Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

(This is an unfinished work--not even the opening was finished.  Something like captain's log, stardate 47899.2, they just left DS9, Kira is solidifying her role as boss of the station.  Big E now headed to the "Recidia" system.  Someone registered unusual readings in the system, like an M-class world with a ring around it, and that's the official mark of weirdness....)

 “We’ve entered the Recidia system, Captain.”

 He saved the essay and glanced up. “Bring us out of warp in range of number two.” Switching one of the displays in the armrests, he brought up an image of the star system. A quick scan showed six planets, one of them a gas giant. The second planet from the star was class M, just slightly smaller than Earth. After another moment, a basic sensor return showed a faint ring around the planet.

 “A ring around an M class is never a good sign,” Picard murmured.  “Composition on the ring?”

 Ensign Kerrin, at Ops, managed the sensor array on the Ops station. “It’s mostly metal debris, very unevenly distributed, most likely an artifactual ring.”

 “Processed ore?”

 “Yes, sir.”

 “On screen.”

 The display switched to a closer view, showing the arc of a thickly-shrouded planet with the system’s star just past it. Automatically the imager dimmed the light of the star enough to see a faint trail around the world.  Clumps of debris, tumbling slowly, were visible around the curve of the planet.  Dim specks of light suggested processed ore.  There were large gaps of hundreds of kilometers. “Definitely not satellites,” Kerrin murmured.

 “Planetary life signs?”

 “None, sir.”

 Picard frowned.  The globe on screen looked like a giant cotton ball, a dense haze that completely obscured the surface.  “Magnify planet.”

 The image enlarged the far edge, with the planet filling half the view screen.  Ill-defined bands of a faint yellowish-brown color wrapped around the world, obscuring the surface, with the star’s light reflecting dimly off of it.

 “Atmosphere is... 77% nitrogen, 19% oxygen, and...otherwise is consistent with an ejecta winter.  Sulfur dioxide, amorphous carbon, and silicate dust.  There’s also some evidence of volcanism.  Average surface temperature is minus seven Celsius.”  Kerrin’s quiet recitation captioned the somber view accurately.

 “Get a scan of the surface, as best you can,” Picard said.  “Topographic.  Helm, bring us to orbit asynchronous with the ring.  Keep the deflectors from disturbing it.”

 “Aye, sir.”  Lieutenant Ralston guided the ship under minimal impulse, bringing them to a high latitude orbit.

 The particulates in the atmosphere would hinder various sensors but the evidence they were looking for required no fine resolution.  It was quiet enough on the bridge that Picard could hear Kerrin’s fingers on the Ops panel.  Then the view screen switched to a computer-generated surface with a topographic legend.

 The image on screen brought him to his feet.  The majority of the surface was dominated by red and orange circles, some overlapping.  Most measured tens of kilometers across, and several measured over one-hundred kilometers.  Faint rays emanated from the larger sites.  Some were partially obscured by apparent bodies of water, and others bisected mountain ranges.  As their orbit progressed, edges of more craters came into view.

 “That’s not nuclear,” Ralston murmured, glancing across to Kerrin questioningly.  “Is it?”

 “I don’t think so,” she answered, just as quietly.  With only mute, communicating glances, the bridge watched the deeply impacted globe’s surface on the screen.

 “Any other signs in the rest of the system?”

 Kerrin’s attention was pulled back to her station.  “No warp signatures.  Possible faint old ion trails...no other particulates—oh.  I think....I think I found a craft,” she said, straightening in her seat.

 “Where?”

 “It’s not in the belt. It’s....” she paused, redirecting sensors. “It’s at the next planet out, around a small moon.  From the movement it’s likely inert.”

 “On screen.”

 The image of the planet was replaced by a view past the star, showing the next planet out in the system. That world’s satellite body was just transiting past it, and the image moved in closer. Against a backdrop of a pale gray moon, a craft of nearly the same gray tumbled slowly past, displaying two large exhaust nozzles. The craft was slowly passing through the system, having just missed the gravity of the moon.

