Part 3 - Travelers From A Hundred Worlds
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Chapter 33 - Take My Love, Take My Land
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Battlestar Pegasus, Ion Cloud, The Verse - January, 2250
The hatch to the small craft began to open, and every one of the Marines present instinctively raised their weapons and took aim. "At ease!" Admiral Adama barked, glaring around. Standing next to him, Commodore John Sheridan could only nod in agreement. They didn't want this particular meeting going south if they could avoid it.
To John's right, Colonel Alfred Bester, who had come aboard moments before the Pegasus's miraculous rescue, looked around and then whispered in Sheridan's ear. "Tensions are running extremely high, Commodore." John didn't really need a telepath to tell him that. But if he had needed confirmation, the nervous looks Colonel Michael Garibaldi, who had come aboard with Bester, was casting around the room would have been confirmation enough.
They were all standing on the deck of the Pegasus's largest cargo receiving hangar, one of the few locations large enough to take the alien ship, small as it was. Aside from the flight deck itself of course. But this area was better. Smaller and more contained. Less opportunity for collateral damage if things went badly.
The hatch finished cycling open, and the crew began to emerge. Sheridan heard Adama's breath hiss inward at the sight of that crew, as the man then spat, "What the frak is going on?!" sotto voce, pitched for John's ears only. Or at least, only those immediately around John.
Sheridan could only shake his head in bemusement. They were human. How can they be human?! It was like meeting the Colonials all over again. He assumed they weren't Cylons given their faces, but even that wasn't certain. Assuming they were human...just how many civilizations descended from alien kidnapped humans were there out here in the galaxy? And how did he keep running into them? It was too bizarre to be a coincidence. And the clothes...and weapons...these people were wearing were just as bizarre. Cowboy boots? Suspenders? A revolver carried in a hip-strapped holster? And that was just the guy up front. What the hell was this?
He was holding his hands up at chest level and away from his body, clearly intending to show he was no threat. And yet he still came out armed. The group emerging behind him were nearly as eclectic. A dark skinned woman carrying a lever action rifle and wearing nearly as much leather stood next to a blond man in khakis and what appeared to be an honest-to-God Hawaiian shirt. A tall fellow carrying a less archaic looking assault rifle, which appeared to be the only halfways decent weapon in the group. A pair of young women, one of them barefoot, the other covered in...some kind of grease. And finally a man dressed in a rustic suit, minus the jacket, and carrying a leather satchel, stood next to a strikingly beautiful brunette in what appeared to be a semi formal gown.
Sheridan considered asking the Admiral to have the CO2 scrubbers checked, for surely he was seeing things. That surreal feeling only increased when the...cowboy?...in the lead stepped forward and spoke. In English of course...or perhaps Caprican, he supposed...because there just weren't enough impossible coincidences in the galaxy. And that speech, whatever its origin, was disarmingly plain and straightforward. And perhaps just a little bit….folksy?
"Mornin'. Much obliged for the rescue. Be even more obliged if yer shooters'd point those irons elsewhere. Feels a mite unwelcomin'."
John felt the Admiral turn his head towards him, preparing to ask a question John had no answers for. So instead he forestalled it by calling out to the man in a strong, commanding voice. "Who are you?"
"Captain Malcolm Reynolds. This here's my crew. And that's my ship, Serenity. But the real question, the one racin' through my mind anyway, is just who exactly are you. 'Cause you clearly aren't Reavers, and you sure as right and wrong ain't Alliance. Too big to be pirates, and too dirty to be Corporate. So what's left? Only one possibility comes to my mind."
"Mal," said the man in the Hawaiian shirt, "you seem to be rambling. It's never a good sign when you ramble, Mal."
"What you're thinkin' ain't possible, Captain," cut in the lady with the lever-action. "We'd have heard something. Long before anything like this was possible."
"Explain it to me then," he replied to her. "What other options are there?" Refocusing on the Admiral, he took another step forward, pausing as the Marines twitched their weapons, taking more careful aim at him. "It's happened, hasn't it?" he called out to them. "The day has finally come. The Independents. We've risen again, haven't we?" John was more than a little discomforted to see a look of...earnest hopefulness shining through the man's smile, despite his still raised hands.
Apparently, Adama had had enough. He strode forward. This forced John, as well as Commander Lee Adama, on the Admiral's opposite side, to do the same. Which dragged in Bester and Garibaldi and pretty much forced the Marines to also close in...to keep their sight lines clear if nothing else. Bester, uncommanded, began to walk a circle around their small group of...guests. "We're not who you think we are, Captain," Bill said flatly, though not unkindly.
The Captain's face took on a stubborn, disbelieving cast. He seemed ready to argue. Instead, John took the moment to cut in. "We have questions we'll need you to answer."
Reynolds cut him an annoyed look, then refocused on Adama. "That can all wait. Sir, I have proof that the Alliance created the Reavers. That they tried to mind-rutt an entire planet. But they screwed up. Ended up killin' near everyone...and what little was left was nuthin' but Reavers. I'm sure you know how that's gone for the 'Verse. But we have an opportunity. To shine the light on those Alliance bastards. Help me get to Mr. Universe's compound. He's got the equipment to broadcast everything to most of the 'Verse. Maybe we can actually do some real good. And I'm guessin' this little act of bad behavior would be plenty helpful to the Independent cause."
"As I said, Captain Reynolds, we're not who you think we are," the Admiral repeated.
It was about then that a strange look passed over Commander Bester's face. Canting his head to one side, his eyes locked onto the smallest and youngest of the Serenity's crew, and he casually pulled off his right glove. "Commodore," he called out offhandedly, "there's something different about this one. I think she might be…" As he was speaking, he stepped confidently through the knot of crew members, most of whom still had their hands up, and casually touched the young girl on the cheek.
With a gasp, her eyes twitched and all emotion left her face. Before the former Psi-Cop could so much as raise his brow, her left palm heel shot across her body and into his chin. Bester dropped like a marionette with severed strings. But she was moving even before he fell, twirling under his falling body, using him like a shield to get her just a little bit closer to the ring of Marines. Once past him, she pirouetted like a dancer, kicking her right leg up and back, into the chin of the nearest Marine, while her right hand grabbed the barrel end of his rifle, plucking it from his now limp hands.
The effect was like a bomb tossed into the room. Marines shouted and took aim, but hesitated. The hostile waif was within arm's reach of both the Admiral and Commodore...no place to be firing a hail of bullets. And so the nearest Marines charged in to subdue the tiny girl child. The rest snapped up their weapons and took deadly aim upon the Serenity's crew. Captain Reynolds raised his hands higher, taking a slow step backwards. The rest of the crew followed suit, studiously ensuring they made no sudden moves. "Mal!" the tallest among them snapped, "that ruddin' girl's gonna get us all dead!"
