"How's it look, Dorado?" Apollo asked the warrior in the Endeavour's Control Centre.
"With WASA's help, doable, Apollo," Dorado replied, looking up from where he was leaning over Pierus' communications station with Coxcoxtli and Commander Curtis from the Mars station. The Earthman was shaking his head at the technology. "Before the Cylons attacked, WASA had actually hijacked the major satellite communications networks covering Earth to warn everybody that the Cylons were coming, at the same time letting the people know that we existed and were coming to help."
"How did they manage to do that?" Apollo asked, sounding impressed.
"Sounds like some kind of satellite warfare," Dorado said. "Similar to what the Cylons tried during the early yahrens of the war."
"Code name, Killstar," Curtis added with a smile through the languatron. "I didn't really think we'd ever need it, but Jess was right again."
"How does it work?" Apollo asked.
"Coxcoxtli could explain better than I could," Dorado admitted.
"It's the same principle as the EMP we were talking about before, Colonel," the young man said. "It's the electromagnetic transients created by the accelerated electrons."
"Sorry?" Apollo raised his eyebrows. "Could you elaborate on that?"
"Well, simply put, the resulting interior electron currents generate cavity electromagnetic fields that induce voltons on the associated electronics, which produce spurious currents that can cause upset or burnout of those systems."
"So those same satellites were vulnerable to the nuclear EMP from the Ravager exploding," Apollo said, hoping he'd understood all that.
"Yes, sir. Most of them were left dysfunctional, if they weren't already blown out of orbit by Raiders."
"How exactly did the WASA satellites survive? I didn't really understand that part," Sagaris said from his station.
"Their systems had to have been configured with special cables, aperture protection, grounding and insulating materials to survive the transients," Coxcoxtli explained.
The cadet nodded.
"Several of the surviving WASA satellites are still manoeuvrable," Dorado continued, "and coming back on line now. Besides that, they're collaborating with other international government agencies and private companies with still-functional satellites, and they're pirating others."
"Pirating?" Apollo asked in surprise.
"Yes, sir. Commander Dayton's daughter said we don't have time to ask nicely."
"I see." Jess Dayton was a lot like her father, apparently.
"We should be able to triangulate the signal to communicate directly with Washington and New York City soon. We're still working on India and Pakistan."
"When?"
"Coxcoxtli?" Dorado asked.
"Best guess, fifteen centons, sirs."
xxxxx
Dayton stopped in the corridor just down from the Life Station, knowing he couldn't just walk in there and let things unfold as they might, as tempting as that might be. Jess had wanted to stop in and check on the condition of her Barstow crew, while Dorado and Curtis worked with WASA to get the commsat network functional again. However, geographically that would bring her face to face with Cassiopeia. As much as events in the Control Centre demanded his immediate attention, on a personal level Dayton knew his lady would strangle him if he weren't there to introduce Cassiopeia to his daughter and to offer some kind of explanation as to the nature of their relationship. Especially since he still had a wife down on Earth.
A good stiff drink was looking good about now.
"What?" Jess asked in a direct manner that he was beginning to realize was characteristic of his daughter.
"There's something I need to tell you before we go in," Dayton replied, nodding towards the hatchway.
"Alright." She crossed one hand over her stomach, the other rubbing her chin thoughtfully. "Tell."
"I've been gone a long time, Jessica."
"That you have."
"I honestly never thought I'd make it back to Earth."
"Well, that makes two of us."
Dayton smiled faintly. She always had a comeback. Just like her father. "I met a lady a few months ago."
"I see." Her full lips tightened into a thin line. "And she's in your Infirmary." She inclined her head in that direction.
"She's the medical technician in charge of it. Basically a doctor in training. Her name is Cassiopeia."
"Like the constellation," she said quietly, letting out a long sigh. "Well, that could have been awkward. Thanks for letting me know ahead of time."
For some reason he'd been expecting a scene. Her accusing him of betraying her mother. Some yelling. Sarcasm at the very least. Instead, she was standing there looking slightly ponderous. "That's it?" he couldn't help but blurt out.
She smiled sadly. "It's like Grandpa all over again, Dad. Part of Mom is already dead. Your wife is already dead." She dropped her gaze from his eyes, looking around the grey corridor unseeingly. "What's left is just a . . . a container. Mom didn't want this. If euthanasia laws were different . . ."
