The Final Circle

by Sufficient Velocity

This is a Babylon 5 centered tale. It explores a BSG style exodus due to the loss of the Earth Minbari war. It becomes a crossover with nBSG as of Interlude 1, and crosses with Firefly as of Interlude 2. Most B5 and BSG canon should remain unchanged, including EU. However, Firefly will mostly use series and film canon. Its EU began to expand after I had already merged the plots.

39. Chapter36-You Can't Take the Sky From Me

Chapter 36 - You Can't Take the Sky From Me

Paradiso, Regina, Orbiting Georgia, The Verse - February, 2250
Stoney faces hiding any trace of whatever thoughts or concerns they might be carrying, a pair of off-worlders walked down the ramp off the train from Hancock. The male, in the lead by half a step, paused halfway down the ramp to briefly study the dirty ALTRANS logo emblazoned on the side of the engine and several of the freight cars. That was the only pause he made, as he then led the way directly to the Sheriff's office, striding through the door without hesitation. His garish outfit, far too shiny and clean, all of it spotless and in pristine condition, drew the momentary curiosity of the Deputy at the door. But that curiosity didn't stick. Even the leather boots and belt and gun were clearly new and unused, and suffering from a level of ornamentation that was frankly ridiculous. He didn't maintain the Deputy's attention for more than a moment. Sheriff Bourne saw her moment of recognition and dismissal. It was clear to her what the man was. A poseur. Some self important Core Worlder who thought he was blending in with the local yokels. No one of any particular note or concern, otherwise he would be accompanied by more serious security, perhaps even a squad of purple bellies.

Instead, all he had was a single hard-edged female in tow. She didn't appear to be local, either, but at least the scatter gun she carried and the gray duster and buckskins she wore had the appearance of hard use, clean though they were. She didn't draw terribly much attention either. Troublesome termagants weren't exactly in short supply in these parts. And while it was true that few of those could match her for beauty, fewer still were the people who would care to meet her hardened glare. The Deputy certainly didn't care to match glares with her, and thus took little note of her presence, and even less of her features, pleasant though they were to behold. Sheriff Bourne had little doubt that every individual sharing that train with them, and every passerby who had crossed paths with them on the street had likely come to those same conclusions.

But, he'd felt his hackles rise the moment they'd stepped through the door. That look couldn't have been more carefully cultivated if they'd tried. And likely they had. As they ignored the Deputy and walked directly to Bourne's desk, he slowly filled with conviction as to just exactly what they were.

And so he cultivated an image of his own, leaning back in his chair with his boots crossed upon his desk. He lit a hand rolled cigarette, hoping it would calm the itch in his lungs. An itch exacerbated by the fact that the gorram medicine was late again. Smoke now rising lazily about his head, he finally looked up to meet the gaze of his visitor. He'd been confident about what he'd see, looking into that young man's eyes.

It still came as a shock. No amount of frippery and foolishness should be able to hide it. He was astonished his Deputy, the passengers on the train, and the passersby on the street hadn't gone running in terror. How could they not see it? Bourne stared directly into the eyes of a killer. Perhaps it was unfair to judge the others so. Afterall, he'd known and locked gazes with any number of killers in the past. He'd trained a fair number of them himself. Though few could come close to matching what he beheld in this fellow's gaze. Eyes that had seen horror and death. Survived it. Dwealt in it. Until he'd become death himself.

Bourne's eyes slid to the woman. She was clearly about as dangerous as anyone he'd ever met. But less dangerous than her male counterpart. And more open about it, if just. And the silence had already stretched too long. Still, he extended it by taking a long drag on his cigarette, then blowing it out into the air between them. "Something I can do for ya?"

The man was smiling. A smile which never came close to touching his eyes. "We have need of your assistance, Sheriff." The voice was just as cheerful as the smile. How did those eyes produce such a voice?

"Well that's what we're here for," Bourne drawled. "Protect and serve. Ain't it, Deputy?"

"Yes, Sir," she called out, reminding them of her presence where she sat, now behind them.

"'Course, we generally like to know just who it is we're providin' such services to…"

The woman flipped open a wallet from where it had already been concealed in her palm. She snapped it closed again almost immediately, but not before Bourne caught the unmistakable sight of the badge of an Alliance Marshall. "We're kinda a long way from anywhere for an Alliance Marshall to be showing up, ain't we?"

"Not when known fugitives land in your backyard," the man said, eerie smile never leaving his face. "And you're going to help us bring them to justice."

"Seems to me," Bourne replied, taking another drag on his cigarette and leaning back to blow smoke straight up at the ceiling, "that not too terribly long ago an entire squad of the Alliance's finest told me the concerns of this town…namely critical medical supplies that went missing right under their noses…weren't their problem. They left us to swing, without so much as a token effort to uphold the law. That bein' the case, I fail to see why I should give much of a damn about the Alliance's concerns."

That smile never wavered. "You mean aside from the law saying' you have to? Or the fact that your personal history means you have every reason to stay on the Alliance's good side, and make certain we take no official notice of you. Well, how about this Sheriff? You see, it's funny you should bring up that little incident with your medicine supply. Because the fugitives we're here to apprehend were part of that little misadventure. Oh, you're quite familiar with them. Captain Reynolds and his crew of reprobates. They landed just a few kilometers outside of town."

"Them?" Bourne asked, swinging his boots to the floor and sitting up. "They're wanted all over the 'Verse. Why the hell would they come here?"

"An excellent question, Sheriff. Most germane. And you see, given their history with you and this town, I can really think of only one reason. They're here to see you, Sheriff."

"That's ridiculous. I tried to lock them up. Why would they come to see me?" Despite his assertion, Bourne felt a lead weight settle into the pit of his stomach.

"Well, you are all friendly, after all. I mean, you did just let them walk away when they returned the purloined pharmaceuticals."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Please, Sheriff. Spare me your denials. I don't care. I'm well aware of the truth. This is what I do."

"And what if you're wrong?" Deputy Red-Horse called from behind them.

"Then I still don't care. I'll prosecute you and every one of your deputized citizenry for aiding and abetting terrorists. Which I do believe is a hanging offense in these parts." He paused, eyes boring into Bourne's. "We're taking them and their flying rattrap, Sheriff. Especially the girl and her annoying brother. I don't have time to wait for other backup to arrive. They could finish their business and depart at any time. And I'm going in, with or without your help. But if it's without, I'll make certain you swing. Still, the choice is of course yours to make, Sheriff Bourne."

The sound of a hammer cocking was loud in the room. "Or maybe," Red-Horse noted, "the two of you just disappear right here and now, and we all go on about our lives."

"Put the gun down, Deputy," Bourne said evenly, still staring into the cold eyes of their visitor. Eyes that never wavered.

"Don't be a fool, Henry!" she hissed. "You think they're just gonna let you walk after this, just because you help them?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. But they'll let the rest of you alone. And if they just 'disappear' now, it won't be forty-eight hours before there are a dozen more just like them, with a squad or so of purple-bellies to back them up, lookin' under every rock and behind every door, 'till they know just what's what. We'd never get away with it. Ain't that right?" he asked the killer.

"A platoon," the man corrected.

"So put the gun down, Deputy." When she still hesitated, he snapped, "That wasn't a gorram request!" Taking a deep breath as she finally complied, he nodded to their guest. "Give me a few hours to gather the rest of my Deputies. They're checkin' on a claim of rustlin' at a nearby ranch."

"I told you that I have neither time nor desire to await backup, Sheriff. The four of us will be sufficient. It will be full dark by the time we arrive, which will be sufficient to mask our approach. Skill and the element of surprise will be all that is required to seize such a small ship. Particularly if some or most of the crew are away on whatever business brought them here. Then we just bag up the rest as they return to the 'safety' of their ship, innocent as lambs. Don't worry, Sheriff. You're free to kill anyone who poses any difficulty. Anyone but the girl. Wound her if you must, but if she dies, so do you."

"Well ain't you all sweet and cuddly. C'mon Deputy," he said, swiveling his attention back to his subordinate, "grab the extra guns. We may need 'em."

Hours of hot and sweaty clomping through the brush later, the small group crested the lip of a secluded valley, and beheld the Serenity huddled down into the depression below. The Marshall had insisted they take neither horses nor motorized transport, as even in the dark the noise and dust might give away their approach. And so Bourne was already tired, sore, and more than a little irritable as they surveilled their target. Even at this distance, people could be seen moving around the open hatch, and within the illuminated windows. "You got a plan? Or we just wingin' this?" he grumped as the Alliance Marshall lowered a slim pair of field glasses.

