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.

42. Chapter39-Burn the Land and Boil the Sea

Chapter 39 - Burn the Land and Boil the Sea

New Dunsmuir, Beaumonde, Kalidasa system, The Verse - March, 2250

Governor Grace Pettifogger stood at the door leading to the balcony of her office on the top floor of the capitol building, looking angrily upwards at an Alliance tanker transport cruising low across the sky. Spraying a green mist in a wide fan arcing into the air. The door to the balcony was firmly closed and hermetically sealed, as were all the windows. The Governor was in quite a fit of pique. One of the very few benefits of being assigned to manage this accursed planet was getting to enjoy the fresh air and sunshine of New Dunsmuir. Being the capital of Beaumonde, significant effort had gone into ensuring the city was far from the other smog choked and factory laden metropolises. Or even the manure covered fields of the agricultural sprawl. And at the same time central to it all. The air of New Dunsmuir smelled cleaner and more fragrant than any other place on the whole God forsaken planet.

And now she had what appeared to be alliance crop sprayers over her city, keeping her locked up indoors. Her aide cleared his throat and she whirled upon him in irritation. The little man was another expat from the Core worlds. The locals just didn't seem to possess the proper levels of obsequiousness for the job. "Well?! What the hell are those...things...doing in my sky?"

"I checked my contacts within the bureaucracy, Excellency. Apparently, they are spraying for an invasive fungus."

"What?! We have three separate uprisings happening on planet as we speak! There was a bombing at the spaceport this morning! New Huntsville is burning! No doubt the smoke smells of bourbon. We need troops, not herbicides!"

"I believe it would be a fungicide, Maam." He winced at her immediate glare. "Yes, Excellency, I did relay that. Apparently, it is quite the aggressive fungus. Beaumonde is one of the major food suppliers for the Rim. The government is merely concerned with preventing famine."

"Well, we are the industrial heart of the Rim. And unless they want production to come to a screeching halt, we need to put down this rabble!"

"Yes, Excellency."

"Go make contact again. Find out when I can expect reinforcement. Tell them that if I have the forces to show a little spine and stomp out these brushfires...that I will increase the production quotas by twenty percent. The people can simply work harder in recompense for the trouble they've put me through." With a deep nod, her aide turned and hurried away to carry out her will. As it should be. She turned to look out the window once more, tracking another sprayer in the distance. She found herself glad for the hermetic seal of her windows. She certainly didn't need to be inhaling any weed killer! But then, the seal was only there because she'd ordered it so...the last time an unusually strong seasonal wind had blown a putrid brown cloud of hydrocarbons all the way from the industrial belt over the intervening mountain range. It didn't happen often, but when it did it took simply forever to get the smell out of her clothes! So really, she deserved any praise for the foresight in having the offices and apartments properly sealed. Perhaps she should treat herself tonight. It had been far too long since she'd taken the time to enjoy proper cuisine. Yes, she'd tell her aide to call in the chef and staff tonight. They'd been far too lazy lately anyway.

Still happily considering what she'd enjoy for the evening meal, she glanced down and frowned at an oddity. She'd ordered an entire company of her best troops to stand guard duty across the front steps of the capitol. But looking down, she saw them there, just standing around in their pretty formation. And she watched as what appeared to be members of the public wandered right past them. They were supposed to be screening visitors! And they appeared to be letting simply anyone pass without so much as speaking with them! That simply wouldn't stand!

Turning, she strode from the windows and out of her office, heading toward the bank of elevators just across the hall. The doors had just opened when her Aide scurried back up and joined her in the car. "Excellency, our satellites have intercepted a...concerning transmission being broadcast from the spaceport. It seems the insurgents have seized the deep space antenna."

"Well don't be an idiot!" she snarled. "Send the local security forces to seize it back!"

"Yes, Excellency. The orders have already been transmitted. But I thought you would want to hear the transmission." Without waiting for her acknowledgement, he touched a device secreted on the inside of his wrist, and a tinny sounding voice emerged.

"This is the Beaumonde People's Liberation Army. I'm sending this message to the Colonial Earth Alliance, if you exist. Please exist. We need your help. Please come. It...it began this morning. Alliance vessels were reported all over Beaumonde, spraying something into the air. The effects are already being seen. We believe...all indications are that it's the G-23 Paxilon Hydrochlorate. We've lost communication with three quarters of the planet already. We tried to shoot some of those ships down...slow down the poison. But the Alliance was waiting for us. We didn't have many ships, and Alliance fighters fell on them the moment they took off. We're being exterminated! Please help! Anyone...anyone hearing my voice. We need help. Oh...God..." The transmission ended to the sound of a fusillade of gunfire."

He looked nervously at her. "That's...not true, is it Excellency? The Alliance wouldn't poison the whole planet?"

She glared at him with all the derision he deserved. "Don't be such a fool. If I'd known you were so susceptible to transparent insurgent propaganda, I never would have hired you. Of course it isn't true! I'm here. The Alliance has core world troops and bureaucrats on world. We've made Beaumonde one of the most productive planets on the Rim. The Alliance would never put us at risk." She put the fool out of her mind, grumbling about the kind of incompetence she was constantly having to deal with.

The elevator doors opened with a cheerful ding, and she strode across the lobby and out the front door, walking down the steps to the troops stationed there. Their discipline was even worse than she'd thought. Over half of them were sitting! At least they were all still facing the right direction, and in the right positions, but this breach of protocol would not stand! "Captain!" she snapped, looking around for the officer. "Captain, I'll have you busted to a private if you don't get your men in line! What kind of a unit are you running here?!" None of them seemed to even notice her, continuing to face out into the city. Not one so much as glanced over. "Don't you ignore me! Don't you know who I am?"

A slight movement caught her eye, and finally she found the Captain, judging by the rank insignia on his epaulets. He was at least standing, though not in a proper stance, and was doing something with his hands she couldn't see, given his back was to her. "Captain," she snarled, "I grow tired of..." Her words trailed off into a strangled squeak as the Captain turned around and looked at her with interest. What he'd been doing with his hands was raking them across his face. Shredding the skin there into bloody tatters. Tasting the streaming blood with a tongue that never seemed to stop. At least not until he looked her in the eye. The moment their gazes locked, his tongue stilled and his jaw dropped open, and a flood of fresh drool welled up and dribbled over his chin, washing away the smears of blood that hung there in streamers of pinkish red. Head tilting to the side, he took a step in her direction.

With a scream, Grace tried to scramble backwards up the stairs, tripping and falling painfully onto her back. Still screaming, she rolled over, scrambling to her knees, trying desperately to flee. She surged up the stairs, banging her shins painfully into the sharp marble steps. She glanced over her shoulder to see the Captain striding purposefully towards her, and her screaming redoubled as she finally regained her feet, prepared to sprint up the stairs in her designer heels. And then she looked up.

Her aide stood at the top of the stairs. Or rather, her aide was held up at the top of the stairs, by two...things...as they bent forward and bit great bloody gobs out of his face and neck. His hands and feet twitched and his mouth was open, but nothing came out save a thready wheeze. Grace froze at the sight, feeling a warm gush of wetness run down between her legs. "Reavers aren't real," she tried to tell herself in the tiniest of voices. One she barely recognized nor understood.

The former Alliance Captain slammed into her from behind, driving her violently down onto the unforgiving marble stairs. Her neck snapped upon impact. Governor Grace Pettifogger was lucky indeed. She was already dead before the new Reaver began doing anything else to her body.

---

Colonial One, Nebula near Miranda, The Verse - March, 2250

They had gathered in the President's office…they rotated the location where the leadership met in order to spread around the inconvenience of travel and maintain the illusion of equality…to discuss the current status of the Alliance and the new Independent Movement. Things were getting bloody out in the 'Verse. The Independents were trying to play it smart this time around. But the Alliance was far more built up and prepared than it had been during the Unification War. And the various Independent groups were neither unified nor coordinated. Though Sinclair suspected that was because he'd chosen not to allow Marshal Roberts access to communications gear.

And now the Alliance had gone and poisoned Beaumonde. Sheridan looked around at the group which had gathered. They were silent; on edge. Not a cheerful face in the bunch. He'd brought in Garibaldi of course, but also Sinclair. Adama had brought Colonel Tigh, and of course Roslin couldn't be excluded. They'd asked Athena to come as the Cylon representative. "Michael," John ordered reservedly, "please bring us all up to speed. What do we know? What's the current status on Beaumonde?"

"It's...hard to say, Sir. Pretty much all outgoing information or traffic has shut down. The Alliance performed their biological attack just under forty-eight hours ago. Since that time all outbound communications and nearly all outbound traffic has ground to a halt."

"Nearly?"

"We've noted some few vessels leaving, Commodore. But, as of twenty-four hours ago, they all seem to be filled with Reavers."

"Jesus," Tigh swore.

"What about the Independent revolutionaries who reached out to us in the immediate aftermath?" Roslin queried.

"They've gone silent. They didn't have much in the way of CBRN resistant gear or facilities. Mostly surplus spacecraft and suits. So most of their forces were affected by the contamination. Those that weren't...we're operating under the assumption that they've been overrun by the Reavers."

"Is there any good news?" John wondered.