"Euthanasia?" he murmured in disbelief. Ethically . . . morally . . . "Jess . . .she's your mother!"
She looked up at him again, taking a few moments before replying. "I finally realized that even though the idea of having Alzheimer's is at the very least repugnant to most people, that Mom doesn't seem to be actually suffering." She smiled, bittersweet. "It's like she's in some . . . some make believe world of her own where generally the rest of us are occasionally let in to participate for brief interludes of clarity. For a quick moment, a few minutes, she'll be Mom. Her sense of humour comes out or that uncanny ability to observe the ridiculous, as only Mom can . . ." For a couple seconds she was lost in some memory of her mother; fond remembrance, joy and sadness all played across her features. "Then . . ." She shrugged, wrapping her arms around her and pulling herself back into the moment. "I think it's harder on the family than it is on the patient." Her eyes began to film over. "Maybe if Mom had put something in writing years ago . . . but she didn't. And I find I just don't have the . . . the courage to act on behalf of the mother I used to know. The one who would absolutely hate what's she's become."
She looked so utterly defeated.
"Sweety Bear," he murmured, pulling her stiff, reluctant body into his arms. It occurred to him she wasn't a woman who sought comfort often. She would bear her burdens, resigning herself to a necessity or a means, rather than seek empty words of consolation or reassurance. Still, he was her father. Surely, there was some solace he could offer her? Some measure of peace? Blessedly, she finally relaxed into his embrace. "Jess, I understand what you mean. None of us want to be put in that situation. Most of us would want to find a way out. But at the same time . . ."
"By the time you're diagnosed, Dad, you're beyond making that rational judgment. Your brain isn't firing on all cylinders and it's already too late. You're trapped and you don't even know it. Mom's still alive, but your marriage is over, Dad. She needs a caregiver now, not a husband." She pulled back, taking his hand. "I guess what I'm trying to tell you in a round about way is that I'm glad you found some happiness with this Cassiopeia after all this time. And knowing what kind of relationship you had with Mom, I realize Cassiopeia must be some kind of special lady. I'm looking forward to meeting her."
"How'd you get so wise?" he asked in bemusement. In the space of a few minutes he'd gone from guilty to exonerated. Not that he was as willing to relieve himself of any burden of care for his wife as his daughter presumed he should. After all . . .
"I'm fifty," she reminded him, releasing his hand.
While rationally he knew that, one would never guess it by looking at her. A couple generations ago fifty-year old women were matronly and middle-aged. Gradually, over the years that had changed. Beautiful, fit, interesting and up to her eyeballs in career and family, his daughter looked far younger than her years. "You don't look it. Must be those Dayton genes."
"Well, you don't look eighty-five, either," she stressed the age, teasing him.
"Ouch," he replied. "Space-time continuums being what they are, child, I don't think I am. I'm roughly seventy."
She raised her eyebrows. "We're in different space-time continuums? But . . ."
"Let's not contemplate the 'buts'. They're too mind bending for this old man," he begged off. "Jess, there's a lot I haven't told you yet. Let's just hope Mason affords us the time before . . ." He stopped, his orders from Adama suddenly looming on his mind.
"Before what?" she asked.
"I need to tell you something else, Jess. My orders were to come to Earth, destroy the Ravager, and return without ever making contact."
"Well, two out of three ain't bad," she murmured in amusement.
"Obviously, circumstances forced our hand."
"Obviously. Space-time continuums being what they are, when do you need to go back?" she asked so very wisely.
It utterly floored him. Technically, no matter how long they were in Earth's orbit they could utilize the Clavis to travel back to the same time they had left as long as it remained fully operational. He smiled.
"Long enough to straighten out the mess. And to get caught up."
"That's what I thought," she replied. "Now, let's go meet Cassiopeia."
xxxxx
The victim of a celestial battle with Count Iblis, it was the second time in Ama's existence that she could feel her life force dwindling, running out like blood from a wound. Not much longer could she keep it up, matching energies against her own blood father, the immutable force of darkness and her nemesis. It was so much like their last brutal engagement in an alternate dimension beyond Morlais that she reasoned that either the Great Powers would come to her assistance or she would finally perish, the last spark of her effusive spirit spent. Or was that a part of their ultimate plan when she had refused to submit subserviently?
