OBT Forum

very nice minor nit pick Pegasus CO is Helena Cain not Kaine.

Otherwise nice, flashbang in the boot well that's new... not much left of the boot in the end I'm betting

I like how the terrorists know about Pegasus and Galactica but stayed the hell away.  I wonder if Mathias will chase after them now he knows they are/were around

Fixed.  I also corrected the flash-bang in the boot; instead it is built into one of the ring connectors on Sidewinder's flight suit.

MA

We had to nuke the city to save the people...

Episode 3:  Angel of Death

Scorpia emerged at the coordinates given to Mathias by Sam and Jon.  He had left an engineering party at Charon to make certain that both Leonis Pryde and Anubis were ready for the upcoming operation, along with a team of volunteers to load the supplies of the Charonites (as his crew had dubbed them), onboard the freighter.  They had located Anton’s ship—a small Auroch-class transport barely larger than one of the Mk II Shuttles carried in Scorpia’s flight pods; and with it his cache of “the good stuff”.  Rechristened as the Bounty, the ship’s holds had been packed with luxury goods—Ambrosia, dozens of different brands of beer and wine, hard liquors, cigars, cigarettes, and loose tobacco, pharmaceuticals of both legal and illegal varieties, and tons upon tons of canned provisions. 

Not standard Colonial rations or tins of beef or sausage, but extremely expensive and uncommon food items that the wealthy who had acquired a taste would pay dearly for.

Mathias had ordered that the contents of the hold aboard Bounty be transferred aboard Scorpia, and under the watchful eye of Lieutenant Gian, they had been inventoried and stowed away in several of the secure lockers.   And then, he had departed to retrieve the ships that Sam and Jon had told him of.  Both had declined to go; neither had been willing to tell him why.  Just that they didn’t want to visit that place again—and that afterwards, neither would he.

“Multiple contacts,” sang out Danis from her station.  “No transponders, reading no power—they are adrift.”

“Scorpia, Arclight,” the wireless broadcast.  “I have a visual.  Reading six, no seven, civilian vessels—all are cold and dead; zero emissions.”

“Copy, Arclight,” Mathias said into the phone.  “We want the Cybele-class freighter and the Kimba Huta-class transport.  See if you can get power restored aboard those two.”

“Copy, Scorpia, we are go for docking with the freighter—Pancake and his team have the transport.”

Mathias racked the phone, and he turned to face Denise Church.  “How long?”

“If what Major Caldwell says is right, that the only thing wrong is they are missing the listed parts, thirty minutes to install our spares and thirty more to confirm all systems are good.  She did say that the other ships held a fair amount of other supplies, though.”

“Yes, she did,” Mathias muttered.  “Colonel Jayne, I want a team of engineers aboard Shuttles One and Two; search the remaining ships, take whatever we can use and fit aboard.  Including their tylium—drain the tanks to squeeze aboard every drop we can fit.  And let’s get Green Squadron on patrol—I want a solid CAP in case we have company.”

“Scorpia, Arclight,” came a voice that even through the static Mathias could tell was taut with tension.

“Arclight, Scorpia Actual, go,” he said after picking up the phone.”

“Scorpia Actual, my team has boarded the freighter—identification Scylla.  I think you need to see this for yourself.”

****************************************************

The knock on the hatch went unanswered.  So did the second.  Colonel Thomas “Torch” Jayne frowned and he opened the hatch anyway—the Marine standing guard said nothing.  He too had heard the scuttlebutt.

Tom walked into the Commander’s quarters on Scorpia, and he nodded at Mathias who was seated behind his desk, watching a video recording play over-and-over again.  The video that Arclight—Lieutenant Ian Herjavec—had discovered on Scylla after his arrival and before the Commander had boarded that ship.  The log books of the seven derelict ships were stacked on his desk . . . beside a bottle.  But the bottle hadn’t been opened, and the glass was dry.

“I understand it was pretty bad, Commander,” he said, and Mathias finally looked up.

“That doesn’t begin to describe it, Colonel,” Mathias sighed and he ran his fingers through his hair.  “Want a drink?”

“Sure,” his XO answered and he picked up the bottle, uncorked it and poured two fingers into his friend’s glass and then another two for himself.  “What happened, Mat?” he asked as he sat.  “You haven’t said one word since you got back here.”

“They were survivors fleeing the attack, Tom.  One thousand, six hundred and forty-four survivors aboard all eight ships; and then they were found; not by the Cylons but instead by the Colonial Fleet.”

Oh shit, Tom thought, the blood draining from his face.  “Say again?” he croaked.

“Battlestar Pegasus, Rear Admiral Helena Cain, commanding,” Matt continued, and then he took a sip of the powerful liquor.  “She sent over an engineering detail, performed a survey on the all the ships—and then she sent her Marines over to impress one hundred and seventeen of those survivors into her crew . . . and loot the ships for spare parts.  She took their FTL components.”