Meanwhile, the ruddin' girl in question had swung her purloined rifle like a club, directly into the temple of the nearest Marine. She fired off a double side-kick, to gut and nose, at the next closest, then spun the rifle about her own neck with twirling flourish and drove the barrel directly between the eyes of a third. She then hurled it forward through the air like a spear, directly into the face of yet another, who dropped as bonelessly as Commander Bester had. By that time, Colonel Garibaldi had reached her, and fired a right cross towards the small brunette's jaw without hesitation.
The girl stepped into the attack, pivoting on her back heel to sweep her arms into Garibaldi's onrushing punch and grab onto and yank hard on his fist. Using their combined momentum and his arm as a fulcrum, she swept her entire body up and around his arm, scissoring her thighs around his neck. Continuing her full body swing, she pivoted her torso and twisted her hips, a move which picked Michael up off of his feet and tossed him through the air, bowling over another two onrushing Marines. The young woman landed daintily on her feet, cat-like, then without looking drove a back-kick into the gut of yet another oncoming trooper.
John was pretty decent at hand-to-hand himself, and threw a jab at the approaching attacker. It was easily blocked, and he took an elbow to the gut and a roundhouse kick to the side of the head for his troubles. Dazed, he lashed out with a wild haymaker, only to have the girl twist it away...and into the snout of Lee Adama, who had stepped forward to grapple the woman himself. As he watched the Commander stumble backward, blood pouring from a broken nose, he heard Captain Reynolds, hands still stretched towards the ceiling, shouting, "Doctor, you gotta stop this. Doc! Gēn hóuzi bǐ diū shǐ! She's stacking up bodies. Doc!"
The whirling dervish of a young woman finally took a hit. A jab to the face delivered by none other than Admiral Adama, while she was busy delivering a spinning heel kick across the face of not one but three charging Marines. All three went down, but only one stayed there, the other two struggling to get back on their feet. For his success, the Admiral took a knee to the groin and a knifehand strike to the side of the neck...a blow which transitioned into a grip which levered the Admiral's head up and around, sending him stumbling over and onto the two Marines just getting up off of the floor.
Garibaldi was back to take another shot at the murderous waif, advancing in a crouch. Head still ringing, John decided to assist. Too dazed for anything sophisticated, he threw caution to the wind and charged, attempting a flying tackle. The young woman leapt into the air, bending forward to drive the heels of both palms down in between his shoulder blades. John slammed painfully into the floor, turning his head to one side and watching in amazement as she used the momentum of that strike to push off of him into a mid-air somersault, bringing around and extending her right heel in a murderous axe kick towards Garibaldi's head.
Michael threw his arms up in a block just in time, but was still driven to his knees. The girl landed once more on her feet, and drove an elbow into the gut of the last of the Marines who had charged in towards her, stripping away his assault rifle in the process. Apollo, charging valiantly back in, took a blow from the buttstock directly to his already smashed nose, dropping him unconsciously to the deck. Unhurriedly, the female assailant switched her hold to the weapon's pistol grip, placing her finger on the trigger.
Captain Reynolds threw all caution to the wind and dropped his arms, spinning on the young man in the odd looking suit. Much to the displeasure of those Marines who had encircled and taken aim at the Serenity's crew, rather than charging into the deteriorating melee. Most of their weapons now shifted to the Captain as he grabbed the young man by his lapels and literally lifted him off of the ground and shook. "Fix it!" he shouted.
Finally, the young man choked out a strangled shout, "Eta Kooram Nah Smech!"
Instantaneously, as though a switch had been flipped, the murderous attacker's eyes rolled up in her head, and she slumped limply to the ground. The rifle, which had been aimed directly between John's eyes, clattered to the ground beside her. Admiral Adama was picking himself up off of the floor and checking on Lee, just as Kendra Shaw charged the room with a dozen more Marines. Looking up angrily, he ordered, "I want these people disarmed and thrown in the brig! And this one," he said, pointing to the young woman who appeared to somehow be sleeping peacefully, "goes into solitary. Slap her in irons, and post a 'round the clock armed guard. No fewer than five Marines." He took a deep breath. "Now find Cottle. Let's get the injured to the infirmary."
"That includes any of our 'visitors' who may be hurt. Especially the young lady," came the voice of Doc Cottle himself, who had come in just behind the reinforcements. Adama glared angrily at him, but after the Doc met that glare with an unflappable and implacable gaze of his own, he gave an irritable nod.
Sheridan glanced over at the crew of the Serenity, who had been surrounded and disarmed and were being led away. One of the Marines felt the need to shove the dark skinned woman in leather. The goofy looking fellow in the Hawaiian shirt clearly took offense, rounding on the man, "Qīngwā cāo de liúmáng! Keep your hands off my wife!" When the Marine whirled on him, taking aim at his face, he quickly backpedaled, raising his hands. "You know...please. If you'd be so kind. I'm just gonna stop talking now. We're all shiny. Aren't we shiny, Captain?"
"Yeah," Reynolds muttered irritably. "Shiny."
"At ease, Marine," Major Shaw snapped, her own irritation showing. "Take the prisoners to the brig...politely."
As the room began to empty, Sheridan walked over to the Admiral, who was still hovering over his unconscious son. "That could have gone better," he noted, glancing over at where Garibaldi was assisting medics in loading the similarly unconscious form of Commander Bester onto a gurney."
Adama grunted, "We've got more questions than when we started, and not a single one answered." He paused, thoughtfully. "What a clusterfrak. I'm not sure what it'll take to straighten this mess out."
"Me either. But we better get started."
Medical Bay, Battlestar Pegasus, The Verse - January, 2250
Dr. Sarah Chamber, fleet expert in infectious diseases, walked into the Pegasus's Medical Bay, looking around for a familiar face. She saw one in the form of Doc Cottle, deep in conversation with a beat-up looking Michael Garibaldi, waving her over. "Sarah. What the hells are you doing here?"
"Franklin sent me. He wants a full work up on our new guests….make sure they aren't carrying anything which we might not have proper immunities for."
"Good. We're almost finished checking them out. But you might have to wait in line. Mr. Garibaldi here is getting pushy about getting to interrogate my patients." He ended with a glare at the offending head of Security.
"Come on, Doc! Cut me some slack. These people are revolutionaries. Goddamned terrorists. They all but admitted to it in the hangar. One of them came within a hair's breadth of killing Commodore Sheridan, and quite possibly your Admiral as well! You don't treat those kinds of people with kid's gloves."
Unfazed, Cottle merely lit up a cigarette and took a drag, which drew a wince from Sarah. He then replied, "Our current Vice-President was considered a terrorist, not so long ago. He seems to be working out quite well. Perhaps you should give these people a chance to explain themselves. Or at least give us a chance to ensure the fleet isn't wiped out by their native diseases!"