She steeled herself as another wave of Iblis' tormenting energy battered her, using her waning powers to repel him once again, before hitting him with what energy she could garner from her core. Everything around them had been laid to waste, victim to their ferocious supernatural carnage. Finally, they had ceased to be father and daughter. They were simply two spirits fighting for victory, two warriors engaging in mortal combat, two souls striving to endure.
But with different purposes.
"Concede, Ama!" Iblis demanded, wind whipping through his hair and whirling about his cape. Lightning lit up the dark sky above, while fire raged through cracks in the planet crust, smoke and flame rising from the very core as it ripped apart.
"Never!" she spat back, her own unruly mane blowing about her face, her lips curled back over her teeth.
She had come so far since their last campaign, her powers far surpassing anything she had ever thought herself capable of. To her own detriment, she had once imagined or perhaps imposed limitations on what she could achieve. Since then, Iblis had shown her much and the Oculus had done the rest. Her glorious powers had abounded and she had released them with abandon. It had been exhilarating beyond her wildest imagination. But the Great Powers had not been pleased.
For only two beings governed by the Beings of Light had ever defied Celestial Law. The same two had declared themselves exempt from it. Both Iblis and Ama had embraced, embodied and flexed every metaphysical muscle they possessed, flouting millennia old edict, using and abusing the secrets of the Oculus for their individual selfish desires. Was it something in their genetics that decreed they would break away? Was it something in the stars?
Was it irony, destiny or masterful manipulation that finally saw them opposing one another? Two omnipotent beings battering the very life energy out of each other, matching blow with blow, force with force.
Pain wracked her existence, but it was spiritual, not physical. Her vision was clouding, the light diminishing along with her hope and faith. Through a dim haze of exhaustion Ama realized that Iblis too was weakening, his life force draining beneath the onslaught of her attack. How much more could either of them endure? How much longer would their strength last?
Then a crack of thunder roared and a bolt of lightning split the heavens. The murky darkness above parted slowly until a light began to gradually filter through. Moments later it shone on them, like the dawn of a new beginning. For a moment it seemed that time was standing still. Her heart had ceased to beat. Then a strange sound began to fill her senses, growing in intensity, as her heart once again thudded against her breast, almost painfully. Abruptly, darting lights, moving faster than her eye could trace, swarmed them. Their presence was tangible.
And Ama truly knew fear.
xxxxx
Starbuck shook out his throbbing hand as he stood over the unconscious and supine form of Miller. The security man had surprised him, to say the least, when Starbuck had opened the turbo flush door to find himself staring at Mason's man. Thankfully, his warrior's instinct had kicked in. Rather than reason with Miller—who was not only armed, but also towered over him, outweighed him and carried a grudge—Starbuck had punched him instead. In retrospect, it had been a lot like slugging a landram. Much to his surprise, the big man had hit the floor like a load of bricks.
"I didn't think you had it in you," Lauren said, keeping a cautious distance as she lingered in the turbo wash.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Starbuck grunted in reply, wondering absently if he'd broken a knuckle. Drawing in a breath between his teeth, he squatted down, relieving Miller of his firearm. He examined it for a moment, realizing it was relatively antiquated, but not so different from the one he had handled previously—Dayton's old Colt .45—that he couldn't figure it out. It took him a moment to find the release for the magazine, confirming the weapon was indeed loaded with projectiles. It took him another few microns to open the chamber, finding it also loaded. He emptied the round before closing the chamber, reinserting the clip, and then rechecking the safety. It was engaged.
"Is it anything like your phaser?" Lauren asked with interest.
"Phaser?" Starbuck asked, looking over at her. He'd heard the word before. "Oh, my laser. The rudiments are similar enough."
"So you won't shoot yourself by accident?" It sounded like something her father would say.
"No, but if you keep it up, I might shoot you," he replied wryly.
Lauren chuckled aloud. Considering the circumstances, it was nice to hear her laugh. "He has cuffs, Starbuck," she reminded him. "We can use them on him."