 Ensign Kerrin started reconfiguring the sensors again. “It’s completely inert. No electric, chemical, or biological activity.”

 “Scan for 3D display.”

 “Aye, sir.” After a few moments, Kerrin was integrating the scan information.

 “3D is ready, sir.”

 “Display image with a two-meter parameter.”  The dome projector created an image of the vessel between the fore stations and the command well. Four large tanks made up the bulk of the vessel, held together with a thick framework.

 Ralston turned back to see it. “External conduits,” he said, looking it over critically.

 Picard frowned, turning the vessel end for end with a hand wave, seeing no signage on the hull.  “Computer, extrapolate on construction and search for closest resemblance in design.”

 After a quiet chirp came the answer. “Klingon, 22nd century, 7% match. Bularian, 19th century, 2% match.”

 Picard sighed. “Computer, end display.”

 The hologram vanished.  Ralston watched as the captain returned to the command well and sat, then noticed Ralston’s attention.

 “Tanker, exhaust propulsion,” Ralston said in some confusion.  “Unless the hull was stripped, designed by someone who doesn’t expect to be targeted.”

 “I’m reserving assumptions,” Picard said, thoughtful.  “At the same time....officially, this is the extent of this mission, but the planet surface I think changes that,” he said, droll.  “This was no local secret.”  He turned his attention to the armrest console.  With a couple of taps, he brought up a small stellar holographic map and manipulated the display.  “Helm, break orbit.”

 “Aye, sir.”  Ralston swung back around to his station, sliding the indicators on impulse engines and thrusters.  The view on the screen shifted back to default forward optical and the star field shifted down and to the left as the Enterprise lifted smoothly out of orbit.  Under quarter impulse power, they climbed out of the plane of the system.

 “Set course...two-seven-zero mark zero-one-zero, the Aetius system, warp 6.”

 “Course laid in, sir,” Ralston returned after a moment.

 “Engage.”

 In a burst of light, the Enterprise jumped to warp, leaving the ravaged system behind.

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

(another scene I didn't get around to properly opening up....ice world....something like--)

Thick clouds, essentially snowball world, but craters underneath snow.  Hell of a hunt for surviving buildings.  this is a slightly different pattern of destruction, but no less lethal. A thick shroud of dust covered most of the surface, evidence of massive impacts.

 “Average surface temperature is minus 22 Celsius.  Average snow cover is 2.5 meters.  There is some infrastructure still standing. Radiation levels are safe for humanoid life.” Lieutenant Commander Data’s hands passed quickly over the Ops panel, gathering information from multiple sensor sweeps of the world before them.

 “So a combination of neutron weapons and harnessed asteroids and this world was over.” Commander Riker sat forward in his seat, hands braced on his knees, looking bitterly at the image on the viewer.

 “Ugly and a half,” the helm officer muttered.

 Picard sighed.  “Becoming difficult to reserve suspicion,” he said with weary sarcasm.  “If there are still some structures remaining...”  He raised his voice.  “Mr. Data, scan the surface and look for an area that is relatively unscathed, a seat of government or major city.”

 “Hunt for clues?”  Riker looked at his superior, some of the distaste still in his expression.

 Picard sighed. “There are too many possible explanations here. Any incidental information would be useful.”

 “Agreed.”

 “Captain, I have found a potential site.  It is a city of approximately 22 square kilometers.  Toward the southwest is an area with a formal layout and distinct architecture.  The buildings seem to be partially intact.”

 “Visual?”

 “Not directly, but sensors can recreate a surface profile.”  The viewer changed from a shrouded world to a detailed topographical image showing the profiles of several low buildings.

 “That looks public.  We should be able to scrape something up from there.”  Riker stood, raising his voice.  “Riker to Laforge.”

 A few seconds passed before the response came.  “Laforge here.”

 “Geordi, could Engineering spare you for an away team?”

 “Fifteen seconds ago I would have had to tell you no, but I think we have our roster set now.”

 “Transport four, heavy cold gear, we’ll be attempting information extract.  Thirteen-thirty time.”

