Standard Disclaimer: The overall storyline is the intellectual
and legal property of those August Personages: Ronald D. Moore and the SciFi
Channel. This is being written without
their leave, approval, knowledge (I hope), or with any hope of material profit
on my part. In other words, this is done
purely for fun and not profit. Please
no-one sue me ‘cause I’m too broke from University to bother with. There will be violence, swearing,
technobabble, a bit of romance, a few surprises, a few explosions, angst, a few
more explosions, treacherous toasters, free alcohol, anxieties about pathogens,
and the kitchen sink. Any of this
bothers anyone, please leave now ‘cause I’m not apologizing later.
Summary: What if the Thirteenth Colony was real? What would they look like? And what would they make of their cousins
from the stars?
Timeline: This takes place some two years following
the events in “Maelstrom”, with the following provisos: Starbuck doesn’t return
to the Fleet, Lee and Dee stay split up, Lee doesn’t rejoin the military, the
Fleet survived Baltar’s trial, Baltar isn’t executed or assassinated, Caprica
has followed Athena and joined the Galactica, and the Thirteenth Colony isn’t
just a legend. What’s happened in the
interim? You’ll just have to read and
see.
Pairings: Not saying!
Remember: REVIEWS = MORE FANFIC!
That all said, onwards and upwards…
<><><>
The Long Road Home – Book I
Book I: Promised Land
Part 1
<><><>
The virus was created by human
hands.
It grew. It evolved.
It escaped. Humans called it The Blight.
It killed. Five billion humans died.
Humanity survived their mistake,
barely.
Fifty years later…
20 July 2069 Common Era
1148 Hours GMT
Terran Defense Forces
Headquarters – “The Octagon”
McLean, Virginia Territory,
North America
For a
man most directly responsible for the defense of an entire planet and its
peoples and all its extra-planetary installations and ventures, Undersecretary
of Fleet Operations Robert N. Cornwell did not strike a very cutting figure and
made no effort to. He was comfortable in
his role of chief bureaucrat of a fast-sprawling department who served as
occasional eye-candy for the media.
There was no question of his qualifications for his job, mind; he’d been
among the first to make sense of the find in Alaska and had personally
supervised the construction of the Olympus
herself, as well as the laying down of her two sister ships.
It was
not unknown for him to spend days on end at his suite in the Octagon, either
terrorizing contractors who were slow in their delivery or badgering the
uniform brass about one thing or another.
It didn’t hurt his wife was currently serving off-world aboard the Bouhuchan currently.
That
morning found the Undersecretary walking from a just-completed video conference
between himself and his longtime bete
noir and nominal superior, Undersecretary of Defense Anthony Baker, who had
yet to ever step foot inside the Octagon itself or any of the ships he was
supposed to be in overall charge of. The
man was a borderline disaster as an administrator and director. His one saving grace was having the ear of
powerful concerns in Hong Kong and within the Euro-Combine, which meant he
could push through appropriations faster than most. The office of UNSECDEF was effectively
toothless anyway despite its placement in the TOE and it was hoped his
out-of-control ego would do the least amount of damage there.
Sadly,
Baker had apparently made it his life’s mission to antagonize a certain CCAW,
which caused FLEETOPS no end of worry that said CCAW might actually follow
through with her many threats to geld, eviscerate, mangle, flay, or otherwise
dismantle the UNSECDEF with a blowtorch and pair of pliers. The past week with her off-planet had been
nothing short of heaven, even if it did leave daily arguments with Barker over
readiness issues or Rear Admiral Cornelius about construction schedules.
He was
heading to his own suite of offices, dreams of home-brewed espresso dancing in
his head, when he noticed his uniformed aide hurrying toward him. “Sir?” the younger man called, slightly out
of breath.
“Catch
your breath, Marcel,” Cornwell grinned.
“Nothing’s that urgent.”
The
aide handed him a single sheet of hardcopy that had been folded over so only
its heading was visible. “Emergency
Flash Traffic from the Olympus, Sir.”