"We?" Starbuck returned, having also been subjected to the restraints that Mason's men carried. He put the weapon aside, searching the man's dark uniform, finding the cuffs and a small black box that fit in the palm of his hand. It looked like some kind of communicator, but how it worked he had no idea. He tucked it into his pocket to take a look at later. Then he grabbed Miller by the hip and shoulder, giving the man a shove over onto his face to secure his hands behind him.
"Oui," she replied, an unusual tone to her voice that was intriguingly sensual. "You over there and me over here, mon cher."
"Mon what?" He asked, his interest piqued. "That's not . . ."
"A few words of French. It's a Romance language. Never heard it before?"
"A romance language? No, I've never heard it before, but I think I'd like to hear it again," Starbuck replied, amazed that they had entire languages here on Earth dedicated to romance. Maybe it wasn't such a bad place after all. He smiled up at her, only to catch a glimpse of something hurling towards his head from the floor.
xxxxx
The Intel being shared that day was, to put it mildly, staggering. It wasn't only Congress that Albert Mason was addressing, but every reasonably intact national government and international network that still had the capacity to receive global satellite communications. The rest were too busy dealing with either the aftermath of an electromagnetic pulse, or the resultant political anarchy. Two other nations were on the brink of nuclear war. That left those present—either physically or holoptically—trying to figure out what to do about it.
President Gibson ground his teeth as he personally witnessed Mason's masterful manipulation of world chaos. It was as if he'd been planning it for years, and if what Smythe, Goldman and Foreman said was true, in a way he had been. The agenda of the New World Order—or the Anakim, traced back beyond legends in the Bible—had been thrust forward when the Cylons had come to destroy Earth.
Elizabeth Smythe beside him looked as cool as the proverbial cucumber, while a sense of hopelessness and fatalism overwhelmed the young president, despite her reassurances. As much as he despised the idea of globalization beyond an economic or communications focus, even he could understand the abrupt need for a unifying and cohesive global force in this atmosphere of utter chaos and destruction.
All evidence proclaimed that the world was undergoing a financial meltdown, and Mason was already advising a gold-backed world currency and financial system. The inevitable economic collapse needed an economic authority, and members from the executive boards of both the International Monetary Fund and the World Bank already had ideas on how to proceed.
How conveniently timed.
Already, there had been attempts at revolution in six countries, not all abortive, along with race and food riots. The United Nations "International Peacekeeping Forces" were strategically, and with remarkable smoothness, moving into place, quelling "civil disobedience" and "social unrest" worldwide. To Gibson that sounded like political speak for a New World military, which had been incredulously applauded by those looking for easy and available options for desperate problems.
After an attempt on his own life and two attempts that Gibson was aware of on the Russian President's life, the Vatican had just sent word that Pope Clement XIII had been assassinated in St. Peter's Basilica in front of a crowd of sixty thousand Catholics who had gathered there seeking reassurance and comfort from the Pontiff. The assassin was, conveniently, also dead. Gibson hadn't asked for the details, but could just imagine the ensuing bedlam in Rome.
It was the kind of desperate atmosphere that bred abrupt and sudden change in world policy. It set the stage for what came next.
"And now, my esteemed colleagues," Albert Mason, the Secretary-General of the United Nations, said, "we have more reason than ever before to unite our nations as one. In the timeless words of Abraham Lincoln, 'any people anywhere, being inclined and having the power, have the right to rise up and shake off the existing government, and form a new one that suits them better. This is a most valuable—a most sacred right—a right, which we hope and believe, is to liberate the world'. " Mason paused for a moment, raising a hand as recent war torn images were displayed over Kazakhstan, Los Angeles, Chicago, New York City and finally the utter vacuous wasteland that had once been Las Vegas and Mexico City. Miles and miles of smoking glass. In silence those assembled watched as finally a squadron of Raiders climbed towards Earth's orbit. All that was missing was the theme music. "For across the galaxy is a force far greater than any of us imagined. A force that is determined to destroy all of humanity. The battlefield is space, and my friends, for that we are woefully unprepared. But we have resources and manpower. And powerful allies willing to help us, also from across the stars. I have forged an early accord with their Strike Captain Starbuck, but it's clear to both of us that to facilitate this budding alliance between Earth and the Colonial Nation we need sole representation for our planet. The time has finally come for Unification. Remember these immortal words for they are perhaps more poignant now than ever before: United we stand, divided we fall."
xxxxx
She should be mature about this. Snort! Considering their age difference, actually, Jess really had no choice. Yet somehow her rational mind had decided out in the corridor that the woman her father was involved with—the woman who ran the infirmary on this high-falutin', fancy dancy space ship—was actually a lot older than twelve.