"Pincer attack," came the gruff response, as the field glasses were handed over. "Check out the spine just aft of the bridge. Accepting the glasses, Bourne reviewed the indicated area. Apparently he wasn't fast enough, because the Marshall followed up with an explanation. "The EVA hatch. Do you see it? Our deputies will enter there, while the two of us charge through the main hatch to the cargo hold."

Bourne nodded and passed the field glasses back. "And how exactly do you expect that they'll get up there? Sprout wings?"

The Marshall's deputy pulled aside her duster to reveal a rope hanging from her left hip. "Don't worry about us," she assured. "I'm sure Deputy Red-Horse can handle a little climb. And that'll be the hardest part. We're taking the back door. It's the two of you beating down the front."

"It's not a problem," the Marshall assured flatly. This mission was happening. He clearly wouldn't brook any arguments.

Bourne sighed and loosened the leather strap holding his six-gun in its holster. "Fine. Let's get it over with."

The men and women split up, crouching and crawling their way towards the ship below and their assigned entry points. Bourne's last sight of the two deputies was when they tossed the rope up and hooked the loop over a hand projection. He was glad he didn't have to make that climb. He was getting too old for this shit.

Finally, Sheriff and Marshall were at the side of the main hatch. There was a sizable ramp, so they'd have to take several steps out into the light before they could leap onto the ramp and charge in. Bourne hunched down and shuffled his way under the ramp crossing to the far side. Once through, he straightened and pulled his pump action scattergun from the scabbard on his back. He chanced stretching his head over the ramp to take a quick peek into the ship. He could only see about a third of the cargo bay, but both Reynolds and that large bruiser of his were there, stacking cargo, chatting, and laughing about something. There could be others, but he wasn't in a position to see. Using hand signals he conveyed this information to the Marshall, drawn back into the shadows on the far side of the ramp. The Marshall nodded in return, then signaled the assault. He held up three fingers, then two, then one.

Bourne turned and sprinted for the end of the ramp. He grabbed the side and leaped around and onto it at about the halfway point, rising to level his shotgun and continue his charge up and into the cargo hold. The Marshall, revolver drawn, was charging in as well, just a half step behind him.

"HANDS UP!" he barked, pointing the scatter gun directly between Reynolds's eyes. "Lace your fingers over your head, then lay face down on the ground." Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the bruiser….Cobb was his name….slowly raising his hands. There didn't seem to be anyone else in the hold.

"My my. What an interesting predicament," Reynolds said casually, raising his hands up and out to the sides, somehow making the gesture both insouciant and mildly insulting. He made no move to get down on the floor.

Bourne took a step forward, taking closer aim at the man's head. "I told you to…."

The audible ratchet of a revolver's hammer being locked back, along with the distinctive pressure of a cold steel barrel being pressed to the back of his head cut the command immediately short. "Lower your weapon, Sheriff," came the Marshall's amused sounding demand.

"Son-of-a-bitch," Henry swore, reluctantly but immediately dropping the scattergun's muzzle to point at the floor. "I knew there was something off about you. I swear on a stack of good books, if you've harmed my Deputy…"

"Ms. Red-Horse is fine," came a voice from above, shortly followed by the suspect Marshall's harridan, strolling out onto the elevated catwalk. "She's resting comfortably on a nice soft stretch of ground. She'll wake up in an hour or two, but we'll be long gone by then."

"What's with the charade?"

"Well," replied Reynolds with a smile, only now dropping his hands and stepping forward to collect Bourne's various weapons, "Mr. Garibaldi here very much wanted to speak with you. But as you can imagine, contacting law enforcement anywhere in this 'Verse carries a great deal of risk for me and mine."

"And why exactly would you need to speak with the Sheriff of a little town like Paradiso?" he asked in disgust.

Now that their 'guest' had been fully disarmed, Garibaldi uncocked the Colt. "I have zero interest in speaking with Sheriff Henry Bourne of Paradiso. Brigadier Hard Bourne of the Browncoats now, that's another matter entirely.

Henry Bourne swore softly under his breath, as an old life he'd thought long buried rose up to swallow him once more.

---

Mr. Universe's Planet, The Rim, The Verse - February, 2250
Passing through the Ion cloud, the new Task Force made orbit around Cortex Relay Station 2E…colloquially known as Mr. Universe's Planet after its exceedingly eccentric caretaker. But the caretaker was dead, and the station had been operating in a steadily degrading backup mode for more than a month. Something that would need to be dealt with. Still, that was not the reason behind the formation of the Task Force; only the second such formation formed since the end of the Unification War, and hard on the heels of the decimation of the first. But this fleet was substantially more powerful than the one the Operative had assembled. No Reaver surprise attack would crack this nut.

Creases still visible in his sharp new uniform, the freshly promoted Commodore Harken strode onto the bridge of his new flagship, the Deck Guard calling out his presence. The IAV Crete, first of its line, was heading into only its second cruise, straight out of a drydock refit due to lessons learned and issues identified with the fist. All future iterations of the class would be constructed with those lessons in mind. The handful of operational Crete's were scheduled to be pulled from service and put under yardarms for the necessary modifications only as they came off of their various deployments, so as not to put any kind of hole into naval coverage and patrols. Of course, the Cuba had jumped the line, being damned near destroyed by multiple Reaver ramming attacks in the battle which had taken place over this very world. It was both a catastrophe and an affront to all the men and women of the Alliance Navy. An incredible failure on the part of her Captain, as well as that damned Operative.

Harken was determined not to repeat it. As the Officer of the Deck and a dozen others sprang to attention, he immediately waved them back to their duties, and then marched sharply to his chair and took his seat. "Status?" he queried.

"All vessels have reported in, Commodore. Maintaining formation. No sign of Reavers or anyone else. No indications of habitation from the Cortex Station. The only thing on scopes is detritus from last month's battle."

"Give me the forward view," he ordered. The scene which displayed on the screen before him didn't fail to impress. The greens and browns of the world below, with the shimmer of the Ion cloud above. The forward elements of the fleet in a combat wedge, with bits and pieces of Reaver and Alliance ships drifting randomly in the distance. He admired the forward point of that wedge, ignoring the escorts and even the cruisers, eyes only on the Tohoku class IAV Nostromo, his command until his very recent promotion. Harken wondered how acting Captain Williams, his former First Officer, was handling his temporary command. I'll have the man cashiered if he so much as scratches the paint. After indulging in just that moment of reverie, it was back to business. "Deploy two Companies of Marines. Full combat loadout. It's possible there are still Reavers down there. But remind them this isn't a combat op. We're looking for the Operative. This was his last known location."

"Sir," came the response from Captain Clark, also newly minted, "didn't we receive a communique that he was presumed dead?"

The new Commodore straightened his service jacket punctiliously. "A man like that is hard to kill. It's possible he's KIA, but the brass wants to know for certain before we move on to the second portion of this operation. If we find him, or find any sign of him, we're to bring him in…whether it's a rescue, arrest, or the collection of remains. Now get it done."

"Aye aye, Sir."

The Marines were really quite efficient in their deployment. They hit atmo within minutes, and were on the ground not long after. Still, given how extensive the Cortex Relay facilities were, including data control, signal reboost, atmospherics and ion cloud synchronization, power generation, and all the myriad support and even personnel facilities and functions; it was several hours later before a Marine Major reported in with their findings.

No sign of the Operative. No Reavers, no fugitives…no sign of anything or anyone at all. Just one very much dead and decaying Mr. Universe, and one synthetic spouse, completely drained of all power.

Sighing internally, Harken prepared to move on to the next stage of the operation. He didn't allow any trace of his thoughts or emotions to mar the spit and polish of his command persona. Still, he was troubled. Where the hell is the Operative?

---

Near Paradiso, Regina, Orbiting Georgia, The Verse - February, 2250
"The Sheriff's tucked into guest quarters," Jayne repeated, returning to the main hold. "Got that witch keepin' an eye on him. Somethin' ain't right about that woman."

"You mean aside from the fact that she's not interested in you?" Garibaldi snarked.

"Bad enough. Sure sign of a loose screw. That's what my mother used to say."

Half listening to the banter, Mal had walked to the hatch intercom and picked up the handset. "Wash, we're about wrapped up here. You ready to take us out of the world?"

"I can have us out of atmo in five minutes, just say the word," came the pilot's response.

Hanging up the handset and looking around, Mal noted, "We'd better move that Deputy. Don't want her getting hurt when we launch."

"Already taken care of, Captain," Zoë announced, striding up the ramp. "Got her to a safe distance, even set up a fire to keep the wildlife off her. Still sleeping like a baby."

Mal turned towards Garibaldi. "And you were worried. I told you it would work."

"Hey, I said it was a cockamamie idea, not that it wouldn't work," Michael replied.

"Well then, mission accomplished."