"Depends how loosely you want to define good news," Michael replied dourly. "The other worlds seem to have figured out to stay the hell away from Beaumonde. So the number of people being eaten by Reavers hasn't shot through the roof...yet. Also, the Pax seems to be more or less following the same pattern as last time. So the majority of the people there are still alive, and aren't being eaten by the Reavers. They're just...basically catatonic from apathy. It'll take a fair while for all of them to die from exposure or dehydration. But they will die. It's just a matter of time. And as for the Pax...according to our best, though very limited, estimates...the Alliance appears to have refined the formula. They've improved their intended outcome by an order of magnitude. It seems instead of a tenth of a percent of the population becoming Reavers, they've upped it to one to two percent. So we're looking at potentially millions of Reavers coming off of Beaumonde, if they can find transport.

"Frak," Adama spat.

"Yes, Sir," Sinclair agreed. "Though the question is, what are we going to do about it?"

"Do about it?" Roslin echoed him. "What can we do about it?"

"About the people of Beaumonde?" Garibaldi clarified. "Probably nothing. Though Doctor Franklin and his team have put in nearly a dozen requests to be sent in. They insist that they can't just leave a couple of hundred million people to die. When I cautioned them about the danger, they insisted that we have the biohazard gear and protocols to ensure they do not become infected. The thing is, I wasn't really concerned about the Pax. I was warning him about the walking meat grinders. Because with the whole rest of the world infected, and thus not triggering the 'eat me' signal, Franklin and his team would pretty much become the planet wide soup du jour. If you were asking what we could do about the new Reavers...not much. There are millions of them spread out over an entire world. They'll last at least as long as the vegetables. Longer, since they can eat the animals at need, as well as any remaining Independents or annoyingly persistent doctors who insist on dropping in. It would take a host of troops to try to protect Franklin and his team. They'd do it, but we'd take casualties. Probably a lot. I wouldn't want to take on Reavers in an urban environment, which is exactly where Franklin is going to want to be. And don't forget, we already noted that the Reavers are getting off world. There were plenty of ships sitting on Beaumonde when the attack happened. We could stop that, but it would take a major effort to ensure no vessels slipped through. An entire Battlestar or Basestar, or the Avenger plus an escort. We can't just deploy a few squadrons of fighters, because this is going to go on for weeks. We'll need onsite basing."

"Deploying a Battlestar or Baseship is probably exactly what the Alliance wants," Tigh cut in. "It gives them a chance to hit one or two of our ships while they are alone and busy. And if we send more than that it significantly weakens our fleet, if they wanted to make a run on Miranda. They don't know that we're there, but they have to have a pretty good suspicion."

"And if we had troops and medical and science personnel on Beaumonde," Garibaldi agreed with a nod, "then any forces in orbit would have to choose to leave our people on the planet uncovered to be destroyed by the Alliance, or stay and fight a battle they might just lose. And given the number of troops we'd need in place to guard against the Reavers...it's not a choice I'd want to make."

"We can't just do nothing," Athena argued quietly. "Can we?"

"That's the question," Garibaldi resumed. He glanced over at Roslin. "And if you meant, 'what can we do about the Alliance?' our options there are nearly as bad."

Sheridan sighed. "I haven't been thinking about much else. The calculus is ugly, any way you look at it. If we do nothing, the Alliance is just going to keep coming after us, until we break. But if we go to war with them, sooner or later, one way or another, we lose." He pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment, trying to chase away an incipient headache. Then, looking up at the ceiling, he began to speak, trying to work through a random thought which had been eluding him, refusing to crystalize. "You know, my father used to tell me that sometimes two problems can solve each other, if you're willing to let them. I wonder if the same is true of a whole slug of problems?"

"What are you thinking?" Adama asked.

"Well, we've got the Alliance trying to end us. We've got an evolving batch of vegan Reavers we created, demanding more and more resources, and some kind of partnership. Now we've got a planet full of new Reavers, about to be corpses, and one hell of an ethical quandary. And the concern that the Alliance could do it again and again. It feels like there's a solution there...though perhaps not a pretty one."

Shockingly, it was Roslin who made the connection. "If Reaver Bob...dammit, now I'm saying it..."

"Ghawran," Garibaldi cut in. "Per your instruction, when the Doc made his last contact, he asked for Reaver Bob's proper name. Apparently it's Ghawran. Just Ghawran."

"Well, if Ghawran wants our support, then he can provide support in return. He's already converted well over half of the existing Reaver fleet. Let them go to Beaumonde. Interdict any Reavers who are trying to escape. Start rounding them up on the surface. We'll provide them the resources to convert all of the new Reavers. They'll get stronger in the process, and prevent a whole new wave of cannibals from washing over the 'Verse. If the Alliance wants to jump the rescuers, let them fight the Reavers."

"I like it," Michael offered, scratching unconsciously at his chin. He'd clearly forgotten to shave that morning...unless perhaps he'd been working through the night again. "It weakens the Alliance rather than us. And if the Reavers are serious about protecting us...we could send in the Midway, and stage Franklin and his people out of it. Have our Reavers protect them, both in orbit and on the surface."

"Can we really trust them?" Sinclair asked.

"Stephen seems to think so. If there's any chance for him to save those people on the ground...I don't see it, but he's pulled off miracles before."

"We have to try," Athena argued. "We have to be better than the Alliance. Show we're better than the Alliance."

Michael shrugged. "There's that. And even if it's a forlorn hope, it also sends a clear message. The Reavers work for us. Or at least with us. Which means that Alliance should hesitate to use their little WMD again, for fear of just making us stronger. Which is very much a good thing. Of course, the Reavers will see any non-Alliance, non-us ships approaching Beaumonde as fair game. They might not eat them...but that doesn't stop the killing...or other activities," he added darkly.

"So we broadcast a warning," Sheridan replied. "Anyone who ignores it...will be collateral damage. Unfortunate, but no one said the job would be pretty."

Michael nodded in agreement. "So, assuming our friendly neighborhood veganman agrees, that takes care of Beaumonde. Now we just need to figure out what to do about the Alliance more generally."

"Their offer to speak with our leadership hasn't been withdrawn," Athena noted.

"How could we even stomach sitting down with them after this?" Tigh growled.

"A fair question," Adama agreed. "Another is if we can afford not to. For all their faults, the Alliance still has the capacity to crush us, given enough time. And now we've got Independent worlds counting on the idea that we'll fight to protect them as well. If we spread out our forces offensively or defensively, we risk being cut up and obliterated piecemeal. If we concentrate on just defending ourselves, then the Alliance is free to put down the Independents and build up the forces to eventually overcome us."

"What about a show of force of our own?" Sinclair suggested. "Something to force them to the table in earnest. Something in sight of their civilians, so that it can't be ignored. We could do a lightning strike...take out a Core world shipyard. Maybe even put a few holes in the Parliament building from orbit."

"That's where the Alliance forces and security are strongest," John replied, shaking his head. "The only vessels we have left capable of pulling off anything like a 'lightning strike' against those targets are the Battlestars and the Raptors. And they have the smallest advantage over the Alliance in terms of offensive and defensive technologies. The odds aren't terrible, but it is possible they fail in the effort. It's even possible that we lose a Battlestar in the effort. Either possibility is exactly the opposite of the message we want to send. We could do it with a broad Raptor assault...but we'd take a hell of a lot of losses in the effort. Not only can we not afford to lose those Raptors...we definitely can't afford to have them getting shot down over a core world. The Alliance are no slouches when it comes to tech. How long for them to figure out, maybe even reverse engineer, a jump drive if they have a copy of one literally drop onto one of their worlds? Even if it comes in damaged? I'm not willing to take that risk."

"Could we forego the element of surprise?" Roslin asked. "They couldn't scratch the Nova last time. Could we just send the Nova across the 'Verse to perform Captain Sinclair's show of force?"

"Then we're back to splitting and diluting our best forces," Bill replied, shaking his head. "And the Alliance is going to see the Nova coming a long way out. They can bring in fighters and weapons and ships from all across the 'Verse to harass her. With enough harassing forces…you could have the Nova mission killed, with damage we can't easily repair. Worse, in that state she could be boarded…captured. We can't risk losing that ship."

"So send her with an escort...the Lexington...or a Basestar or two."

"Which makes the force dilution even worse. And the Lexington's probably not up to the job. Not with the numbers the Alliance has to work with." John answered. "And the Basestars just aren't good at point defense, and they're much more vulnerable to enemy fire as well. Sure, they'd be perfect if they had their Raider compliment, but they're fresh out. The Heavy Raiders just won't cut it."

Athena spoke up. "The Cylons are working on ideas to reconstitute our Raider wings…but it's all preliminary concepts so far."

"We'll want to see what you're working on," Roslin noted immediately.

"As will we," John added. "But as to the current topic, the Lexington and the Basestars don't cut it. We'd need to send a Battlestar. But that brings us back around to possibly losing that Battlestar. Worse, we'd be chaining them to the Nova, taking away their most potent advantage...their ability to jump."

"And sending off both the Nova and one of the Battlestars wraps up more firepower than we can afford to send off," Garibaldi noted. "What's left back here might not be able to stop a surprise Alliance fleet."

Tigh's brow scrunched in irritation. "For gods' sake, we're not helpless. We're sitting on more firepower than their entire fleet combined! So forget a demonstration strike. Maybe we work with Marshal Roberts. Coordinate with the independents. Strip the Alliance of its outer resources by wiping out their fleet around the Border and Rim worlds."

