WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS MILD SEXUAL CONTENT

CHAPTER 8

NCD 1426

As the blackbird drifted through the inky depths of the interstellar night, the Eight piloting the stealth craft carefully scrutinized the communications relay station. It was now so close that it seemed to fill her canopy. She expected the target to be lightly defended because it was located far outside the gravity well of the nearest star system. Its location minimized interference from the intense radiation that surrounded most stars, but a permanent home in the dark equally made it almost impossible to detect. If you didn't know it was there, you could find it only by accident.

Angela ignored the images that were scrolling rapidly across the screen in front of her. She trusted her eyes far more than she trusted the camera that was mounted on the hull immediately above and behind the cockpit. She knew that a fully automated installation this deep in cylon space warranted a garrison of one or two squadrons of Raiders at most, but Angela was far more interested in their deployment than she was in their actual numbers. Cylon battle doctrine required two Raiders to patrol the perimeter at all times, but their orbital tracks never took them above or below the station's equator. In contrast, relative to the galactic plane the blackbird was on a heading that would take it directly beneath the south pole, but the course would also put it well inside the Raiders' surveillance zone. The camera would count the number of Raiders nesting around the relay; Angela's job was to spy on the two pickets, and determine whether the Cavils had changed their tactics.

As the blackbird approached the station's shadow, Angela was sorely tempted to apply just enough lateral thrust to stay in the clear. She didn't want to lose sight of her targets, nor did she wish to lose precious seconds reacquiring them once she passed safely beyond the relay. One burn, for less than a second, would suffice.

But the Cylon kept her hands well away from the controls. She had trained long and hard for the privilege of flying this mission, and she didn't want to do anything that would disappoint Margaret Edmondson. Months earlier, when she had been just another Eight, Racetrack had taught her how to fly a Raptor, and she had gone on to serve with distinction in the Battle of the Resurrection Ship. Then she had graduated to vipers, and she had been lucky enough to draw Lee Adama as her instructor. The two of them had frequently flown the CAP over Picon and Gemenon, and she had sharpened her skills in a series of mock duels with Kara Thrace over New Caprica. Kara had personally recommended her for the blackbird training program, and now Racetrack had tapped her for this assignment. As a pilot, Angela conceded that she would never be in Kara's league—after all, no Cylon possessed the hybrid's intuitive feel for aerial combat …

But our daughter isn't here. If a baseship can have a Top Gun, then the honor's mine to win … or to lose.

With its three great lateral arms fully extended, the communications relay reminded Angela of the tripods on which humans mounted their cameras. As she glided beneath the first arm, the Eight craned her neck so that she could look out through the top of her canopy. There were five Raiders in her line of sight, the closest less than three thousand meters distant. They were floating in space, maintaining a stationary position rimward of the stubby central pylon. She could not see their twins- the quintet that would be hovering on the coreward side- but she knew that they were there. A dozen Raiders in the usual tactical deployment …

The neighboring stations in the network are eight light years distant. Either the Cavils don't value this particular unit because it's redundant, or they don't perceive the threat. But they'll learn.

The space between Kobol and the nebula was littered with Cylon outposts. The communications grid was self-contained and fully automated, but the defensive platforms were controlled by centurions, while the human form Cylons personally supervised the more critical facilities. The Threes and Fives typically looked after tylium and food production, while the Ones jealously guarded the servers that made it possible for a downloaded consciousness to be shunted all the way to the Resurrection Hub. And everywhere, Sixes and Eights were the knuckledraggers, carrying out the innumerable maintenance routines that kept the whole system operating smoothly.

A wave of anger coursed through Angela Eight's synaptic relays. She wondered if any of her sisters were still being held in slavery, or whether they had all been boxed. Inside the collective, she had been blind to the realities of power. She had never asked why the Ones and Fours were excused from menial labor, nor why the Sharons were treated with such scorn by the other models. Without free will, her voice unheard, the anonymous Eight had shuffled obediently along from one inglorious task to the next. She had been a mindless slave, and she had never even known it.

But now … now, she was free. She had taken a name to assert her individuality. She had a circle of friends, both human and Cylon. She played Triad, and once she had even got drunk. She worked hard, but in pursuit of goals that she had set for herself.

And maybe someday I'll have a family. But not today—not until my sisters are free. John won't stop fighting until the centurions have been freed, and I won't quit until I know that Eights are no longer anyone's slaves!

Running with its engines cold, the blackbird slowly cleared the communications relay, and Angela once more had an unimpeded view of the distant galactic core. Natalie's baseship was somewhere ahead of her, still long minutes away. When she made the rendezvous, Angela would file her report, and together she and Racetrack would evaluate the film. They would assemble a strike package, and take it to Hoshi and Natalie for their approval. And then, it would begin. The target was an insignificant flyspeck somewhere in NCD 1426, but Angela Eight badly wanted to lead this attack. She would fly a colonial stealth fighter—and she would deliver the first blow in the war to free her people from Cavil's tyranny.

. . .

"I've missed so much," Bierns sighed. "Ariadne will be four months old next week, and I haven't seen her for the past eight. Some father I'm turning out to be."

"Husband, we talked about this," Deirdre said in a markedly exasperated tone. They were in the middle of the three rock pools; John had been guiding his daughter through the water, but now she was floating on her back without his assistance. "We all agreed that none of you would come here while your ships were orbiting New Caprica. We all agreed that it was simply too dangerous. Zenobia had no difficulty tracking us down, and we must start from the presumption that the rest of our misguided sisters can also lead the Ones directly to us. It had to be this way."

Deirdre reached out to place her hand beneath Ariadne's back; she sensed that her daughter was beginning to tire. "By the way, how is our sister?"

"She's still angry, and believe me—an obsessive compulsive hybrid with a bottomless appetite for alcohol and chamalla extract is not a pretty sight. I don't know what Baltar was thinking. Speaking of which …"

John turned to face Reun and Olivia; the two hybrids were out in the deeper water, teaching Pelea how to swim. This was their sister's first visit to Galatea Bay, and they were concentrating on building up her muscle memory.