 “Understood.  Laforge out.”  The hint of resignation in the engineer’s voice, Riker guessed, was from the words heavy, cold, and gear.  While growing up in Alaska, he had routinely braved this temperature in nothing more than a heavy parka, gloves, and boots, but Starfleet did not want to risk wasting their medical branch on frostbite.  Regulations demanded significant protection for anything below zero Celsius for all humanoids, likely even including...

 “Data?  I think I could use your judgment on the surface.”  Before he finished speaking, Data was getting up from the Ops station.

 “Yes, sir.”

 “And the cold gear goes for you, too,” he said, pointing to the android officer as they climbed the bridge ramp.  “If Geordi and I have to put up with it, so do you.”

********

 Riker was still settling his shoulders in the dull gray snowsuit when Laforge got to the transport room. “Brought a fun pack,” he commented, nodding at the case the chief engineer carried.

 “Torch, some amp, engi tricorder, some adapters, a few other things.”  Laforge bent down to redo a latch on his boots, and looked up at Riker. “We using the jets?”

 Riker froze for a second.  “Hell, yes,” he muttered, self-deprecating.  He stepped off the pad just as Data arrived in the transport room.  After talking with the ensign at the transport controls, he waited with the other two officers for a few minutes for the requested equipment to be pulled around to the large transporter in the shuttle bay.  Finally the signal came that the jets were delivered.

 “Alright,” Riker said, positioning himself on the pad with the other two.  “Let’s go play in the snow.  Energize.”

Chapter Text

 The surface climate had sculpted an otherwise beautiful landscape in swirling snow, darkening visibility to twilight conditions.  A rounded area of lighter overcast was the only indication of the sun’s presence halfway across the sky.  Three indistinct glows emerged through the haze of snow, slowly sharpening to powerful lights skimming over the frozen surface. The tracks of the vehicles kicked up small chunks of the firmly compacted snow, combining with the natural wind-blown snow to create a white-out in the wake of the jets. The jets slowed to half speed as the terrain became more variable, and they began detouring around projections of roofs, minimal at first and then rising to taller buildings.  Sensor returns showed the snow and ice to be nearly ten meters deep in some places, and other areas had been wind-blown almost completely down to the surface.

 The jets slowed further to 25 kph as the building remains became more dense, some almost intact and some with only two walls and a fraction of a floor remaining, all of it wrapped in elaborate carvings of wind-blown snow.  Eventually they came to a large open courtyard, slightly recessed and relatively sheltered by buildings around part of the perimeter.  Some of them seemed to be intact, with the tallest structure remains three stories, with large windows partially visible.

 Commander Riker loosened his grip and his snow jet slowed, then came to a stop towards the middle of the clearing.  The other two officers slowed as well, stopping within a few meters.  He looked around at the building remains and focused on one that seemed to have a possible accessible entry.

 “The one ahead seems most reachable,” he said in his headset as he turned his jet towards it.

 “Let me use the grappling hook on that overhang before it buries us,” Laforge said in his ear as he pulled up to the darkened opening.  Riker got off the jet and stepped back as Laforge opened the back carrier on his own jet, pulling out the grappling gun with 100 meters of cabling.  He pulled off his outer mitts to set the power on it, then pointed it at the roof of the building.

 “The structure appears to be stable, but we should avoid making significant physical contact with any of the interior walls.  It would be wise to clear some of the weight from the roof prior to entry,” Data said as Laforge fired the grapple, dropping the large wind-blown overhang of snow to the surface with a soft whump.  Data closed his tricorder and returned it to a pocket in his snowsuit.  He was dressed like the others, but had foregone gloves and the vision-enhancing goggles.

 “Good idea,” Riker answered, stepping back as the grapple cable zipped back into the launcher Laforge held.  “Pull it away from the opening so it’s still accessible.”

 Laforge fired the grappling hook several more times, managing to trigger a few small avalanches of snow.  “The hook’s too small to really pull it down,” he said, sounding disappointed.  “Phasers would only turn it to ice....”  He trailed off in some confusion as Data bent down and retrieved a double handful of snow.