"Bravo. Most impressive," a voice echoed from above. A pair of hands began clapping, and all eyes snapped to the man stepping out of the shadows on the far side of the walkway leading to the spare shuttle. Reynolds slapped leather, his six-gun coming up in a blur, and every other person in the cargo hold followed suit. Stepping more fully into the light, the intruder leaned casually on the railing, seemingly not in the least concerned. The same couldn't be said for Mal who, brow wrinkling in concern, began rapidly checking all of the other approaches and angles, looking for hidden threats. He'd hoped this was one threat they'd finally left behind. Hoped never to see this face again. It was the Operative. "Easy Captain," the man said, raising his hands without showing the slightest hint of concern. "I'm not here to cause any trouble for you, your crew, or your guests…whose identity concerns me not in the slightest. Quite the opposite in fact. I'm here to help. To…repay a debt."

"Wouldn't that be nice for a change," Reynold's replied. "And far be it for me to cast aspersions as to your character, but as I'm feelin' a might truthsome, I must admit to harborin' some reservations as to the veracity of that statement."

"Yeah," Jayne piped in.

"Captain, had I wanted, I could very easily have shot you in the back just now."

"Bit bloodthirsty. I haven't made you angry, have I?"

"There were a lot of innocent people who were killed in the air above Universe's Relay Station," the Operative replied flatly.

"And now you know how much truer that statement is than you would ever have believed. 'Cause now you know the secret. The truth that burned up River Tam's brain. And the rest of the 'Verse knows it too. 'Cause they needed to."

"Do you really believe that?"

"I do."

"Are you willing to die for that belief?"

"I am," Mal replied with great seriousness. "'Course, seein's how you're the one surrounded by guns, it ain't exactly plan A."

"Do you know what your sin is, Mal?"

"Ah hell, I'm a fan of all seven. But right now," the Captain cocked his pistol and took aim, "I'm gonna have to go with wrath."

Garibaldi immediately put his hand over Mal's gun, pushing the barrel down. "Easy there."

"You don't ever give commands on my ship." Reynolds hissed.

"Mal," Michael snapped, "if this guy is who I think he is, then despite your baggage, and despite your security measures, he just strolled unnoticed onto your ship, unarmed, and put himself under your guns. We know he's neither stupid nor suicidal, which means he either has something to say, or he's got something up his sleeve. Either way, I'd kinda like to know what it is."

Mal sighed, then returned his attention to the Operative. He waggled his gun in impatience. "Fine. You wanna help? How is that, exactly?"

"I'm hoping to help you hide. There's no shame in that. You've done remarkable things, but you're fighting a war. You've already lost. Your transmission opened some people's eyes and ears. But they won't be open for long. Those with real power will soon lull them back to sleep. And then everything will be as it was, whatever headaches you caused just a memory. As will you be if you don't disappear."

"Is that all we get for granting your greatest wish?"

The Operative gave him a confused look. "My wish?"

"We showed you a world without sin. Did you enjoy the view?"

The man who had been chasing them across the 'Verse, who had ended the lives of so many of their friends and allies, sighed morosely. "I can't undo what I have done. I can't really make any kind of amends. But I can warn you…"

"Warn me?"

"It's not over. I can't guarantee they won't come after you…the Parliament. Your broadwave about Miranda has weakened the regime. But they are not gone and they are not…forgiving."

"That don't bode especially well for you. Given you seem to be offering to help us get away."

"I told them the Tams are no longer a threat. Damage done. They might listen. But I think they know I'm no longer…their man."

"They take you down, don't expect grieven' over much. I'm given you a chance to speak out of deep respect for my good friend here," he added, nodding sideways at Garibaldi. "But just to put your troubled conscience to rest…we don't need your help. We found a plenty good hidey hole, all on our own. The Alliance comes sniffin' 'round there…they're liable to not enjoy much what they find. So, you can go on your way, without a concern for me and mine. But I'm like to kill you myself, I ever see you again."

"You won't. There is nothing left to see."

Mal's head twitched a bit, eyes still boring into the man. "Hell, I might just kill you right now anyways. "

"Sounds good to me," Jayne agreed, drawing and aiming a second pistol.

"I won't begrudge you your pound of flesh, Captain. Do what you must. This 'Verse could stand to do with one less monster infesting it."

Jayne looked to Mal for direction. Garibaldi only looked on in curiosity, whilst everyone else merely stood in silence. Slowly, hesitantly, Mal uncocked and lowered his pistol. Jayne gave him a confused look, but when no one else objected, the Operative turned and began to walk away.

A single moment, a single step before he would be out of the hatch and out of their lives forever, a voice called, "Wait." Malcolm was shocked to realize it was his own. Apparently, the Operative was shocked as well, because he halted immediately and slowly turned around. Mal's brain had no idea why his mouth was speaking, so it just shut up and listened with interest as a stream of words began to tumble forth. "You once told me you believed in somethin' greater than yourself. A better world."

"A world without sin," the assassin replied, completing the quote. "Don't worry, Captain. You've made your point. Well and truly destroyed that dream. I am quite aware that world does not exist."

"Might be," Mal continued hesitantly. "Might be I've seen your world. Least ways, somethin' closer to it than you're like to ever find. Might be I could show it to you."

The Operative's eyes bored hard into Mal with no small amount of confusion…and perhaps just the tiniest sliver of hope. "Why?" he asked simply.

"You said I'm fightin' a war. If that's true, I guarantee you I ain't lost yet. Could be…could be an Operative might prove useful in that fight. That maybe now I'm fightin' for a better world my own self. Maybe even one not too dissimilar from the one you made up in your head."

"And what price would you demand for this…gift?"

"Well, Mr. Garibaldi here doubtless has an unending list of questions for you. Why don't we start with you answerin' them."

"And how do I know you won't just kill me once you have what you want?"

"Ya ain't dead yet, and that took some mighty restraint. But truth be told, you don't. I may just kill you in the end. Or let Jayne do it. But didn't you say you had no intention of livin' in your perfect world?"

"I did," the one time Alliance Operative acknowledged.

"Then what's the problem?"

---

Mr. Universe's Planet, The Rim, The Verse - February, 2250
"No problems to report, Commodore," Captain Clark advised. "The fleet reads green across the board. We await your command."

With the Marines back aboard, Harken's Task Force prepared to break orbit. Their first step was to break out of their orbital blockade positions and into a proper combat formation. This was a nontrivial military evolution, involving the repositioning of multiple vessels (and their Combat Air Patrols), taking into account not just their relative positions in three dimensional space, but also all of their various current vectors and the changing face of gravity at various altitudes over a terraformed dwarf planet.

Eventually though, they fell into proper formation, with the capital ships forming a Line of Battle, with the Nostromo on point, then two of her sister ships, followed by the Crete and finally one more Tohoku. Then the rest of the Task Force fell into a multilayered Defensive Circular formation around them. A pair of Longbow class patrol cruiser to either side of the Battle Line and a trio of corvettes dead ahead, a Victoria class flanked by a pair of Ocula class e-warfare corvettes in Vic formation, and another trio abaft of the Line formed the innermost circle. Beyond that was a circle of six Trebuchet class battlecruisers arranged to cover the spaces between each of the Longbows and corvette subformations. The final, exterior circle was a jagged ring comprised of two dozen patrol boats.

As the last ship fell into its assigned place in the formation, Harken gave the order. The entire formation, more or less in unison, slowly swung up and around, aligning on a new setting. One which would take them directly to Miranda. When given both his promotion and his marching orders, Harken had assumed that this would be a retaliatory strike against any remaining Reavers. He was quickly disabused of that notion.

The Admiralty had shown him a top-secret video taken from gun camera footage during the battle. Apparently, they had been careful to find any and all sensor recordings of the event and quickly gather them for quarantine. The one or two fighter pilots who had witnessed the event and survived, along with those to whom they had reported their sighting, had rapidly disappeared. Officially they had been transferred to other duties, and Harken hoped that was true. But he wouldn't be terribly surprised if they had more or less been removed from existence.

He remembered watching the video. The Firefly class transport vessel, barely managing to regain control from an EMP strike and a nasty flat spin, dropping like a rock through the atmosphere, with a Reaver vessel in pursuit. The footage was blurry, bouncing and shaking, as it was from the gun camera of an Alliance Fighter, trying to get a firing lock on the Reavers. But despite that shaky footage it was evident that the Firefly hadn't regained all its power. That it was likely going to impact hard, whether crash or combat landing being only a matter of degrees.

But then, in a strange flash of light, a ship appeared. And not just any ship. A military ship. Dwarfing a Tohoku…maybe even nearly as large as the Crete, it was hard to tell. Heavily armed and armored, and yet still quite clearly a carrier, what with runways hanging from either side on pylons. The Firefly…no, not just any Firefly…Serenity…a ship I let loose into the 'Verse in a moment of weakness…had slammed down on one of those runways. And then, in another flash of light, she was gone.

