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Sidewinder looked up as Mathias slid into the copilot’s seat, even though he was not today wearing a flight suit—and he, the Commander, looked pissed.  So did the passenger.

“Flight has cleared us to return to Scorpia, Sir,” he said.

“Negative, Sidewinder,” Mathias answered in a clipped voice as he put the auxiliary wireless headset on his head.  “Set course for Colonial One.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” the pilot answered softly as the elevator lifted the Raptor from Galactica’s hanger deck to the flight deck.

“Scorpia, Gremlin,” the Commander broadcast. 

“Gremlin, Scorpia.  Go.”

“Put Torch on, Scorpia.”

There was a pause.

“Gremlin, Torch.  Go.”

“Get Captain Marsden and Special Agent Von aboard a Raptor, along with Master-at-Arms Juris and some of his people—and I want them armed,” Mathias ordered.  “Tell them to bring their evidence kits.  They are to meet me aboard Colonial One, ASAP.  Gremlin out.”

Sidewinder stared at Mathias.  Ann Marsden was the senior (of two) Judge Advocate General personnel stationed on Scorpia—and Special Agent Francis (he normally went by Frank) Von was the civilian head of the Fleet Criminal Investigation Service assigned to the Battlestar.

Mathias did not look at Sidewinder, but he motioned forward.  “Deck is clear, Captain Greene—why are you waiting?”

“Sir,” the pilot answered and shook himself.  “Galactica Flight, Raptor 107,” he called out.  “Request permission to depart.”

“Raptor 107, Flight.  You are clear for departure.”

Sidewinder nudged his throttles forward and the Raptor lifted up and began to accelerate down the flight deck before hurtling into open space.

“Kaboose,” Mathias spoke into his wireless.

“Sir?”

“I want all transmissions from Colonial One to the rest of the Fleet jammed.”

There was a pause, and then a very quiet “Aye, aye, sir,” in answer.

“I’m not launching a coup, Sidewinder, so you might as well quit staring at me,” the Commander said in a matter-of-fact voice.  “However, if the President returns while we are there, I am going to have Frank arrest her ass and throw her in Scorpia’s brig hopefully until she rots.”

“And that isn’t a coup, how?  Sir?” Stefan Greene asked.

“Because she has committed a felony—she kidnapped a new-born babe, faked the child’s death, told the parents it was dead, and has someone else raising it on that ship, Sidewinder.  This isn’t a coup—it is a hostage rescue.  And the President is on Galactica at this moment, but if she shows her face before we are done, I will have her arrested.”

Sidewinder released a deep breath that he was holding.  “Okay,” he said.  “Totally not a coup; got it.”

“Miss Foster,” Mathias continued.  “You know where the documents are stored?”

“I do,” she answered bitterly.

“You are not to touch them or remove them or examine in any way until Marsden and Von arrive to take proper custody—is that clear?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Good.  You understand that you will have to stand trial for this as well, correct?” Mathias asked.

“I do.  And I am willing to do so.”

“And that I have no control over what—if any—deal the Court makes for your testimony?”

“I don’t want a deal, Commander,” Tory answered in a very bitter voice.

“No, I don’t imagine that you do.  She’s wrong you know,” he continued.  “About the Cylons; the human-form replicates:  you and the others.”

“Thirty minutes ago, I thought she was right, Commander.  What does that say about me?”

“It says you are human and can hold grudges, Miss Foster.  But I am not going to damn you because of what the Cylons did to your original body.  Your mind is the same—you are the same.  That makes you a person, not a thing.  And that means you have rights . . . and responsibilities under the law, as well.”

“I understand, Commander,” Tory said softly. 

“Coming up on Colonial One,” Sidewinder reported, and then he paused.  “They are asking for our reason to board ship.”

Mathias adjusted the frequency on his wireless.  “Colonial One, Raptor 107—we are carrying members of the Presidents staff; request immediate landing authorization.”

“Affirmative, Raptor 107.  Stand by,” the wireless crackled.  After a moment, the voice resumed.  “You are clear to land in the main hold—cargo doors open.”

“Copy, Colonial One,” answered Mathias and he switched frequencies and he smiled as he saw the sunlight glinting off the canopy of a second Raptor.