"How are the two of you getting along with Dodona Selloi and Yolanda Brenn?"

"Yolanda is intriguing," Olivia commented. "Her ability to see the patterns and the connections exceeds Leoben's."

"I'm more interested in her ability to understand you."

"When Dodona is under the drug's influence, she comprehends all that I say," Reun observed. "The real question is whether the Makers, and the Makers of the Makers, can understand her."

Bierns nodded in silent agreement; his sister had just gone to the heart of it. "The Twos claim to be making progress, but I'm beginning to wonder whether the humans are a lost cause. Everyone assumes that we're dealing with prophecies that are inherently vague … deliberately ambiguous. The idea that we should take our oracles literally … that we should acknowledge their ability to see events in the present to which they are not witness … it's just not easy to accept."

"We cannot give up," Deirdre decided. "The project is too important. There are military advantages in the short term, but it is the long term that really concerns me. The children of man and machine will settle on more than one planet, and they will all need our guidance for many generations if the cycles of violence are to be permanently interrupted. The oracles must become our voices, for the gods travel with us on this journey. Apollo had his temple in Delphi, just as the One True God had His prophets on Gemenon. Their voices must continue to be heard everywhere we go."

"Deirdre, none of us disagree," Cassandra remarked. She and Circe were lying in the sun, on a smooth rock face overlooking the pool. "But we must also be patient. Hera is different from her parents … more attuned to us. The hybrid children may hear our voices, grasp the meaning of our thoughts, and act upon our counsel. There is reason to hope, just as there is reason to hope that the essence of them will live forever in this dimension—that they will all make their own distinctive contribution to the paradise that John has created here."

"A paradise that is still threatened by the Hell that looms just beyond the horizon," Bierns grumbled. "We need to get to work. Reun and I will calculate the jump coordinates; I want everybody else to stretch out and find our sisters. If there are any baseships within two hundred light years of our present position, I want to know about it."

. . .

Cylon baseships did not have a pilot's ready room. They didn't come equipped with ward rooms. There were no gymnasia, and no boxing rings. The basic infrastructure that supported combat operations on a colonial battlestar, and the recreational facilities that allowed pilots to relax and unwind during their off duty hours, were nowhere to be found.

Hell, Margaret Edmondson snorted, we wouldn't even have a Triad table if Apollo hadn't gone out and scrounged one up from someplace! And they're still aren't enough chairs …

Racetrack casually surveyed the vast hangar deck that was now home to two squadrons of colonial Vipers and half a dozen Raptors. A mixed crew of cylon and human mechanics was crawling all over her birds, readying them for the first strike mission in the counteroffensive that the top brass had long been planning. Margaret recognized many of the orange-clad deckhands who were carrying out Chief Tyrol's bidding, but there were unfamiliar faces as well. She presumed that these were just some of the nearly four hundred Pegasus regulars who had all but begged the admiral for a billet on one of the three baseships.

The pilots were an equally odd lot. Sixes and Eights in their distinctive black flight suits stood out among the human pilots in their drab olive dress. There hadn't been enough time, however, to integrate the two battlestar contingents, so Margaret had reluctantly decided to permit her pals from the Pegasus to form a Viper squadron of their own. But the Raptors were another matter altogether.

Even if Galactica's wranglers still mostly fly together, there are enough qualified cylon pilots and ECO's on hand to crew every Raptor in this fleet … and it's gonna stay that way. So, if the hot shots from the Peggy want some time in the air, they'd better learn how to drive a Heavy Raider!

Margaret strolled over to the desk that she had inherited from Lee Adama. Natalie's first CAG hadn't bothered with an office, and she saw no reason to change his routine. She picked up the clipboard on which she had penned the duty assignments, and began mentally to review the roster. She'd already been over it a dozen times, but she figured that once more wouldn't hurt.

Oh, Hell … who's kidding who? I'm so nervous that my hands are shaking—the classic first mission jitters. So take a deep breath, Margaret, and exhale slowly. Now, let's see. We'll jump in with the transponders broadcasting on multiple cylon frequencies. We've gotta find out if any of them still work. Either way, Angela goes in with the blackbird and fires a missile up the relay's ass … maybe takes out some of the Raiders in the process. Natalie wants to see what Bulldog can do, so Novacek gets to chase down one of the pickets. I'll let Jo-Jo tackle the other one … give him a chance to earn his wings. Sorry, BB, but you'll have to wait for round two … which won't be long! You guys don't know it yet, but the Major's got us down for four sorties today …

Racetrack walked off in the direction of the heavily armed blackbird. She knew that Angela would be performing the customary pre-flight checks, but she wanted to find out if her cylon second-in-command was also a bundle of nerves.

She found the Eight on her back, squinting up at the undercarriage. Racetrack couldn't help but smile because Angela, far more so than the other cylon pilots, reminded her of Kara Thrace. Starbuck had always chased everyone away from her Viper at the start of a mission, never trusting anyone else to do the final checks. Angela was just as possessive about the blackbird.

"You missed a spot," Margaret teased.

Angela shifted her attention to her commanding officer, but only for a moment. "I'd like to coat this thing with mud," she muttered. "It may not show up on DRADIS, but it's not invisible to the naked eye."

"You were less than three thousand meters from the nest of Raiders on the recon mission, and they didn't see squat. This won't be any different. Just get in close, fire off the missile, and then get the frak out of there. I mean it, Angela. Don't be a hero; leave the mopping up to your teammates."

"I won't screw up, Captain; you have my word on it."

"Good. Natalie will be down any minute now to give us the requisite pep talk. I could use some help organizing the reception."

"You've got it, Captain." The Eight climbed to her feet, and together the human and the cylon set off across the landing bay. . . .

"All hands to attention," Racetrack shouted; "the commanding officer on deck."

