that I don't know how EMPs from an exploding Base Ship will compare to solar flares or cosmic ray bursts that have randomly hit Earth in the last fifty years. I think we're protected, at least in the major western centres, but only time will tell for sure. It could be disastrous."
"The only other possible solution would be to send someone back to the Base Ship with the Clavis and beam the Ravager into another dimension," Coxcoxtli suggested. "Or maybe back to Cylon."
"Not half bad," Baker chuckled. "That'd sure solve a few problems."
"Volunteers?" Porter asked cheerfully.
"We don't have time for that," Apollo said decisively.
"Apollo's right, although I like where you're going with that, Coxman. Where would an EMP blast be concentrated?" Dayton asked.
"Here," Dorado replied, pointing to the screen.
"South Asia," Porter relayed. "Looking at the bright side, it could potentially be a lot worse over Europe or North America."
"Yeah. Earth is going to have to ride this one out," Dayton replied, turning to his executive officer. "Colonel Apollo, this is my daughter, Jessica Dayton."
"Director Dayton," Apollo nodded, extending his hand.
"Call me Jess, Colonel. I don't stand on ceremony," the WASA director said agreeably through the languatron she'd been given. Briefly, she grasped Apollo's hand, but her attention was divided between the Ravager limping across space, pulling further away from Earth's moon at an excruciatingly slow velocity, and waiting for a reply from WASA. She was all business.
"Good job out there, Colonel. Losses?" Dayton asked him.
"Seven Hybrids destroyed, Commander," Apollo replied, handing over his datapad. "Two more limped in with extensive damage. Those four warriors were unharmed."
Dayton frowned, glancing over the data that listed the fourteen Colonial Warriors that had lost their lives in combat. He let out a long slow sigh. Most of them were kids. Like all kids in all wars, they were goddamned cannon fodder.
"And Cadet Xenia is still critical in the Life Station," Dorado added. "And, according to Cassiopeia, asking to see Starbuck."
There was a moment of silence as those present pondered the cadet's possible reasons. Starbuck being Starbuck, most silently came to much the same conclusion.
"Is Xenia going to make it?" Apollo asked.
"No." Dorado shook his head. "She took a Cylon pulse laser blast to the gut while on the Base Ship."
Apollo winced, holding memories at bay of Serina on Kobol. "Is there anything I can do?"
"You could find Starbuck," Commander Dayton told him.
"He was dangling off the Brooklyn Bridge when we last saw him," Baker filled in.
"He was what?" Dayton said.
"I think I'll let Starbuck tell that story," Apollo replied with an amused smile.
"I could probably help with finding Starbuck when we get through to WASA," Jess offered. "I'm on good terms with General Roach, the US Air Force Chief of Staff. He'll know where Starbuck is."
Thousands of kilometrons away, the fires aboard the Ravager had done their work. The last of the cooling pumps in her main engine room shut down as the power cables burned through. The heat climbed faster and faster, and even blowing the outboard valves to vent the excess drive plasma was not enough. One of the reactors reached its limits and . . .
"Director Dayton," Pierus said, hand to his headset. "Baikonur Mission Control . . ."
"Finally! Here we go . . ." began Jess, crossing to the comm station.
"Hold the phone," Dayton said quietly, eyes on the console.
On infrared scan, levels on the Ravager peaked. The ship glowed an orange-white just a micron before its fusion reactors exploded, tearing the ship apart, incinerating all aboard. On video scans, the Cylon warship's lower hull split open, spewing light and debris, as she tore her guts out. The ship blossomed into a ball of vicious, ugly light, boiling into space. On scanner, the blip that had represented Earth's all-time greatest threat simply disappeared off the screen. Cheers of victory erupted from the Endeavour's crew while Pierus shook his head at Jess.
The WASA director looked at the cadet expectantly.
"I lost them."
"Damn!"
xxxxx
Mason had undermined him. The Director of National Intelligence, a man who preceded his own presidency and whom he'd once respected, had actually plotted to have him killed. He'd even broken one of the longest standing rules of the United Nations in becoming the first American national to be appointed Secretary-General. Currently, the cigarette smoking son-of-a-bitch was obviously scheming behind the scenes to have Congress force Gibson out of office, and so it was with abject incredulity that the President of the United States realized he'd soon have to welcome the former Director of National Intelligence as an honoured dignitary! The newest Secretary-General of the United Nations was en route to Capitol Hill.