"What the hell did I just see?" he'd asked. And they'd told him. The first in a domino chain of answers, each one leading to the next. Falling and spreading until the pattern became clear.

It was some new form of advanced active camouflage, for what else could it possibly be? Nothing. Nothing else fit the facts and resided within the realm of possibility. Domino. Mounted on a warship. Domino. A massive ship, not on any register, not produced in any known shipyard, and not flying the colors of the Alliance. Domino. A ship like that could only have been built for one purpose…to dominate the battlefield. They'd zoomed in on those massive guns she carried in droves. Likely built to outperform even the mighty Crete class. Domino. And then had come that damned transmission. Clearly faked to anyone with half an intellect, and yet causing massive turmoil for all of that. A transmission that didn't come from Mr. Universe's planet, nor any of the other Cortex Relay Stations. But it didn't come from nowhere. And only a ship like that stealth carrier might carry a transmitter so powerful and yet remain undetected. Domino.

Question after question arose, and domino after domino fell. Seemingly random movements and actions of seemingly random individuals across the 'Verse, viewed through a new lens and new understanding, took on new and sinister aspects. Illicit, perhaps even conspiratorial behaviors and actions leaped out when the data was properly combed through. When the dominoes told you what to look for. And as they continued to fall, the pattern became clear.

Sedition. Insurrection. Revolution. The Independents had somehow maintained cohesion. Had lain low and gathered their resources. Rebuilt their forces. And the Alliance had been asleep at the wheel. And now those damned Browncoats were going to take another stab at overthrowing the proper order. Not on my watch!

"The fleet has come about, Commodore," Captain Clark advised.

"All ahead…"

"Contact!" the voice of the young Ensign currently manning sensors caroled out.

"On screen," he snapped. "What have we got?"

"Small vessel," came the hesitant reply, though Harken could see that fact for himself. "Armed. Sensors indicate a fair bit of heat radiating from those guns. They may be fairly powerful. Vessel does not match any known military or civilian designs."

So the Independents hadn't just built a battlecarrier. They'd been working on gunboats as well. That was the only answer, as the thing was quite clearly not a Reaver vessel. "Get the CAP between us. Launch the Alert Fighters." He paused momentarily. "Open a channel," he ordered. "Let's see if they want to talk. Standard procedure."

A moment later he heard the Communications Officer transmitting. "Unknown vessel, heave-to. Repeat, you are ordered to hold position. Identify yourself immediately." The officer turned back to his Commodore. "Sir, receiving a video reply."

Harken's brow rose. That was unusual. This far out, most transmissions were audio only. The tech and complexity of video calls were a burden most chose not to bother with. "On my screen," he commanded.

The image which shortly appeared before him increased his level of alarm. A young man…officer…with pale skin and ruddy hair, and looking far too clean cut for most people's liking, sat at his leisure in a command chair, a small crew arrayed around him. His uniform was crisp and sharp, and frankly he looked exactly how you'd want the poster boy for the Alliance Navy to appear. Except of course for the fact that he was wearing the wrong uniform. A uniform Harken had never seen before. Darker than Alliance dress, with more blue than grey and entirely too much ornamentation. And he got right to the point. "This is Commander Nick Locarno, CO of the EAS Delta, representing the Earth Alliance and associated peoples, asking to speak with whoever is in charge of this UAP fleet."

Harken waited a moment until the connection was verified. "Mr. Locarno," he replied, refusing to acknowledge either an organization that didn't exist or any rank and honors distributed by it. "This is Commodore Harken. Explain your presence."

"Commodore. It's a pleasure to meet you. I have to admit, we weren't planning on revealing our presence just yet…but your clear intention to visit Miranda has forced our hand. I have been instructed to ask you to abandon whatever mission takes you there. We've laid claim to the world. However, if you can agree to a peaceful meeting, we can begin negotiations for the establishment of diplomatic recognition and interaction. I'm also authorized to advise that we would be willing…" his eyes glazed slightly as he clearly began to recite from memory, "...to offer fair compensation for the planet Miranda, given the efforts of the societies resident in the system known as the 'Verse, now unified under Union of Allied Planets, to terraform this world and build infrastructure thereupon. We are further willing to officially ignore any transgression or violation of inalienable human rights which may or may not have taken place upon that world, and the results thereof. In the name of peace and amity between our peoples." Locarno's eyes snapped back into focus as he finished his recital, to gauge the response. He wouldn't like what he saw.

Harken had steadily grown darker in rage as the words piled up. He clenched his fists to prevent his hands from shaking, and his jaw to prevent a snarl. "I won't have it!" he snapped. "You sit there in your ridiculous made up uniform, spouting the name of your ridiculous made up government, but we all know just what you are. You're Independents."

"I promise you, Commodore. The Earth Alliance is very much real. We aren't your Independents, but we are independent. We come…most of us…from what you call Earth-that-was. We aren't part of your Alliance and never were. But we do want to be your friends."

"Do you think I'm a fool?!" Harken snapped. "The Alliance won't stand for another independence movement, no matter what fairy tales you dress it up in. Wasn't one Unification War enough for you? You need to run the 'Verse through that kind of slaughter again? I won't allow it! Continue holding position. If you attempt to run you will be destroyed. Prepare to surrender your vessel. I'm going to want to continue this conversation in person." Turning to Captain Clark, he calmly commanded, "Push the CAP forward and surround that vessel. Shoot out the engines and any weapons."

"You're making a mistake, Commodore." Locarno's urgent comment…not a shout but not exactly calm either…grabbed Harken's attention once more. "We won't be taken. You're about to start a fight that'll cover you in the bloodshed you're hoping to avoid."

The Commodore turned, a smirk on his face, to directly confront the image of Locarno. "I don't think you fully grasp your situation, Commander. You're a single solitary vessel, alone against the largest concentration of firepower the 'Verse has ever seen. I suggest you stand down and allow yourself to be boarded. It's the only way you're going to ensure the survival of your crew."

Locarno's response was both calm and confident, and sent ice running through Harken's veins. "What makes you think we're alone?"

Eyes snapping to the looming, shifting ion cloud, Harken thought furiously. The range is too long. Anything in there will have to come out before they can engage us. As long as we maintain our distance, they can't surprise us. The advantage is ours. The Browncoat bastards can't have more than a handful of ships with any true combat ability. So why is this fool so confident? Eyes suddenly widening with a new realization, Harken cast a worried glance towards the various sensor feeds. That damned stealth ship. It can hit us from any side. Maybe even take a real bite out of the fleet. We can't get caught with our pants down. "Captain, signal the fleet. All ships are to launch their alert fighters. Bring us to Battle Stations. And tell the CAP to hurry up. I want this Locarno onboard forthwith. Don't let him get away or try to run into the Ion Cloud."

"He's not running, Commodore. Powering weapons. I'm also reading some kind of dense energy field…I've never seen anything like it."

"A stealth field?"

"No Commodore, I don't think so. ECM maybe. Seems to be having some effect on our targeting systems. Might….possibly have some effect against energy weapons? I can't imagine missiles, guns, or fighters would be troubled by it." He paused for just a moment. "The CAP is entering firing range."

"Last chance to call this off, Commodore," came Locarno's voice from the nearby screen, where he had been momentarily forgotten.

"Will you surrender, Commander?"

"No."

"Then why would I call it off?" Turning back to Clark, he ordered, "Open…"

"Multiple contacts!" came the shout from the sensor station, and Harken whipped his eyes over just in time to see a storm of new lights blossom across the tracking station in ominous red. They then switched to another nearby screen, showing a long range visual of the enemy gunship. Vessels in their dozens were popping out of the Ion Cloud behind it. Harken's eyes widened as he beheld what were clearly small one man-fighters. At this range the image didn't reveal much more than a front set cockpit and widely mounted quad engines. But they were very clearly fighter craft. The Independents never fielded fighters before. The best they had were Q-ships and weaponized production runs of freighters. Gāisǐ de, the Series 3 Firefly was the best they could come up with!

Abensently, his hand came down to sever the comm channel with Locarno, while he began spitting orders in his first true battle as a Flag officer. "Launch all fighters. They're trying to defend the enemy ship. Have the CAP engage those small-craft. Advance the Ready Squadrons we have in space to support them."

"Do we advance the fleet, Commodore?"

"Negative. Who knows what else is hiding in that cloud. Maintain distance. We go after them with fighters. If they want to slug it out, they can come to us."