The pilots, both human and cylon, hastily formed themselves into ranks as Natalie approached with Colonel Hoshi at her side. Margaret scowled at her junior officers, whose slovenly posture reminded her of a bunch of first day recruits unacquainted with the parade ground.

Fortunately, Natalie is long on performance and short on ceremony. As long as we get the job done …

"I did not come here to wish you 'good hunting'," Natalie bluntly remarked as she trained her attention on the assembled pilots. "We are deep in enemy territory, hundreds of light years from New Caprica. NCD 1426 is a target rich environment, and we did not choose it at random. There are six more relay stations that we can reach in one jump, and there is a node that is critical to the functioning of the resurrection network on the fringes of a star system twenty-four light years from here. Get ready for a very long day, because we are going to take out four of these targets. Between them, Boomer and Kat will deal with the rest."

"It's about frakkin' time," one of the Pegasus officers swore under his breath.

"Here is the latest intelligence," Natalie continued. "I don't pretend to understand how this works, but Major Bierns has integrated Pelea into the hybrid network, and brought it back on line. It is now more powerful than ever, and the hybrids have scanned surrounding space for some two hundred light years in every direction, looking for the telepathic equivalent of a sonar echo. John assures me that they are getting a faint return about 185 light years coreward of our present position, which tells us that at least part of the Cylon fleet is between us and the nebula. If the Cavils are paying attention to their hybrids, they'll soon know that we're here, but they won't know our strength and in any event they're too far away to do anything about it. And we are going to make them pay. We all want vengeance, for stolen lives and betrayals too numerous to count. Well, today we begin to collect. I'll let Colonel Hoshi explain why we're here, and what we hope to accomplish."

"NCD 1426 is a galactic curiosity," Hoshi began. "In this region of space, the star systems are tightly clustered within three degrees of the galactic plane. It's a choke point, and we are about to take down everything north and above the ecliptic. This won't fatally disrupt cylon communications, but it will force them to reroute everything to the south of the plane. The information flow inside their network should become pretty sluggish."

"Sir," one of the pilots interrupted, "if their systems are so vulnerable, why don't we smash everything while we're here? We could really ruin Cavil's day!"

Hoshi nodded in agreement. "It's the obvious thing to do, but Major Bierns has something else in mind. We have the manpower to take out all eight targets simultaneously, so why attack them in sequence? The answer is to be found in an old hunter's trick: conceal your numbers by advancing in single file. We want to leave the impression that we've only got one ship out here … that we're so weak that we'll run every time the Cavils bring up their forces. They're arrogant, and we want them to become overconfident. Plus, we're trying to drive them down a certain path … get them to concentrate their forces at what they consider to be their points of greatest vulnerability."

"That's clever," the pilot agreed. "We get them to tell us where to strike next."

"Sorry, Lieutenant," Natalie countered with a slight smile, "but there will be no glorious charges against heavily fortified enemy positions. Our child wants us to fight a guerilla war, and that is what we are going to do. We will hit the Cavils where they are weakest, and cut off and isolate their strong points." Natalie gestured for Hoshi to continue.

"We can't afford to lose sight of our own vulnerabilities," he concluded. "The Cavils have at least one asset in play that we can't track, and that's the old basestar that got away in the last battle. It's out there right now, and it's the main reason why one of our capital ships will be tasked at all times to protect the resurrection ship and the tanker. We can't afford to be taken by surprise, so we'll be sending out patrols around the clock, and we'll scout every system before entering it."

"That's it, people," Racetrack barked. "You all know the order of battle; skids up in ten."

As the pilots dispersed and Hoshi began the long walk back to the control center, Natalie turned to Margaret Edmondson. "Captain," she said, "I'd like a word in private."

Natalie waited until they were in a deserted corridor before turning about and gripping her inexperienced CAG by the shoulders. She kissed her lightly on the lips.

"Maggie, be careful out there," the normally stoic Six whispered. "I just don't have the time to bring another officer up to speed, so I need you to come back in one piece."

. . .

The blond-haired Six at the navigation console had her hand in the stream, and she skillfully negotiated her way through the torrent of incoming data to fix their location.

"Natalie … confirming jump complete, and …"

The Six looked quizzically at her older sister. "And we are precisely twelve thousand kilometers from the target. Bearing and carom are both precisely 090."

Natalie shrugged her shoulders in resignation, and caught Louis Hoshi's eye. They were standing on opposite sides of the central console, and her XO's ashen expression spoke volumes about the thoughts now racing through his mind. The most sophisticated computer in the Colonies couldn't plot a jump with such precision, but John Bierns and his hybrid sisters did it with ease. The implications for the future of warfare were almost too frightening to contemplate.

"Six, launch two flights of Raiders … one to guard our FTL's, the other to assume defensive formation Delta. Colonel, ready blackbird 2; as soon as the Raiders are deployed, Angela is cleared to begin her attack run."

"Natalie," the Six reported, "Cavil's Raiders are powering up. They must not be receiving on any of our transponder frequencies."

"So much for the element of surprise," Natalie murmured. "D'Anna, make note of the frequencies, and cross them off the list."

Hoshi picked up his phone, and spoke directly to Margaret Edmondson.

"Captain, they didn't fall for it." He was watching the DRADIS console that had been jury rigged directly above the main console. "Launch the blackbird," he ordered as the screen suddenly came alive with scores of icons. Their Raiders were already on station.

Racetrack keyed her mike.

"Blackbirds singing in the dead of night," she called out in a lilting voice.

The words, which came from an old and marginally popular tune, were Angela's go code. If anyone happened to be eavesdropping on their frequency, Margaret was confident that the meaning would escape them.

The Eight fired up her thrusters, and as soon as she cleared the hangar deck, took the blackbird straight down. While the Vipers and Raiders mixed it up several thousand kilometers over her head, she would make her approach on carom 000.

"Blue Squadron, launch on my command … launch!"

Ten of Galactica's old Mark II's, led by Brendan Costanza, poured out into space and rushed to intercept the enemy Raiders, which were climbing up from the station at high speed. Racetrack's Raptor emerged in their wake, and Sharon immediately began to climb as well. The CAG wanted an unimpeded electronic view of the battlefield.