“Gods,” whispered Tom, as he took a slug of the whiskey.  “What the hells was she thinking?”

Mathias looked up and he shook his head.  “Then she left them there.  Her Marines had to gun down ten on Scylla—forty-one more on the other ships—before the civilians gave up those that were useful for her.  And she left the rest of them in interstellar space, without FTLs—she left them adrift and derelict  and she never came back.”

He took another sip.  “The captains spoke about their situation—but no one had the supplies to replace the components, not even for one ship, let alone seven.  They and their survivors—the fourteen hundred and seventy-six men, women, and children, did I tell you that three hundred and eighty-two of the survivors were children, Tom?—knew they didn’t have the provisions, water, or fuel to make to the nearest system.  Not under sub-light.  Hell, they didn’t have the atmosphere to make it to the nearest system.  So they made the only decision that they could.”

“What little medical supplies Cain left them with, they used to give the children an overdose of narcotics, letting them drift off to a painless sleep and then death.  And after that, since Helena fracking Cain,” and his voice got even colder and angrier than Tom had ever heard, “had taken all of their weapons, the seven skippers each took a scalpel from those same medical supplies and cut the throats of each and every one of the adults and teenagers that were left.  When they had finished, they shut down all their systems, turned off the power, and took their own lives.  Most of them by taking a walk out the airlock.”

The Commander took another sip.  Tom took another swallow.  “Maybe she had a reason, Mat,” he began.

“A reason?  Tom, I thought she was a fine officer before I left, but the woman that did this—I don’t care if she had a gods-damned reason!  I don’t care if she is finest tactician and strategist in the Fleet or if she pisses pure tylium and shits fissile material!  She murdered these civilians as certain as if she pulled the trigger on each and every one of them herself.  She and her crew left them behind to die.  She broke faith with everyone who has worn this uniform the moment she did this—it was her duty to keep those civilians safe, regardless of what she might have wanted.  Not to strand them light-years from nowhere.  Not to leave them with no hope.  Not to force parents to watch their children die before their own lives were taken.  She had no right to do that, Tom.  And no reason, no excuse, will ever justify it.”

He took another sip.

“Do you have an update from Major Church for me, Colonel?” he asked.

“We will be ready in fifteen minutes,” Tom answered as he sat down the glass and stood.

“Good.  The salvage teams for the other ships?”

Tom swallowed heavily.  “We’ve recovered all the pressurized tanks of atmosphere, all of their water stocks, their food stores, and what other supplies they had left.  We transferred as much tylium as possible aboard Scorpia, and topped off both Scylla and Umino Hana.”

“Good.  I’ll be in CIC in ten minutes, Tom,” he said as he took another sip.  Tom Jayne nodded and he turned to go, but then his friend’s voice stopped him.  “Just so you know, Tom, if we find her I intend to relieve her, try her, and jettison her fracking ass out a launch tube—and to do the same to every last crewman who carried out her orders.”

“Pegasus outguns us, Mat,” Tom whispered.  “And Admiral Cain won’t let an officer subordinate to her relieve her without a fight.”

“I’m willing to give her that fight, Tom.  What she did was criminal, it was evil, and I will not stand by and let someone like that wear the same uniform as you and I.  Have plotting set a course back for Charon as soon as you arrive—I want to leave this . . . graveyard . . . far behind us.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” Tom answered and then he stepped through the hatch.

A severed jugular is quite a bit more merciful than explosive decompression.  Yes, it would have been easier, but bleeding out isn't very painful once the incision is made.  I wanted it to be believeable and hard-hitting; much like the end of the defenders at Masada.

MA

Sidewinder just shook his head.  “I never thought I would see these outside a museum,” he muttered as he examined the ten Raptors housed in the old-style hanger bays aboard Anubis.  “These relics can fly?”

Eight of the small vessels were antiques from the Cylon War—the First Cylon War, Sidewinder thought to himself bitterly.  Complete with the rear mounted cannon and gunner’s station.  “I thought all of these were scrapped ages ago—they lack the EW capabilities of the Mk IV and their sensors are shorter ranged.”  And the pilot from Scorpia frowned.  “And what is up with the decorations?” he asked.  Because instead of the brownish-green coloration of Fleet Raptors, these Raptors had been painted in garish multi-colored murals of slathering jaws and burning eyes and flames and scantily-clad angels fighting hordes of demonic creatures, half organic and half machine.  It was . . . awe-inspiring, the detail and the imagination involved, the skill and passion that motivated the painters, but it had definitely not been what Sidewinder had expected.

Sam Caldwell chuckled.  “They fly, Captain—they fly and they can jump, and if their ECM and sensors aren’t as good as Mk IVs, they are good enough for our movement.  As for the art, well, that’s a long story.”

Sidewinder leaned back against the wing of the one of the flamboyant vessels and he crossed his arm.  “Well, since Major Church’s teams are getting this old girl back into shape—we’ve got a few minutes.”