"We should be arresting Mason, not rolling out the red carpet for him," said Elizabeth Smythe, his White House Chief of Staff, pushing her glasses back up her nose. On Capitol Hill for the last twenty-five years as a political consultant and senior advisor, she'd made recommendations for politicians ranging from freshmen senators to presidents in her career.
Privately, Gibson thought they should shoot Mason instead, but refrained from voicing his opinion, lest it somehow ended up coming back to bite him in the ass should his presidency somehow survive this political upheaval in the middle of an attack from homicidal space aliens. It was a little surreal, and at this point he was just hanging on for dear life, keeping his hands and feet inside the cart at all times, as men toiled to remove the same Cylon that had spoken at the United Nations the night before from a flagpole from which it had been impaled upon outside the White House. Gibson inclined his head at Terry Foreman, the White House Counsel. "Terry?"
"With the lack of evidence, I'm afraid all we have against Mason right now is a bunch of allegations. He covered his tracks well, or had other people do it for him. Listen to the representatives at the UN and they'll tell you he's the Second Coming in an Ivy League suit and tie. This sudden uprising in the House and the Senate is coming together too smoothly, too easily to be unplanned, sir. The players were put in place long ago, but I think those of us still welcome in this room could see that coming," Foreman said, looking around at the conspicuously empty chairs in the Oval Office.
Jim Wright, the Secretary of Defence, and Jack Edwards, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had already voiced their criticisms loudly concerning President Gibson's "whishy-washy leadership abilities". Notably absent, they were regrouping with those trying to force Gibson out of office. Vice President, Owain Beglau, had already "leaked" word to the media that should Gibson step down due to "personal issues" that he would be prepared to assume the presidency.
Smarmy little bastard.
Smythe nodded. "I heard a United Nations security detail arrived at the West Front to secure the building, preceding Mason's arrival at the Capitol."
"What?" Gibson demanded, surprised that his White House Chief of Staff would have this data. Obviously, she still had contacts on the Hill. "That's preposterous!"
"And were cordially admitted and given access to the Capitol's security systems. The Speaker of the House is demanding Mason be heard," Smythe added with a curt nod. "Next they'll be handing them the key to the White House."
"Not if I have anything to say about it," Gibson replied with more conviction than he felt as he gazed steadily back at her.
The door to the Oval Office opened. Leon Goldman, the Vice Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff walked in. His uniform was rumpled on his gaunt frame, and he pushed unruly, curly salt and peppered hair back from his forehead. "My apologies for my lateness, Mr. President. Both WASA and NORAD have confirmed the Cylon Base Ship has been destroyed."
"Well, thank God for that!"
Goldman set a portable holoprojector on the table and activated it. The images were reconstructed from surviving satellites. It showed the Cylon warship heading straight for the moon, and then suddenly veering away before ripping apart in a blast of intense nuclear fire.
"And the Colonial vessel?" Gibson asked.
"According to WASA, still in one piece, Mr. President," Goldman replied, "although they reported some battle damage. More pressing is the electromagnetic pulse that resulted from the nuclear explosion."
"Directed where?" Smythe asked.
"South Asia. China, India and Pakistan have already reported loss of telecommunications and power grids in rural areas. Major centres still have an intact infrastructure. However, it's likely a different story in Bangladesh and Nepal."
"Likely?"
Smythe's smile was fleeting. "We haven't heard. Internet and Sat Phone nodes are out from Tehran to Rangoon."
"Of course," Gibson replied, slightly abashed. "I suppose it could have been much worse."
"Yes, sir. It could have been us," Foreman replied.
"WASA also reported there's a risk of nuclear radiation to the Armstrong Lunar Outpost crew, but the crew have evacuated to their shelters," Goldman continued. "They'll give us an update when they have it. "
"WASA seems to have become our unofficial liaison with the Colonials," Gibson inserted.
"Well, Jessica Dayton is Commander Mark Dayton's daughter," Smythe replied. "Blood being thicker than water and all that claptrap."
Gibson nodded, finally feeling like he was among people who would speak frankly.