Angela leveled off, and turned onto her attack heading. "Rockin' Robin," she sent, "tweet … tweet … tweet."

"Say again, Robin," Hot Dog laughed; "you're breaking up."

"Tweet, tweedle-lee-dee," Angela seethed. Hot Dog, you frakker! I swear, when we get back to New Caprica, I'm going to collect a few hundred fire ants and give them a home in your flight suit! The normally soft spoken Viper pilot had stuck her with the worst call sign in history, and her initiation had consisted of singing the song that went with it. That night had seen her get drunk for the first and only time in her life.

"Hot Dog, gods damn it … stay off this frequency," Racetrack barked. "Rockin' Robin, talk to me."

"All the little birds on Jaybird Street love to hear the robin go tweet, tweet, tweet …"

Okay … I know that we have to determine whether the Raiders can use voice transmissions to triangulate the blackbird's position, but this is ridiculous …

Angela took refuge in a projection. She envisioned flying down a long and narrow canyon, at the end of which an oversized Brendan Costanza's grinning face was looming larger and larger. She was going to fire her missile straight down his throat. . . .

Damn, but this frakker's good, Bulldog conceded. The Raider that he was chasing had been on the far side of the comm relay when they had jumped in, and it had been smart enough to keep its distance ever since. It was flitting around like a firefly on stims, and he had been unable to acquire a target lock.

Or maybe, after all these years, I'm a bit rusty.

The Raider suddenly took it hard to starboard and straight up, and Danny had to pour on the power to maintain position. His thumb caressed the trigger as the Raider started to slide across his reticle. . . .

In the control center, Natalie listened carefully to the pilots' chatter. The wingmen appeared to be staying with their leaders, and old hands like Beano and Gonzo were acting so bored that she briefly wondered whether they were having a hard time staying awake. Bulldog was all business, and Hot Dog was clearly keeping a fatherly eye on the rookies. She could hear the excitement in Jo-Jo's voice. . . .

Yes! Danny Novacek clinched his fist in triumph. He had stayed with it, and he had stayed off the trigger until he was ready to take his shot. He had led the Raider nicely, and put a burst straight into its fuel nacelle. The bird had blown up, and he had been unable to evade the debris, but he didn't care. Despite all of his years in the service, this was the first time that he had ever heard the rain. . . .

"Go rockin' robin … 'cause we're really gonna rock tonight!" Angela powered up her weapons system, lit up the target, and fired. . . .

The missile impacted the pylon, and for a few seconds, the resulting fireball turned night into day. The three long arms remained intact, but Margaret smiled with satisfaction as her onboard DRADIS showed them drifting apart. . . .

"Jo-Jo, you're wasting ammunition," Beano cautioned. He had volunteered to serve as the nugget's wingman. In the first war, Colonial fleet had learned the hard way never to allow a rook to fly wing: too many veteran pilots had been lost when, in an excess of enthusiasm, the nugget had wandered off on his own.

"I know … I know," the frustrated pilot answered. He was barely able to keep up with the enemy fighter, and he hadn't come close to hitting it. He hit his thrusters, and the Viper surged forward.

"Stay in formation, Jo-Jo!" Then, to his horror, Beano watched the Raider do a complete flip, and charge straight at the young lead pilot.

"Break right … break right," the veteran pilot screamed. But his warning was seconds too late. The two ships collided head-on, and another fireball briefly lit the night.

Beano turned hard to port and began to climb, but he could hear large chunks of the wreckage bouncing off his undercarriage, and a red warning light flickered to life.

"Frak," he cursed; "I've lost my landing gear. Racetrack, be advised—I'm gonna have to do a belly flop!"

"Understood, Beano; you are cleared for emergency landing. All birds … mission accomplished. I say again … mission accomplished. All birds return to the barn. . . .

In the control center, Colonel Hoshi picked up his telephone. "Chief, you have a wounded bird inbound; have the fire team stand by. I want a damage assessment in my hands in thirty minutes, and our birds fueled and ready to fly the next mission in sixty."

"Six, recall our Raiders," Natalie ordered. "D'Anna, set the clock. I want Cynthia's baseship to jump in precisely 33 minutes."

Ten minutes later, the giant baseship winked into existence at the rendezvous point, and reports began to flow back and forth. Natalie quickly confirmed that the enemy's Raiders had already begun to download on the resurrection ship. She knew that John would be pleased: capturing enemy fighters in this way, and thereby depriving the Cavils of their use, was a critical part of his overall strategy for the war.

Shortly thereafter, Cynthia jumped away to engage their second target. Boomer had strict orders to let the humans sit this one out.

Natalie came up to stand at Hoshi's side. "Well, Colonel," she blandly observed, "in about a half an hour we'll know whether or not the stealth Raiders pass muster."

. . .

"The coolant leak in storage compartment G4VN23 stands uncorrected. Our salad days may soon be over. Replace the thermal coupler in exhaust port 26; a stage 3 cascade failure is imminent. The children of the Makers will not hurt their own. Handmaidens dance attendance on the rites of spring …"

"Mesmerizing, isn't it," the Six sneered. "The machine will drone on in that same lifeless voice for hours on end. Report a short in the wiring … launch a missile that will incinerate six million humans in Caprica City … it's all the same to our dear hybrid."

Mara Andreotis shivered, but remained silent. She was kneeling at the edge of the vat, with her hands cuffed tightly behind her back.

"I can understand why the Twos used to spend so much time here," the sadistic blond continued. "The hybrid's voice is like fine wine; drink deeply enough, and it lulls you to sleep."

"The current draw across the positive pole in node CR37TN12D is fluctuating 0.173 percent beyond established parameters. The warranty has not yet expired. Reset the master fuse at junction 12B78Y. End of line. Reset. "The coolant leak in storage compartment G4VN23 stands uncorrected …"

"On your back," the Cylon commanded. She planted her boot on Mara's shoulder, and pushed hard.