"And how many ships do we take off of colony defense while we're trying that, Saul?" Adama asked wearily "It's a big 'Verse with hundreds of bodies. And we're facing an enemy fleet with hundreds of ships. We've got less than a dozen actual capital ships. Even if everything goes perfectly, securing the outer 'Verse will just take too long. Every ship we send off can only strike one target at a time, and opens itself up to being swarmed. Send too many, and our civilians become vulnerable. And if the Alliance is smart...if I were in their shoes...I'd just refuse battle. One on one...even a few on one...they can't take down our ships. But they don't need to. They just need to buy time. And if need be they can trade territory for it. Abandon any world we come to. Why fight for it? They can just take it back when we inevitably leave. I'm not happy with the force we have to garrison one world, much less dozens of them. And while they're buying time, their industrial centers will be going on a crash building campaign, putting into production ships with new weapons and new tech. They don't need any technological breakthroughs to beat us. Just to build bigger and stronger. That's just logistics and engineering. Worse, we know that they have plenty of scientific prowess. Now that they've seen most of what we can do, how long before they can replicate those capabilities? Knowing that something can be done is half the way to doing it yourself. And even if we somehow manage to take out their shipyards? It buys us a few years at best. They just move the build sites to the surface. Maybe even underground. It'll take time, but eventually they bury us under an avalanche of new construction."

"It all comes down to the key fact we've been beating our heads against," Sheridan cut in frustratedly. "The Alliance is willing to cross any line, commit any heresy, to destroy us. Miranda and Beaumonde prove that. And we're...simply not. We've seen too many billions of dead humans to be willing to pile up billions more."

A long silence ensued. "So what do we do?" Laura finally asked. "I'm not willing to simply surrender."

"Nor should you be," John agreed. "Our options may seem limited, but there are steps we can take. There's certainly hope. The best option is that we somehow manage to make the negotiations with the Alliance pay off. But that seems less and less likely."

"We need to pull the trigger," Adama said with a nod. "Bring Marshal Roberts into this council...as an advisor. We work with her, we help her accomplish as much as possible, but we aren't joining this independence movement. If we can help them, great. As long as they help us as well. But our goal has to be our own survival, and some benefit to them. The Alliance will never let them all go, and that's not a hill I'm prepared to die on."

"Maybe we can bring in a few of their worlds," Jeff suggested. "Maybe free an entire star system. But we need industry if we're going to survive what the Alliance will be bringing our way. So we need to speed up colonization. Try and get the civilians transitioned from reclaiming a world to becoming a real industrial base. And we need to encourage our Independent allies...assuming they are allies...to focus on the same. We'll need to set up a science and tech base as well. We brought the Earth Alliance's best and brightest, and we have the combined technologies of three or four cultures. Maybe, just maybe, we can maintain a long term technological edge over the Alliance, and leverage that into a continued military advantage. That just might be enough to maintain our own freedom and survival."

"It's hard to maintain an edge over a nation that outnumbers you by four orders of magnitude," Garibaldi said, almost absently. The comment drew all eyes, and they noted that Michael seemed to be staring off into the distance, brow furrowed, as though he was worrying away at some thought.

"Then we'd better hope that the negotiations work out," John noted, staring at him, "or start preparing ourselves for capitulation. Because I'm not willing to drown in oceans of human blood, and drive the human race to the brink of extinction yet again...only to possibly still lose out to the Alliance in the end." When Garibaldi nodded absently, and still didn't make eye contact, he snapped, "Are we boring you, Colonel?"

That did grab Garibaldi's attention. "Sorry, Commodore. Something about what Jeff was saying bothered me. I think I'm forgetting something. Something important, maybe."

"Another problem?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Let me think about it. I'm sure I'll figure it out."

"Well let us know when you do. I can't say I'm sorry to not have yet one more thing to worry about right now."

---

The EAS Midway, Geostationary Orbit Above Beaumonde, Kalidasa system, The Verse - March, 2250

Captain Elizabeth Lochley watched the flaring engines of military and civilian transports with concerned eyes as the second wave dropped down towards the city of New Dunsmuir. Those ships carried more of her friends and colleagues, to join those who had already set down and begun their work. Glancing around, she cast those eyes upon far more immediate concerns...namely the haphazard yet growing fleet of Reaver vessels which were in theory securing the orbitals. They'd also dropped onto the surface, recruiting their new brethren. In theory they were her security detail, the first line of defense against those newborn Reavers and the Alliance both. In actuality, she put far more faith in the trio of Locarno's Cutters assigned to her, that were doing their best to keep an eye on the entire situation. In theory, between the Cutters and the Starfury squadrons housed aboard the Midway, they had sufficient firepower to fight their way out of any treachery and escape the Reavers. In practice...it was almost certain that some of those savages would get aboard, and that was a contest she didn't relish. The bulkheads and corridors of the Midway had once before been washed in the blood of her crew, fighting desperately against invading troops. Elizabeth had no desire to see that history repeated.

She activated her Comm unit, having personally patched it into exterior communications. "Lochley to Franklin. Status report, Doctor."

It was several long moments before she received a reply. A rather distracted sounding one at that. "I'm a little busy here, Elizabeth. Can it wait?"

"That's Captain, Commander Franklin. And I'm as responsible for the civilian and military lives you've got running around down there as you are. More so. So you will convince me that things are safe and progressing, or I will pull everyone off the surface and terminate the mission."

She grimaced as she heard his exasperated sigh quite clearly through the Comm link. Still, his response was more or less professional. "We're down and there have been no incidents to this point. Ghawran was good to his word. They seem to have cleared any undomesticated Reavers from the area. People are still a bit nervous, but we have a job to do. Speaking of which, perhaps you could have a word with this damned GroPos Lieutenant you saddled me with. He's refusing to accept orders."

"He's not in your chain of command, Doctor. He's there to keep you safe."

"Well, there aren't any Reavers here to keep us safe from. But we could sure use the hands to do some actual work and save lives. I don't have the manpower to save all of these people, but these troops can certainly make an impact."

"Just because you can't see the Reavers doesn't mean they aren't there, Doctor. Even if Ghawran did what he claimed, we have no guarantee how good a job he did. You've got tons of civilians amongst your volunteers. We don't need them getting eaten. The Lieutenant made the right choice."

Stephen paused, taking a deep breath, but when he replied she could hear the barely suppressed passion, clear as day. "Elizabeth, there are over a hundred million people slowly dying on this world, who have nothing more wrong with them than lacking the drive to get up and care for themselves. Any Reavers around won't eat them, because they smell like other Reavers. Their nervous system keeps them breathing. The majority of them are already under shelter in their homes or places of business. You can go weeks without eating, and if you aren't eating, there's no pressing need for defecation. That lack of motivation means they won't have any compunctions about urinating into their clothing. So right now the single most pressing danger to their lives is dehydration. Three days. Maybe four. And then they're gone. We're trying to save their lives, but we need time. A few swallows of water can keep them alive for days more. They've entered into a type of unresponsive wakefulness..."

"They're vegetables."

"No. Their minds work. They're just...unable to care. But that means that they won't fight if someone pours water into their mouths. And basic reflex will cause them to swallow. But we don't have enough people! Those troops can easily keep thousands...tens of thousands of people alive while we figure out how to cure them!"

"You've got more volunteers coming, Stephen. Lots more."

"And more troops coming to protect them. But there are over a couple hundred million people slowly dying down here, Elizabeth. Always more dying. No matter how many volunteers we have, people are going to be dying in droves. How can we not use every available resource to try to save as many as possible?"

She paused and thought for a long moment. "The Lieutenant and his troops are going to have to push out their perimeter a few hundred meters in order to secure the area for the next wave of landings. That's going to require sweeping each of the buildings. They'll have fireteams running clearance building by building, floor by floor, room to room. I suppose that means that they'll locate the victims as well as any hiding Reavers in the process. I'll ask…not order…the Lieutenant to make note of their location for you and dump a little water down throats. The plumbing is still operational, so it shouldn't be too big an ask."

"Thank you." Franklin's response was professional, but she could hear the weight of emotion oozing through the comm link. And it worried her. "Stephen…don't get too invested in this cause. You can't save everyone. Let me remind you that it was your estimates that said it would take us years, or even decades, to find a cure."

"We can't just let all these people waste away! We have to try!"

"I know. That's why we're here. But you have to start preparing yourself for the fact that we're going to fail."

"Like hell! Even if we can only save a few people, that'll at least be something. We have to pull a silver lining out of this hurricane." He paused again. "Though I suppose the fact that the Alliance have finally shown their true stripes counts. There'll be no hiding from this. I'd be surprised if there aren't already cries to bring down the government. People won't stand for this kind of madness. Even the Alliance citizens on their cushy core worlds will have to take action."

Her heart fell a bit. "You haven't heard?"

"Heard? You might have noticed, I've been a bit busy. Heard what?"

"The Alliance citizens are taking action. They're marching in the streets. Demanding justice. Every media or news outlet in the Core and most of the Border are running the story of Beaumonde nonstop. Demanding action. Demanding something be done."

"Well," he said, "there you go!"

"Against us. Demanding action against us. The Parliament has pinned the whole thing on us and the various revolutionaries throughout the Verse. They've even provided video of the Pegasus hovering over cities like New Huntsville and gassing them."

"What?!" he blurted, aghast. "That's...that's insane! We didn't do this! The Pegasus can't even hover in atmosphere!"

"Sure. We know that. But who are the people going to believe? Some revolutionaries with a crazy story about Earth? Or their own government? Their own media and news outlets? Their own eyes? Hell, Miranda is suddenly back in the news and records, and they're blaming that on us to...'the failed initial attempt at revolution which set the Verse on the path to the first Unification War.' Note the use of the word 'first' there. That's new. Never let a good emergency go to waste. Gotta use it to push your political agenda. They're gearing up for a war against us, and they just gave themselves all the cover they need to do it," she said bitterly.