"Thank you, Doctor Cottle, but this matter is really quite simple." She turned squarely to face Garibaldi. "The regulations are quite clear. In these types of situations, the determination of the Chief Medical Officer can only be countermanded by Commodore Sheridan. Dr. Franklin wants these people tested. Now you can stay and watch if you want Colonel Garibaldi, but if you attempt to interrupt or interrogate our patients while I am working, I can and will have you thrown out."
Cottle chuckled and walked away, taking another long drag off of his cigarette. However, a separate, reedy voice opined, "It's about time someone told him off," with a chuckle of its own. Sarah spun her head towards a nearby cot, to find Commander Bester attempting to sit up, and holding on to a no doubt pounding head with a wince. She stepped forward quickly to ensure he didn't collapse. "What happened?" he asked.
"You got your ass handed to you by a forty kilogram girl, that's what happened," Garibaldi replied, the smirk clear in his voice.
Bester, aided to a fully seated position by Sarah, winced again and looked up at the Colonel. "And why do you look so beat up?" he asked.
"There were a couple of really big guys there," Michael said defensively.
"Who never lifted a finger," Sarah cut in with exasperation. "That 'forty kilogram girl' didn't just knock you out, Commander. As I understand it, she tore through an entire squad of the Pegasus's Marines, and manhandled not just you, but Commander Adama and both the Commodore and the Admiral. Oh, and of course Colonel Garibaldi here as well." So saying, she passed an ice pack to the disgruntled looking Colonel. His head was clearly in nearly as much pain as Commander Bester's.
"Yeah, well, we've got her in irons now. Someone that dangerous should probably be dealt with in a more permanent way."
"Not her fault," Bester mumbled, closing his eyes to the pain-inducing bright lights of the medical bay.
"What was that?"
Bester didn't open his eyes, but he took a deep breath. "I said it wasn't her fault. That reaction was preprogrammed in. I sensed that she had some level of psi ability, and I stepped in to get a better read. She felt me doing so, which set off a programmed condition. I felt her personality and free will being subsumed. Trust me, I have some experience in this area," he said without a hint of irony. "It was unmistakable. Not too far off from what was done to Lieutenant Ivanova. Her reaction was so fast, I can't really be certain of much of anything until I examine her again. However, from what I remember of the feel of the thing, I don't think it was done telepathically. I'd guess it was some combination of chemicals, brainwashing, and possibly even surgery. So you see, it wasn't her fault."
"Yeah, well, just because someone fragged with her head doesn't mean she's on the side of the angels."
"I suppose not. But perhaps we should look further into the situation before deciding she needs to be put out an airlock."
"That shouldn't even be a question," Sarah snapped. "We should be learning more about these people, not categorizing them as the enemy!"
Garibaldi sighed, clearly ceding the argument. "Can we go back to talking about Al getting beaten up by a little girl? That'll never get old."
Interrogation Room 3, Battlestar Pegasus, The Verse - January, 2250
A few hours later, Michael Garibaldi, holding another ice pack to the side of his head and nursing his cracked ribs, sat in a small room with Kendra Shaw and a trio of Colonial Marines. The Marines were giving their best tin soldier impressions, standing rigidly at attention against the bulkheads. Michael and Shaw were ignoring them, their full attention placed on the small, grainy video feed mounted to the bulkhead. A video feed of the interrogation...interview really...happening in the next room.
Sergeant Hadrian from the Galactica and Zack Allan were sitting across a dingy metal table from a member of the Serenity's crew. The pilot, Hoban Washburne...or Wash, as he insisted on being called. The interview...wasn't going very well. Wash was getting warmed up to his subject. "The legs. Oh, yeah. Definitely have to say it was her legs. For the official record. You should write that down. Her legs, and where those legs meet her back. Actually that whole area. I could go on and on about that whole area...and I sometimes do, if you get my meaning," he added, sharing a chuckle and a broad grin with Allen. The grin dropped when he glanced over at Hadrian, the scowl on the tall woman's face killing his mirth. His voice pitching up half an octave, he continued, "Yes, well...what was the question again?"
The interview had been going on in circles like that for the last half hour. So it was almost with relief that Michael heard the hatch open behind them, and both he and Shaw stood and turned to face the newcomers. Commodore Sheridan, Admiral Adama, Captain Sinclair, and President Roslin had just entered the room. They spared only a moment looking at the monitor, before turning their full attention on Michael and Kendra. "What do you think, Colonel?" Sheridan asked.
"If you want my official analysis, I think these people are all fragged in the head. But maybe that's just me."
"Major," Roslin cut in irritably, "I hope your analysis is a bit more useful."
"Not really, ma'am. I'm starting to agree with him. Every line of enquiry only leads to more questions. And when they aren't being evasive, they're saying things which make no sense at all. We're just...missing all context."
Garibaldi cut back in. "After talking to every member of the crew, save only the Captain and our sleeping ninja, we've only got a few things which seem at all solid. First, about half the crew assume, and we haven't disabused them of the fact, that we're 'Browncoats,' which may be another name for a group called the 'Independents.' It's unclear. Either way, it seems to be some kind of revolutionary group. The other half of the crew are just plain suspicious and nothing else. Second, the crew all claim that the Alliance, whatever that is exactly, created the Reavers by poisoning an entire planet. Third, everybody...at least in this crew...seems to hate the Alliance. But everyone is terrified of the Reavers."
"And the Reavers are...?" Roslin asked.
"Our best guess is that they are the 'aliens' we ran into in the nebula. The ones the Serenity dragged into the battle we witnessed," Kendra advised.
"Is that it?" Adama asked.
"Mostly, Admiral. We learned from the First Officer, one Zoë Alleyne Washburne, that she and Captain Reynolds fought at someplace called 'Serenity Valley.' Probably for the Browncoats."
"Serenity Valley? I presume that's the origin of their vessel's name?"
"Seems likely, Sir."
"Anything else?"
"Nothing solid," Kendra answered.
"Then come with us." Leaving the interrogation behind, Michael and Kendra followed the quartet out of the room and down a long hall to a small conference room. Chief Tyrol was waiting there, along with Peter Laird, Samuel Drake, Max Eilerson, and one of the Eights. Michael guessed it was either Boomer or Athena, but he just couldn't tell any of the Eights apart. And since she was only wearing an unmarked flight suit, he simply had no way of knowing.
"This is the working group we had tearing apart the Serenity," Sinclair advised Kendra and Michael brusquely. "We wanted to keep you informed of their findings, as it may feed back into further questions for the crew." As he spoke, Sheridan, Adama and Roslin were taking seats around the table. Jeff and Kendra followed suit, though Michael chose to grab a piece of wall to lean his shoulder against.
"What have you found, Chief?" Roslin opened.
"Yes, Ma'am," Tyrol replied. "Before we get to the Serenity, I'd like to talk about the small arms we pulled off of them, and out of the ship. They had quite the small arsenal aboard. And what we found was...bizarre."
"Go on, Chief."
"Alright. Max?" Eilerson stood and reached into a chest sitting at the foot of the table. He turned and set a small, slim, futuristic looking pistol into the middle of the table. Michael didn't remember any of the Serenity's crew carrying it when they'd been searched.