The CAP in operation at the moment was made up of a squadron of newer Patrol and Enforcement Cutters from the Crete herself, and a squadron of old Gunboats from one of the Tohokus. They were outnumbered roughly two to one by the Independent fighters, but Harken knew that his people were well trained, operating custom-made military craft. These rebels couldn't have done proper training in hiding. Couldn't have drawn from nearly as diverse a talent pool. Certainly they couldn't match the Alliance's tech advantage. Harken refused to treat such rabble as peer opponents. This was not the time for timidity. A little courage and an appropriate level of aggression might very well see this latent insurrection strangled in the cradle.

The enemy fighters let loose with missiles at a surprisingly long range, and the formation of Cutters and Gunboats blossomed like an expanding firework as each vessel began independent evasion patterns, dragging trails of popping chaff, flares, squealers and dazzlers behind them. Harken watched in horror as these passive countermeasures proved to be largely, though not entirely, ineffective. The enemy missiles dove through the bursting fireworks of the countermeasures, very few being fooled into false impact. They banked sharper than any fighter, and within barely the span of a human breath began impacting in a stroboscopic display of shattered hardware and careers cut short. Where the fifty strong Combat Action Patrol had been, now only eight madly dodging fighters survived to press their counterattack.

But finally, they entered their own weapons range. Desperate pilots began salvoing off their missiles and, desperate to turn the tide, they were being rather spendthrift with the munitions. Harken…the entire bridge crew, really…watched with bated breath. He felt shock…even some measure of horror and fear…wash across the bridge as the Independent fighters did something truly impossible. They opened up with some type of energy weapon…it appeared to be a chin mounted plasma gun to Harken's trained eye…and simply shot the incoming missiles out of space. And then followed suit with the remaining eight cutters and gunboats of the CAP. The very last gunboat was taken out by a single precision, high power strike from Locarno's own vessel. Where a pair of squadrons had flown just moments before….a force that on its own might likely have won any single space battle of the Unification War…not a single survivor remained.

The force of Ready Alert fighters, charging in to support them, didn't number much more, and would likely meet the same fate. "Pull back all fighters!" the Commodore snapped. "Get everything into space! Everything!"

"All ships are launching as fast as they can, Sir," Clark advised. "But it's going to take a while to assemble the full combat group. The Crete alone carries almost twelve hundred combat capable small-craft."

Harken was about to reprimand the Captain when the Communications Officer cut in. "New message incoming!"

"Locarno?"

"No, Commodore. It's coming out of the Ion Cloud."

Eyes narrowing, he merely ordered, "To my screen."

The face which materialized appeared both older and wiser than the enemy Commander's. But not by very much. "Commodore Harken, I see you pulling back your next fighter formation. Stand down from combat operations and we can still avoid a catastrophic battle. I'm sorry for your losses, Commodore, but if this turns into a slugging match they'll fade into insignificance next to the blood which will be spilled. I'm Commodore John Sheridan, in command of the Earth Force fleet. We have you surrounded Commodore, but we don't want a war. Just peace and recognition of our sovereignty. I'm certain you must have questions…doubts. Let's discuss them to prevent…"

"Enough!" Harken snapped. "Did you think a few technical advances and the display of illegally accumulated military capabilities would just make the Alliance roll over and surrender the dream? A dream we fought and bled for? We put down your independence movement once already, and we can do it again."

"Commodore," Sheridan replied urgently, "we aren't who you think we are."

"I don't really care who you are. Claim to be Reavers, for all I care. The Alliance controls and enforces peace within the 'Verse. We won't accept anyone threatening that. No challenges. No independence. Parliament will direct the Army and Navy to wade through blood and burn out worlds if necessary. Surrender your mad dreams before it comes to that."

"It doesn't have to be this way, Commodore," Sheridan said. To Harken's ear he sounded almost desperate. As well he should. "At least give us a chance to speak with your government. To explain…"

"Why don't you explain to your Commander Locarno that he should surrender before he gets his people killed? You took us by surprise once, Commodore. It won't happen again. We're coming for you, and it won't matter how far, or how fast, or to where you run. We'll find you and dig you out, root and branch." He cut the connection, not interested in whatever response the Indie would give. Instead, he turned back to Clark. "How many fighter squadrons do we have formed up?"

The Captain checked his systems. "Eleven, Commodore. Looks like mostly…ASREVS and Gunships. One squadron of Warhammers."

"Prioritize launching the Warhammers!" Harken snapped. "They're probably the best platform for suppressing those enemy fighters." He hissed under his breath. "No time to wait. Advance the squadrons we already have in space. They are to launch missiles against the enemy squadrons as soon as they get into range. Close to dogfight only once missiles are expended. Continue maintaining the fleet at its current position."

"Aye, Sir." The orders went out and, while the fleet did nothing more than continue launching their fighters and gunboats, the massed squadrons which had managed to launch and form up already vectored back towards the enemy ship and its line of protective fighters. They didn't get very far.

Harken's forward display suddenly whited out, as dozens of energy beams were visible for just a moment, streaking out of the Ion Cloud and impacting the forward elements of the Task Force. Harken analyzed the screen with growing horror as the glare dissipated. The pair of Longbows screening the port side of the fleet, as well as the pair of Tohokus immediately forward of the Crete had been transformed into little more than slowly cooling flotsam.

It's not possible, the part of Harken's mind still capable of rational thought insisted. No energy weapon is that powerful. How can they even target from out of the Ion Cloud? The range! There was no way there were any survivors from those ships. Two Tohokus. The Magellan and the Dortmunder, he recited to himself unconsciously. Two Longbows. The Gustfront and the Thunderhead. All told, over twenty thousand Alliance officers, crew, and civilians. And all on his watch. All on his head.

Shaking himself, he flogged his mind into adjusting to the new information which had been so savagely seared upon his consciousness. There were tens of thousands more whose lives were in his hands. And he still had a battle to win. "Advance the fleet. Maximum thrust towards the origin of those beams. We need to close the distance. Find and kill that ship. Recall the fighters. They are to take up wholly defensive screening positions around the fleet. Forget Locarno. We'll chase his ship down when we're done with the real battle. This was a trap from the beginning. And get the rest of our airwing into space!" All around him, the professionalism of the crew began to reassert itself. Captain Clark handed down orders in a calm and precise manner, and the Task Force was in motion and accelerating within moments.

"Incoming!" snapped the Tactical Officer. "Reading…Jesus that's a lot of missiles! We're taking flanking fire from out of the cloud. One…two…five different vectors. We're surrounded! Brace for impact!"

The screening fighters and escort craft did their jobs and did them well, intercepting a large number of missiles. Very large missiles. But there were just too many, coming from too many angles. The Patrol Boats in the outermost defensive cordon fired off their decoy and jammer missiles until they ran dry. Their pair of one-pounder autocannon did their best. Even the single twenty-pounder autocannon was put to the task. But they simply weren't meant for such work. They had some small point defense guns, but these were meant solely for defending themselves, not screening other vessels.

The screening interceptors and gunboats were also attempting to stop the avalanche of missiles headed towards the fleet. Unfortunately, they had been launched with the initial expectation of anti-ship and fighter work, and were carrying a minimal anti-missile loadout. The heavy enemy missiles were getting through. The Crete, the Longbow, the Tohakus, and the Trebuchets all had the mass to absorb multiple hits. Hell, the Victoria and even the Ocula class corvettes should be able to survive at least a couple of hits. But a single direct hit from any of those heavy missiles would…and did…shatter any Patrol Boat unfortunate enough to take it. The count of which was rapidly rising. Within the first minute of the bombardment, nine of those workhorse vessels had simply ceased to exist.

"Commodore, we're losing the screen." Clark warned. "And Locarno and his fighters are pacing us. Staying at long range and using their missiles and those pulse guns to attrit our fighter screen. We're down another hundred small-craft!"

"I see it," Harken advised, trying to maintain his calm. "Release the Warhammers to engage and suppress them!"

"We just lost two more Patrol Boats!"

Harken wanted to crawl under his chair and hide. But he didn't have the luxury to go into shock, or to show fear at all. "We need to suppress those missile platforms, whatever they are. Break off the battlecruisers and the corvettes and divide them into five squadrons, one to track down each of those missile vectors. That'll only give two Trebuchets to a single squadron, so for the other four pair the lone Trebuchet with either a Victoria or a pair of Occulas. Then maximum thrust to chase down those Indie warships. The fighter screen and Patrol Boats stay on us. Those beams must have come from their primary warship. That's the key to this whole battle! But this has to be their entire fleet! We can end this rebellion here and now!"

Clark attempted to convey the orders, but in the chaos of battle and with damage mounting, it was difficult to pull off such a complicated maneuver. And then the Crete lurched violently. "Damage report!"

The Lieutenant Commander at Damage Control spoke up sharply. "Lucky missile salvo got through our countermeasures and autocannon point defense. We've got debris choking the primary launch corridors. Damage Control parties are working to clear it now. We can't launch any small-craft yet, Sir." She switched her focus to the voice in her headset.