"My God," was the only response he could muster. There was a long silence, before Stephen finally took a deep, cleansing breath. "Well then, we have to do something positive here. We have to rescue these people. And if we do...maybe they can tell the Verse what really happened. I'll let you go," he said somberly. "No matter what happens, we have a lot of work to do."

---

Colonial One, Landfall Starport, Miranda City, Miranda - March, 2250

"We've got a lot of work ahead of us."

President Laura Roslin sat at her desk, doing paperwork. Paperwork. Multiple civilization ending catastrophes, her branch of the human race reduced by six orders of magnitude, and the discovery of not one, not two, but three other branches of humanity...she found herself increasingly having to accept the fact that the Cylons, at least the ones from their Earth, were indeed human...and she still spent the bulk of her day doing godsdamned paperwork. There was surely something wrong with the universe. At least the view out her window now offered buildings and vegetation instead of the increasingly monotonous starfields and increasingly rundown starships.

The voice from her door caused the President to look up in appreciation for the distraction. Until she saw who it was. Commodore John Sheridan. She didn't despise the man, exactly. But she certainly wasn't one of his biggest fans. Yet her curiosity was piqued, nonetheless. He had never come calling on her before without first connecting with Adama. Certainly never without at least a couple of his subordinate Earth Force officers. Or security for that matter. But there he stood, all alone. Curious. "Come in, Commodore. Have a seat. Can I offer you some refreshment?"

"No thank you, Madam President," he replied, taking the proferred seat. "I don't have much of an appetite these days."

She nodded, mentally filing away his response. "Alright then. What work were you referring to? I assume you didn't mean my ever increasing pile of paperwork."

"No, Ma'am. I did not. I'm talking about the mess we find ourselves in. This path we're on to war with the Alliance."

Laura took off her glasses and set them down carefully on her desk. Then she made firm eye contact with the Commodore. "That would seem to be a military matter. And yet you came to me rather than Bill. Why is that?"

"Because you dislike me enough to tell me the truth. The Admiral sees it as his duty to support me...mentor me. My subordinates see their role as finding a way to make whatever I ask possible. I appreciate that. But in this instance, I need the unvarnished truth."

"Alright then. What do you want to know, Commodore?"

"Whether or not we can win this thing. We're sure as hell headed to war. We've been racking our brains to try to find a path to victory. Or even just to survive. And short of the Alliance suddenly seeing reason and being willing to work with us...we lose. Everything, or nearly so, in any scenario we look at. I'm losing hope. We all are. So that's the question. Is this a fool's errand? Do we just need to accept our fate? Surrender to save lives? Is there any way to win?"

Laura sighed, then removed her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. Given her dislike of the Commodore, it was easy to forget just how young he was. About the same age as Apollo. She'd rather be beating him into taking the political decisions she needed him to take, not providing emotional support. But here they were. You played the cards you were dealt. Looking up to make eye contact, she said, "I think you already know the answer, Commodore. John. As you said, it's been on our minds more than enough. No. We can't win if the Alliance won't play ball. Not with one arm tied behind our backs. We can survive for a while, but eventually they will grind us under. Or...we can untie that arm, and then we have a real shot at imposing the peace we want."

"By unleashing the full breadth of our military capability. Aiming it at their worlds. Their infrastructure. Their people. By directly or indirectly killing somewhere between forty and forty-five billion people. By building our 'peace' on a bedrock of charnel house ashes."

"That's right. As I said, you already knew the answer."

He nodded, hesitantly. "Perhaps I came to tell the truth, rather than hear it. To the only person I really can. The only real peer I have in this fleet. Even the Admiral defers to you, in the end."

Knowing what he was going to say, she took a deep breath and, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, offered, "Speak your truth, Commodore."

There was a long, drawn out silence. "I can't do it," he said, leadenly. "I can't slaughter tens of billions for my few million. I can't. I won't."

She simply nodded. "I know. I understand. And for what it's worth...I don't think you're wrong."

"So what now?"

"Now? Now we do everything we can to get the Alliance to negotiate in truth, not as some political fiction. And at the same time...we prepare for resistance."

"Resistance?"

"What was it the Marshal said? That she figured in a couple of centuries there would be enough population and industry growth for the Border and Rim worlds to finally make a successful break from the Alliance? She was laying the groundwork to ensure that the Border and Rim worlds of two hundred years in the future still had a unique identity and desire for independence...rather than just having morphed into true Alliance worlds. That's what we need to do. That needs to be us. And if we do it right...our descendants can ride that rebellion and join those people in their freedom. If we're smart enough, we might even shave off a decade or two. If we have to surrender...use the surrender negotiations to buy ourselves the best deal possible. And we need to prepare our people...to resist culturally, whether or not we spend time resisting militarily."

"Marshal Roberts won't be happy if we go down that path."

"There's not much that makes Marshal Roberts happy. She'll live. At least until the Alliance catches up with her. And that's the point, isn't it? To keep as many people as possible amongst the living?"

"Yes." John nodded then took a deep breath and stood up. "And we're not there yet. There's still some avenues open to us. Closing rapidly, but still open. But I suppose we'd better start preparing." He offered a respectful nod. "Thank you, Madame President. Telling the truth...helped."

---

New Dunsmuir, Beaumonde, Kalidasa system, The Verse - March, 2250

"Tell me the truth, Stephen. Is there really any hope? Or are we just spitting into the wind, and killing ourselves for nothing?" Dr. Lillian Hobbs asked, dropping into the chair next to his and slumping from exhaustion.

"Satisfaction lies in the effort, not in the attainment," Franklin replied distractedly, eyes never wavering from the data scrolling across his screen.

"What jackass said that?"

"Gandhi? Jesus? Not sure." He still didn't so much as glance upward.

"I'm serious, Stephen. You've got tens of thousands of volunteers on the planet, killing ourselves to keep these people alive. It's a losing battle. There have already been hundreds of thousands of deaths. Millions probably. We just can't get water to everyone, much less food…"

"We're ramping up production of protein drinks…"

"Not fast enough!" she snapped. "And we still have no sufficient way to distribute them!" She moderated her voice somewhat. "Volunteers are starting to dry up. People are just too afraid of your Reavers. Of the Alliance. Hell, of catching this disease, for all the sense that doesn't make. We knew finding a cure was certain to take years. We just don't have that kind of time."

Finally, Stephen looked up to wordlessly meet her eyes. Then he leaned back in his chair, groaning as vertebrae popped back into place. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, battling back an incipient migraine. His own exhaustion was writ clearly across his features.

"You should get some sleep," she advised.

"I can't. Too much to do."

"How long has it been?" she asked.

"What?" he asked, confused.

"Since you last slept…"

"I'll sleep when those people have their lives back." He downed a nearby coffee, which steamed not at all, clearly having been sitting there for as long as Franklin had.

Lillian took note of the tremor in his hands as he did so. "That's a good way to lose your own. You're only human, and the body needs rest, Doctor. How many of those coffee's have you had?"

"I've lost count. They're not really doing the trick anymore."

"Doctor…I think you're going to have to resign yourself to the fact that we're probably going to lose this thing. Don't destroy yourself fighting a losing battle. There's just no way to keep these people alive."

He chuckled, playing with the empty styrofoam cup in his hand. "I've already found one," he mused to himself.

"What?!" she asked sharply. "You've found a cure? That's amazing!"

"I didn't say a cure, I said a way to keep them alive."

"Stephen…Doctor Franklin! What are you talking about?!"

"It all comes down to a series of apparently related genes," he said, looking at the cup he continued to roll around in his hand. "They all seem to be recessive, and many of them aren't present at all in the bulk of the population."

"All those blood tests you've been running on the survivors. Sounds like they've paid off."

"The survivors, the dead…hell, I even convinced Ghawran to get me blood samples from a few hundred of his Reavers. And that's how I found the difference. Some damned genes. I've never seen them before, and I'm not entirely certain what they do. But…they seem familiar for some reason. Maybe I'm just too tired to figure out why." He lapsed into a long silence, still staring at that damned cup. But finally he resumed. "It all comes down to those genes. Mostly recessive, like I said, and their combinations leads to a large variety of genotypes and I expect an even larger variety of phenotypes. There's evidence of varying levels of penetrance and expressivity. I haven't even gotten to looking at allele variation. But it's clear that those without any of these genes…they're sitting there, slowly dying. And those running around with extreme aggression…seem to carry them in the right combination for genetic expression. Of course, the trick is those carrying these genes silently, unexpressed. That seems to be somewhere between eight and ten percent of our…sleepers."

"And…and you can cure those?" she asked, despite the sinking feeling settling into the pit of her stomach.

"I told you, it's not a cure…just a way to keep them alive." He cursed suddenly and crumpled the cup, hurling it angrily towards the wall. Of course, the light material mostly just caught the air and floated gently towards the ground. He ignored it, staring at the wall as though to discharge his anger and agitation. "No, for them we can inject a series of stimulants…adrenaline as well as a cocktail of drugs…which should wake them up…and complete the transformation."

It felt to Hobbs as though the temperature in the room had just dropped by a dozen degrees. "Complete the transformation?" she asked in horror. "To Reavers?" She floundered around for something to say. "Are you mad?"

"Maybe. Maybe I am. But they'd be alive, wouldn't they? And with Ghawran scooping them up, they wouldn't even be a threat to us. Hell, they'd be allies."

"Sure…for as long as they need us. How long until they don't? How long until they've slipped the strings we've bound to them?"