"We found this weapon aboard the Serenity," Tyrol resumed. "It's a laser weapon. Quite advanced and powerful for its size, I understand. More powerful and advanced than anything the Colonies had even prototyped. As I understand it, the same is true for the Earth Alliance."
"The power output exceeds Centauri weaponry in a similar size range," Eilerson cut in. "Unfortunately, the battery lets the whole design down. It's only good for less than a dozen shots, and then it needs to be recharged. It's all integrated, so there isn't even the option of slapping in new power cells. Powerful but limited. Probably why they weren't carrying it." He reached back into the case and set another weapon down beside the laser pistol. This one was as ugly as the other was elegant. Made of heavy polished wood and dark iron and tin, it was a large and menacing revolver...straight out of some steampunk western. This was the weapon that had caught Garibaldi's eye when he saw Captain Reynolds wearing it.
"And this is an entirely different animal," the Chief picked back up. "The block and barrel are forged steel...not the highest quality. You can still see marks on it from being hammered into shape, as well as from when the barrel was drilled out. The smaller pieces and cylinder housing were stamped...imperfectly. You can see where a gunsmith used a hammer to beat them into place when they didn't fit perfectly. The Colonies have revolvers. Big heavy handguns were useful against the early Cylons. But we haven't had weapons this primitive for thousands of years. Maybe not since Kobol."
"It's been about four centuries since Earth made weapons this way," Max added helpfully. "And this weapon is very similar," he added, laying a lever action short-barreled rifle onto the table next to the pistol. "They're finely crafted...using bizarrely archaic tools and materials. The projectile is a simple lead bullet. The propellant is cordite in a brass cartridge. All of these things should be centuries out of date for a space faring civilization. And yet, here we have them. I'd be tempted to say they just 'found' the spacecraft they were riding in, if it weren't for this." So saying he tilted up the revolver, showing everyone a metal module running from just in front of the trigger guard to just below the start of the barrel."
"We couldn't figure out what it was, and we found another one on that lever-action, so we scanned it. Twice. It was Boomer who figured out what they are."
Now knowing who the unknown Eight was, Michael watched her climb hesitantly to her feet. "It's a gravitic kicker. A bit like the magnetic kickers used in Colonial artillery and Viper cannons...but obviously on a much smaller scale than the Colonials or Cylons ever attempted. I understand the Earth Force has fielded some small number of rail and coil guns as sniper weapons….but this thing fits on a pistol. And as far as gravitic technology is concerned...even the Cylons have never tried manipulating something on that fine a scale."
"Why not just use magnetics?" Michael found himself asking. "It's a much simpler technology."
"We don't know," Galen replied, when Boomer only shrugged. "The only answer we could even come up with doesn't make any frakkin' sense."
"They never developed the tech?" Sinclair guessed.
"No. They've clearly got the tech for it. The docking clamps on their ship and the boots on their vacuum suits are all fairly complex magnetics. No, the only thing we could think of was those damned bullets. Almost without exception, they were just simple lead bullets. No hollow-points or penetrators. No flechettes or frangibles. No steel or tungsten or titanium. The most advanced bullets we found on the Serenity or her crew were a magazine of full-metal jackets in Vera. Lead bullets jacketed in brass."
"Vera?" Roslin interrupted.
"The one weapon they had that looked like a proper assault rifle," Michael cut in, actually knowing the answer to this one since he had been there. "So only two centuries out of date by Earth standards, rather than four. At least, that's what the big guy called it when your Marines took it from him. He seemed quite insistent that she be treated properly. I approve."
Tyrol cleared his throat and continued. "Yes, well, both lead and brass are non ferrous. So if for some reason they aren't capable of making better bullets, then magnetic accelerators would have no effect."
"You're saying that the reason they use more advanced gravitics than the Cylons have...is because they can't make steel bullets?" Sheridan drawled dubiously.
"I told you it didn't make any damned sense," Galen replied defensively. "It gets worse when you realize that Vera," he glanced at the President apologetically, "carries two parallel magazines with different caliber rounds, one much larger than the other. The barrel and firing mechanism are capable of dynamically adjusting themselves on the fly, even between shots, switching to whichever caliber the shooter requires."
The room went briefly silent as they all considered this, before Max dipped once more into the chest. "We've got one more anachronism you might want to see." The weapon he set on the table next was simply bizarre. It looked a bit like a rotary-grenade launcher, except the pistol grip seemed to be at the very back of the shoulder rest rather than underneath and in front of it. It held a trio of round drums about midway up the length, and where the barrel ended was what appeared to be short armature or rail crossing it vertically. The opposing tips of that rail connected to thin cables, which themselves strung back tightly to the mid body of the weapon.
"What is that?" Sinclair asked with obvious interest. Standing, he leaned forward over the table to get a better look at the minute details. "Some kind of crossbow? An automated slingshot?"
It was Eilerson who answered. "I believe it's a highly evolved version of a Fenris."
"I've never heard of it."
"No reason you should have. It was developed in the early twenty-first century under the name 'Instant-Legolas.' It's a niche weapon that was only ever very popular amongst enthusiasts, and even then not for a very long period. What records we were able to search do not indicate the Colonials ever having an equivalent, though it could easily have been lost given all the information which failed to make it out of the Colonies. The design starts with a simple archery bow, though in this case a shorter and more durable metal armature has been used. Layer on a magazine containing five to ten arrows and a feed mechanism. Again, this design seems to have evolved to use titanium bolts rather than arrows. Add a grip and draw aid, lock back mechanism, and release trigger, and you end up with a semi-automatic weapon that draws and releases like a bow, while still having the ready fire and smooth release capabilities of a crossbow. It's an elegant combination of technologies."
"Middle-ages technologies," Michael found himself cutting in once more. "I can see why historical weapons enthusiasts might be interested in the thing, but it's hardly military grade tech. You can polish a turd all you want, but it's still just a turd."
Roslin cast a sharp, disapproving glare at Garibaldi, which he ignored. Eilerson, however, took a deep breath to respond. "Well, in this case it's a turd with not one, but three gravitic kickers integrated around the barrel. Those bolts develop enough velocity to penetrate a light armored vehicle. By far the greatest punch out of any of the weapons we recovered."
"On a bow?" Michael asked, aghast. "That doesn't make any sense at all."
"I agree. It doesn't. Though, now that I am thinking of it, part of the reason the whole design doesn't destroy itself on the first shot is because gravitic kickers can negate recoil in a way magnetic systems can't. I suppose that's as good a reason as any for the apparent ubiquity of the tech."
"This is all very interesting, gentlemen," Roslin cut in, "but perhaps we could move past personal firearms to something more relevant. I doubt handguns will be a major threat to the fleet."