Desperate to avoid the pain that the collar could dispense at any moment, the much abused Six hastened to comply. When she had finished rolling over, Mara didn't wait for the order to spread her legs. There were no longer any mysteries surrounding the very sick relationship in which she found herself trapped. She knew exactly what her sister wanted, and she was ready to comply. It was a game, and she had reached the point where she was not at all certain that she was still a reluctant player.

"Such an obedient slave," the Six cruelly mocked; "you anticipate my desires so nicely."

She dropped down beside Mara, and ran her fingernails lightly over her stomach before tickling the inside of her thighs. Her slave's body was flawless, the skin still unmarked—that was the beauty of the collar. The traitor's spirit had been broken, her will to resist shattered by unendurable pain that at times had gone on for hours without end. But the Six congratulated herself on her cleverness. She had brutally punished even the slightest hint of rebelliousness, but she had been just as quick to reward compliance with pleasure. It had taken almost a month properly to condition Mara Andreotis, but the proud Six who had stumbled off the Heavy Raider was dead and gone, and most unlikely to return.

Soon, it will be Lee Adama's turn. Getting him to kneel before me … that won't be much of a challenge. But the hybrid will make the game much more interesting. CSS agents have a reputation for bending but never breaking. They are supposed to eat pain for breakfast. But can they endure it morning, noon, and night? We shall see … soon, we shall see …

The Six idly traced a path across the tip of her slave's nub. Mara moaned involuntarily, and without conscious thought spread her legs still more widely, inviting further acts of violation. The Six violently forced her tongue into Mara's mouth. She was deliberately savage, the act of penetration an explicit claim upon her property.

It's a shame that I have to lose Aspasia, but what's a machine to do? Her program will activate at the same time as all the other sleeper agents. If she succeeds in assassinating Adama, the resulting chaos will leave the humans wide open to slaughter. But I refuse to let Mara go! I won't do it! I want to see the look on her face when John becomes desperate for my touch, and repulsed by hers!

Giving way to her anger, the Six activated the collar. Mara instantly began to whimper with pain, even as the Six continued to explore the most sensitive areas of her body. The captive Cylon had no choice but to absorb the contradictory impulses. Inside her mind, she could no longer separate them; indeed, she had been rendered incapable of fighting back on any level. At even its lowest setting, the collar poured fire into every nerve in her body.

"There, there, my sweet," the Six cruelly soothed. "Pain … pleasure … it's all nothing more than neurons firing inside the brain. Embrace the whole, my pet, not the part. Know the true joy of submission." She tenderly kissed her captive, before moving down to suck hungrily at her nipples.

Mara Andreotis could feel the warmth spreading remorselessly through her body. Years before, when she had first infiltrated the Colonies, she had wondered what it would feel like to be fully alive. And now, she knew. Even as the collar delivered its message of pain, her body shook with the raw power of her climax.

With eyes and mind focused on a point far off in space, the hybrid ignored the timeless ritual of dominance and submission playing out at her side. Her external sensors had absorbed a wealth of new data, which she was busily processing into the stream.

"Handmaidens dance attendance on the rites of spring. The sensor relay in communications grid Alpha 1426 has failed. The First Born casts the Fallen into darkness. The sensor relay in communications grid Echo 1426 has failed. The Broken Angel lifts the Anointed towards the light. End of line. Reset. The filter in refrigeration unit 23C12DL8B is clogged. Clean or replace. The coolant leak in storage compartment G4VN23 stands uncorrected …"

. . .

The baseship popped into view on the DRADIS screen, and within seconds the phone was buzzing at Hoshi's side.

"Mission accomplished," Boomer crowed. "No casualties to report."

"And the stealth Raider," the XO asked anxiously.

"It jumped in close enough to hand out Saturnalia cards, and then it blew the relay to bits! One of the pickets escaped, but several of the Raiders were caught in the wash, and the rest were so confused that they all but begged us to put them out of their misery!"

"Did they respond to our transponder signals?'

"Negative on that … I've got another half dozen frequencies for D'Anna to cross off the list."

"Well done, Boomer. Now, get your birds rearmed and refueled. I want Sharon and Adonis to supervise the next strike … skids up in sixty-five."

Hoshi turned to Racetrack, who had made the long hike to the control center to deliver her report.

"Boomer reports complete success. So, tell Angela to stand down. We'll let the Raiders carry out the next operation."

"Angela won't be happy about this," Racetrack protested. "She really likes sticking it to the Cavils."

"Don't we all? Maggie, the transponders failed, but Boomer says that her Raiders still didn't encounter so much as a token resistance. We need to find out whether she just got lucky, or whether the Cavils haven't programmed the whole of their rear echelon forces to fight our birds. The quickest way to discover what's going on out there is to invert the order of battle …"

"I see where you're going with this," Margaret cut in. "You want me to send out a couple of squads of our Raiders, and see whether the other side will make nice. Ah … what'll we do if they kind of … you know … ask us to adopt them?"

"There's no such thing as too many Raiders," the Eight who had chosen the name Miranda called out from her station at the weapons console.

"But if they're armed with missiles, won't it be a little risky to let them approach the ship?"

"Captain," Natalie smiled, "sometimes you have to roll the Hard Six."

"Okay … I'll send the stealth Raider in after we figure out what's going on. I'll tell Angela that we need to let the blackbird's engines cool down … but can I promise her that she can lead the attack on the resurrection server? I really think a Cylon should do the honors, and no one on this ship has worked harder to earn the privilege. I want Rockin' Robin to fly this mission."

"It's the CAG's responsibility to make these calls," Natalie observed. Her smile was still in place because Racetrack was standing up for her cylon pilot. The admiral had repeatedly emphasized the importance of unit cohesion, and he had taught her some of the often subtle ways in which a commanding officer could promote camaraderie in the ranks.