"Hopefully not before we find a real cure," he replied, the anger flowing out of him and returning a redoubled exhaustion. "And if he gets the benefit of more followers, I can probably convince Ghawran to have his people deliver the water and protein drinks themselves. It could resolve all of our volunteer problems. Help us save millions more people. Isn't that worth it?"

"Do you really think those people would want to become Reavers?!"

"At least they'd be alive," he half snapped, only a hint of his former anger in his voice.

"What…what did Commodore Sheridan say?"

There was a deep sigh. "I haven't told him yet. We have a debriefing scheduled for tomorrow."

"What…what will you tell him?"

"The truth. What I just told you. But if he asks my opinion…better that as many live as possible. Even if that has to be as Reavers…it keeps them alive for the real cure."

"Whenever that comes."

"Exactly." He sighed. Shaking his head again, he unconsciously reached into a pocket and took out a vial, injecting it into his wrist. He relaxed visibly.

"How many is that?" Lillian asked in alarm. "First? Third? You shouldn't be pushing yourself with stims, especially on top of tons of coffee. Too much isn't good for you. There are regs, Doctor."

He looked up at the ceiling, then spoke emotionlessly. "We're at the very precipice of a full on shooting war with the Alliance"

"I'm sorry?"

He brought his head down, meeting her gaze directly. For the first time she really saw the horror behind his professionalism. "This was a test, Lillian. How long…how long before the Alliance turns this weapon on us? How long before it's our people out there, the next best thing to catatonic? Who's gonna come and pour water and protein shakes down our throats? If I don't figure this out…it's not really gonna matter is it?"

"Stephen…"

"Look…I've got it under control. No more stims today. When this one wears off, I'll get some food and some sleep. I promise. I'm gonna need it for my meeting with Sheridan," he added.

"Alright, I won't push…for now."

---

EAS Eratosthenes, Nebula near Miranda, The Verse - March, 2250

Colonel Michael Garibaldi watched as the attendees trickled into the meeting. A meeting he'd called. A mixture of nerves and hope swirled through his gut, though not a bit of it touched his face. This meeting could pivot the entire future of the Verse. Or he might just be listening to a mad man. And be not half mad himself.

For the last couple of weeks, hope had been dwindling. Despondency and a growing darkness had taken hold with the combined military fleet, officers and personnel both. They were looking at losing both a war and a future, after all. Of course, these facts were hidden from the civilians. Their morale was through the roof as they unpacked themselves from their sardine cans and began the arduous but rewarding process of colonizing Miranda. But the military knew the truth.

A truth Michael hoped to upend today. President Roslin, Saul Tigh, and Admiral and Commander Adama walked in together, sitting down across from Commodore Sheridan, who had brought much of his command team. The Cylons were nearly the last to arrive, including multiple Sixes, Boomer and Athena, and of course Aaron Doral. Michael found himself liking the funny little man more and more. Marshal Leanne Roberts had been one of the first there, having arrived with Michael himself. Her and his other special guest. That guest caught a few curious looks from the other attendees, none of whom seemed to recognize him. Unsurprisingly, Captain Reynolds and Inara were the very last to arrive. Mal's sense of timing was impeccable.

As the Marine guard closed the doors to the conference room, Captain Sinclair looked over. "Alright Michael. You've brought us all here. What have you got for us?"

"A solution, hopefully. Or, at least, a different way of looking at the problem. A resource that we have that we weren't accounting for."

"We're listening."

"Allow me to introduce Mr. William Edgars, founder and CEO of Edgars Industries, which was the fourth largest megacorporation in the Earth Alliance. Those of you who were there may remember that, during the moments leading up to the Battle of the Line, any civilian vessel on or around Earth, or Mars for that matter, capable of making the trip either launched or broke orbit and attempted to join the fleet. Many succeeded, and we spent a great deal of effort during the early part of our journey keeping those vessels space worthy. You may recall that a fair number of those vessels were personal space yachts, corporate shuttlecraft, and other toys and transports of the ultra-rich. A significant percentage of the economic elite managed to escape the Sol system with us."

"One final example," Captain Sandra Levitt cut in, "of the ingrained and systemic inequity of a perpetually broken system. The population of the Fleet was supposed to be merit based…those who would have the greatest impact towards the continuation and success of the human race. And largely it was. Except for folks like this, who jumped the line solely by virtue of possessing the resources and transportation that billions of others lacked. With the net effect of burdening this fleet with an excess of older than average, silver spoon bearing social elites, generally without any of the skills the Fleet or the species needs to survive." There was a level of bitterness in her voice that surprised everyone, and an uncomfortable silence settled over the room.

Surprisingly, it was Edgars who replied to her, cutting off the likely reprimand from her various superiors in the room. "And be glad we did, young lady. For a fleet that, as you say, was merit based, designed to ensure the success of the human race, those who selected the planned civilian population of this fleet were clearly blind to the most important indicator of merit…of future success. That, of course, being those people who were already successful. Who had driven through any adversity, overcome any obstacle, to rise to the top rungs of society. Money is the scorecard by which society governs success, and those who can make fortunes are thus the most successful." Several seemed ready to object to this statement, not just Levitt, and so Edgars waved his hand apologetically. "Oh, I suppose it made some sense if you assumed that the Fleet would be colonizing an uninhabited world, or even having to terraform one first. But if you assumed any interaction at all with other species or cultures, then we should have been the first ones on the list."

Sheridan turned towards Garibaldi, a mixture of anger and irritation written clearly across his face. "Michael, explain yourself. What exactly is your purpose in bringing this…person…here."

"Commodore…John, please excuse Mr. Edgars's ego for a moment. Though I'll admit you'd be hard pressed to find larger astronomical objects. You were searching for solutions…ways to pull our collective fats out of the fire we've all landed in. I think Mr. Edgars might just have them. At the very least, he has some insights we haven't previously considered."

Sitting back in his seat, Sheridan didn't respond, merely grimacing in consternation. Roslin responded for him. "Alright Colonel…Mr. Edgars," she added with a nod for the former businessman. "We're listening. Please continue."

"Well, it's pretty simple really. As I understand it, your major concern is being slowly inundated culturally and militarily by Alliance population and industry. But that really shouldn't be a problem. Not if my research is correct. Your solution is capitalism. Or rather, that and industrialism. And obviously, myself and others like me are just the folks to implement that solution."

"Of course," Levitt cut back in. "You're all such philanthropists. And even if your ridiculous claim was true, I'm sure your desire to gain back what you've lost has nothing to do with this offer, right? You know, every person in this fleet has lost just as much as you have, and is just as worthy of any potential opportunities. We've all lost everything, just like you and your friends. Of course, some of you didn't lose everything, did you? You got to bring your personal yachts and shuttles with you, filled with your prized possessions. Unlike the vast majority of the fleet. At least that injustice was partially solved when the majority of those ships were commandeered for use against the Minbari at Ragnarok station, and their passengers and crew moved to the Achilles freighters we acquired with the Deneb Exodus Fleet."

"You are correct, my dear," he offered patronizingly, though his phrasing aggravated several of the women present, rather than merely his intended target. "We do want back what we have lost. But you are also incorrect. No one has lost as much as we have. Because we simply had more to lose than anyone else. And yes, many of my peers are still stinging at that final injustice of having the last vestiges of their wealth stolen from them. But I can't really speak for them there, as my own transport was of sufficient speed and quality to avoid that particular fate."

Garibaldi cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Mr. Edgars, could you please focus in on the problem and solution as you see it?"

"Of course, Mr. Garibaldi. As I said, you are concerned about being overwhelmed by Alliance population and industry. But your assumptions are in error. You do not seem to have a firm grasp of industry or economics, or the history of these sciences within the Earth Alliance versus the Union of Allied Planets and the rest of the Verse. It's not surprising really. Few people grasp the sheer utility of proper capitalism and modern industry."

Sheridan grimaced, but managed to contain his irritation. He could tell though that he was far from the only one growing aggravated at this ridiculously officious little man. "The point, Mr. Edgars? How exactly are we in error?"

"Well, they're not going to out produce us. If you play your cards right, it'll be exactly the opposite, actually. You don't seem to understand the advantages you have."

"You expect us to out-produce a stellar nation with access to dozens of worlds and a population advantage of over four orders of magnitude?" Adama asked in disbelief.

Roslin was already speaking right over the top of him. "I think we've heard enough. Colonel Garibaldi, I appreciate you seeking out any possible options, but none of us here have the time available to have it wasted on fantasies or delusions." She rose to leave.

"Madam President," Michael interjected, raising his hands, "please, just another moment. I promise you Mr. Edgars's information will be worth your time." Turning to Edgars he snapped, "William, drop the arrogance. You're not a CEO anymore, and your life and future rides the line of convincing these people as much as anyone else's. Now, explain those mistakes you mentioned. Explain how you think we'll outproduce the UAP."

Edgars sighed, his self-image just a bit pricked, but did his best to acquiesce. "When you assume that the Alliance will bury us in men and materiel, you are making two overlapping errors. You are overestimating the capacity of the Alliance. And you are underestimating our own. I am many things…an industrialist, an entrepreneur, but first and foremost I am a capitalist. And the most useful capital of all is information. I've studied Earth Alliance economics and history since I was a child. I've been studying the available information on the Twelve Colonies ever since we first made contact. And now I study the history and finances of the Verse…as much as I can get. This Cortex of theirs is incredibly useful. I suppose not for the kinds of things that you are interested in, but for my purposes it's a gold mine."

"Get to the point," Michael muttered, not quite under his breath.