“Gremlin, Arclight,” the wireless spoke, “I’ve got the package.”

“Copy, Arclight,” said Mathias.  “Follow us in.  Put me on internal speakers.”

“Gremlin you are live.”

“Gentlemen, there is a possible hostage situation—a month old child who has kidnapped from her parents.  I have all the information and a person who can identify the woman and child in question—they are not to be harmed.  We will be collecting evidence of this crime,” and others, Mathias thought, “and if the crew of Colonial One interfere you are hereby authorized to use non-lethal force to make them comply.  Rules of Engagement Four Daggit are in place—lethal weapons are to be used only if you are threatened with a lethal weapon—understood?”

He heard faint echoes of people stating their assent, and Mathias nodded.  “Full briefing on the deck—gentlemen, let’s get this done.”

I always thought Adama knew about Hera's survival?  Or am I remembering wrong

“Commander?” the crewman asked after he helped Tory down from the Raptor—and his eyes grew wide at seeing the men and women in uniform disembark from the second Raptor. 

“I am here to conduct an inspection of this ship, pursuant to the Intercolonial Commerce Code, Article Three, Section Fourteen, which states, ‘all ships of civilian registry operating under the flag of any of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol must permit a boarding inspection of cargo and passengers upon the request of officers so empowered.’  Section Fifteen lists ‘Colonial Fleet officers having the rank of Colonel or higher and assigned to active service as the commanding or executive officer of a Battlestar’ as among those officers so empowered,” Mathias said as he headed for the ladders leading to the personnel deck.

“We will begin our inspection top-side and work our down, Crewman,” as he quickly climbed the ladder, followed by his officers and men.

“But this is the President’s ship!”

“Alas, that doesn’t change the law, Crewman.  Inform your commander to meet me top-side,” Mathias said before he disappeared through the hatch.

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

“Commander, this is most unusual—we haven’t had an inspection team since Captain Adama came aboard to conduct a survey of the survivors!” Captain Evensun protested.  “For what reasons are you conducting this inspection?”

“ICC 3-14 does not require a reason, Captain Evensun,” Mathias said with a pleasant smile.  “But to simplify things, I have concerns that a psycho-tropic hallucinogenic drug is being stored aboard this ship—in quantities that are illegal, Captain Evensun,” among other reasons, he thought.  “Is that not correct, Miss Foster?”

“Yes, Commander.  The President keeps a large supply of chamalla leaf and extract on hand,” the former aide answered.  And Mathias smiled.  “You understand of course, that chamalla is legal—but not in quantities suitable for trafficking, yes, Captain?”

“Trafficking?” he blurted.  “She’s the President!”

“And does that place her above the law, Captain?  Now stand aside,” Mathias ordered. 

“Under protest, Commander,” Evensun answered as he stepped away from the hatch leading to the government offices.

Maya looked up at Tory entered, and she smiled at the woman.  “Tory!  Is the President back . . . with  . . . you?” she asked, her voice fading away at the sight of the officers and crew from Scorpia.

“No, Maya, she is not,” Tory answered, and she sighed.  She whispered to Lorne.  “Commander, she did not know about the child—and she loves Isis as if she were her own.  She was told more lies, and believed the adoption was real.”

Mathias nodded.  “Miss . . . ?” he asked.

“Maya is my entire name, Commander—a declining tradition on Leonis, but one my parents chose to respect.  As have I with my daughter Isis,” she answered.

“Very well, Maya; may I sit?”

“Please.  What’s wrong?” she asked.

Mathias took in a deep breath and he began to tell her.

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

Some time later, two Masters-at-Arms escorted High Justice Romo Lampkin aboard the ship.  He frowned at the sobbing woman—Maya—who rocked a young baby back and forth, Tory sitting next to her and stoking her back to comfort her.  And then he looked at Mathias.

“I received a request from the officers of this ship to come here immediately, Commander,” he said, “and then I received your request that I do the same.  Searching the President’s offices without a warrant are we?”

Mathias smiled, and he recited the ICC regulations, and Lampkin nodded.  “Interesting interpretation—how is this ship NOT a government vessel?”