“Yes,
the big block letters at the top are a little hard to read.” Captain Janos Marcel was one of those literal
types Cornwell could never resist gently needling. He put on his archaic reading glasses and
unfolded the paper.
“It’s
signed by Admiral Rice…” Marcel attempted to continue.
The
Undersecretary took off his glasses and waved them toward the aide. “These do work you know.” He quickly settled them back onto his nose
and refocused on the paper before him.
There was a dangerous undercurrent to his voice when he spoke a second
or two later.
“Have
you read this?”
“No,
Sir. It was marked your eyes only…”
“This
is nearly three minutes old.”
“Coding
delays, Sir.”
Without
taking his eyes off the paper, the Undersecretary broke off into a brisk trot
down the wide corridor. Marcel hustled
to keep up with him and make sure he caught the many orders his civilian
superior snapped off.
“Signal
a recall all staff and implementation of all COACs.”
“Yes,
Sir.” He’d already pulled his wireless
pad from his uniform pocket and was typing in the orders and the ones that
followed. Marcel didn’t notice the
direction they’d been moving until they stepped into a very special
elevator. He had accompanied his
superior into here only once, nearly two years ago. The next words from the Undersecretary, fully
expected as they were, left him chilled as no others might.
“We are
at Case ZULU,” Cornwell stated, the doors clicking closed that same instant.
<><><>
Eleven hours earlier...
0037
Hours GMT
Asteroid
Belt
2.35
Astronomical Units (AUs) from Sol
202.5
Million Kilometers from Earth orbit
Battlestar
Olympus (TBS-1)
Advance
Patrol/Training Cruise
Day
6 of 8
The six
Vipers of Black Wing shot out of their launch tubes at standard acceleration
and quickly formed into their pre-assigned pairs and vectored towards their CAP
sectors. The Vipers were the newer,
dart-shaped Mark Vs, some of the first ones off the production lines back in
Norfolk and Detroit. They had just completed their shakedowns over the White
Sands Test Range so it was no surprise Black Wing was assigned them for their
first run.
Terran humanity had only recently left its home world’s
gravity and taken its first steps to Earth’s closer neighbors. This didn’t mean it was wholly ignorant of
the dangers it would likely face someday.
Hence, the rigorous on-the-job training Viper pilots received with their
hardware. Olympus’s Black Wing was
the oldest ‘classes’ of Viper drivers to survive their introduction to
aerospace combat flight school, and so always got first crack at the newest
models.
Their
departure was monitored via the AEGIS sensor array. An evolutionary outgrowth of the Advanced
Electronic Guidance Information System used by various ‘wet’ navies of the
previous century for integrated missile guidance and defense, AEGIS acted as
the integrated sensory and analytic brain of the Battlestar, constantly
receiving streams of geo-astronomical and astro-radiological data as well as
internal reports and meshing them all into a single cohesive picture. The AEGIS was a Battlestar’s first ‘shield’
against dangers both natural and artificial, ideally capable of alerting the
CIC to anything larger than a grain of dust approaching the ship. If worse came to worse, it could be released
from manual interfaces and able to respond to multiple incoming threats
instanteously.
The current exercise was intended to look in on a
Euro-Combine mining expedition that had recently started working in the edge of
the ‘Belt while also giving the Fleet a chance to shake the bugs out of the new
planes. The second shift had finished
taking over in CIC and the standard rounds of updates and reports were being
collated for review by the Command staff.
In all, another quiet day aboard Terra’s first Battlestar.
It was rather a surprise then when Commander Richard
Avery-Hunter, the ship’s CO, cried out in his distinctive Oxbridge accent
“Admiral on the Bridge.” As one, the
crew straightened where they sat or stood for a moment as Admiral Theodore Rice
stepped into sight.
“As you were,” the Admiral immediately declared,
privately relieved when the crew returned their tasks and all visibly relaxed.