Casting him an irritated glance, Edgars did as instructed. "Alright, two errors. One, overestimating the Alliance. They aren't the industrial juggernaut you think they are. That's a more understandable mistake for our Colonial friends to make, as they share nearly identical industrial limitations. Namely, while the Earth Alliance was firmly in the Seventh Industrial Revolution, and it could be argued that our Cylon friends are as well, or at least the Sixth…both the United Alliance of Planets and the Twelve Colonies of Kobol seem to have retreated to the Fourth…arguably even the Third. That makes perfect sense for the Colonies. The Cylon revolution made both space and cyberspace battlegrounds. There was a necessary retreat from advanced technologies, automation, and data interconnectivity. It makes no sense for the UAP, but there seems to have been either a consciously directed, or subconsciously cultural choice at some point to mire the Verse in older traditions and technologies."

"I don't know," Captain Sinclair opined, "they seem pretty technologically advanced to me."

"Certainly, they possess advanced technologies, some of which are more advanced than anything possessed by the Earth Alliance, Colonies, or Cylons. But they have not allowed these technologies to transform their economic or industrial bases. Or if they did, they have intentionally regressed them."

Sheridan's mouth twitched. "Pretend we don't understand a word of what you just said. A little deeper explanation please."

"Well, the First Industrial Revolution was a period of global transition of human economy towards more efficient and stable manufacturing processes that succeeded the Agricultural Revolution. Starting from Great Britain, continental Europe, and the United States, it occurred during the period from around 1760 to about the early middle part of the nineteenth century. This transition included going from hand production methods to…"

"We don't need an economics or history lesson, Mr. Edgars," Michael cut in, feeling the impatience in the room rising. "Just go into a bit more depth on the most relevant details, please."

"Fine. The Third Industrial Revolutions was an age where computerization, digitalization, and high speed communication dominated and transformed industry. The Fourth built upon these principles and enhanced them through the introduction of early Virtual and Artificial Intelligences, Robotization, and gene editing. As I said, between these two paradigms is where both the Colonies and the UAP sit. One makes logical sense. The other…much less so. The Fifth and Sixth Revolutions both had to do with increasingly advanced computation, nano and biotech, and more and more advanced human-machine interaction. But it's the Seventh, which the Earth Alliance was in for over a century, that gets really interesting. Mass zero-G manufacturing. And I mean mass in terms of both volume and scale. Lacking these later societal, technological, and industrial changes, the Alliance simply cannot build up to the levels you fear. Not without entirely transforming itself, which will take generations."

That got the attention of all involved, and some of the hostility faded from the room. "Are you saying they can't expand their fleet?" Adama asked. "That seems like wishful thinking."

"Oh, no, they'll definitely go on a building spree. And expect their forces to improve rapidly in quality. But it will be a slow process. Expect them to start spitting out waves of fighters and gunboats within the year. Larger ships will take longer. And they'll likely be converting civilian shipyards to military production at the same time as building new and expanding existing military shipyards. So they can probably double their tonnage output within two years. Triple it within three or four. And get to maybe five times the output within a decade. But they will struggle to move beyond that production level without making deep seated changes to their economic and industrial base. I don't know if they will or they won't, but given the fact that their current industrial base seems to have been artificially limited, and the strong socialistic vein I'm finding in their political and economic structure, I have my doubts. Regardless, assuming continuing open hostilities, and that you all do your jobs and make the best use of this fleet's current technological and experiential advantages…it will probably be a decade before the Alliance can even bring their numbers back up to prewar levels. Though technological enhancements will of course make them far more dangerous. But you are looking at four to six decades before they could field a fleet that would truly dominate the Verse. And of course, if you play your cards right, it will all be over by then."

"What do you mean?" Sinclair asked, at the same time Levitt was arguing, "You can't think we'll beat them just because you think your political philosophy is better than theirs!"

But it was Saul who challenged the point. "We were already figuring we might be able to survive for a couple generations. So your estimate gives us an extra what…twenty years? That doesn't solve the problem at all. Is a few generations of freedom worth all the extra bloodshed, suffering, and reprisals on our people when the Alliance eventually steamrolls us? It still means our only alternative to havin' our asses kicked is flat out genocide."

"Which brings us to your second error…underestimating our own industrial potential," the industrialist replied.

"Don't be ridiculous," Levitt snapped. "It's impossible for a few million people on a single world to match the output of fifty billion spread across dozens. Especially when we're starting from nothing, and the Alliance is a fully functioning and productive nation."

"Well, I'd strongly argue that we aren't starting from nothing. But more importantly, it's foolish to assume we're just a few million people, or that our resources are so limited."

An interested gleam suddenly sparked in Sheridan's eye. "Go on," he ordered.

"Well, the whole point is to remain independent of the Alliance, isn't it? And aren't there a great many worlds in this system who both historically and currently share the exact same aim? Several of which have already declared their desire to unite with us! Seems we're not without potential friends and allies. All together we're a population of hundreds of millions. Which cuts the rate of population disparity in half. Two orders of magnitude instead of four."

Roslin grimaced but said nothing. The Colonial remnant was already two orders of magnitude smaller than that of the Earth Force. Which would then be two orders smaller than this proposed new Independent Planets faction this madman was proposing to create. Which yet again was similarly smaller than the Alliance they were resisting. Even if everything went as perfectly as he dreamed…fantasy, more like…she didn't see how her poor little remnant of the Colonies wouldn't end up entirely obliterated…economically and culturally, even if not physically. She chose not to reveal too many of her insecurities however, instead simply stating, "Even if your plan worked, which seems highly optimistic, wouldn't that simply be trading our dissolution into the Alliance into our dissolution into this new…nation?"

Marshall Roberts spoke up for the first time. "The whole point of the Independent Planets was to maintain freedom, separation, and cultural heterogeneity, not to create a mirror image of the Union of Allied Planets. That's still the point with everything that's happening now. Those people fighting out there and I want to be your friends and partners, not your masters or conquerors. How could we? You have all of the advantages."

"And yet we're too weak to stand against the Alliance ourselves," Commander Lee Adama observed. If you're saying that you're weaker still, which seems to be simple truth, then how does that help us? For that matter, could such a loose conglomeration even stand? You tried it the last time, and lost badly against the Alliance. And they're much stronger now, while the forces out their fighting now are a shattered ghost of what the Independent Planets were."

"It's true that confederations don't tend to last very long," Captain Sinclair responded consideringly. "They're often defeated by a more unified foe. Or they transform themselves into something more…coherent. But it's not impossible. There have been multiple successful confederacies throughout human history. Depending on your definition of successful. The Iroquois Confederacy, the original iteration of the United States of America, the German Confederation, and the European Union are some that come to mind. Though in each case their record of success and accomplishment can be considered…complicated at best."

"The Twelve Colonies might have qualified as such, prior to the Articles of Colonization," Roslin now replied more thoughtfully.

"But we still have next to no industry," Levitt argued again. "Certainly compared to the Alliance. And so the population difference would be two orders of magnitude instead of four, what does that change? It's still an impossible mismatch."

"Because you're still underestimating our capabilities," Edgars resumed, turning to address her directly. "Industry 7.0 versus Industry 4.0, it makes a massive difference. I'm not surprised the Colonials don't understand. They were in much the same economic and industrial condition as the Verse. But as an Earth Alliance officer, you should get it. You all should get it," he insisted, sweeping his eyes over the cadre of Earth Force officers, eyes coming to rest directly meeting those of Sheridan himself. "Humanity was practically the least advanced of the species on the galactic scene. Most of the nations out there expected us to become little more than a client state of Centauri. Hell, the Centauri expected that. Instead we shocked them all with waves of military and civilian construction. In the beginning we built up a massive fleet to ensure our security. Then when we realized it was hopelessly outclassed by the navies of other powers, we all but scrapped it and built a new one. And did so again before, during, and after the Dilgar war. We shocked the galaxy by growing to stand amongst the premier powers in a length of time in which most species manage only to settle a single colony.

"And with all due respect to the talent and dedication of our men and women in uniform," he added, maintaining a locked gaze with the Commodore, "That's largely due to the unending warship production and the wave after wave after wave of explorer ships and freighters and space stations and jump gates that allowed us to claim or colonize dozens of systems and roll out our borders faster than anyone thought possible. Our industry as much, if not more, than anything inherent in our species or military personnel. Of the nations we know of, only the Centauri, and possibly the Minbari, have greater industrial capacity than we do. And they've been in space for centuries more than we have. That's what seventh phase industry gets us."

"We've been in space millenia more than you have," Lee argued. "Not centuries. And yet you're talking about the Colonies as though we were incompetent. We built up our own fleet pretty damned fast, in the teeth of constant Cylon attack, thank you very much."

"True," Edgars acknowledged, nodding to Apollo. "But as I mentioned earlier, the loss of robotic, computational, and communications technologies necessitated by the Cylon threat basically forced you down to fourth phase industry. Or lower. I'm in no position to say what you were capable of before that point. But if you don't believe what I am saying about industry, allow me to provide some statistical evidence." Upon receiving a nod to continue, he said, "I've been speaking with some of the Colonial civilians…business people, industrial workers, teachers, etc… as well as some of your officers and enlisted whenever I got the chance. So I think the numbers I'm about to give are accurate, but please correct me if I am wrong." Receiving a nod from Admiral Adama, he continued. "The Colonies were forced to rebuild their fleet practically from scratch during the initial war with the Cylons. At no point during the war were you ever able to fill out your desired fleet order entirely."

"And that means we have substandard industry?" Lee asked in irritation, before his father held up a hand, a silent order to stop and listen.