"Yes, Ma'am," Galen responded, taking back over the presentation. "We don't have anything to say on ship scale weapons, because the Serenity is completely unarmed. Though she does seem to carry a number of tools likely useful in smuggling. Judging from what we saw in the battle we plucked her out of though, the local ships aren't particularly well armed. They've got missiles, kinetics, and even energy weapons, but short ranged and without a whole lot of punch. The Galactica's main battery can out range and out punch anything we saw being used in that fight. Including from their largest vessels. And Cylon missiles were at least as effective as anything similar we saw being fired. The Pegasus, Lexington, and Nova have them entirely outclassed."
"So we don't need to worry if they wanna pick a fight?" Michael asked.
Galen hesitated. "One on one, no. But assuming those two fleets weren't the entirety of their forces in this system, it's possible they have us steeply outnumbered. I'm not a big fan of quantity over quality, but if we were to get swarmed by enough ships and fighters, even those guns'll break a Battlestar…eventually."
"Let's avoid the speculation, gentlemen," Roslin chided. "Focus on the Serenity and what we were able to learn."
Galen nodded. "There were a few surprises there. For instance, the state of the ship itself. It's being held together by baling wire and bubble gum. Certainly it's been lovingly maintained, if in a rather…. unorthodox manner. Their engineer certainly knows her stuff, but it looks like she's had to make do with a mess of mismatched parts, mostly past their sell by date. Some of the bits and pieces look like they've been stripped down and rebuilt so many times it's a wonder they still work at all. But despite all that the ship still seems solid. Surprisingly so.
"Which brings us to the next discovery. Despite clearly being engineered to be simple, rugged, and easily repaired, much more so than any Battlestar I've ever been on, their artificial gravity system is actually more advanced than anything we or the Cylons have. That's also despite it clearly being old and obsolete. Not surprising, I suppose, given the gravitic systems on their personal weapons. We could learn a lot from these people."
"What else, Chief," Adama prompted.
"Just a couple more things. Primarily…her fuel. Serenity's fuel tanks are tiny for an interplanetary vessel. Too small. I'd have thought she wasn't much more than an orbital shuttle, given those fuel constraints, if she hadn't been so deep out when we first encountered her. Which means, in order to be interplanetary, her fuel must be incredibly energy dense. More so than Tylium or Earth Alliance fusion reactors. So we pulled a sample." Tyrol paused and scratched his head. Clearly, he was still more than a little astounded by what he'd found. "It's a type of salted Tylium."
"What do you mean, salted?" Major Shaw asked curiously.
Peter Laird stepped in for the explanation. "The Tylium they're using has been impregnated with a small but very specific percentage of Quantium 40. This seems to have made the resulting slurry both significantly more energy dense than regular processed Tylium, but also far more stable than either unadulterated Tylium or Q40. On the one hand, this is great, because it means that both Tylium and Q40 are available for mining in this system. On the other, it's fantastic because if we can replicate this stuff it could solve a dozen different power generation needs."
"And on the gripping hand," Samuel Drake cut in, "it gives us insight into the capabilities of their heat radiator system. Which is more impressive than anything I've seen first hand." Garibaldi caught the reference, but it drew confused looks from most of those present, Earth Force, Colonial, and Cylon alike. Drake didn't give them a chance to enquire though, already expounding upon the system in question. "Just like their grav system, the thing looks like a pile of scrap that barely fits together. But in practice it manages and radiates heat better than anything we've seen from the likes of the Narn or the Dilgar. Or even the Centauri for that matter. Far in advance of anything Earth Alliance or the Colonies have been able to produce. Despite what we've noticed about their weaponry, or lack thereof…it would be foolish to underestimate these people."
"This is all very interesting," Roslin cut in again, "but did you find anything aboard that ship which would indicate exactly who these people are? How humans came to be here? Or the size and population of this Alliance of theirs?"
The members of the investigation team hesitated, sharing glances. Finally Max Eilerson spoke up. "We found a small library in one of the shuttles. One belonging to Inara Serra, the woman who identified herself as a Companion. We're still going through them, but haven't found much of particular relevance…yet. But there was what appeared to be a children's historical primer. If it's to be believed, it would seem that this Alliance is spread across…several planets."
"Several?" Sinclair asked sharply. "In one system? In addition to the two we've already found? How is that possible?"
"The Colonies had twelve habitable worlds in a single system," Tyrol responded. "But we spent a thousand years kobolforming them to get to that number. And remember that we're dealing with a dozen stars here, not just four."
"Is it possible that this Alliance has been terraforming here as well?" Sheridan asked.
"I don't see why not. That primer would seem to indicate these people have been here for at least a few, if not several, centuries. Beyond that…it says they originally came from Earth."
The room went dead silent as everyone absorbed that tidbit. "You're sure of that?" the Admiral asked sharply, glancing over at Sheridan and Sinclair suspiciously. "Earth?"
"Yes, Sir. That's what it says."
"But which Earth?" Sinclair mused. "Ours? The Cylons? Some third Earth?"
"Let's not talk about Third Earth," Michael quipped. "'Tis a silly place."
Sheridan fixed him with a gimlet eye as Roslin and Adama exchanged confused glances. John then answered, "It couldn't be our Earth. Not if they've been here for centuries. And not if they've managed to terraform some of these worlds. We've only been in space at all for a few centuries, and our terraforming skills are rudimentary at best. Our oldest colony, Mars, hasn't even been nearly fully terraformed, after more than a century of work. Nor have any of our other colonies…at least not to any great extent. The couple that are marginally habitable got that way naturally. For the most part. They started at least as habitable as New Caprica, and any terraforming improvements have been modest at best."
Adama looked back to Eilerson. "Does it say anything else about this Earth they came from?"
Max grimaced. "Just that they were forced to come here after ruining their Earth. It doesn't go into any detail. It's just a few background sentences in a lesson that was meant for children."
"That lines up with your thirteenth tribe, though," Sinclair offered. "Even the timeline works."
"Which would make these people Cylons," Kendra interjected.
It was Boomer who replied. "The Five have all stated that they found no sign of any other survivors of their nuclear holocaust."
"They were working on a secret project," Garibaldi found himself arguing. "What if some other group was as well. Perhaps they simply left before the nukes were flying." The room broke down into argument and rampant speculation.
Adama finally cut in. "This is getting us nowhere." He stood. "Thank you for your input everyone. Keep working. Chief…see if you can patch that ship up. We might find use for it, assuming we can get it running." After hearing the Chief's affirmative, the Admiral nodded and walked out. Sheridan, Sinclair, and Roslin all followed, and Garibaldi knew that he and the rest had just been cut out of the decision making process.
Interrogation Room 1, Battlestar Pegasus, The Verse - January, 2250
It was nearly a day later when Commodore John Sheridan met once more with Admiral William Adama, his Colonial counterpart. It was just the two of them this time. No President Roslin. No Cylons or members of the Quorum. John knew who held the real decision making power in the Colonial, and now jointly Cylon, Fleet.