He was an American by birth but distinctly African in heritage, complete with a
complexion of dark mocha and equally dark eyes that missed nothing around
him. Like the Commander, he wore the
familiar Duty Uniform the Terran Fleet had adopted, a double-breasted tunic
with buttons on the right side, with fitted trousers tucked into combat boots,
but wore a white beret, whereas the Commander and other officers wore ones
whose midnight blue matched the fabric of their uniforms. His tunic also sported gold piping and a
single gold band about each wrist, where the others wore silver and slimmer
bands denoting their rank.
He was intimately familiar with the workings of the
Bridge, having stood precisely where Avery-Hunter now did for the better part
of two years before his promotion six months ago. Rice, then a mere Lieutenant Commander back
then, had been among the naval personnel who had assisted in the excavation of
the Olympus’s “mother” from the
Alaskan tundra nearly twenty years ago.
Since then he’d been immersed in building the Terran Fleet from the keel
up and likely was the second-best expert on the technology and tactics involved
in the whole damned fleet. The first
best, the real expert, on the other
hand…
“Launch run okay?” he asked his former XO.
The Oxford native nodded, eyes on the AEGIS screens
mounted overhead. “No worries, Sir. Mark Fives seem to be running fine.”
“Remind me again why we agreed to this?” The question had been asked frequently
between the two of them over the last six days.
Every time Black Wing launched from their tubes, in fact.
“Because a certain person stated she would geld Cornelius
and tear Barker’s face off unless
granted some ‘stick time’.” The reply
was as practiced as any order Avery-Hunter might bark to his staff and crew,
delivered as evenly as calmly as the question itself. Admiral Antonius Cornelius was the director
of the Fleet Bureau of Ships, responsible for the design and construction of
every hull of every Battlestar, Viper and every other Fleet vessel planned,
while Anthony Baker was the civilian head of the Terran military offices; both
were necessary pains to deal with. Threats of violence against either or both
were not unknown.
The difference was the person in question would actually
go through with such threats; hence the need to get them off-planet and back
behind the stick for a bit.
“Sir,” called out Specialist First Class Neil Sorrenson,
one of the AEGIS monitors. Avery-Hunter
took a last long look at the monitors overhead and turned to step towards the
monitor in question. Normally he’d have
left such things to his XO, but Colonel Callisto was down in Engineering at
that moment. He wasn’t surprised to find
Rice shadowing him over.
Sorrenson gave both a nod of acknowledgement, but
addressed his CO directly. “Sir, I’ve
been monitoring the, uh, wireless channels used by the Viper patrols…”
“And?”
“Well, sir, I seem to be getting a bit of interference at
the upper 400 band.”
“That’s unusual,” Admiral Rice noted quietly, letting his
mind pick at this little puzzle.
Wireless communication still wasn’t that far removed from old fashioned
radio, save for the power used to generate the signals and the sensitivity of
the receivers used. Civilian
transmissions were limited to the 100 to 299.89 transmission bands, while the
Fleet had exclusive rights to everything in the 300 to 499.99 bands. Interference like Sorrenson was reading was
only possible if you had a stronger signal source transmitting along a higher
band near the specific band-setting.
“What setting are you monitoring?” the Admiral asked.
“497.99, sir,” Sorrenson replied, then specified. “Black Alpha.”
The CO
groaned and Rice couldn’t help but wince.
Both men understood better than the Specialist did what those two pieces
of information might portend. The first
was that there was something out there that was broadcasting somewhere in the
low 500 wireless setting. For reasons few within either the
Fleet or the public knew about, settings at 500 and higher were strictly
prohibited. At the very least, they were looking at a potentially serious breach
of military security protocols.
The more worrying was the second part. ‘Black Alpha’ was the designation for Black
Leader and wingman while they were on CAP.
And given precisely who was
acting as Black Leader this week…
“We’d better bring ‘em home, eh?” Avery-Hunter’s grin held neither cockiness
nor joviality right then as he quickly moved back to his ‘desk’ in the middle
of the bridge. He quickly pulled the
wireless from its cradle on the side and ordered, “Patch me to Black
Alpha.”