"Not at all. What happened over the next twenty years or so does. The threat of the Cylons, who having signed a ceasefire then simply vanished, still provided more than enough impetus to build up your Fleet to as powerful a level as could be managed within the limits of your industry, without gutting your economy. Eventually this would lead to a fleet of three hundred Battlestars…vessels of a size and capability that we would deem to be capital ships. However, for economic reasons, you were only able to keep about two hundred in service, with the rest preserved as a mothball fleet. How am I doing so far?"

"Basically accurate," the Admiral acknowledged.

"A matching consideration is your non-Battlestar classes. What we would consider to be subcapital ships. Escorts, Cutters, Frigates, Light Cruisers…that sort of thing. During the war your ratio of non-Battlestars to Battlestars was somewhere between three and four to one. However, as the decades progressed after the war, that ratio steadily dropped, until just before the Cylon return it was somewhere below two to one."

"Naturally," Bill confirmed. "Resources are always limited. A vessel with a tenth the tonnage and punch of a Battlestar might still require as much as half the crew, maintenance, and consumables. Larger vessels are naturally more efficient in that way, and so it simply makes sense to maintain a higher proportion of Battlestars as the hulls made it through production."

The former CEO nodded at the information. "And what would you say, Admiral Adama, if I told you that the Earth Force at the start of the Minbari war had nearly fifteen hundred capital ships, and maintained a ratio of subcapitals to capitals that ranged between eight to one and ten to one? A civilization with a single homeworld, and colonies that would be considered uninhabitable in either Cyrannus or the Verse…a nation with only a quarter the population of the Twelve Colonies, maintained a fleet with five times the number of Battlestar equivalents, and over twenty times the number of escort classes."

Adama's eyes bored into the man, and Garibaldi was worried for a moment that the CEO's abrasive personality may have pushed things too far. However, Adama merely responded, "I would say you're mad. Those kinds of numbers are simply impossible. But then, we've come to expect impossible things from our friends from Earth." He glanced over at Sheridan. "Is what he's saying true?"

Pensive and thoughtful, the Commodore simply stated, "The fleet numbers are accurate. I'm not qualified to speak on the industrial economic statements he's made."

"To be fair," Edgars interrupted, attempting to sound gracious, "the Mercury and even the Jupiter class Battlestars are significantly larger than our Nova class Dreadnoughts. But then again, the Hyperions are much much larger than, say, these Valkyrie class Battlestars I've heard of. So it probably evens out. But my point is, this is the kind of industrial capacity you have access to, if you simply make use of the correct resources….the correct people. Meanwhile, the Alliance will find itself incapable of growing its navy much larger than the standing Fleet of the Twelve Colonies had been. Now without massive systemic changes to their industrial base. Changes that would be highly disruptive to their regime. Which opens up further opportunities for us. Two or three generations will be more than enough time, if we are smart, to establish a solid alliance and a new paradigm in which we, and not the Alliance, are in charge."

"You are quite the optimist, Mr. Edgars," Roslin spoke up. "And you paint quite an alluring picture. But as impressive as Commodore Sheridan and his fleet are, they are not the Earth Alliance. That industry is dead and gone."

"But it's not, Madame President. The buildings are. The tools and resources. The supply chains and most of the workers. But all of those things are replaceable. What's most important, whether you choose to believe it or not, are the minds and wills behind that industry. The entrepreneurs. The industrialists. The Capitalists. Me."

"Humble, ain't he?" Michael quipped.

"We brought all of the technical knowledge and details with us. The supplies necessary to rebuild. Between that and the buildings on Miranda, we have a great start. Factories can be built. Supply chains can be forged. We've more than sufficient access to workers and resources. Hell, neither should ever be in short supply in this Verse. What you need are the people who know how to build out the industries, supply chains, and work forces as efficiently and rapidly as possible. The people who obsessively throw themselves into such an endeavor until they succeed. Until they have built their vision. And you are fortunate in that those are exactly the people who had the wherewithal to bring themselves along for this ride. Seeing as we were overlooked in the first place. Or flat out refused…at any price," he added, a brief note of bitterness washing over his otherwise unfailingly confident mien.

Levitt started to snap something back at that final note, but Sheridan held up a hand to silence her. "The business and economic acumen of certain members of this fleet notwithstanding, President Roslin is correct. We aren't the Earth Alliance anymore. We've been given a gift in one highly habitable and already more or less infrastructured planet. But the supplies we brought from Earth, while impressive, are certainly insufficient for immediately building a massive industrial base. Production was certainly planned for, but our stocks had to cover every foreseeable possibility for our final settlement destination."

"And this was certainly not one of the foreseeable possibilities," Sinclair added.

"And given what we have already established is the limited nature of the allies you wish to utilize…" Sheridan resumed, "I still don't see how you expect to create this industrial miracle."

"Because we've done it already, Commodore," Edgars insisted. "It's true that much of the Rim and even Border are basically preindustrial. And even the better off places are largely only into first or second stage industrialization. But we turned Earth Alliance colonies on far less habitable and far more resource constrained rocks…colonies with far smaller pools of available manpower…into industrial and manufacturing powerhouses while also having to literally build the spaces to live and the infrastructure merely to breathe. And often within barely a decade or two. We can do it on Miranda, but more importantly we can on any of the Border or Rim worlds which choose to join us. Give us a decade and the appropriate resources, and we can be rolling out a fleet that the Alliance will be unable to match."

"Hold up there," Captain Reynolds spoke up for the first time. "The Independents fought back against the Purple Bellies tryin' to force us into their cookie cutter molds. Force us t' be good little worker bees. I've no hankerin' to trade one taskmaster for another."

"No one will be forced to work as slave labor, or even to take on jobs they don't want, Captain. But the average standard of living on those uninhabitable rocks I mentioned was much higher than it is on Rim or even most Border worlds. Improved production doesn't just benefit the military. Didn't many people settle on your frontier worlds to improve their lives and that of their families? Would you deny them a good wage, working a productive job, just because that job and that pay isn't entirely indigenous to their own little world? For that matter, many of those same individuals are currently forced into unwanted roles by circumstances imposed by the Alliance."

Mal grimaced, but chose not to argue further. Instead, it was Captain Gideon, easily the youngest person in the room, who chose to bring up a salient point. "How do you propose to pay all of these workers? We brought some commodities to allow for modest trade during the exodus, but nothing approaching a proper treasury."

"We'll get the governments and the wealthy of those worlds which want to ally with us to pay for it."

"And why would they do that?" Sinclair questioned. "Were you planning on starting our new friendships with a round of extortion?"

"Not at all. This is an investment they'll no doubt compete to make. Firstly, because if they are part of this revolution against the Alliance, they'll have to be investing in production for weapons and munitions anyway, and this method will get them what they need both in both far superior quality and quantity. But more than that, it's an investment in their own worlds….to raise themselves out of preindustrial squalor….for those who want to, of course," he added with a nod, curt but at least passably respectful, towards Mal. "And finally, it's an investment in themselves. Because the ROI on this will be beyond the dreams of avarice. By the time we're done, all of the richest men…and women…in the Verse will be living outside of the Alliance. It's a simple matter of economics."

"But you need them to buy into your plan from the beginning," Jeff noted. "How exactly do you convince them of these things, in the middle of a shooting war? You're having a hard time convincing us, and we want to believe…mostly. We can't exactly bring them all here and show them the wonders of the Earth Alliance. And just because you say it will make them wealthy doesn't mean they will believe you. Or follow your instructions either. They're more likely to stick with the methods they are familiar and comfortable with. Which leaves us right back at square one."

"We convince them by not overwhelming them. We limit what any individual investor is exposed to. We offer them something they can easily understand the value of…monopoly or oligopoly access to an individual technological item or advancement. Greed and proper business sense will do the rest. Not only will they realize the potential fortune they have been offered, but they will also realize that by refusing they would doom themselves to obsolescence, irrelevance, and future destitution. By carefully meeting out the specific materials, parts, and technologies we need, we can assemble a supply chain from the ground up." Doubtful looks dominated the room, but Edgars pushed on with his presentation. "Frankly, it'll assemble itself, as logistical demands stitch together a much more comprehensive industrial base than the Independents had access to their last go round. And as far as making certain they understand and stay on the correct path…well, that's easy as well. We do it by trading access and intellectual capital for equity. This fleet contains the industrialists and entrepreneurs who know how to build these businesses and industries. And through you they have the scientific and technological details. That's valuable capital. That's our buy in. In exchange for that, these aspiring Independent businessmen and companies will be forced to take on our experts as equal partners. When our people are in those positions, they can drive proper procedure and development of the industry at the same time…something for which they have already proven themselves capable. Access for equity. Everybody wins."

"And there we have it," Sandra cut back in derisively. "This whole tack is a naked ploy to get rich. To put himself and his friends back on top of the social structure. They couldn't handle not being picked. They can't even handle being equal to the rest of the peons. Oh no, simple survival isn't enough, they have to be set above."

"Of course," Edgars replied baldly. "What did you expect? That doesn't make a single thing I've said untrue. That doesn't change the fact that what I'm proposing will work. The people you're deriding will rise to the top of any social structure. Because they are driven to do so. Because it's who they are. It's in their DNA. All I'm proposing is that you make use of that. Don't you want your people to survive and thrive, Captain?"

"That's not the point! Your greed…" she began, but he cut her off, running roughshod over her rebuttal.