"Also, sir, with your permission, I will assume the duties of Jack Edwards," Goldman continued. "He's thrown in his lot with Mason."
Gibson's jaw tightened. He and Edwards went back a long way. Hell, Edwards had first encouraged him down the path of candidacy for the presidency! The betrayal stung worse than he wanted to admit. He nodded. "Of course."
"Where's the Colonial Warrior?" Smythe asked. "Captain Starbuck."
Gibson looked at her curiously, wondering where that had come from. "I don't actually know . . ."
"Here in Washington," Goldman replied. "Mason snagged the captain in New York City, as well as Lauren Dayton in New Jersey."
"He has L.M. Dayton?" Gibson asked.
"Yes, sir. The Colonial commander's youngest daughter. I presume he would have used both her and the Colonial Warrior as negotiating collateral, in case he didn't secure the position of Secretary-General in the United Nations."
"Hostages?" Gibson asked in horror.
Goldman nodded. "Yes, sir. Now with the UN backing him, I can only guess that he'll try and manipulate the warrior into forming an alliance. Imagine Mason pleading the case for world government, backing it up with the Colonial warship as some kind of invincible defender of everything he represents. If the Colonials align themselves with Mason and the UN, we're dead in the water."
Gibson blinked. "I spoke with Captain Starbuck personally. He offered the allegiance of the Colonial Nation to me." It occurred to him that they were looking at him almost pityingly.
"Those were early days when all that was at stake was whether or not the Cylons would blow us to Smithereens. I'm willing to bet Captain Starbuck never imagined he'd find himself in the middle of political anarchy, where the UN was trying to form a worldwide authoritarian government smack in the middle of an extraterrestrial Armageddon, sir," Goldman said.
"Mason wouldn't dare," Gibson attempted, feeling the eyes of the three on him. "He doesn't have that . . . that kind of support . . ." This time they looked at him as though he was a dull-witted schoolboy. "Does he?"
"Mr. President, did you ever in your wildest dreams imagine that you'd see Mason as a replacement for Samael Asar?" Goldman asked him, taking a seat beside his colleagues. "People don't ask questions when they're struggling to survive."
Gibson groaned.
"How's it look, Leon? Do we have someone in place?" Elizabeth Smythe asked, pushing a strand of her hair back behind her left ear.
"We do, Liz. I just don't know if we should get him to try and turn the Colonial, or to just eliminate him," Goldman replied.
"Eliminate . . ." Gibson repeated in shock.
Looking at the three, President Gibson knew without doubt that he was way out of his league. Admittedly, he was new to the Presidential Office, but somehow he realized instinctively that these three people knew far more about what was, had been, and would be going on in politics than he ever would. Over the years, people had alluded to a core group of powerful worldwide figures with a secret agenda of re-educating people brought up on nationalism to the idea of relinquishing part of their sovereignty to a supranational body, but he'd never believed it. He'd never thought it was possible . . .
"What's going on here?" Gibson demanded. "How do you know all this? Who exactly are you people?"
Leon Goldman looked from the White House Chief of Staff to the White House Counsel. His expression spoke volumes, and in turn the others nodded. Before Gibson could so much as take another breath, Goldman leaned forward in his chair, letting out a long sigh. "Mr. President. We need to let you in on a secret."
"A . . . a state secret?" Gibson asked, feeling a mingling of fear and horror tingle its way up his spine. This was beginning to feel like one of those political thriller movies his wife so enjoyed.
"It has been a secret of many states, Mr. President," said Smythe. "Very many."
"A secret that goes back millennia," Goldman replied. "A secret of Brotherhood."
xxxxx
"So this is what they look like, huh?" the Emergency Response Team officer from the Uniformed Division grunted from below the flagpole at the White House. "Imagine a whole race of these . . . things."
"Race, huh? Doesn't a race have to be living and breathing, Dylan? Doesn't a race have to be human?" Officer McNamara replied, helping manoeuvre the robot into the back of a Uniformed Division sports utility vehicle. "Flesh and blood."
"Maybe it's time to expand the definition," Bains replied. The robot seemed heavier than he had expected for its size.