The marines have all sworn an oath never to leave a man behind, she mused, but that could just as well be the Eights' motto. This fleet may be operating behind enemy lines for months, and our people will have to depend upon one another in the same way that Sharon and Helo did on Caprica. Hopefully, we'll get the same results …

"So, we'll go with your recommendation, Captain. In the meantime, we'll use the stream to send orders to the Raiders."

Racetrack stood to attention, saluted her two superiors, and then hastened back to the hangar deck. Kat had logged more hours working with Raiders than any other human in the fleet, and she would direct the only integrated strike in the day's mission orders—against the seventh and last of the communication relays in this sector of space. Margaret hoped personally to attend the festivities because she had a lot of catching up to do, and she knew it.

But right now, she thought, I've got to bring my pilots down off their adrenaline highs. I don't want them to burn out and have to start popping stims. Now, how would Lee handle this situation?

. . .

"Captain, we don't get a lot of company out here. It's good to see you again."

Apollo looked across the table at Aphrodite and Artemis Fears, and chuckled knowingly. "Stallion, a lot of guys, including yours truly, would say that you've found paradise. You're married to two of the most beautiful women in the universe … you've got a tropical island to call your very own … it just doesn't get any better than this!"

Hephaestus sat back and regarded his fellow pilot. It felt like he had known Lee Adama for a lifetime, although it had in fact only been three years. "Well," he countered affectionately, "we do have to share the place with four full squads of centurions. They're handy to have around, but I've gotta say that teaching them how to play Triad was a big mistake. Do you have any idea how hard it is to play cards with someone who doesn't have any tells?"

"Lee, how's our sister?"

"Creusa's getting bigger every day," he said proudly; "bigger, and more beautiful. But she's got to the point where she needs to be careful when she turns around. Last night, she didn't give herself enough maneuvering room—and a lamp paid the ultimate price!"

Apollo leaned across the table, and clasped Aphrodite's hand. "You look wonderful," he added. "How far along are you?"

"Exactly 125 days," she answered.

Lee rapidly ran the numbers in his head. "Eighteen weeks," he calculated; "almost half way there." He pointed a finger at his host, and shook it in warning. "Stallion, right now you should get as much sleep as you can because, believe me, in a few more weeks you are most definitely going to need it."

"Rumor has it that you had to quit the service 'cause you couldn't keep up," Hephaestus good naturedly retorted. "Maybe you older guys should stay away from Sixes."

"For once, the rumor mill had it dead right," Lee confessed. "But take it from a guy whose wife is thirty-one weeks along … you, my friend, are living in the literal eye of the storm."

"Apollo, what makes you think that our husband has time to rest?" Artemis stood up, and went round refilling everyone's cup. When she put the teapot back on the table, she wrapped her arms around Stallion's chest, and bent down to kiss him lightly on the cheek. "The centurions," she coyly remarked, "keep him very busy."

"I thought this place pretty much ran itself," Lee commented.

"It's the salt air," Hephaestus pointed out. "It corrodes everything. And don't even ask me about the sand. It gets into their servos, and clogs up the works. The maintenance schedule around here is a killer."

"So, where did you erect the cylon DRADIS dish?"

"Right where you would expect: on top of the mountain. It's over five hundred meters high, with an unobstructed 360 degree view. Right now, we're tracking everything that comes down from orbit. If the Cylons do come back, we'll be ready for them."

"Do you have enough missile batteries?"

"That's why there are so many centurions stationed here. Appearances can be deceptive, Lee; this place is already a fortress, and it's becoming more so every day. There are caves galore in the cliff face, and Artemis has the troops widening the mouths so that they can accommodate entire squads of Raiders. Your dad's quietly slipping them past the bean counters … you know, two and three here, two and three there? By this time next week, we'll have eighteen … maybe twenty of them … squirreled away."

"Before we're done," Artemis went on, "we should be able to house two full battalions of centurions in the caves. We have enough firepower to hold off five times that number—or to recapture New Caprica City if it comes to that."

"Then we're in great shape," Lee summarized. "I don't want to go into details, but once you get off the coastal plain there are a lot of places where we can conceal our assets. The climate in the delta region really sucks, so I guess it's not surprising that some of our people want to leave … move up to higher elevations. Baltar is actively encouraging outmigration, and he's using some of our heavy equipment to dig wells, put up houses … that sort of thing. It's all pretty basic, but there's a lot of people and machinery moving around, and I'm using it as cover. We're gradually sending some of our marines and pilots up into the mountains, reducing our presence at the airfield, and building supply dumps in places where the Cavils aren't likely to look. Unless they nuke the whole planet, we can survive the loss of New Cap City."

"Are Cylons taking part in this redeployment?"

"Sixes and Eights," Apollo said with a smile. "The Eights seem especially keen."

"They're huntresses." Artemis glanced meaningfully at her sister. "Game during the day, and men at night," she sarcastically noted.

"And most Sixes relish a good fight," Aphrodite quickly added. "If you expect to be boxed, being trapped in the city doesn't have much appeal."

"Listen, I'm just glad that your sisters are on our side," Lee said with real conviction. "Have you heard about Anthia? A couple of weeks ago, she mixed it up with four of the gangbangers running with the Sons of Ares. When the dust settled, three of them were in the hospital …"

. . .

"Colonel, can I have a word?"

Kara didn't bother to turn around. She studied the mural, which now covered more than half the bulkhead in her cabin. There was something about the stars … something about the pattern … that was wrong. She couldn't see it, but she could feel it. This wasn't the way to Earth.

"What is it, Anders? Or do you prefer me to call you 'gramps'?"

"Come on, Kara; my name's Sam. If it's not too much trouble …"

"Don't like that name," Kara rudely fired back. "So, why don't I call you Sammy instead?"

"Fine … whatever," Sam shrugged. He had been warned that his granddaughter could be as cranky as a one year old, and on her best days behaved like a spoilt brat.

"We've been out five days now, and so far we've deviated from our base course to investigate seven different but equally worthless star systems. Kara, people are beginning to wonder what the hell's going on. It might be a good idea for you to bring the crew into the loop."