“I checked, your honor,” said Mathias.  “No one has ever—not since the attack—changed the ship’s registration or affiliation.  Indeed, it is only Colonial One because the President has adopted it as her home—if she changes ships, this vessel will revert to Colonial Heavy 798.”

Lampkin nodded.  “The government will argue, of course, that there is no longer an office of registration—and that de facto, this vessel is now a government vessel rather than a civilian one.”

“Except the ship still carries civilian passengers for whom it serves as home, your honor,” Mathias answered with a wide smile.  “And the Quorum certainly could have declared this vessel as a government or military vessel at any time—but instead has used the appellation of ‘civilian’ in all official paperwork concerning Colonial One, which to me and the JAG assigned to Scorpia means that it remains a civilian vessel, your honor.”

“How many times?” asked Lampkin.  And Mathias nodded to Ann Madsen.

She stepped forward.  “From copies of the Quorum meetings that I have gone over, they have referenced this ship—and the problems that have cropped up with engineering, food and water distribution, housing, internal atmosphere conditions, etc—four times and each times have labeled it as a civilian vessel.  I specifically note the Quorum meeting where . . . ,”

And Lampkin stopped her.  “Where the President signed an act of the Quorum prohibiting Marines from being used on civilian vessels without express consent of the office of the President; yes, I am familiar with that.  And with the fact that this vessel was cited—are those Marines, Commander?”

“Masters-at-Arms, your Honor.  Not Marines,” Mathias answered and Lampkin smiled back as well.

“You’ve crossed your T’s and dotted your I’s, Commander.  I still think that I should rule against your ability to conduct a search—but what were you searching for?  And does it have anything to do with this weeping lady here?”

“Tory?”

“Miss Foster,” Lampkin said with a bow and kiss on the back of her hand.  “A pleasure as always.”

“Your honor,” she replied.  “I assisted the President in persuading Doctor Cottle of the Galactica to fake the death of Karl and Sharon Agathon’s child, replacing it with the corpse of a baby that passed away just a day earlier.  I also made arrangement to get the still living child, Hera Agathon, off of Galactica and here to Colonial One, where Maya,” she said, pointing at the woman, “who knew nothing of our conspiracy was given the child to care for as her own adopted daughter.  The President issued an Executive Order for this in writing,” she said.

Romo Lampkin blinked.  He looked first at Tory over upper rim of his glasses, and then at Mathias, who nodded, and then at Maya and the child.  “Oh, frack,” he said.

Damn I like It and he is a Southpaw to boot. Yeah deck her

Episode 15:  From Bad to Worse

The XO’s phone buzzed at the central console of Galactica’s CIC and he Saul Tigh lifted it from the rack.  “XO,” he barked.

The news from earlier today had shocked him no less—but he couldn’t deny the truth of his own memories.  And being the man that he was, he had spent a few moments with Ellen and then he showed up here, in the CIC, because Saul Tigh was now damned and determined to never again let Bill Adama down.  It was funny, because since the revelation, since that final drink that his best friend—probably his only friend—in the universe had given him, Saul had not desired so much as a drop.

Instead, he had thrown himself into his duty—and CIC was as quiet as a church mouse because of it.  Adama hadn’t said a word, he just nodded as Saul handled tasks that had always been his, just handed off to other personnel.

“What?” he said into the phone.  “WHAT?” he exclaimed, his eyes growing wide.  And then a chuckle escaped his lips as he smirked—Saul Tigh actually smirked.  “Understood.  Inform Pegasus,” he said and then racked the phone and struggled to keep the laughter roiling up inside him from escaping.

Adama looked at the XO as if he were a man possessed.  “What was that about, Saul?” he asked.

“The President has landed in a Raptor, Admiral,” Saul said with a smile.

“Tell her to turn her ass around—I don’t want to speak with her right now,” Bill growled, but he frowned at the . . . giddy expression on Saul’s face.  The XO was almost incandescent.

“We can’t, Admiral—she’s being taken to the surgery with a broken jaw and two snapped off teeth,” he said, as he tried—and failed—to keep all expression from his face.

“WHAT!” snapped Adama.