"Jessica, it's my honour to introduce you to Cassiopeia," her father was saying.
"The honour is mine," the young, attractive blonde constellation said with a decidedly tentative smile in Jess' direction.
Why did Jess get the idea that it was a smile that said Cassiopeia had been down this road before, more than once in fact, and the last time it had been a bumpy ride? She sighed. Okay, so maybe her father's lady was older than twelve, perhaps even thirty, however they counted years in these Colonies. Despite that, Jess shook her head slightly, still in shock at the age of the woman who was speaking to her through their electronic translator. Years of good manners and public relations experience ultimately kicked in, and Jess held out her hand, lightly grasping the other's, and shaking it briefly before releasing it.
"Sorry," Jess murmured aloud, realizing that Lady Constellation was watching her uncertainly. "I know I'm acting like an idiot, but he didn't tell me you were so . . ." She shrugged, deciding to be honest. She didn't harbour any ill feelings towards the woman; it had just hit her by surprise. "Well, so young. I'd pictured the head of the medical department as a bit more matronly, to be honest."
"Matronly?" Cassie smiled at her bluntness, glancing at Mark Dayton indulgently. "Of course it would surprise you." She nodded, and then gave the commander a sidelong glance. "I don't think it occurs to him."
"Or any of them for that matter," Jess replied with a sniff. Her culture had paired older men with younger women as a male status symbol of power and virility, while generally it was perceived quite differently by their daughters . . . The phrase "gold digger" came foremost to mind, actually, but somehow Jess didn't think it applied in this case.
"How true." Cassiopeia smiled.
"How did I end up being the odd one out?" Dayton asked, appearing slightly relieved by the situation. Sure, it could have gone much worse.
"By not mentioning that your love interest was younger than both your daughters by about twenty years," Jess replied wryly. "Or didn't you understand that part, Dad?"
Dayton opened his mouth, trying to find the words and failing as he looked from daughter to lover. Instead, he looked around the infirmary, obviously deciding to change the subject. "How are our patients, Cassiopeia? Cadet Xenia? The Barstow crew?"
"Xenia is sedated and on full life-support. Right now she's holding her own, but the tissue breakdown can't be stopped, and it's only a matter of time before another major haemorrhage finishes her, Mark. If there's anything you can do to get Starbuck up here . . ."
"Well, at least now we know where he is. Apollo's working on it," Dayton assured her.
The blonde nodded, obviously reassured by that. Colonel Apollo, apparently, had a reputation for getting a job done. Jess filed that away for future reference.
"This Xenia, is she Starbuck's wife?" Jess asked in concern. The pilot had saved her life and countless others. If there was anything she could do . . .
"No, one of his pilots," Cassiopeia replied, exchanging a look with Dayton. "I get the idea she knew him, yahrens ago. Acastus says she used to be an officer on the Columbia. She was medically discharged before the Destruction. Anyhow, she and Starbuck seem to have some kind of history that I can't quite put together. She won't talk about it."
"Probably a roll in the hay," Dayton commented.
"A roll . . ." Cassiopeia shook her head to indicate her confusion.
"Sex," Jess interpreted . . . through the electronic interpreter.
"I don't think so," Cassie replied, looking over towards a dimly lit cubicle. "Don't get me wrong, but she's not really Starbuck's type."
"Don't get me wrong, but sometimes a guy like Starbuck's type is 'anything willing'," Dayton replied, following her glance.
"Really?" Cassie drawled, smirking slightly.
Jess had the definite idea that Cassiopeia saw both men in similar lights. She had the sudden urge to sit down with the woman over a Martini or two so she could really learn about her father . . .
"What about the Barstow crew?" Dayton asked.
"Recovering from their radion exposure and other injuries," Cassie replied. "The psychological trauma will take longer, of course. In some cases, a lot longer."