"How long?" Harken barked.

"It'll take ten minutes."

"Bullshit, ten minutes. This thing will be over in two minutes!"

But the Task Force was almost to the Ion Cloud. The enemy ship couldn't be far behind. And finally the battlecruisers and corvettes were separated into squadrons and burning hard in an effort to chase down their prey. We can still turn this into a victory. End the revolution before it truly begins.

And then, just as they were finally passing into the Ion Cloud, those deadly beams struck again. And just as before, they annihilated a pair of Tohokus, and a pair of Longbows. The last two Tohokus. And the last two Longbows. Seconds later, a massive explosion went off in the cloud, perhaps a kilometer off the Crete's dorsal bow. The ship heaved violently, knocking Harken off of his feet and shutting down all of the sensor feeds. It took several moments for the crew to bring them back from static, but when they did Harken, picking himself up off of the floor, felt the bottom fall out of his stomach. The Patrol Boats and the massed squadrons of gunboats, cutters, fighters, and combat couriers; all had been wiped away. The Crete sailed alone.

What have I done?! Harken accused himself, trying desperately to keep the feeling of desolation from compromising the stern countenance of command he kept stamped on his features. I've led the fleet into one trap after another. He paused, collecting his thoughts. Can't turn back now. This ship that's been killing us…we have to take it down before it does unrecoverable damage to the Alliance Navy.

And finally, that ship was coming into view. A monster of a vessel, though not so massive as the Crete. And not the one Harken was expecting to see. Not the stealth ship. If the stealth ship was as potent as this one, then the Alliance was in real trouble. And what if they had more? How many super capital ships could the Independents have possibly constructed?

Worse, this ship mounted a horde of gun turrets that dwarfed anything the Crete carried by at least a couple of orders of magnitude. Size isn't everything. Those guns clearly have a low rate of fire. Our guns may be smaller, but their rate of fire is unmatched. And finally, they were in range. "Captain Clark…we are in range. Make them pay."

Clark opened up the channel to the gun battery crews. "All guns," he practically shouted, "fire as she bears!" Two hundred two-pounder autocannons opened up, each at well over a thousand rounds per minute. Magazine fed cartridges ignited their chemical charges, propelling their two-pound shells down the barrel, where they were further accelerated by a two stage gravitic kicker, causing the round to leave the barrel at over ten thousand kilometers per hour. The Indie gunship….battleship…however the hell they designated it….sparkled from thousands upon thousands of impacts as the Crete guncrews emptied their magazines and laid well over three hundred thousand rounds onto the enemy ship.

And when it was all said and done, if they had so much as scratched the paint, Harken certainly couldn't tell. "Br…Bring us about," the Commodore ordered. "Get me a channel to the fleet." When no one responded, his control slipped and he shouted, "Now!" Quickly, the Comms officer set up the broadcast, omni-directional since they had lost track of any of the rest of the fleet. "To all ships receiving me, this is Commodore Harken. You are ordered….you are ordered to break contact and retreat at best speed. If you cannot break contact…scuttle your ships and surrender. You have served with honor. This defeat is on my head. It has been my honor to serve with you. I am sorry that I let you down." He cut the transmission and turned to Captain Clark. "Get the crew to escape pods. Evacuate the ship. But first, spool up the engines. Give me as much acceleration as you can."

"Commodore?"

"We can't allow that ship to exist. We need to buy the Alliance time to develop appropriate countermeasures to this weapons technology. Get the crew off. I intend to ram that ship. The Crete will split her in two."

Clark passed the orders, and most of the bridge crew hustled out, racing for their escape pods. Clark however, returned to Harken's side. "It's the Captain's job to go down with the ship, Sir. Not the Commodore's. You need to lead the escape. Get yourself home."

"After this? The only thing waiting for me at home is a court-martial and a summary execution for gross incompetence. But you were just following orders. They might actually listen to you when you tell them what happened here."

"I don't see it that way, Commodore. And there will be plenty of survivors to tell the tale. If you're staying, I am." He checked his console. "Engines at one hundred thirty percent of maximum thrust. I think we've caught them by surprise. They're attempting to maneuver. It won't be enough. At least, if we can survive for the next eighteen seconds. The honor was mine, Sir."

Harken nodded to the man, and turned his eyes back to the main screen, as he counted down what were surely the very last moments of his life. He noticed that those massive gun turrets had come about, and wondered if the Crete could survive the fury of those weapons. He doubted it. But hopefully if the ship was shattered to pieces, the kinetic impact of the detritus would still be sufficient to finish off, or at least cripple, the enemy vessel.

Only one of those massive cannon fired. A single burst of energy that went right down the centerline of the ship, following the central launch corridor. Almost instantly, the sound of the engines died, and the lights transitioned to emergency power. "They just cored our reactors!" Clark advised. "Complete safety shutdown. We're on backup power and the engines are dead. We've got no propulsion at all."

They were, however, still moving at an incredible rate of speed. The enemy vessel was rapidly growing larger in the forward view. And then Harken's eyes widened in disbelief. That ship had started to rotate…tumble really…around its central axis; its nose rapidly dropping while the engines appeared to be rising up behind it. It also looked like the whole ship might be slowly rising. But that rise couldn't possibly be enough to avoid collision….could it?

As the nose spun rapidly downward, the Crete barreled in, aimed just below the midpoint. And now the nose of the enemy…Dreadnought, for surely such a ship must fear nothing…was pointed ninety degrees downward and still going, rotating away almost as if trying to escape them. The Crete's final charge rapidly closed the distance, the rotating surface of that ship expanding and filling the forward view at an almost dizzying pace. Harken braced for impact, and felt more than saw Clark doing the same. And then that nose swept up, back to horizontal just as the Crete shot past, a hair's breadth below it. The Dreadnought's tail, now itself descending past horizontal in the continuing tumble, wasn't fast enough to impact the rear end of the Crete.

"Tā mā de wǒ xiāle!" Clark uttered in wonder. "They somersaulted over the top of us!" He checked the sensor feed. "And now they're coming around."

"I don't suppose we can overload the reactors…get them to blow up the ship?"

"No, Sir. We could maybe blow the fuel supplies or the munitions bunkers…if we still had crew aboard. We're on the wrong end of the ship to do it ourselves." He glanced at his console. "Looks like they're already launching shuttles. Their boarding crews will be able to cut us off before we can get there."

Harken's shoulders dropped with a sigh. "Well, that's it then. Húndàn!" Reluctantly, he walked to the Comms station and activated a channel. "Commodore Sheridan, this is Commodore Harken. I would like to discuss terms for surrender."

---

Serenity, Nebular Cloud near Miranda, The Verse - January, 2250
As the nebular gasses quickly limited both visuals and most sensors, Serenity slowly approached the designated rendezvous point. The Operative, all of the passenger quarters being spoken for, had claimed one of the peripheral cargo holds for his own, and had stayed there ever since. The rest of the passengers and crew however, now gathered in the currently very cramped feeling confines of the bridge to watch their approach. This very much included their prize passenger, Sheriff Bourne.

And so it was with bated breath that they awaited their first sight of the combined fleet. And they didn't have terribly long to wait, as an enormous mass loomed up out of the murk. The six-kilometer length of the Explorer class vessel Eratosthenes came into view by sheer dint of its enormous size.

"I told you she was massive," Mal noted to Bourne. "Can you imagine the yard required to build…" He tapered off as, just beyond the Eratosthenes another massive ship appeared. Easily two thirds the length of the Explorer, the slab sided vessel was immediately recognizable. Unmistakable, in fact.

"What the hell is this?" Bourne asked, spinning on Mal. "You shanghai me, bring me all the way out here with fairy tales about some group that can stand up to the purple bellies, only to show me an Alliance Carrier? Is this your idea of some kind of sick joke?"

"I'd like to know the answer to that my own self," Mal replied, taking a step over so he could give Garibaldi a proper stare down. "I don't cotton to bein' betrayed. Dong ma?"

"I believe we were quite clear from the start, Captain, that we would find a way to coexist with the Alliance if possible," Michael replied, unperturbed by Mal's best glare. "But you're reading the situation incorrectly. Look again."

Equally annoyed, both Mal and Bourne, along with most of the crew, refocused on the scene before them. More ships were coming into view now. The five Cylon Baseships appeared next, hovering around the Crete class. They were followed by other, much smaller ships of the fleet, as the distance shrank and it became easier to spot them.

Zoë was the first to spot the oddities. "Where's her battle group? An Alliance carrier ain't goin' nowhere without 'least a dozen escorts.

"Forget the escorts, what happened to that Basestar?" Wash cut in, pointing to one of the Basestars still in the distance, a few degrees to port. It seemed to be missing three or four of its spines.