“Commander Lorne,” Saul said with a faint smile, “boarded Colonial One and conducted a shipping inspection of the vessel.  In the process, he confiscated the chamalla that the President has been taking, placed Hera Agathon and Maya into protective custody, and ransacked the President’s personal papers—handing them all over to High Justice Lampkin.”

The Admiral groaned, and Saul grinned broadly as his friend looked at the deck, erasing the smile when he lifted his head.  “With Marines?”

“Masters-at-arms, JAG, and FCIS personnel—no Marines,” Saul reported.  “The President returned to Colonial One while they were getting to depart—with Hera.  She issued an order to keep the girl onboard, apparently Commander Lorne had a . . . slight . . . break with reality, and he punched her.  Breaking her jaw.”

“And two teeth,” added Adama.

“And two teeth,” agreed Saul.  “She was knocked unconscious, but the Raptor brought her here—she’s en route the to surgery.  Maya and Hera are here as well, and being escorted to the Agathon’s quarters by Captain Greene.  High Justice Lampkin is also onboard and is heading there as well to speak with the two of them.”

“And Commander Lorne?” growled Adama.

“You are going to love this,” Saul said with a smile that he didn’t try to hide, “he is en route to Pegasus to be held in their brig.  Since ours is full with Cylons at the moment.  The son-of-a-bitch ordered his own JAG officer to arrest him after he punched out the President.  Colonel Jayne has assumed temporary command aboard Scorpia.”

The closeness of stations in CIC ensured that the people working at them had overheard this—and Adama sighed.  It would be scuttlebutt across the Fleet by the end of the watch, if not sooner.  He scratched his head, and slammed his fist down on the console.  With Laura in the surgery, and Baltar having already turned in his resignation . . . Bill groaned.  The Quorum would have to elect a temporary Vice-President to assume Roslin’s duties until she could return.  And he knew who the most likely candidate for that post was.

Saul nodded.  “Zarek,” he said.  “Looks like he might be our boss for a while,” he whispered. 

“Frack, Saul.  I did not need this right now,” the Admiral whispered.  He slammed his hand down on the console again.  “You have the conn, XO,” he said as he turned.

“If I need you, Admiral, where will you be?”

Adama paused and he slowly turned around.  “Frack them both.  I’m going to bed.”

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

“What the frack were you thinking?” asked Lee as he entered the brig.  Commander Lorne sat in a cell, and the MAA had not taken his belt or his boots.  His uniform jacket had been removed, though, and one of the doctors assigned to Pegasus was wrapping his arm and hand in bandages around a metal and rubber splint.

“I was thinking about my own daughters and I got angrier and angrier, Commander Adama,” Mathias said, with a wince as the doc pulled the bandages tighter.

“Too much, Sir?” he asked. 

“Don’t worry about me, just get it right,” Scorpia’s commander said to the physician.

“Nothing else we can do—you’ve probably fractured a few bones, but none are out of place.  It will take time to heal, Commander,” he said as he pulled out a syringe and injected Mathias in the upper arm.  “It’s a mild analgesic and sedative—to help you get some rest, Sir.”

Lee waited until the doctor had gathered his things and left—Mathias stood and he pulled back on his uniform jacket and worked one-handed to button it up and secure the belt.

“Let me, Sir,” one of the MAA’s said, and then he looked at Lee.  Who jerked his head in an expression of his own anger.  Mathias raised his arms, and the crewman finished buckling the belt and securing all but the top two buttons of the jacket.

“So that’s it?  You were angry and you punched out the President?” he snapped.  “You broke her jaw!  And it was because you were angry?”

“No excuse, Commander, Sir.  I am ready to stand before the Admiral’s tribunal and defend myself.”

“Oh, that’s what you want, isn’t it, Commander?  A forum—a public forum—where you can destroy what little stability we have left in this Fleet!  What is going to happen now, Commander?  You are in hack, the President is in Galactica’s surgery, the Vice-President has already resigned in disgrace . . . in just four days you have turned this entire Fleet upside down!  Never mind half of my crew are pissed at your crusade against them for actions we have already considered and dismissed!”