They walked into the small viewing room just outside the interrogation room.. There were a trio of Marines present, but when Adama barked, "Out," they left in a hurry. John glanced up at the small, grainy video feed mounted to the bulkhead. It showed Captain Reynolds being questioned by Sergeant Hadrian and Lieutenant Allan. It was at least his second interview, and he had clearly gotten to the point of not being terribly cooperative or forthcoming. He mostly just sat back and gave shallow, even pithy responses.
"Are you sure about this?" Adama asked, showing more curiosity than concern.
"You saw that video of theirs. We authenticated it as best we could. Hell, I authorized Bester to validate that they were telling the truth. I assume you had Thrace or Shaw do the same. We can't just help to sweep something like that under the rug."
Bill looked at the other man for a long moment, considering his response. Finally, he decided on blunt honesty. "The Colonial Government, and the various predecessor governments of the individual worlds, have never been particularly scrupulous. Especially during the Cylon War, they did whatever it took to survive. Whatever the President or the Quorum thought might give us some advantage. I don't agree with what the leaders of this Alliance have done. But I could certainly see the Quorum doing the same, if they had the technology needed, and trying to hide it. Maybe some place like Tauron. And if I had discovered it…I wouldn't have rebelled. I wouldn't have tried to overthrow the government. Like it or not…agree with it or not…one of the reasons we have governments is to do the hard things, make the hard choices, that individuals cannot."
John returned his gaze stolidly. Then he gave a brief shake of his head. "Earthgov wasn't filled with angels either. Yes…the wrong people get into the right positions…this is exactly the kind of thing they would do. But it's also a violation of the Constitution I swore to uphold. It's the job of the people to stand as a check against the government. Rebel? I don't know if I would ever go that far. But resist it? Try to stop it? Put my career on the line to make sure the truth got out if it did happen? That's something my oath and my humanity requires. That's all I'm suggesting we do…make sure the truth gets out."
"And if we do…it could poison any chance we have of peaceful contact or coexistence with the Alliance. It could mean a new war. We'd be siding with rebels at the best…terrorists at the worst. We have a responsibility to ensure the survival of our people…to make the hard choices I was talking about."
"Well this certainly isn't an easy one. But do you really think we could coexist with a government that would do that to their own people? And then cover it up when things didn't go well? Unleash a plague on their system, and then just pretend it didn't even exist? Those kinds of people will do anything to eliminate anything or anyone that challenges their hold on power. And they'd never see us as anything but a threat. We could never trust them. Sooner or later they'd move against us. And in the state we're in, we'd never survive a surprise attack. But…if we help the Captain with his…mission of honor…then maybe, just maybe, it will lead to some justice. Repercussions for the perpetrators. Maybe even get them out of power. If so, they might be replaced by folks we just might have a chance of dealing peacefully with. Of coexisting with."
"Might. Maybe. If. There's a hell of a lot of qualifiers there. It might also lead to a conflict we don't know if we can win. We don't know the true size of this Alliance. We don't know their resources or technologies. In some ways they are less advanced than us, but in others it's clear they have us outstripped. But what we do know is that we're riding herd on fleets of exhausted civilians, defending them with exhausted crew, exhausted ships, and exhausted munitions, with no bases or planets of our own to provide maintenance or resupply. This is a dangerous course."
Sheridan nodded grimmly. "But it's the right course. And frankly, I'm not sure if I could live with myself if we just turned a blind eye to this. There's an old saying on Earth. 'The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.' I need to know that I did my part. We both found ourselves in the position of having to safeguard the remnants of the human race. We're still in that position. Sure, there's more humans around now. But however many people live in this system…there's a good chance that's all that's left in the galaxy. A galaxy full of dangers that the people here…that the rulers of this Alliance…just don't understand. And those powerbrokers… the people that would do what was done to Miranda. Those are the kinds of people that would turn a blind eye to threats like the Cylons and the Minbari. Or worse, cut a deal with them, and allow their people to pay the consequences. As I see it, that's the biggest threat to what's left of the human race. And this may be dangerous, but it's probably the most logical and cautious step we can take to address that threat."
Adama stared at his counterpart for a long moment. "I agree. I don't like it, but I agree." He paused, then chuckled gruffly. "Assuming there aren't yet more undiscovered systems full of billions of humans out there in the void, of course."
"Yeah, I have a hard time wrapping my head around the concept. But there can't be too many. Or we'd have heard from them before our various apocalypses. Besides, it feels like we were led here. And we can't go any farther. So maybe this is the last of the hidden human systems. Or maybe it isn't, but we'll never know otherwise. For good or ill, this is the end of the line for us. So we've got to make it work."
"And you think helping Captain Reynolds will do that?"
"Don't you?"
Adama sighed. "Yeah. Let's get this over with." Without further hesitation, he walked up to the hatch, undogged the heavy locking mechanism, and entered without a word. John followed him through, but Adama didn't wait for him before snapping, "Cut him loose," at Hadrian and Allan. The two snapped their mouths closed. Then Hadrian rose and produced a key, unlocking the manacles that had Captain Reynolds shackled to the table between them. Much to the Captain's apparent amusement. "Follow us, Captain," he commanded, turning with John to exit the room.
Reynolds gave a small chuckle, and nodded to Hadrian and Alan in turn. "The pleasure's been all yours." Then he rose and followed Adama out of the room. The mirth left his face as soon as Sheridan pulled the hatch closed after them, leaving the two interrogators behind. He nodded to Sheridan and Adama in turn. "Well. Major Malfunction and General Admission. Nice to see you again."
"That's Admiral," the Admiral grumped at him, "and we have some questions for you."
"Admiralable of you. And if you'd just come and asked me right away, instead of having me go a couple of sessions with Repetitive and Redundant back there, I'd have been happy to answer them. But now I got questions of my own I want answered first. 'Cause while you certainly ain't Alliance, it's become painfully obvious you ain't Independents neither. Just exactly who are you people?"
John calmly said, 'Not here," and gestured for Bill to lead the way. The Admiral turned and began moving again. Reynolds hesitated for only a moment, before following without further comment. With John bringing up the rear, the three men cut a path through the mammoth vessel which Reynolds found confusing and fascinating in equal measure.
Finally they arrived at yet another steel hatch, clearly indistinguishable to Reynolds from a hundred others they had passed. But when the Admiral opened it and led the way inside, the Captain's eyes widened at the large and well appointed stateroom within. After waving them to some comfortable looking seats, Adama walked directly to a modestly appointed bar, set out three tumblers, and poured a couple of fingers of a smooth amber liquid into each of them. "These are the quarters of the Commander of this vessel. Who also happens to be my son. I'm sure he won't mind us borrowing it for our…conversation." He walked forward and handed the drinks to both John and Captain Reynolds before taking a seat and sipping his own.