"Prognoses?" Jess asked about her crew.
"Physically, I expect full recoveries," Cassiopeia repeated, glancing over at another medical bed. The occupant starred back at them. "Mark, I wish you'd speak to Bruce Johnson. I really do believe it would help him psychologically to move ahead in his therapy."
Jess followed her father's gaze over to the Barstow crewman. Although he was reclining, his body seemed taut with tension as he ran his fingers through dark, wavy hair. "I'll go with you."
"Alright," her father agreed.
Together the Daytons crossed to where Bruce Johnson rested on a medical bed. He watched them wearily as they approached.
"How are you feeling, Bruce?" Jess asked him, glad to leave the translation matrix behind her. As much as she had mixed feelings about Bruce Johnson, he was still one of her people, and each and every one of them had risked life and limb to take part in the Mars Base mission, many of them narrowly surviving thanks to the Colonial Base Ship. It was too easy to ascribe blame to a man she didn't necessarily like on a personal level, and she did her level best to make sure that personal feelings didn't interfere with her professional judgment. Was it possible that Sam Chung was the saboteur? Had he, a man she'd known since university, really been hiding something this big all those years? She'd have to get Lauren to dig something up . . .
"They're taking good care of us, Director," Johnson replied respectfully with a nod towards Cassiopeia and the other staff member present. He nodded at Mark Dayton. "We appreciate your help and hospitality, Commander. I owe you an apology for my outburst down on Mars. I'm afraid I was still in shock from what had happened, and the radiation didn't help much either, if that's any excuse. I realize now that there are two sides to every story and I sure didn't give you much of an opportunity to tell yours."
"Your mother was a damned good astronaut and a respected colleague, Bruce," Mark Dayton said. "Not to mention a dear friend. Rest assured, if I ever find out who sabotaged us . . ."
"You and I both, Commander Dayton," Bruce Johnson replied, slowly offering his hand uncertainly.
Mark Dayton reached forward and grasped it firmly.
"Thank you, sir," Johnson said, covering their right hands with his left. "Your understanding means a lot to me. I've spent my whole life following in my mother's footsteps, trying to find some kind of meaning or explanation for her . . . her death . . . Some kind of closure."
The commander nodded slowly, releasing his grip. Of course, Marilyn Johnson's body had never been recovered from the International Space Station explosion. Little had. A young Bruce Johnson had simply been told one day that his mother wouldn't be coming back from space and his world had never been the same. He hadn't even had a grave to visit. In some ways, he had lived and survived ever since on anger. "You're looking for answers you might never find, Bruce."
"I know, Commander. But I still won't give up."
"That's the spirit, kid. Neither will I," replied Dayton.
"Commander Dayton, report to the Control Centre. Commander Dayton, report to the Control Centre."
xxxxx
Starbuck narrowly avoided Miller's elbow as it targeted his head. Lauren cried out in warning as the warrior reflexively recoiled backwards, putting some distance between them. Without a doubt he knew that against a trained killer like Miller, he needed the element of surprise on his side in a full contact engagement. It had worked twice before, after all. Starbuck's momentum propelled him away from the larger man, and he scrambled away crablike before scurrying to regain his feet.
Hades Hole, he missed his laser!
Miller agilely rolled to his knees and then jumped to his feet, his muscled frame uncurling like a large predator's as they faced each other. While Starbuck had some training in hand-to-hand combat, not to mention a good deal of street smarts, one look at Miller's stance filled him with trepidation. Mason's man held himself like one of those professional . . . uh, what were they called . . . Marital Arts fighters that Dayton had showed him on old Earth vids. For a moment they locked eyes, staring at one another. Miller had blood trailing down from the corner of his mouth. He screwed up his face and spat out a tooth, before sucking in a couple of deep steadying breaths.
"Listen up, Captain," Miller began out of one side of his mouth, relaxing his stance. "Actually . . ."
Besides his knuckle, there weren't a lot of breaks coming his way today, so Starbuck wasn't going to ignore this one. He shot forward, diving for the weapon. Tucking and rolling, his fingers curled around the gun butt as he regained his feet . . . for all of a micron.
Then Miller landed on him, flattening him with all the power and brutality of a hundred and fifty kilon Orion Hasher.