Mathias nodded, and he sighed.  “You love her, don’t you Lee?”

“What?”

“The President—oh, you don’t love her in a sexual sense, you aren’t IN love with her, but you love her.  Warts and all.”

“What has that got to do with any of this?” Lee growled, and Mathias smiled.  He had no idea of how much he looked and sounded like his father when he did that, he thought.

“You aren’t mad that I hit the President who ordered a child kidnapped, Lee; you are mad that I hit Laura Roslin.  You are mad that Laura Roslin dared to cross the line and take that child in the first place.  I know you a bit from your time on Scorpia—and everything I have heard about you since joining up with Galactica and Pegasus has impressed me, Lee.  What is going to happen now?  Do you want to know what I think should happen NOW?”

“Enlighten me, o font of wisdom?”

“Come on Apollo,” Mathias said with a chuckle.  “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.  I think you are desperately unhappy, mister.  I believe that you are here as the Commander of Pegasus because you don’t want to let your father down.  But that your heart isn’t here.  Your heart is with that young wife of yours and that child, and you would be so much happier out of this military and doing something you can be proud of.”

“I am proud of what I have done,” Lee whispered.

“Proud of what you have done, yes; but you take no pride in the service, Lee.  It isn’t your life like it is that of your father, or Saul Tigh, or me.  You, I am willing to bet, never dreamed of spending your entire life in uniform until retirement—am I wrong?”

Lee didn’t answer.

“You want to know what I think this Fleet needs?  It doesn’t need a Laura Roslin.  It doesn’t need a Gaius Baltar.  And it doesn’t need a Tom Zarek.  Not as President.  But I think that Lee Adama could do the job, and that it would be a job he could pride in and be happy doing.”

Lee Adama just stared at him, his eyes wide.  “I’m the Commander of Pegasus!  I’ve got responsibilities!”

“You are responsible for yourself and your family.  And if you don’t think that the President has more responsibilities than a Battlestar Commander, then I have underestimated you.  Lee, you and I share a sense of idealism.  We do.  But you don’t act on that.  You put everyone else’s needs over your own.  You put your father’s expectations above your own.  Don’t worry about Pegasus.  If necessary, your father can put Elias Thorean here—he has command experience from Solaria, and you don’t need two arms to command.  Or Mark Foeswan.  You cannot argue that you are the indispensible man, Lee.  Because, manifestly, you are not.”

Lee just stared and Mathias nodded.  “Ask yourself this, Commander Lee Adama of Battlestar Pegasus:  where can you the most good for all of the survivors?  Here?  Or in that office on Colonial One?  Who do you trust to do this job?  Baltar?  Zarek?  Your father might well not like it, but damn it man, it is your life.  And this Fleet needs a . . . principled man to lead us.  I think that you are that man, Lee Adama.”

Lee backed up out of the cell, and he cleared his throat.  “Lock him in,” he ordered.  “You’re wrong, you know that?  I’m not nearly as principled as you think.”

“For me the choice is a simple one, Lee.  Are you a better man than Gaius Baltar or Tom Zarek?  Who do you think will sacrifice their principles for power?  You?  Or those two?  I don’t know you as well as I should, but based on what I have seen.  What I have heard.  I like our chances a lot better with you in charge instead of Roslin or them.  Will you do what is best for the fifty-four thousand survivors of humanity?  Or will you stay miserable doing a job just to make your father happy?”

“That is up to you, Lee.  You and your wife.  Think about it.  Do you want that little girl of yours growing up in this environment?” he said point his hands at the bulkheads and deck and overhead.

Lee turned and he marched to the hatch without a word, and he stopped.

“Think about it, Mister President,” Mathias cajoled.  And then Lee left.

Woof... nice.

Carter J. Burke for President.

“Oh, God,” Ripley moaned as she held her head.  “Child-birth didn’t hurt this much.”

Hicks handed her a glass of water and two strong—very strong—pain-killers.  “One of the side-effects we were talking about with these flash-memory units,” he said in perfect Greek, albeit with his Southern accent.  Ripley’s head snapped up—she understood him.  And then she moaned again as the pain stabbed at her temples from moving her head that fast.