"Why is there a black streak painted on the carrier?" Inara wanted to know.

"Wǒ de mā!" Mal burst out. "That's not paint, it's battle damage! There's no escorts because they musta been destroyed. Or chased off."

The Sheriff cast him an appraising look, then turned back to stare at the Crete. They were now close enough to read her name off the hull. "Are you telling me," he asked after a moment, "that we're looking at a war prize? That your acquaintances captured the largest ship in the Alliance navy?"

"No," Garibaldi interjected. "Can't have a war prize without a war. But as to the rest...yeah, that looks like a captured vessel to me. And there was clearly a fight."

Bourne stared at him for a long moment. "I think I'm gonna like meeting your friends."

Michael nodded. "Good. But Shaw and I need to report in first. Max as well. Provide initial findings. Arrange the meeting. Captain, you mind if we borrow one of your shuttles?"

---

Eratosthenes, Nebular Cloud near Miranda, The Verse - January, 2250
Garibaldi didn't mind riding the Serenity. In fact, he rather enjoyed it. Still it was nice to shake off that sardine feeling and stretch his legs somewhere as large as the Eratosthenes. He and Eilerson and Shaw were ensconced in a conference room that was rather more sumptuously adorned and furnished than he was used to from most military facilities. But then, the Explorer class had been intended to ride the line between civilian and military. So, he had taken the opportunity to sprawl out in a very comfortably cushioned chair with both adjustable back and seat angles. It wasn't a recliner, but it would do in a pinch. Max, sitting in another chair with his eyes closed, looked far less relaxed.

Kendra, on the other hand, paced rapidly back and forth as though the room shouldn't be able to contain her. Clearly, now that they were back with the fleet, she longed to return to her duties. Or perhaps she simply didn't know what to do with herself if she wasn't being maximally productive. Fortunately, the wait wasn't too terribly long.

Captain Jeffrey Sinclair walked through the door without knocking. Surprisingly, or perhaps not, the Model Six named Natalie followed close behind. Jeff seemed more at ease with the Cylons than any Colonial, and more than the majority of the Earth folks as well. Neither Michael nor Max rose, though Garibaldi did offer his friend a polite nod and an only mildly lecherous smile for the lady. Kendra, on the other hand, immediately stopped her pacing and fired off a sharp salute. She even barked, "Captain on deck!" which Garibaldi did his best not to chuckle at.

Jeff earnestly returned her salute, but then waved for both Kendra and Natalie to take their seats. "Relax everyone. This is a preliminary meeting to discuss your findings, though not your visitors. We'll do the full debrief for the admiralty, President Roslin, and maybe the Quorum and Cylon Council if what you have to report actually warrants it. The brass'll probably meet with your guests separately before then. As such, this meeting needn't be quite so official. But let's give the Colonial representative a moment to show up."

"Who's coming?" Kendra asked, settling into her seat, though still practically quivering with suppressed energy.

"I'm assuming it'll be Commander Adama. Might be Colonel Tigh, I suppose."

"Neither, actually," came the voice of President Roslin, walking through the door and then turning to very firmly shut it in the faces of her security team. "Sorry to disappoint."

"Madame President!" Kendra acknowledged, snapping to her feet and saluting. Jeff followed suit, and even Michael rose and offered his best imitation of a proper salute.

"Madame President," Sinclair acknowledged politely, "I'm not certain this meeting is worth your time. That's why we're having it. To make certain the leaders of the fleet don't lose any more of their valuable time than they absolutely have to."

Roslin gave him a warm smile. While she had frequently been at loggerheads with Commodore Sheridan, and viewed Colonel Garibaldi's louche persona with more than a modicum of distaste, to her surprise she'd become quite fond of Captain Sinclair. Much in the same way as she was fond of Apollo. "That's very nice, Captain, but I wouldn't miss this for the world. My detractors keep pointing out that I'm a school teacher. They're not wrong. This kind of mystery…digging into the flow of history…well it's irresistible. It'll be the most relaxing and interesting thing I've done all week. But don't worry. I'm not looking for a formal presentation. Just treat me as you would Commander Apollo." She grabbed a seat and sat down expectantly.

As everyone resumed their seats, Sinclair swept his eyes across Garibaldi, Shaw, and Eilerson. "The floor is yours."

Garibaldi didn't bother to stand. "We were tasked, amongst other things, with discovering where the people of the 'Verse come from, and how exactly they got here. We found some potential answers in a Companion House library on Aphrodite in the Georgia system." He slid a book entitled From the Earth to the 'Verse across the table to her. "We've already fully imaged every page, so you can keep that as a souvenir if you want. We'll give you the Cliffs Notes version."

"The what?"

Michael shrugged. "Sorry, not important. We'll cover what answers we were able to find from the book. It covers the latter history of their Earth-That-Was, and their travels to get to this system. Obviously, we went into this mission with the understanding that the most likely answer to the mystery was that this Earth-That-Was was actually the Cylon Earth. Studying this book has allowed us to learn…"

"That it was a false belief," Roslin cut him off with a small smirk, which Michael found a tad annoying. He kept any such emotion from touching his face. "The citizens of this system did not, in fact, come from the Cylon Earth."

After a momentary silence, Kendra asked, "How do you know that, Ma'am?"

"We took tissue samples from every member of Serenity's crew. Our medical staff, engineers, and scientists have all been extremely busy with…other projects. So I had my security detail grab Baltar and hold him in place until he had finished processing each of those samples. Not one of them registered as Cylon, whereas every member of the Final Five does. The implications are obvious. So the only remaining question is…did they come from the home of the Earth Alliance, or not?"

For once, Garibaldi seemed to be at a loss for words, so Max stepped in. "Maybe." He said with a shrug. "It's at least possible. But for every bit of corroborating evidence the book threw us, there were major contradictions or discrepancies."

"Lies?"

"I suppose that's possible, but I can't imagine why. They're not the sorts of things where lies make sense, and the very society in this system tends to corroborate their telling of their own history. Also, these things would seem to have no repercussions or impact on their modern lives. I don't see why the average citizen would care. The book's not precisely an academic treatise, but it is an in-depth historical examination. A history book for us highbrow types that enjoy that sort of thing."

Roslin turned to Kendra. "What do you think, Major?"

"I was terrible at Colonial history, Ma'am. None of this Earth to 'Verse stuff means anything at all. The only thing I can contribute is verifying that neither Colonel Garibaldi nor Mr. Eilerson lie to you."

Michael snapped his head around with a snarl. "Stay the frag out of my head!"

Kendra didn't make eye contact, continuing to hold the President's gaze. But she did respond. "Who'd want to be in that mess you call a brain? It's almost a bad as mine. But I don't have to get in your head to notice if you tell a lie, Colonel. Lies tend to stand out. The falsehood just leaks out of you. All I have to do is pay attention. And I will be paying attention."

"Well then," Roslin cut in to forestall any more bickering, "why don't you gentlemen tell me what you found."

"We found that we need to grab more history books," Max advised. "This one's pre-twentieth century history boiled down to a couple of paragraphs. But between that and what we were able to find in Ms. Serra's library, as well as one we scooped up on the planet Deadwood, it seems that the history of the Earth Alliance and the history of Earth-That-Was are identical…right up through the mid twenty-second century. Land masses, wildlife, national borders…wars, languages, architecture, technology and science…it would seem to be a perfect match."

"So then they did come from the Earth Alliance?"

"That's where the maybe comes in," Max noted pensively. "Because things start to diverge in the early to mid-twenty-second century. The divergence seems to be specific to a few major events at first…but then rapidly expands into a completely irreconcilable historical contradiction. I can't explain how the two could possibly be separate…and yet I can't explain how the two can possibly be one and the same."

"They're not the same," Michael cut in with certainty. "When in doubt, assume someone's trying to pull the wool over on you."

"Why don't you just explain the problem, so we're all on the same page," Sinclair suggested.

"Fine," Max nodded. "We should probably start in the twentieth century. Maybe even the late nineteenth. The second Industrial Revolution. Rapid scientific and technological advancement went hand in hand with increased industrialization and mass production of new products and chemicals. This was exacerbated by the development of petroleum and the soon widespread use of the internal combustion engine. Pollutants began to pour into the atmosphere and hydrosphere and generally foul the environment. Mass dumping of waste of all kinds impacted the lands and seas and the species living upon them. This led to a series…beginning in the mid twentieth century and extending to almost the end of the twenty-second...of major climatological crises. One seemed to follow the next. Smog. Acid rain. Ozone depletion. Greenhouse gas emissions. Climate change. Water shortages. Polar melting. Thermohaline circulation collapse. Mass species extinction. The list goes on and on. All caused by the shortsighted activities of humanity."