They'd tried to cut through the robot to get it down, but whatever it was constructed from was impervious to their hack saw, their band saw, and they hadn't brought the plasma cutter. Even their hydraulic cutter had given up the ghost when the pump had blown. Finally, they had used a crane to mechanically lift the robot back up the way it had come, the softening of its heated metallic composition giving way to mechanical force.
"I like the old definition," Dylan replied. "It was simpler. What do we do with it now?"
"We have orders to take it to the holding area at the North Gate," Bains replied.
"Whose?"
"From the top. Let's go."
"Right." They tossed a tarp over the machine. "Say, you hear something?"
"My stomach rumbling. Let's go."
xxxxx
Internal chronometer . . . main operating system inactive fifteen point six centons ... reinitialise main operating system . . .
Main power cell damaged . . . unresponsive . . . reroute to alternate power source . . .
Main system not responsive . . . backup system diagnostic . . . backup system diagnostic . . . on-line . . .
Command-servo pathways off-line . . . reroute . . . reroute . . . reroute . . .
xxxxx
"We just heard the final word; NORAD confirmed that the Cylon Base Ship was destroyed by your Colonial capital ship. The Cylon threat is eradicated," Mason told Starbuck in the back of a long, sleek Earth vehicle that was transporting them to the place where the United States federal government convened. Outside darkened windows, a pristine landscape with green spaces and stately buildings whizzed by in a near blur as they sped down city streets in Washington, D.C. It looked so clean and untouched in comparison to New York City. Starbuck was reminded of Caprica City before the Holocaust.
Beside him, the Secretary-General leaned forward, opening a panel. Within was a complete bar and multi media system. Starbuck snorted softly at the indulgent opulence in the back of a vehicle, reminded of earlier days on the Rising Star. Satellite imagery came to life, depicting the Ravager exploding in a massive burst of light. Starbuck instinctively recoiled, closing his eyes, expecting the blinding blast of light that had accompanied other capital ship explosions. It was hard to believe that he'd sat most of this battle out while planetside. Hades Hole, it rankled. As a warrior, he preferred being in on the kill. Still, the distant victory was a relief. One less ship full of Cylons in the universe. At the same time, however, the Endeavour's strike captain couldn't help but wonder how his shipand her squadronshad fared.
"Any word on the Endeavour? Has Commander Dayton attempted communications?" Starbuck asked, while shrugging into a dry, clean uniform in the generous back seat of the "limousine". It fit perfectly. Mason smiled unctuously at him as the warrior mused about where it had come from.
The uniform was either his own or an exact replica, and Starbuck wracked his brain trying to remember where and when he'd last seen it. It took him a moment to remember it had been in the back seat of Mitch's taxi, which, when last seen was lying at the bottom of a lake in some agro community. Apparently, one of Mason's men had been there picking up his dirty laundry, along with the boots that had been returned to him back at the Air Force base.
He sat back and finger-combed his hair roughly into place, only to have his hands pushed assertively aside as "Leigh" began fussing over him again. Assigned to "cleaning him up", the attractive and impeccably put together older woman was apparently adept with hiding all evidence of the numerous bruises and contusions received either at the hands of the Russians, General Roach, Mason's goons or the various bridge cables and other obstacles he had been bounced off. Starbuck glanced across at Lauren, who was still glaring lasers at him. A rough bandage was wrapped around her wounded leg and he took note of her good colour. She remained gagged and restrained, which was probably just as well at this point.
"Yes, the uniform is yours, Captain. I trust it's been mended and cleaned to your satisfaction?" Mason asked, omitting the fact that his people had obviously infiltrated the US Air Force. "And no, your commander hasn't contacted us yet."
Which made a guy wonder why not.
"Meanwhile, with what's left of the satellite network slowly getting back up and running, the media on this side of the world is already blanketing the airwaves with stories of victory and triumph. Among those are captured images of some of your heroic adventures here on Earth, most notably your rescue of that female trucker on the Brooklyn Bridge, Captain," Mason continued. "Both Russian and American pilots are singing your praises for your skill and leadership abilities. I swear there's nothing like a decisive victory and an honest to goodness hero to take peoples' minds off disaster. By the end of the day, my succeeding Samael Asar and the official formation of our Universal Government will be secondary to the news blitz about a Colonial Warrior arrived here to save humanity from the Cylons." He sniffed in amusement as he withdrew another cigarette from his case. "As a bonus, an international coffee conglomerate known as Starbucks has already replaced their logo with a caricature of you in your Colonial Warrior uniform. Your image will be indelibly etched into our collective consciousness by the end of the day."