"You're our patriarch, Sammy … our grand poo-bah. Why don't you bring them into the loop?"

"Because I don't have a frakkin' clue what you're doing," Sam angrily noted.

"Well, just tell them that the Guide is guiding … you know … leading them to their appointed end?"

"Kara, don't do this …"

Kara threw her paint brush onto the deck in disgust, and finally turned around to face her unwelcome visitor. She glared at him, hands on hips, spoiling for a fight.

"Two things, Sammy: first, the cylon Earth is gonna turn out to be a real disappointment. You know it, and I know it. But they won't believe it until they see it with their own eyes." Kara nodded in the direction of the Adriatic's cockpit, which was staffed by a mixed crew of humans, Cylons, and centurions. "And second, if the Cavils show up, we'll have to evacuate New Caprica on very short notice. Who knows how much food or fuel we'll have to leave behind. So, I'm looking for a refuge—a place where we can pause to catch our breath. A planet with a five star hotel would be nice, but I'll settle for a rock with some of the basics … little things like tylium and pork chops. Catch my drift?"

"Makes sense," Sam conceded. He stepped around Kara, and examined the mural. It was dominated by a huge planet—a gas giant with brightly colored clouds, layer after layer of them. But there was an ugly brown blob that drew the eye away from the intricately patterned striations, and somehow Sam knew that it was a violent storm in the upper atmosphere—a storm that could have easily swallowed any of the Colonial worlds. Not even Ragnar could have held out against this monster.

Sam took note of the paint cans open at his feet. It was obvious that Kara had raided one of Galactica's maintenance lockers, and generously helped herself to its contents. He reckoned that the Adriatic would run out of walls before Kara ran out of paint.

"This is impressive," Sam remarked. "The brown spot … is it a storm of some kind?"

"Yeah … an anticyclonic storm; the epicenter is 22 degrees above the equator."

"I don't remember ever seeing a gas giant like this one. What system is it in?"

"Don't know," Kara answered with a frown. She stared pensively at her creation. "It's not Ragnar … it's no place I've ever been."

"What?" Sam rocked back on his heels. "Do you mean to tell me that you imagined this?"

"No … it's real, and we've got to go there."

"Go where, Kara? Where is this place?"

"I don't know, Sammy. That's the honest to gods truth … I haven't got a gods damned frakking clue. But I can feel it. Now that we're away from the nebula, I can't get it out of my head. But it's kind of vague … sort of like what John experiences when our sisters are thousands of light years away."

"The moons are right," she murmured. She grabbed two new brushes, and deftly added a gaseous flare to the picture—a monstrous tongue of blue-orange flame that reached out from the gas giant to lick one of the many moons slaved to its orbit. "But the stars are wrong. I just don't know why."

"Kara … stop and think. The star pattern: is this what you saw when you were inside the tomb of Athena?"

"That's the problem. It's like I'm standing on Earth and looking up at the heavens. I see this. Then I close my eyes, and when I open them again I see something else … something totally different. The best way I can describe it is … it's like a stack of fine tissue paper. You know … the transparent stuff that people use when they're wrapping presents? There are stars on each sheet, but I can only see the whole. It's all jumbled together; I can't figure out what goes where."

"But this … it may seem weird to you, Sammy, but this is where we have to go. If it helps, try thinking of it as just one more of those half-assed hybrid things. We have to find this world. This is where we've got to go."

. . .

"The countdown resumes. All functions nominal; the board is green. Intelligent vibrations fluctuate within heuristic patterns that delimit the chaos of creation. The board is green. The flower inside the fruit is both its parent and its child. The children of the makers will not hurt their own. End of line. Reset. The sensor relay in communications grid Alpha 1426 has failed. The sensor relay in communications grid Echo 1426 has failed. The children of the makers will not hurt their own. The sensor relay in communications grid Bravo 1426 has failed. The sensor relay in communications grid Golf 1426 has failed. Yea, though he may walk through the shadows in the valley of death, the Deliverer illumines the path. Detecting anomalies in the FTL particle sequencer: the count is now on hold. Milo, it's a shakedown cruise, so what do you expect? End of line. Reset. Consulting the repair manual …"

"Will you just shut the frak up," Cavil screamed. He was in a towering rage, and desperately in need of something to break. The hybrid's incessant ramblings had kicked his blood pressure up to the point where a short circuit in his synaptic relays was a dire possibility.

"Are you sure that we don't have any humans left in cold storage," Cavil pressed his younger sibling. "Just one would be enough … just one!"

"Sorry, brother," Cavil soothed, "but we're fresh out. Why don't you go for a walk? You could always take out your frustrations on the Three," he suggested helpfully.

"Page FE-5, step one: disconnect the attached hose and wiring. Step two: simultaneously release the three tangs while pulling the pump out of the retainer. Query: how many centurions does it take to remove the pump? Answer: how many centurions do we have on board? Warning! WARNING! The distillates in tylium processor WR7LV16 have cracked along the contrary axis. The proud ship sails inside a walnut shell, but the count is still on hold. End of line. Reset. The communications grid in sensor relay Foxtrot 1426 has failed. The communications grid in sensor relay Charlie 1426 has failed. Handmaidens dance attendance on the rites of spring, circling the maypole that sprouts from the fermented toadstool. The communications grid in sensor relay Delta 1426 has failed. All communications from grid 1426 have ceased. Emergency rerouting of the stream through bypass links in sector SCD 2426 awaits authorization. End of line. Reset. Authorization granted; repairs now proceeding. The communications failure in sector NCD 1426 stands uncorrected …"

"Every ship in the fleet is receiving the same report," Cavil worriedly remarked. "The hybrids are telling us that all seven stations in sector NCD 1426 have been taken off line."

"A particle storm … it's got to be a gamma burst."

"I'm afraid not, brother. This little catastrophe took place inside a 198 minute window."

"What?" Cavil ran the problem through his onboard processors. "Is this somebody's idea of a joke? That's six jumps, at thirty-three minute intervals."