"Surely no society could be so self-destructive," Roslin objected.

"We weren't one society, Madame President," Jeff replied. "We were divided into hundreds of nations, all warring and competing for resources and dominance. Much of this time was brutal, barbaric, and bloodthirsty. And people profited off of the industry and the war and even the pollution…from both the poorest worker to the wealthiest capitalist. And so, there was a tendency to deny uncomfortable truths…either by lying out of pure greed…or out of the basic human desire to not want to believe negative things about one's self."

Kendra snorted, "Sounds pretty human to me."

"Anyway," Max cut back in, resuming his description, "there were people and movements who recognized these problems. Who tried to fight back against them. But it was always an uphill battle, convincing the world of the need, and by the time one catastrophe had been averted, the next was well under way. And so it went, century by century. Which takes us to the twenty-second, where we see the divergence. The problems were becoming truly epic in scope, requiring larger and larger interventions on a largely global scale. There was a large push towards unity…and a lot of push back against it."

Max paused to take a breath, and so Michael jumped into the gap. "In our history…the history of the Earth Alliance…in the early twenty-second…2115 if memory serves…our scientists proved that telepaths really do exist. Which set off a shitstorm of unprecedented scope, and led to the creation of the Metasensory Regulation Authority…the precursors of the Psi-Corp. And it also led to massive disagreements between nations on how to handle telepaths…which weakened the global community trying to deal with the still running environmental disasters."

"Because that authority was weakened," Max cut back in, enjoying Roslin's clear fascination with the topic, "or perhaps because the people and cultures of the time were just too immoral or weak to deal with their problems…they couldn't agree to do what was necessary. To fix the problems of the environment and the causes behind those problems. And since they couldn't do what was necessary…they did what was distracting. The movers and shakers needed a circus to distract the people from their problems and from the disaster happening all around them. They needed the faith and good will of their citizens, in order to justify their own continued power and all of the money they were drawing in taxes to ostensibly solve those problems. They settled on space exploration."

"The greatest adventure of mankind," Jeff said musingly.

"Exactly. Exploring the stars had always been a dream of the people. It was embodied in much of the culture of the prior few centuries. The science fiction that the Colonel is so fond of. And so they invested in a massive undertaking. They gathered the best scientists and engineers and millions of people to support them and their construction. Not to mention the masters of spaceflight of the day. Companies like SpaceX, i-Space, and Reaction Engines. Wealthy clans like the Musks, Beckzos's, Maezawas and Isaacmans. They needed a partnership with the wealthiest people of the time to help pay for it all. And they based it all out of the city of San Diego. By being on the Pacific ocean, it could more easily draw from the United States, and thus the rest of the western alliance, as well as the economic powerhouse of China and southern and eastern asia. They built two or three dozen of the most advanced spaceships the world had ever seen, meant for interstellar exploration."

"I studied them back at the academy," Sinclair cut in with evident fondness for the memory. "The engineering was…practically insane. They were truly massive for the day. Three stage vessels. The first stage was a chemical rocket, though nothing like previous chemical engines. They reacted metallic hydrogen with octaoxygen for a burn like nothing seen before. That stage got them very nearly out of the inner solar system before being jettisoned. The second stage was a nuclear salt water rocket…never used before or since…which shot them all the way out of the solar system proper and past the Kuiper belt. When that was jettisoned, a humble fusion engine took over to guide them the rest of the way on their exploration. Meanwhile, the crews would go into cryo-sleep, as each journey would take several years, if not decades."

"But not all of the world loved the idea," Michael cut back in, "or the resources being spent, or that politically the effort was tied up in knots with the MRA. And there was plenty of objection to the nuclear salt-water rockets. Yet another potential ecological disaster in the offing. And so, there were protests. And then there were threats. On both the terrorist and national levels."

"Do you guys wanna tell this?" Max snapped

Jeff held up both hands in appeasement. "Sorry. Go ahead."

With an irritated grunt, Eilerson did just that. "There was a credible threat that someone was going to try to take out the ships. Destroy them on the pad before they could launch and blow up in the atmosphere to poison the whole world. Or maybe it was just a political thing. Either way, it was an unacceptable problem. The ships were constructed, they were just going through final checks and awaiting the big day. Days really, they were scheduled to launch one at a time, over the course of a few months. But to avoid the threats, they canceled all of the final checks, instituted a media blackout, quarantined the city, and loaded and launched all of the ships, practically at once. The launches were successful, and not a moment too soon. The terrorists must have gotten word that something was up, because they carried out their attack. The last of the ships had barely left the stratosphere before a massive nuke went off in San Diego, destroying the city and killing the millions of people who lived there. Not a single survivor in the city, or Tijuana across the border, or anywhere nearby for more than a few dozen kilometers around.

He drew a deep breath. "Accusations flew and tensions ratcheted up. There was a limited nuclear exchange between nations…but thank God that cooler heads prevailed, and it didn't end in global annihilation. But the power centers were well and truly broken, and the climate had just taken another blow that it definitely didn't need. The nuke also took out the primary equipment used to track and communicate with the ships. We could still watch and talk to them, but not nearly as easily. So, the crews decided to enter cryo-sleep a little early, which ended the spectacle as far as everyone on Earth was concerned. And so, with their power base in tatters, the citizens more riled up than ever, and the environment worse than it had ever been…people came to power that finally had the will and the support to confront the problems head on. And then did. There was still political chaos. More war…even nuclear war…was still a very real possibility. And things were getting worse, not better, all around. But they were finally doing the right things, and they continued doing them for a decade. Maybe they would have succeeded in fixing things. Or maybe the environment would have driven them all extinct. Or maybe they would have finally decided to finally blow themselves to kingdom come. We'll never know. Because about ten years later, the Centauri made first contact, and that changed everything. The mere event strengthened our unity, and the Centauri traded us the tools to fix our home."

Jeff held up his hand, "I think we can stop there. The President has already gotten a primer on Earth Alliance history. Suffice it to say, an ecological disaster and political chaos may have ended us, or may have been overcome, but we lucked out. The Centauri became the shortcut that allowed us to solve so many problems…though they gave us more than a few others in exchange." He refocused on Eilerson. "So…how was the history of Earth-That-Was different.

Kendra actually spoke up. "I know this part. Firstly, there was no mention of telepaths in the book. And then…they still built those ships…but they had a major discovery first. They cracked artificial gravity. Oh, and their astronomers also spotted the 'Verse."

"Which changed everything, apparently," Eilerson confirmed. "The same names of companies and people show up, gathering and working in the same city. And many of the same political concerns, without the telepath problem. But the environmental and political problems must have been worse, because they had no hope for saving the Earth. This wasn't an exploration mission…it was an exodus, not too dissimilar from our own when the Minbari got to Sol. They packed up the ships and millions of people; just in time. Just as they had left, as with Earth Alliance history, a nuke took out San Diego. There was no containing the firestorm that erupted after that. The ensuing global nuclear war wiped out all remaining life on an already ruined planet. And so all that was left of humanity…so they believed…came to the 'Verse."

"And are these," Roslin chose her words carefully, "apparent discrepancies…the only problem with reconciling the possibility that the people of the 'Verse are originally from Earth Alliance space?"

"Not even close," Michael replied. "Just the most obvious. "Max?"

"For one," Eilerson replied to the invitation, "the telescopes of the time shouldn't have been able to resolve the 'Verse from Earth…at least not the planets here. It's just too far. We're thousands and thousands of light years away. We couldn't even pull that off today. And the nebula cloud that made our finding of the 'Verse so miraculous should have made it just as impossible from the Earth. More so, in fact. There's more reasons it should be impossible, but really, do we need to go on?"

"I suppose not," Roslin agreed, lips pursed in thought.

"So it has to be the same, but it can't be the same?" Sinclair asked, perplexed. "Isn't there any way of accounting for the differences?"

"What about alien involvement?" Laura speculated. "You hypothesized that my ancestors left your Earth over ten thousand years ago, possibly due to alien transplantation."

"I think we would have noticed aliens abducting millions of our citizens," Michael noted dryly. "And I think they'd have noticed being taken."

"So what do you have?"

Eilerson shrugged. "Just the truly crazy shit. Separate worlds with perfectly parallel development and history, until something caused divergence. Parallel universes. Diverging timelines. That sort of thing."

"I prefer my explanations without quite so much campy twentieth century sci-fi, if you please," Michael snarked.

"You're the one who brought forty seasons of Doctor Who along on the trip," Max snapped back.

"Gentlemen, gentleman," Laura barked over the top of them, "thank you for the presentation." She clutched the book to her chest. "And for the gift. I look forward to reading it. But I think we're done here. We've got more meetings ahead, things more pertinent to our current situation. But as for this topic…you're just going to have to keep digging."