"Isn't that a little over the top?" Starbuck asked.
"Not at all. Once we get you looking a little more presentable, we'll record a holographic message to your commander, assuring him that you're among friends and informing him that he's only to deal directly with the United Nations Secretary-General. To simplify lines of communication, you understand. We'll also do a couple brief interviews with you responding humbly to the accolades. Is that clear?"
"As clear as condensed tylinium," Starbuck replied as Leigh finished shaving him, and then began wiping something with the texture of rubbing compound onto his face with a small sponge. He grimaced, pressing himself back into the seat with hands raised into an admittedly pathetic posture of self-defence. She pushed them down determinedly as she worked on covering every cubic centimetron of his face with the pasty substance.
Chimes of Hades Hole, it was like being prepped for the IFB!
"Condensed what?" Mason asked.
"Tylinium. It's a virtually impenetrable transparent alloy, a substance we use on view ports. Standard lasers can't penetrate it," Starbuck explained. "Sort of like the stuff Leigh's putting on my face."
The make-up artist paused to grin at him before resuming her art.
"I see," Mason said.
"That's the idea," Starbuck added.
"Please try to be still, Captain," Leigh instructed him.
"Right," Starbuck agreed, trying to make himself relax under her ministrations, while wondering what he would come out looking like. Some sort of awful Mattellion Action Figure came to mind. The Iceman. Rara Avis. Hades, even Crawlon Man! Lords, Boomer would laugh himself out of the cockpit if he ever got wind of this!
"Captain, I'm assigning Miller as your personal body guard," Mason told him. "After that attempt on your life outside the United Nations Complex, I think it best."
"I feel safer already," Starbuck replied, not bothering to point out it was probably one of Mason's men who had shot him. He nodded at the burly officer who had tried to throw him out of the helicopter following Milligan's unfortunate plunge to the ground. Of course, Starbuck had repaid that kindness by attacking Miller later, using the element of surprise and his momentum to thrust the man backwards into a security monitor. They weren't exactly on the best of terms, which had more than likely been factored into the equation.
"I'll take good care of you, Captain," the officer replied, a professional mask in place.
"I'm sure you will," Starbuck returned, keenly feeling the absence of his Colonial weapon. Obviously, he was to be kept on a short leash for the early stages of this tenuous alliance.
"I need to cut his hair, Secretary-General," Leigh inserted with a frown. "It's unfashionably long for Congress and not very respectable looking."
"True," Mason replied, studying the warrior. "How attached to your hair are you, Captain?"
"On a follicular level, very," Starbuck returned. The mature blonde-haired woman reached for her tools of the trade, pausing at his response. "Seriously, I guess I'm overdue for a cut. Leigh, if you think it will help persuade your bureaucrats that I'm a more respectable ally, then do it. After all, you seem to be the image expert here." He held her light blue eyes as he shrugged, assuming an aura of indifference as he seemingly put his trust in her.
By the time they pulled up in front of Capitol Hill, he looked like a new man. While the haircut was a bit short by his usual standards, especially on the sides, it certainly didn't come close to the current Earth tradition of buzzing it off before it required any kind of grooming. Leigh had done a good job of covering up most facial bruising, only leaving the cut over his cheekbone visible for the more "rugged" appearance worthy of a soldier. Yeah, with the transformation so complete, he was just so devastatingly handsome that it was hard to tear his eyes away from his own reflection in the mirror. As they drove up, the elegant and majestic appearance of the Capitol Building did just that.
While the overall effect of the stately building was impressive, the large white dome dominating it was magnificent. The entire structure sat elevated on a hill, placing it on a natural pedestal, a little closer to divinity. It reminded Starbuck of some of the more important public buildings back in the Colonies. Again, the similarities between Earth and the other branches of Kobol were manifest.
"What do we do with her, Secretary-General?" Miller asked, nodding towards Lauren.
"Indeed," Mason replied, considering her for a moment.