"The point is, ladies and gentlemen, that greed, for lack of a better word, is good. Greed is right, greed works. Greed clarifies, cuts through, and captures the essence of the evolutionary spirit. Greed, in all of its forms; greed for life, for money, for love, knowledge has marked the upward surge of mankind. And it's greed that is going to save us all, here and now. Because greed will bind our new fellowship together…and tear the Alliance apart."

Levitt rallied, ready to argue further, but Sheridan made a mild slashing motion with his left hand, cutting her off. He then made eye contact with President Roslin, who merely shrugged. Next with Admiral Adama, thoughtfully polishing his glasses. Adama nodded. Turning back to Edgars, he said. "Let's assume for a moment that we're…considering your idea. How do you see this working? We can't just go giving away technological secrets. They'd end up in Alliance hands, making our problems worse. And it's not as though we have an unlimited pool of science and tech secrets to share out. Limited resources is one of the reasons we're in our current position."

"Certainly, you'd need some kind of Industrial board to vet both our people and their optimal matches out in the Verse. To figure out the best matches and sources for material and production. To simplify logistics and minimize risk. I'd be happy to serve on such a board. Or perhaps Chair it."

"Of course, you would," Sandra couldn't help but snap. Sheridan ignored it.

"I see how this prolongs things…gets us a bigger fight," Matthew Gideon spoke up. "I'm not entirely sure that's a good thing. I'm still not certain I understand how this still doesn't end in them crushing us. They'll still have a massive population advantage."

"But we'll have the naval advantage for a good while," Garibaldi finally put in his opinion. "And if Edgars here is correct, we'll have both an industrial and cultural advantage. We certainly have some technological advantages. With that setup…think British Empire. Or American. Or even back to the Romans. The right culture and military, control of the sea lanes…space lanes that is…some of those empires lasted centuries. Remember the Pax Americana? And they were often outnumbered by their adversaries by an order of magnitude or two."

"But…eventually…they'll figure it out. Make the cultural changes. Adopt the new technologies and ways of doing things. And it'll only be as bloody for them as we make it. Until we can't anymore. You said it at the beginning," Matt added, nodding to Edgars. "We get maybe three generations, before they figure it out. So how does this really change our basic problem?"

"Because by the time they figure it out, young Captain," Edgars replied, "it will be too late for them. I said that we will build fantastic wealth. And we'll use that wealth to wage economic and cultural war. Think of how the British came to dominate their Empire, gaining all of their colonies and inroads into places like China. It wasn't all done by force of arms. When we have money and industry, the rich and powerful of the Alliance are going to want some. And they will deal with us to get it. We can bind them inextricably to our economy. Those who do will grow in power and wealth, while those who don't…will become irrelevant. We have plenty of advantages. There won't be any need to resort to smallpox riddled blankets or flooding their cities with opium, if those ideas concern you. Though we might need to make use of telepaths…and Cylons. Such details would be largely outside of my purview."

Uncomfortable looks rippled around the room at these ideas, but there was far more interest now than there had been. Sheridan took control. "Alright Mr. Edgars, we've heard your ideas. We may even be interested. Now if you'll excuse us…"

"Commodore, I assure you this will work! If there's anything that was unclear…"

"Mr. Edgars," Sheridan cut in, raising his voice while keeping it more or less emotionless.

"Commodore?"

"Get out while we talk about you behind your back." Garibaldi took a firm grip on the former magnate's shoulder, and gently but implacably shooed him out the door. The moment the hatch was firmly shut, Sheridan looked around at the other attendees. "Well? What do we think?"

"Sounds like flim flam, since yer askin'." Mal replied "But anything that gets yer butts movin' and into this fight…well, can't says I'd cry overmuch about that."

"You know my opinion," Levitt spoke next. "The man's a parasite. Don't let him suck up any more of our precious blood than he already does."

"His numbers were spot on, though," Captain Sinclair noted. "And his historical references were…intriguing."

"Do we really want to be affiliated with that kind of colonization?" Captain Elizabeth Lochley inquired, speaking up for the first time.

"Can we afford not to?" Roslin countered. "I may not understand all of the cultural implications here, but what I do know is that we're staring at defeat. The loss of our own cultures. The deaths of many if not all of our remaining people. It's our job to prevent that, and this is the first serious suggestion I've heard that seems to have a chance of doing so that doesn't require drowning the 'Verse in blood. Especially if those production numbers were correct."

"They were," Sinclair assured again.

"Then maybe there's actual hope here. I'm not fit to judge what is required for that kind of industrial productivity. The Colonies weren't really much more productive before the Cylon rebellion than they were afterwards. But perhaps that was baked into our culture, all the way back to the flight from Kobol. I don't know. It sounds impossible. But I've already seen too much of the impossible not to grab onto hope."

"We can learn from the past," Sheridan noted, addressing his ex-wife directly. "We don't have to do the kind of colonization you're worried about. That's more the Alliance's style. We aren't those kinds of people. We aren't here to destroy a culture. We just want to ensure our own people are given the same courtesy."

"What exactly is the downside here?" Bill cut in bluntly. "If he's wrong, we lose. If he's the kind of parasite you think he is," he added, glancing at Sandra, "then we lose. We were already looking at losing. Preparing for it." He spread a rather irritated glance between John and Laura. "I'd rather work toward victory than prepare for defeat. And if we're worried about how Mr. Edgars conducts himself, that board he mentioned might be the perfect way of keeping him in check."

There didn't seem to be any further argument, so Garibaldi stepped forward. "I'd hoped you'd see it that way. If we're going to do this, we need to get started immediately. The first step will have to be getting names and details, and contact methods, for the rich and powerful of the Rim and Border worlds. Especially those worlds that have already proven friendly to us. Marshall Roberts, I assume you can help us out there?"

"No," she said flatly.

All eyes swiveled to her. "Excuse me?" Commodore Sheridan asked sharply.

"I said 'no.' Negative. Not gonna happen. Not as things currently stand."

"And what exactly do you mean by that?"

"What do you think? You've made it entirely clear that this is at best an alliance of convenience. That you'd be forced to abandon any world the Alliance seriously set their sights on. Now you've got a brave new future opening up before you, but only if you build it on our backs. Fuck that shit!"

"The mouth on that lady," Mal muttered disapprovingly under his breath to Inara. Fortunately for him, the Marshall's tirade prevented most from overhearing, though Garibaldi was clearly suppressing a grin.

Roberts continued without pause. "You want your future? You want us to build it for you? Time to put some real skin in the game. A real partnership where you don't hang us out to dry.

The various officers looked around at each other consideringly. Eventually, Sinclair noted, "We can't pull all of the industry to Miranda. Edgars spoke about turning even small population worlds into manufacturing centers. We wouldn't want those facilities and technologies…or hulls even…falling into Alliance hands. And the Alliance will certainly try to capture some."

"Then we blow them and retreat," Bill cut in sharply. "From the planet if necessary. Regardless of wishes and intentions, we still don't have the ships, troops, or resources to properly garrison planets, much less hold them against a determined Alliance invasion."

"But neither do they," Captain Matthew Gideon offered thoughtfully. Easily the youngest person in attendance, he looked particularly youthful and inexperienced next to the likes of Bill Adama, Laura Roslin, and Saul Tigh. Nonetheless, everyone considered him thoughtfully as he continued. "Given force disparities and the length of their logistical train, they're just as short handed as we are, particularly given their recent challenges. They can't fully garrison planets either. Not many anyway. Couldn't we just…withdraw, and then retake the planet once they've drawn down? Build up industry and defense on a world or two at a time?"

"We'd be constantly trading worlds back and forth with the Alliance," Captain Sinclair noted cautiously.

"Forcing them to play Whac-A-Mole," Garibaldi responded with a grin. "I like it."

"Could you live with that?" Sheridan asked, leaning forward and spearing Roberts with a hard gaze. Adama and Roslin shared a concerned glance, but neither raised an objection.

She nodded. "It's certainly better than what we've got now."

"One provision though," he added, eyes locked unflinchingly with hers. "We're still going to meet with the Alliance in their proposed peace negotiation. Try again to stop this war before it really gets going."

"And then abandon us if they give you the offer you want?" she hissed back. "Screw that!"

"No," John shook his head. "We'll go in representing you as well. Demand peace and independence for those worlds which have aligned with us. Trying to be nice has only led to disbelief and disrespect. So we'll give them what they want. Let them believe what they want. And we'll make our demands from the strong and united front they fear. For that matter, I'm going to propose a change of venue. Insist that we hold the talks on Londinium. Maybe if we're bold enough we'll finally get their attention.

Leanne's grimace softened, and she sat back, partially mollified. Still, she wouldn't quite let up. "How do I know I can trust you?" she asked consideringly.

Commodore John Sheridan stared at her just as thoughtfully. Finally, he pulled open his jacket lapel and slowly reached into an inside breast pocket. He withdrew his hand, holding a small data crystal, then leaned forward and slid it across the table to her.

Glancing down, she hesitated to pick it up. "What's this?"

"The security codes for command access to that Crete class carrier, just sitting out there a couple of kilometers away. We've patched it up, and given how quickly she fell, she's still carrying over a thousand fighters. Every one of which is superior to any of the vessels you ran in your so-called navy during the last war. Much less the…what?...three or four Q-ships you've got operating now?"

"A couple of squadrons actually," she muttered almost under her breath. She stared at the crystal, wide eyed, still hesitating. The wheels turning behind her eyes were plainly visible for all to see. As was the moment when they stopped, her decision made. Her hand shot out, snatching up the crystal, and she met Sheridan's gaze once more. "Alright Commodore. You've got yourself a deal."