“I’m gonna die,” she said, answering in the same language.

“Take these,” Hicks answered holding out the tablets.  “They will help.  A fast-dump like we did,” she had put on the headset just fifteen minutes ago, “always does this.  That is why we usually take twelve hours to upload the information—today we don’t have time.  The shorter the time frame, the worse the headache.  But it will go away.”

Ripley took the glass and swallowed both of the tablets; she drained the water and within seconds, the intense pounding began to fade.

The hatch opened, and Major Caldwell walked in.  “Did it work?” she asked.  And, although the accent was odd and some of the words didn’t quite fit, it did work well enough.  Ripley nodded.  “Miracles of modern science,” she said, and Sam Caldwell smiled as she heard the woman speak something very close to her own native tongue.

“Good.  Lieutenant,” she turned to Gorman, “were you able to establish contact with your government?”

“I sent the message, Major Caldwell, but it will require time to travel and for us to get a message.  Hyper-com isn’t instantaneous, but we should hear back in four or five hours.”

Caldwell frowned.  “That is a problem.  As we said earlier, we are being chased by the Cylons—mechanical creations of mankind that rebelled and now seek our destruction.  What they actually want is our flesh.  They have developed a process where they can graft flesh unto their limbs to gain the sensation of touch, and they implacable in their hate.  They will not stop chasing us,” she said.

Klaxons began to blare, and a voice came over the speakers.  “This is the XO.  Sound Action Stations throughout the ship. Set Condition One in all compartments.  Major Caldwell report to CIC.  Repeat, sound Action Stations throughout the ship. Set Condition One in all compartments.  Major Caldwell report to CIC.”

She cursed and headed out—and the Marines, led by Hicks and Gorman, followed her.  The tiny CIC was crowded, but Ripley appreciated how it was laid out—and how deep in the hull it was buried.  Anubis was more than twice the size of Sulaco, very nearly as large and powerful as a Colonial Navy frontier cruiser.  But she was old, Ripley could tell from the many repairs and jury-rigged systems, and according to Caldwell, Malcolm, and the others, she was the smallest warship in the Colonial Fleet. 

“Damn,” Caldwell whispered as she glanced up at the DRADIS—what the Terrans called radar, Ripley translated.  There was an icon there pulsing red—and many smaller icons spilling out.

“It’s the Cylons, all right,” she said.  “Spin up FTL Drives One and Two,” she ordered.

“Can you show a schematic of that ship?” asked Hicks and Caldwell nodded.  She typed in a command and wire-frame diagram of the Gemini appeared on the screen.  “To scale?” he asked.  More typing and an image of Sulaco appeared—she was very small in comparison, less than a quarter the diameter of those domes and only a few percent of the internal volume.

“Raiders inbound, two minutes,” an officer called out. 

“Weapons free—fire when they enter range,” Caldwell answered.

“I can order Sulaco to engage,” Bishop said to Gorman.  He considered and then he nodded.  “Do it.  Time to get some intel on how effective our weapons are,” he paused.  “With your permission, Major?”

“Oh, I don’t object when someone offers to help me blow away Cylons, Lieutenant Gorman.  Be my guest.”

Bishop sat down and he typed commands into the computer and then transmitted them to the Sulaco.  Aboard that empty ship, the computers received them, and klaxons blared on all of her decks, the lighting turning to the red of battle stations.

She thrusted forward, her turrets coming to life and missile covers retracting.

“Let’s see how she deals with Long Lances, Bishop,” said Hicks.  “Fire ‘em off.”

“All of them?”  Burke winced at the thought of the expense, but then he nodded—after all it was his life at stake here.

“All of them,” Gorman confirmed.

Eight missiles ripped out of their silos and thrusted forward towards the Gemini.  They streaked past the incoming fighter strike, their first stages jettisoning as their fuel was expended, then their second stages.  And then the Cylon ship opened fire with their point defense—and the Marines winced.

“That is . . . impressive,” said Bishop.  Only two of the Long Lance missile managed to get through—and their warheads were easily absorbed by the ship’s armor.

“It generally takes nuclear warheads or heavy kinetic strikes to kill a Basestar,” said Sam Caldwell.