Sam nodded, and she sighed.  She motioned with her head and walked Sidewinder back through the port hanger to where his Raptor had been parked; unlike modern ships, this vessel lacked elevators; after landing the hanger doors had closed and the ship had flooded the compartment with atmosphere—that would make it difficult on the pilots when the small fleet jumped back into Cyrannus, he thought.  But then he spotted something, and he sucked in a deep breath.  “What the . . .,” but he felt Sam’s hand on his arm and he cut off the expletive he had been about to shout.

“That’s our artist, Captain Greene,” she said pointing out the young man—maybe twenty-four or twenty-five—crouched down beside Sidewinder’s Raptor.  Cans of paint and brushes at his feet; and one in his hand.  He was busy bending over, wetting a brush that he held, and then quickly drawing on the hull.

“He’s painting my Raptor, Major,” Sidewinder said through clenched teeth, and she nodded. 

“He does that,” she answered and then she frowned.  “Daniel,” she called out, and the man looked up.  “Don’t paint over the sensor heads—understand?”

The artist nodded and he went back to work.  “He doesn’t talk,” she informed the pilot from Scorpia.   "He hasn’t said a word in the past two years that I’ve been part of Jon’s organization.  He isn’t mute, he just doesn’t talk,” and Sam turned to face the pilot, a stern look on her face.  “And he isn’t ‘special’ either, the way people talk about the mentally underdeveloped.  I’ve got the feeling he’s probably smarter than the rest of us—he’s just . . .,” she sighed.  “He’s been hurt.  And he only communicates now through his art.”

Sidewinder nodded; it didn’t take a genius to see that she liked the kid.  And that calling him slow or dumb or dimwit would be a remarkably bad idea.  “If he doesn’t talk, then how did you know his name?”

She smiled.  “He was wearing a set of tags on a chain around his neck when he wandered into one of our safe-houses on Tauron—one step ahead of a very irate civilian upset at him for painting his wall.  Well, hitting Daniel was the last mistake that ass ever made—and Jon had a soft-spot for the kid.  He pitches right in and helps on whatever we need, but he won’t pick up a weapon—he doesn’t like it when we carry weapons.”  She shrugged.  “And if he isn’t helping us or sleeping, he’s painting.  He paints everything—wait until you see the internal corridors.”

Sidewinder couldn’t help himself; he began to laugh, despite the sudden glare from the Major. 

“What is so funny?”

The pilot tried to catch his breath, but he was laughing so hard that tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.  At last, he held up one hand, and he nodded.  “You’ve served with the Commander, apparently.  I was just thinking of what HIS reaction would be if your Daniel started painting the halls on Scorpia.”

“Oh, Lords,” Sam chuckled with a grin.  “I’ve got to make certain that Daniel doesn’t find his way over there—especially not with a can of paint.  Mat would go completely off his rocker.”

“So what’s the story between you two?” Sidewinder asked—but the stern and cold stare of the Major made him raise his hands in surrender.  “Okay, don’t want to talk about it; I’m good with that, Major.  So, the kid have a last name?”

“Nope.  Only thing on the tags was an engraving of the name Daniel; no last name, no address, no social identification number, nothing but his first name,” Sam said after a moment.   

The ship’s PA system sounded, and a voice echoed in the hanger bay.  “Skipper, the Colonials are back—two ships in tow,” and Sidewinder winced.

“Not exactly following form, are they?”

Sam shrugged.  “You take what you can get—beggars can’t be choosers, Mister Greene.  Join me in CIC for when the Commander calls?”

“Well, that depends on what kind of a mood he’s in; and since all of your people dance around why none of you want to go back there, I think I’ll make certain your Raptors are good to go, while YOU go talk to the Commander.”

Sam snorted.  “I’ll be damned.  A pilot that knows better than to charge blindly where the angels fear to tread.”

Ah, Daniel.  The artist who was the mother's favourite and was cast out by the jealous brother.

One minor (well, pretty fracking major) alteration in canon, folks.  I got to looking at those images of the Valkyrie-class again.  And folks are right; well she has a LOT of guns, they are pretty much smaller than those on Galactica and Pegasus.  But then I saw this image:

Valkyrie image bow

See those six black dots, three each to the right and left of her nose?  I said to myself, Arminas, damn, if those don't look like old fashioned torpedo tubes.  So, that's what they are.  Not wet-navy torps, of course, but horizontal missile launchers for anti-ship missiles.  Her dorsal silos carry the big MIRV ground attack missiles, but those front tubes can be reloaded. 

Ah, I can feel the smiles already.  Yep, that gives her one great big fracking punch to forward . . . enough to rival a Mercury-class and that is if she doesn't launch nuclear-tipped missiles from those tubes.

Anyway, that is why the story had that brief scene in the missile loading bay; it was for those tubes.

MA