The Comms officer, First Lieutenant August Samson, tapped
several keys on his keyboard then looked up. “Connected, Sir.”
“Black Alpha, Olympus
Actual.”
“Greyhound
responding, Olympus
Actual.”
“We’ve…stand by, Black Alpha.” Avery-Hunter gave the Admiral a puzzled look
at his superior’s sudden gesture for him to stop. “Sir?”
Since their respective promotions, both men had been conscious to keep
the expanded professional distance between them. Not to say it was easy for either of them,
though.
“Keep them out there for an eye-spy,” the Admiral said
quietly.
“You want to keep ‘em out there?”
The Admiral shrugged and pointed out, “They’re fairly
close to Bingo Fuel as it is. And this
is why we’re out here in the first place, right?” It wasn’t really a question and didn’t
require a real answer. The Commander
simply nodded his understanding and raised the wireless handset again.
“Black Alpha, we’re picking up a transmission on the
restricted band in your sector. We are
sending new vectors to you now. Check
out the general vicinity of the transmission and report your findings. ROE is now eye-spy.” Avery-Hunter looked back to Specialist
Sorrenson and snapped his fingers.
Sorrenson quickly typed the commands into his console, and then gave a
thumbs-up sign.
“Eye-spy. Copy that, Olympus Actual.
Receiving new vectors now.”
A second voice filtered through the wireless; Greyhound’s
(temporary) wingman stated, “We’re about
ten minutes from Bingo Fuel, Olympus
Actual.”
“I am aware. Your
discretion.”
“Understood,
Olympus
Actual. Black Alpha clear.”
Both Commander and Admiral looked back up at the main
AEGIS display, watching as the two blips representing Black Alpha moved from
their established route and veered sharply towards the ‘Belt itself.
<><><>
0055 Hours GMT
Black Alpha
Five minutes to Bingo Fuel
Captain Charles Barker, call sign Greyhound, kept one eye
on his AEGIS and the other on the Viper on his starboard wing. The section of the ‘Belt they were now
cruising over had recently played host to some of the Euro-Combine’s remote
miners, though you wouldn’t be able to tell simply because the ‘Belt itself was
about as substantial as a light fog and even less of a navigational hazard to
them right then.
This was just as well as his attention was taken up by
his wingman’s decidedly uncharacteristic silence. “You okay over there?” he asking into their
ship-to-ship commlink.
“Copasetic,”
was the terse reply, putting a lie to the word.
“Right. What’s
up?”
“Just…remembering
the last time I flew an op like this.”
“Bad?”
“Not bad
bad. Just…we had an ace fighter we were
hunting back then. Plus I was paired up
with a real piece of work, y’know?”
“Worse than the current class?” The thought made Greyhound chuckle, as if
there were something amusing about there being a bigger screw-up in the
universe than the current crop of ‘nuggets’ undergoing instruction back
Earth-side.
“Good
stick-jockey. Lousy drunk, tho’.”
“Takes one t’know one, eh?” Greyhound chuckled again as his wingman
nudged their Viper unsettlingly close to his own. He caught sight of a decidedly rude gesture
being thrown his way from the other cockpit.
“Back attcha.” There wasn’t a
single bigger teetotaler in the Fleet than this one.
“Frak you.”
“Anytime, Boss.”
Greyhound stole a glance at his HUD and continued in a more serious
tone. “We’re less than two minutes from
Bingo and I’m picking up nothing but dust.”
“Same
here. Guess we’re chasing ghosts…hold
it.”
“What?”
“Movement
on my Five.” Without
further comment, his wingman fired their maneuvering thrusters and took off at
a 60-degree angle below the horizon, firing their burners and heading on a
collision course with the fog of the ‘Belt itself. This behavior made perfect sense a moment
later when Greyhound caught sight of a flash of movement far below them. He quickly guessed it was over 20 kilometers
distant and just emerging from the ‘Belt itself, the small trail of dust and
stone that followed in its wake a clear sign of its passage.