"Alright, Captain," John took up the conversation, "you have questions, and we have questions. Under the circumstances, we had good reason to lock you up. But let's assume that's over. Let's try a simple dialogue, we answer your questions, you answer ours, without either side demanding all the answers. And afterward, you and your crew will be free to go. And maybe, if this goes well, we'll even help you."
"Sounds reasonable," Reynolds said guardedly. "But you go first. Who are you people?"
John looked over at the Admiral, who gave him a nod. Not permission, exactly, but rather willingness to let him take the lead. "We're…not exactly all the same people. We're multiple factions that have come together due to circumstance and need. But I…many of us…we're from Earth."
"Ok," Reynolds drawled patiently, "which one?"
Sheridan and Adama shared another look. Did this man know about both Earths? More than both Earths? John spoke again. "How…how many Earths are there?"
Reynolds gave him an odd look. "All of 'em, obviously."
"Ok, but how many is that?"
"What, no schoolin' where you all are from? There's hundreds of Earths in the 'Verse."
Adama and Sheridan shared another look, this one wide-eyed and more than a little disbelieving. John tried to respond. "That can't….that's not…how big is your civilization?"
"I ain't Alliance," Reynold snapped. "It's not all just one civilization, which I thought you'd agree with. And it certainly ain't all mine. And I think you're duckin' my question. Which Earth are you from?"
"Ahh…the first one?"
"Sihnon and Londinium were the first Earths in the 'Verse. You ain't from them or you'd be Alliance. Don't seem like you're bein' particularly truthsome. Why is that?" His eyes became more suspicious. "Are you Alliance? Who are you and where are you from?"
John was lost. He simply had no context to understand what Reynolds was trying to say. He didn't look over at the Admiral, worried he would see questions in the man's eyes he had no way to answer. "I'm from…" he flogged his mind trying to think of some large feature of his Earth which would distinguish it from any others, and wouldn't disappear into the minutia. The kind of thing that someone from another civilization who had only studied his Earth from afar might know. One thought came to the forefront of his mind. "I'm from the Earth Alliance. The Earth of the Earth Alliance."
Consternation appeared on the Captain's face. "Earth Alliance. You're trying to form some new power block? Challenge the Central Planets? Why put the term Alliance in your name? Seems a tad confusin', what with there already bein' an Alliance, don't ya think? Or was that the point? Are you tryin' to put the Union of Allied Planets at ease by makin' them think you're just like them? It won't work. The Unification War proved to anyone with eyes in their head that the Alliance won't accept anyone not bein' under their collective thumb. Didn't they crush enough Earths to prove that to ya?"
"How many did they defeat?" John found himself asking quietly.
"Every one that stood against them."
"But how many is that?" Adama snapped angrily. "You seem to think we have knowledge that we don't. Pretend we're children. Pretend we're idiots if that helps you. You said there were hundreds of Earths. That doesn't seem possible. It's too great of a coincidence."
Reynolds was looking at him in obvious confusion, but Sheridan cut back in. "Wait. You said that Londinium and…Sihnon?..."
"Yes," the Captain confirmed.
"...that they were the first Earths. Are…are you using the word Earth as a synonym for a planet?"
The look which crossed the Captain's face was the kind teachers tended to reserve for their slowest, most vexing pupils. His reply was slowly enunciated, with forced patience. "Yes. Obviously. And moons too."
John let out a sigh of relief. He didn't particularly appreciate Captain Reynold's attitude, but at least they had overcome that particular point of semantic confusion. "Ok, thank you. But let's skip simple real estate for now. Colonies on barren rocks as well. How many of those 'Earths' are habitable? Breathable atmosphere, liquid water, roughly standard gravity...garden worlds," he specified.
The look on Reynold's face now turned to one of suspicion. "Don't try to put me off by playing insane. Crazy and whackadoo I can stomach all day long. Now, I'm owed an explanation, and I mean to have it!"
"Please, Captain," John responded, his own irritation growing, "just answer the question. I promise to answer yours as well. How many of those hundreds of 'Earths' are habitable?"
Reynolds took a deep breath, pursing his lips in a clearly checked impulse to be caustic. Slowly, he replied, "All of them, obviously. That's what makes 'em gorram Earths!"
John fell silent at this shocking reply. His head was starting to feel whiplashed. Lurching back and forth from the shocking possibility there might be hundreds of habitable planets named Earth, to the calming and reaffirming belief that it had all just been some simple misunderstanding and that the Captain had simply been referring to any old rock, right back around to the possibility there might be literally hundreds of garden worlds controlled by this potential adversary. So it was a somewhat tentative looking Adama who stepped in to fill the void. "So you're saying that your civilization," as Reynolds's glare shifted to him, he held up his hands placatingly. "Sorry. That this 'Alliance' is in control of hundreds of fully habitable worlds."
"Don't pretend you don't know all this," Reynolds began, standing angrily.
"Sit down!" Adama barked, and watched as, after a moment's internal struggle, the Captain did so. "Please, Captain. Children or idiots. Explain."
"Fine," Reynolds ground out. "Yes, the Alliance is nominally in control of the works. But that control gets a might patchy on the Border Worlds, and downright sparse on the Rim."
"The Rim?" John rallied his dazed faculties, cutting back in. "So they're weaker out towards the Rim?" This whole region would definitely be categorized as the Rim. That might explain why the fleet they'd observed hadn't been particularly potent. Certainly for a polity which spanned so much territory and resources. Assuming the Captain could be believed, that was. It all seemed so…fantastical.
Reynolds nodded. "Yep. As for fully habitable…that's up for some debate. The terraformers tend to move on before the job's all the way done. Clearly you aren't from the Rim or you'd a known that."
"Terraformers?" Adama asked, nodding as though something finally made sense. "So most of those hundreds of worlds were kobol….I mean, terraformed? That's an impressive feat."
"All of them," the Captain explained with forced patience. "All of them were terraformed. Supposably to make them as much like Old Earth as possible." Suspicion bloomed once more upon his face. "Wait. Were you tryin' to convince me you all are from Earth-That-Was? As in, the actual Earth?"
John, feeling more and more out of his depth, refocused at that question. So these people did have a history that derived from Earth. The question was…which one. "Well," he temporized, "it depends on exactly what you mean by 'Earth-That-Was.' But yes, I think so. Can you…"
"Pull the other one," Reynolds snorted over the top of him. "If you were just gonna babble fantasies at me, you shouldn't of bothered wasting either of our time."
"Why are you so certain we're not from the Earth you mentioned?"
"Because there's nothin' alive there. That's why we had to come to the 'Verse in the first place. The great sin of our hubris. We destroyed our own home."
John nodded thoughtfully. That only matched up with the Cylon Earth. So…these people must be Cylons. The ones who, according to the Final Five, had essentially gone human. "In a nuclear exchange?" he asked for confirmation.
"No. Well, yes. I ain't no expert. Inara or the Doc might tell you better. But, as I understand it, there was some nukin' at the very end. But we'd already long since destroyed Old Earth's ability to sustain life. Pollutin' and overpopulatin' and such."