The younger version of Cavil was pacing back and forth, deep in thought. "Adama appears to be getting a bit frisky in his old age. The pattern of attack suggests that he's dispatched a single baseship to nip at our heels, and that's consistent with what we're hearing from the few surviving Raiders …"

"It has to be Natalie," the senior Cavil raged. He was absolutely livid. "The bitch is sending us a message, and she's doing it with a vengeance … thirty-three minute intervals, indeed."

"Natalie is the least of our problems," Cavil snorted. "Haven't you been paying close attention brother? The hybrids are swooning over the Abomination. Listen."

"Integrity testing of deck 53 completed. An overload in air filtration unit 14733621 has tripped the master fuse at junction 12B78Y. This is getting old. Secondary power relays in the booster coils nursing the fourth aerie have failed. The fledglings require immediate nourishment. End of line. Reset. The child twice born to man and machine from the womb expelled to the womb has returned. The communications failure in sector NCD 1426 stands uncorrected …"

"Bierns," the One hissed. "He's finally come out of hiding!"

"Yes … the spider at the center of the hybrid web has most definitely reemerged—and he's feeding on our lines of communication. It looks as if Adama has decided to wage a classic guerilla war, in which case Bierns will go after the supply ships next. It's just a matter of time."

"Well, we can't let up. We have to root out the humans and take down their fleet, but at the same time we simply cannot afford to lose contact with the Hub or the Colony. So, our hands are tied. We'll have to reposition our forces … divide them up."

"May I point out that, even with the three new baseships, we're already stretched dangerously thin."

"Yeah … and now the frakkin' hybrids are behaving like a bunch of fangirls in search of their first orgasm. Damn it all! We had our foot on the throat of humanity, and we failed to step down hard enough!"

. . .

"I'm hit! I'm hit! Oh, frak me … my attitude control is shot to hell, and I can't even cycle the frakkin' ordnance!"

"BB, try and stay calm! If you can't save the bird, then you'll have to eject. Once your transponder activates, the S&R Raptor will pick you up." Racetrack struggled to keep her own voice calm and businesslike; she sensed that her nugget was poised on the sharp edge of panic. She had already lost one pilot this day; she didn't want to lose another.

"No! No! I've still got thrusters; I can save the bird. Just keep those mother frakkers off me."

"BB, I've got your six." Danny Novacek knew what Racetrack was doing, and he tried to emulate her. "I want you to use your thrusters. Make the turn, and head back to the barn. When you get close enough, shut down, and we'll send a Heavy Raider out to tow you into the bay."

"I'm on it! I'm on it!"

"Holy Mother of Zeus!" Captain Emmanuelle Bronte was the lead pilot for Red Squadron. She had seen a lot of action in the early days of the war, when Helena Cain had been hell bent on attacking every Cylon facility in deep space, and she was beginning to get a very bad feeling about this mission. "Baseship, are you seeing what I'm seeing?"

"Affirmative," Hoshi curtly responded. He was watching the DRADIS screen, which was suddenly lighting up with scores of new contacts. "Another three hundred Raiders have just jumped in." He looked at Natalie, who was immersed in the stream. Her eyes were closed, and he knew that she was sending more of their own Raiders into the fray. "Help is on the way, Puppet. Just watch your backs out there."

"Were you expecting this," Louis quietly asked the Two, who was standing on the opposite side of the console.

The baseship had come out of jump, to find a full flight of one hundred Raiders nesting around the server node. Angela's reconnaissance flight in the blackbird had told them what lay in wait, and Margaret Edmondson had decided to commit both of her Viper squadrons to the battle, but only fifty Raiders. Natalie was confident that some of the enemy fighters would make good their escape, and she wanted to leave them with the impression that the baseship was still understrength.

"No," Leoben freely admitted. "There is no data in the stream relevant to the defense of the servers, but I did not anticipate this. Cavil is either very clever, or we were unlucky enough to attack a node located within easy jump range of a staging area."

"Ultimately," Natalie pointed out, "it doesn't really matter. This attack is putting the Ones on notice; they will move quickly to reinforce the nodes, and that works to our advantage. They have no strategic reserve, so they can only strengthen the resurrection network by drawing down their forces elsewhere. We will take what they give us."

"Still," D'Anna objected, "it is unfortunate that we were forced to show our hand. Now Cavil will have a much better picture of our true strength."

The telephone buzzed once more. Hoshi picked up the receiver, listened for a second, and then hung up.

"Racetrack has cleared Angela for her attack run. She'll go weapons hot in forty seconds. The Vipers are already withdrawing."

Natalie returned to the stream, and began rapidly issuing orders to the Raiders. There was a kilogram of highly refined, weapons grade tylium sitting on the tip of each of Angela's six missiles. Instead of being housed in pods slung beneath the wings, the missiles were buried inside the blackbird's carbon composite skin, which dramatically reduced the stealth ship's potential DRADIS signature. The missiles wouldn't trigger any radiological alarms, but the warheads would yield the equivalent of a sixty kiloton nuclear detonation. The Six wanted to make sure that her birds were well outside the blast radius.

Angela sighted in on the target, and brought two missiles on line. One would probably do the job, but the Cylons had always believed in overkill.

The third time's most definitely the charm, she laughed to herself as for the third time this day she disarmed the warhead safeties. She engaged the wireless, which was set to the command frequency, and broadcast the code phrase that had now become her favorite piece of music.

"Go rockin' robin … 'cause we're really gonna rock tonight!"

. . .

"Data-font synchronization completed. System performance is nominal. Server storage capacity remains optimal. Of course, the flutter of a lone butterfly's wings must inevitably upset the best laid plans of mice and men. A retraction is in order. Server node 141 has failed. The communications failure in sector NCD 1426 stands uncorrected …"

The two Cavils looked at one another in horrified disbelief.

"Has Natalie lost her mind?" John Cavil could barely summon up the words.

"If resurrection fails, death would be permanent for all of us!"