He had no time to discern more details however as the
object flashed…and vanished. Whatever
curse he might have offered was overwhelmed by the vitriol his wingman began
shouting that same instant.
“It jumped!
Frak!”
“Olympus Actual, this is Greyhound. Come back?”
“Olympus
Actual here, Greyhound. We registered an
FTL event near you.”
“The
frakker jumped right in front of us!” his wingman growled, then continued in
a calmer voice. “I got a shot of him on my nose plate, though. Might be enough for analysis.”
“All
right. Come back to the Barn, both of
you. Black leader, you are to take your
data-card directly to ISA when you land.
I’m launching Gold Wing to take over.
Acknowledge.”
“Acknowledged, Olympus Actual. Greyhound clear.”
“Acknowledged,
Olympus Actual. Black Leader, clear.”
With that, both Vipers returned to formation and hit
their burners, winging back to their home.
Behind them, the celestial wreckage drifted on, seemingly as undisturbed
as when the stars and planets beyond first formed.
<><><>
0103 Hours GMT
Battlestar Olympus
Portside Hanger Deck
There was a trio of Marines waiting for Black Leader’s
Viper as it was lowered from the recovery deck. They were careful to keep out of the way of
the Deck Crews who hustled forward to begin their standard workups of the newly
returned planes, moving forward only when all six Vipers were locked and their
engines had finished cycling down. The
Deck was quickly filled with the sounds of machinery and movement that was nigh
unto deafening. The Marines quickly
found the pilot they sought and nimbly weaved their way there. “Colonel?” shouted the senior of the trio, a
rough-faced Captain named NFN (No First Name) Flynn. He was XO of the Olympus’s Marine detachment and had the sort of voice you’d take
pains to avoid having directed towards you, no matter the occasion.
Black Leader simply held a hand up and assisted the Chief
Petty Officer in opening the nose of the Viper.
So great was the haste involved that the Colonel hadn’t even broken the
helmet seals yet. The CPO, a wiry
specimen with parched-looking skin and gray hair named McCoy, reached into the
nose assembly and gently pried out a small card out of the tangle of wires and
sensory instrumentation there. “Data
card for your AEGIS,” McCoy stated unnecessarily, his voice barely audible over
the din.
The Colonel nodded and cradled the wafer-thin piece in
both hands, allowing Major Flynn and one his men to take the lead out of the
Hanger Deck, the third quickly bringing up the rear. The Marine’s uniforms, similar to those worn
by the ship’s officers but khaki and trimmed with olive green, cleared a path
for them through the labyrinthine corridors of the ship as surely as if the CO
himself had ordered all personnel to hug the walls until further notice.
The Imaging and Signals Analysis Unit was located
Portside on Deck Kappa (K). Even so, it was a good ten minutes of power walking
before they reached their destination. The ISA Unit area itself was little more
than a series of dedicated workstations and standalone mainframes with a
handful of specialists operating them.
The unit’s head, Lieutenant Glenn Collins, was standing ready to receive
the card when they arrived. He was holding
an internal comms when they arrived and spoke into it as soon as they were in
sight.
“They’re arriving now, Sirs. I’m putting this on speaker.” With that, Collins hit a side control and
settled the handset back on its cradle.
“Sirs, are you hearing us?”
“Affirmative,
Lieutenant. This is Admiral Rice. Who’s down there with you?”
The Marine officer cleared his throat and called out
“Sir, this is Captain Flynn. With me are
Lance Corporal Jilani and PFC Hamlaan.”
The Colonel, who had deposited the data
card into Collins’s hands while Flynn was speaking, made quick work of the
catches on the flight helmet and pulled it off.
Taking a moment to shake a head of short, sweat-streaked blonde hair
free of the helmet, the Colonel stated, “This is Black Leader, Admiral. I’ve had the data card in my hands since
landing and in full view of Major Flynn and his men. I have now placed it directly into Lieutenant
Collins’s hands.”