“Fire up the point defense, Bishop,” ordered Gorman.  “Damn it all, I wish we had a crew on the Sulaco.  The computers are good, but a trained crew would be better.”

“Their reaction time would be slower,” Bishop said as he typed in commands.

“But not as predictable,” Hicks added with a smile to the synthetic, who nodded.

“Fighters in range of point-defense lasers . . . now,” Bishop said he hit enter.  And every Colonial suddenly jumped and cheered as pulses of amplified light tore into the Cylon Raiders accurately and quickly.  The attack force dropped from sixty Raiders to seventeen in the first fourteen seconds of the laser engagement . . . and then the laser fire died away—along with the cheers.

“Capacitors recharging,” Bishop reported.  “Thirty seconds until fire can resume.”

“Are they launching more fighters?” asked Hudson in disbelief.  “That strike would have been the full complement for a Kitty Hawk-class Fleet Carrier!”
“Gemini’s carry upwards of three hundred Raiders,” said Major Caldwell.  “They won’t make that mistake again—this time they will send everything,” and she grinned as the Cylons entered her range.

The eight twin turrets on Anubis’s dorsal hull back to fire at near maximum rates—and the blood drained from the faces of the Marines as they saw the flak cloud of explosions.  None of the seventeen Raiders managed to survive to weapons range.

“Flak?  You can shoot flak out of the kinetic energy cannons?” asked Burke, his interest suddenly piqued.

“Of course.  What use would they be otherwise?”

“Bishop, go ahead and hit that Basestar with the particle beam cannons,” ordered Gorman.

And now it Caldwell’s turn to blink.  “At this range?”

Gorman smiled.  “Yes, ma’am.  At this range.”

“Locked and firing,” said Bishop.  Two invisible beams reached out and slammed home against the Basestar—it staggered, and then stopped its advance momentarily.

“Their DRADIS is off-line,” called out tactical, and then a curse.  “Secondary systems just engaged.”

And the Gemini began to close again—even faster now.

“I think we need to hit it again,” said Gorman.

“Recharging,” said Bishop.  “One minute.”

“Too long,” answered Sam.  “We are jumping in twenty seconds.  Lieutenant, if you can get that ship into your hyperspace in that time, I’d advise you to do it.  Unless you want to lose it.”

“Do it,” said Hicks and Gorman nodded his agreement.  “Put her in FTL, Bishop—on course for the nearest Fleet base.”

“She is powering up . . . and has successfully entered the hyperspace shunt.”

Sulaco’s icon vanished from the display.

“Stand by, take DRADIS off-line,” Sam said as two hundred and seventy Cylon raiders kept closing.  “Stand by . . . and JUMP!” she ordered.

And Anubis did so.

The Terrans looked a bit queasy, but other than that, they seemed overjoyed.  As the DRADIS display came up, they saw scores of icons—but all in the blue color of friendlies.

“Ma’am, we are being challenged by Pegasus,” an officer reported.

“Send the reply, Mister Horn.”

“How far did we just travel?” asked Burke.

“Nineteen point seven light years, Mister Burke,” Caldwell answered, and Ripley sat down in disbelief.  Nineteen point seven light years in no measureable elapsed time at all.

“Pegasus confirms our identity and says welcome home, ma’am,” Horn reported.

Sam Caldwell stood there at her station and she nodded.  “Hail Galactica,” she ordered as she lifted a phone.  “On speaker.”

“Anubis, Galactica,” the wireless said. 

“Galactica, Anubis Actual.  I—strike that.  YOU need to hear what I and my guests have to say.”

“Your guests, Anubis Actual?”

“Affirmative, Galactica.  Can’t say more on an unsecured channel.  Prepare to receive . . . two Raptors.”

“Copy, Anubis Actual.  We will await your arrival.  Galactica out.”

“Well, ladies and gentlemen.  Are you up to taking another ride—the President is waiting,” Sam said with a wave her arm.  Hicks and Gorman exchanged a look, and then both looked at Ripley.  “Sure, why not,” she said.  “As long as they understand we aren’t authorized to negotiate for our government.”

And Hudson elbowed Burke as he began to speak.