"She stays with me," Starbuck inserted levelly. "She's Dayton's daughter. There's no better bait to dangle in front of him than a child he hasn't seen for yahrens." Mason looked as though he was about to argue. "That's non-negotiable, Mason. The commander would be suspicious if he knew that I let her out of my sight once we met up."
"If I'm not mistaken, I'm sensing some concern on a personal level. You're not having second thoughts, are you, Captain?" Mason asked slowly.
"No." Starbuck shook his head. "But ensuring a future for my people doesn't have to come at the cost of any more human lives. Surely enough have died already, huh? If you really think you can form your world government peaceably, and get people to climb on board, then it starts here and now. For good measure, you can release her restraints and get rid of the gag. I'll take responsibility for her behaviour."
"Interesting words coming from a soldier," Miller inserted, waiting until Mason nodded before reaching behind Lauren and beginning to remove the gag.
"After a millennia of war with the Cylons, my culture has learned to value each and every human life, Miller. Even the worst among us was worth more than all the Cylons you can imagine." Starbuck held Lauren's gaze, hoping she wouldn't give them reason to muzzle her again. She looked bemused as to what he was up to, and when the gag came off, she held her tongue. It was a minor miracle by Empyrean standards. "Humans reproduce relatively slowly, as we all know. Cylons can replace a million losses in mere days. As a people, we learned to put our differences aside and to work and live together, because if we didn't, we would have been exterminated."
Mason nodded. "It's cultural values like those that the Colonial refugees can help instil in our New World Order. Now, about these Cylons. How great is the risk that we'll see more of them?"
"You heard me talk about the Cylon Edict of Extermination when I spoke before your Security Council?" Starbuck waited while the other nodded. "It's virtually certain that the Base Ship put a high-gain signal out towards Cylon. Now that they know Earth's location, they'll keep coming until every last human being has been terminated, our culture, history and civilizations obliterated, every last trace of our Kobollian roots erased from the universe. At some point we'll have to make a stand. Frankly, most of us Colonials are tired of running, but currently the Fleet doesn't have the resources for an effective counterstrike. The best we could do was engage in hit and run engagements, taking on one Base Ship at a time when possible, usually with escape in mind. Here on Earth, that could change."
"A compelling argument for Congress," Mason added, seeming pleased. "Nothing unites humanity quite like a looming oppressor, Captain. Especially one that has already destroyed two major population centres on Earth." He smiled again. "These are exciting times. I swear that our future never looked brighter, but perhaps that's natural when emerging from a period of darkness." He reached into an inner pocket, and pulled out an object that Starbuck did not at first recognize. Mason opened some sort of faceplate, and only then did the Viper pilot recognize the antique gold chrono. Mason studied it a moment, then slipped it back inside his vest pocket. "We have about an hour before I speak before Congress. Before that we'll organize the interviews and the holographic message to your commander. Do you have any other desires we can attend to? Anything at all, just ask."
Starbuck was sure he detected a leer as Mason looked over at Lauren. It rankled him, he had to admit. The guy made the lowest of the Borays look like upstanding citizens, by comparison. She drew a deep breath, opening her mouth . . .
"Medical attention and a change of clothes for Lauren," Starbuck inserted hastily. "After that, something to eat and a place to get some rest for both of us while you're occupied with this Congress." His body ached for rest and no amount of make-up could disguise that fact.
"Of course, my Captain," the other replied with a slight nod of the head. As used as he was to reading people, Starbuck at once could read the contempt and condescending arrogance in the other man. Mason looked over at Lauren, a calculating look flickering across his features ever so briefly. "Our Colonial ally here seems to have developed a soft spot for you, Ms. Dayton. I'm willing to comply with his terms as long as you behave. If you don't, the rules will most definitely change. Is that clear?"
She hesitated a moment as her eyes appraised the Colonial Warrior across from her. Starbuck could tell she had passed the moment where his betrayal was an open raw wound, and now, like everybody else, she was trying to determine how she could manipulate the situation to her possible advantage.
"Lauren?" Starbuck prompted her gently.
Just like a good game of pyramid, it was all about reading your opponents, getting the right cards, knowing how to play the hand, and bluffing better than anybody else in the room as the game progressed. The venue might be different, but the rules were the same.
"As clear as condensed tylinium," she finally replied with a mysterious smile, "my Captain."