“Confirmed. Chain of Custody noted. Collins?”
“Sir?”
“Make this
your priority. Work back from the FTL
event recorded and give us as much as you can wash up on the vehicle in
question.”
“Aye-aye, Sir.”
The junior officer was quick to relocate himself to a workstation well
away from the others.
“Captain
Flynn?”
“Admiral?”
“Please
escort Black Leader back to her quarters.”
“Aye-aye, Sir.” The Marine officer tone and stance gave
nothing away. The Colonel was far less
restrained, quickly grabbing up handset and argued in a completely respectful
yet forceful tone “Sir, I have to debrief Black…” She paused and listened. “Yes, Sir.
Greyhound is perfectly capable…no, Sir.
I haven’t forgotten my other…obligations. I appreciate that…very well, Sir.” She placed the handset back on its cradle and
gathered up her flight helmet. “Let’s
go, boys.”
Her tone was flint-hard now and she marched with the sort
of purpose that no fool would dare stand in the way of. The Marines were quick to form up behind
her. More than a few of the rest of the
crew in the hallways made it a point of getting out of the much-respected and
volatile officer’s path as well.
The Colonel spared none of them glance, her attention
instead taken up by two small tasks: number one was maneuvering her way to her
quarters on C Deck, which would have proven far, far easier if she didn’t also
have to, number two, studiously ignore the tall figure that took up position at
her shoulder. His unshaven chin and
scruffy civilian clothing stood out like a beacon amid the crisp uniforms
surrounding them.
In another time and place, the figure would have gone by
the name of Leoben Conoy. But not here,
not now.
“The Admiral was right, you know,” the figure said
quietly, for the Colonel’s ears alone.
“You have been…remiss…in your personal duties.” They were intimate words, free of malice or
rancor.
“Frak off,” was the Colonel’s equally quiet reply, though
far heavier with both malice and rancor.
“You’ll have to make a decision at some point, you
know.” He leaned close enough that his
lips practically tickled her ear.
“There’s no escaping it.”
“When I want your damned opinion, I’ll give it to you.”
“Colonel?” The
Colonel cursed under her breath, irritated that she’d raised her voice enough
that Flynn had caught it.
“Nothing, Major,” she said with a throwaway smirk over
her shoulder. “Just…thinking
aloud.” Another glance behind her confirmed
Leoben had vanished back to where he’d come from. Nearly two years now, he’d been bothering her
and she was still overreacting to
him. She refused to bother further with
that train of thought and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the
other.
They ate up the remaining deck space to the residential
section. The Marine who stood guard at
the door to the quarters she had been assigned immediately straightened and
snapped a parade-ground salute to her.
Kara returned it and studied the nameplate that had been affixed to the
door as she unconsciously tapped in the entrance code into the small keypad
that served as the door’s handle.
CCAW
Colonel Kara A. Thrace
“Starbuck”
The door unlocked automatically and Kara Antigone Thrace,
call sign “Starbuck” and Commander of Combined Air Wings, Terran Fleet, stepped
through with a jovial call of “Honey, I’m home.” The door automatically shut behind her,
cutting off any reply that might have been heard within.
<><><>
Dictionary:
Bingo
Fuel –a prebriefed amount of fuel that would allow a
safe return to the base of intended landing
CAP –
Combat Air Patrol
CCAW
– Commander of Combined Air Wing
CO –
Commanding Officer
COOC
– Continuity of Action Contingencies
FLEETOPS
– Undersecretary of Terran Defense Fleet Operations
FTL –
Faster Than Light, used in reference to the spatial drive systems that allow a
ship to ‘jump’/teleport great distances
GMT –
Greenwich Mean Time
HUD –
Head’s Up Display
ROE –
Rules of Engagement
TOE –
Table of Organization and Equipment
XO –
Executive Officer
UNSECDEF – Undersecretary of
Terran Defense