Sheridan and Adama shared a look. "Did Saul say anything about an ecological collapse?" John asked.
"No. But I can ask him more about it later. Captain," he said, returning his focus to Reynolds, "there's a minor medical test we would like you to take."
The Captain threw back what was left of his drink, then set his jaw firmly. "Are you gonna help me?"
"Excuse me?"
"We've already established you don't plan to tell me nothin' but fairy tales. Which pretty much just leaves me with one question. Are you gonna help us right this wrong?"
Doing what the Captain wanted would mean angering a star nation that claimed hundreds of habitable worlds. Not even the Centauri came anywhere close to that. The Colonies, over the course of a few thousand years, had terraformed a dozen worlds, which were already pretty close to habitable. But according to everything the Earth Alliance knew, those types of planets were nearly as rare as fully habitable garden worlds. Which meant that this 'Alliance' had done it the hard way…by exploring, claiming and settling hundreds, perhaps thousands, of star systems. The Admiral's face showed him struggling to wrap his mind around the concept, just as John was. But in the Admiral's case, caution was bubbling up to the surface. "Captain…" Adama began.
"Yes," John said, definitively. "We are going to help you. And hopefully prove to you that we're telling the truth along the way. But in exchange for that help, you and your crew will submit to the Admiral's medical test, and you are going to finish answering our questions. No matter how ridiculous you think they are. Agreed, Captain Reynolds?" he asked, holding out his hand.
Reynolds studied that hand for a long moment, caution and hope chasing each other across his face. "Maybe you are crazy." Then he reached out and shook the offered hand. "Ah, hell. All the nut jobs I know call me Mal."
"One last question then, Mal, before we take you for that medical test. We've established that the 'Alliance' controls hundreds of Earths. But how much territory does it control? How many star systems?" John was also curious about what type of FTL they used to manage such a vast territory. Given they were in this system, he suspected they used the Colonial and Cylon jump drives, or something very similar. But that was a question which could be left for later.
Mal gave him another one of those long suffering looks. "All of them, obviously."
John laughed at the ridiculousness of both the answer and the very question. "Ok. But how many is that?"
"The Alliance controls all five Suns."
John's mind began racing, assumptions crumbling, mental gears shifting. If that was true, it meant the Alliance was confined to just this one system. They might not even have FTL. But was it even possible to terraform hundreds of worlds in a single multi-star system? The Colonials had managed just a dozen before running into worlds that were just too uninhabitable to be terraformed. This system was larger than the maps of Cyrannus John had seen, but not that much larger. Does this Alliance really possess science and engineering capabilities of that magnitude?
Then an oddity in what Mal had just said bubbled up through all of the speculation racing through John's mind. "Captain...you said that the Alliance controls all five Suns." At Reynolds's nod, he continued. "But…there are twelve stars in this system."
"Oh, is that what's bothering you?" Mal asked, waving away the matter as though it were inconsequential. "The other seven don't really count."
"Why…why not?"
"Because they're artificial…obviously."
Eratosthenes, Ion Cloud, The Verse - January, 2250
"Commodore on the Bridge! Atten-shun!" Captain Gideon barked. The entire Bridge crew, save only those seated at their stations, snapped to attention and fired off their best salutes.
Sheridan returned the salute. "As you were." Turning back, he gestured for Mal to follow him onto the Bridge. "Just this way, Commodore."
"Captain," Mal said in confusion. "You're the Commodore."
"Only one Captain aboard an Earth Force ship, and here that's Captain Gideon. So you get an honorary promotion for the remainder of your stay. It's right over here," had added, leading the way towards a large workstation, manned by a trio of officers.
Mal noted that a large majority of the crew were extremely young. Far more so than anything he had seen aboard the Pegasus. He put that question to the back of his mind. Along with the question of why anyone would need a six kilometer long monster of a ship like this one. "And this can broadcast to the entire 'Verse?"
"This ship was designed to go deep into unexplored space. Occasionally being able to broadcast incredible distances can be beneficial, so it was designed with the ability. It'll get your message out there." He pulled a data crystal out of his pocket. It wasn't the data cylinder that the Serenity crew had taken off of Miranda, but rather a copy transposed onto a device compatible with the Eratosthenes's systems. Offering up the crystal, Sheridan asked, "Care to do the honors?"
Gingerly taking the proffered device, Mal turned and slotted it into the appropriately sized receptacle on the workstation. The holographic image appeared, the ship's systems rendering it in somewhat lower quality than the original. Images appeared. Images being broadcast, if Commodore Sheridan was to be believed, out to the entire 'Verse. Images of a city. Of bodies in the streets. Bodies in homes and offices. Image after image of Death.
And then the speaker began. The uniformed woman's voice and appearance were professional, though clearly shaken. "These are some of the first sites we scouted on Miranda. There is no one living on this planet. There is no one… These are just a few of the images we've recorded, and you can see it isn't… It isn't what we thought. There's been no war here, and no terraforming event. The environment is stable." She paused, taking a breath, clearly unhappy about what she needed to say next. "It's the Pax. The G-32 Paxilon Hydroclorate that we added to the air processors. It's…" Her eyes began to tear up, but she forced herself to continue. "Well, it works. It was supposed to calm the population, weed out aggression. Make a peaceful... It worked. The people here stopped fighting. And then they stopped everything else. They stopped going to work, stopped breeding... talking...eating…" The woman steadied herself, doing her best to regain control over her emotions. "There's thirty million people here, and they all just let themselves die. They didn't even kill themselves. They just... Most starved. When they stopped working the power grids… There were overloads, fires… People burned to death sitting in their chairs. Just sitting."
There was a loud bang somewhere outside of the recording's field of view. The officer jerked in alarm, eyes scanning towards the sound. "I have to be quick. There was no one working the receptors when we landed, so we hit pretty hard. We can't leave. We can't take any of the local transports because…" Another bang came, this one both closer and louder. The woman began to lose her self control. "There are people... They're not people…" Taking a calming breath, she restarted. "About a tenth of a percent of the population had the opposite reaction to the Pax. Their aggressor response increased... beyond madness. They've become… They've killed most of us... Not just killed, they've done... things. I won't live to report this, and we haven't got power to... people have to know…" She began to break down, weeping. "We meant it for the best... to make people safer... to... God!" The officer whirled, grabbing a gun and opening fire. Then, shockingly, she attempted to bring the gun to her head and end her own life. The reason why became apparent a split second later, as that reason leapt upon her, knocking aside the weapon and taking a massive bite out of her face, bearing her to the floor. Her screaming seemed to go on and on, ringing in the ears, though the broadcast ended just a few seconds later.
Sheridan retrieved the data crystal. "Well, you got what you wanted," he said quietly, the words ringing across the now silent Bridge. "The die is cast."
And the 'Verse would never be the same.