 Riker, having grown up in a similar snowy climate, instantly recognized the move and a primitive part of his brain wanted to dive for cover, but he watched as Data breathed on the snow, heating his breath enough to create a coherent and firm snowball.  He cocked his arm, then whipped it forward.  A virtual explosion of snow rocketed back off the roof of the building, sprinkling them with small ice shards.  When their vision cleared, they saw a distinct V-shaped path carved through the packed snow.

 Riker grunted.  “Remind me to never get in a snowball fight with you.”

 Data looked at him with his usual serious, blank expression.  “Yes, sir.”

 Laforge tried to stifle a laugh and Riker grinned.  Three more snowballs followed, and soon the roof held only a fraction of the snow.  Data stepped back and inspected his work.

 “The load is reduced by at least 80 percent, but I would still advise caution.”

 “What about phasers on the door lock?”

 “The door is not load-bearing but minimal phaser power would be advised.”

 Riker nodded and approached the door.  Only the frame remained, with a few jagged edges of broken glass.  He pulled on the vertical grip and it opened easily to about one-quarter, then stopped as the frozen, disused hinges creaked loudly.  Low phaser power was used to warm the hinges and the door opened just barely enough for them to slip through.  An inner door opened relatively easily and they stepped into the darkened interior.  Some snow blew in with them and dusted across the floor.

 Flashlights on a broad setting caused the reflective surface of their snow suits to flare, acting almost like a mirror, helping to illuminate a large open area, ringed with apparently decorative metal elements that curved gracefully along the walls.  A long desk was on their left.  A few chairs and low tables were scattered in the large open area, some of them overturned.  Ominously, there were a few darkened tracks and streaks across some of the floor and walls.

 Laforge pulled off his snow goggles and cycled through the settings on his implants.  “Burned with high heat, probably a plasma source, and there’s....”  He trailed off, walking quickly over to one of the streaks.  He knelt down and pulled out his tricorder as the other two approached.

 “What is it?” Riker asked as Laforge held the instrument close to the streak.

 “Well, it’s not a med tricorder, but I’m picking up some blood, old, dried.  Possibly human but I can’t verify it.”

 Riker pulled off his goggles as well and he surveyed the open room.  His gaze settled on an overturned table with a blackened hole through it.  He went over to it and looked behind the table.

 “I think I found the victim,” he said quietly.  The other two came over and looked as well.  A corpse, long since decayed, still in colorful clothing, lay curled up behind the table.

 “It is human,” Data said softly.  “I would estimate no more than two years ago.”

 Riker took a deep breath and let it out.  The body was lying on its side with legs flexed.  High-heeled boots of a dark red matched the dark red and beige color of the clothing, flowing fabric that would have been a graceful drape.  A macabre thought went through his head: She could never have known that when she got up that morning, the clothing she put on would be her last.  He shook his head involuntarily.  The frozen, decayed corpse at his feet moved their strong suspicions closer to a grim confirmation— the heavily cratered worlds represented a campaign of violence and destruction.

(editing break here, didn't get to put these two bits together...)

If they were able to discover those responsible for this, protocol would be played out through the tactical station more than subspace radio.  That’s making the assumption of innocence on the human side, though, he thought.  He looked around the room again, seeing the decorative elements and brightly colored carpet, then back to the clothing of the victim.  The limited look of their culture did not speak of a people that reveled in war and destruction, but as Riker was not a contact specialist, he kept his thoughts to himself.

 He sighed again.  “Let’s have a look through the rest of the building.”

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

 The building wasn’t large and contained mostly meeting rooms with a few computer terminals.  They carefully extracted what looked like hard drives and Data confirmed the contents were not yet thoroughly corrupted.  The end of a wide hallway was dominated by double wooden doors that almost seemed ceremonial, with their intricate carving and large size.  They opened up into a long room with a single long table in it and intricately-shaped chairs. The center of the table still held what looked like the remains of a decorative centerpiece.

 Laforge turned his flashlight onto torch setting and turned slowly around the room, then stopped and focused on one end of the room.  Covering most of a wall was a dark image with concentric rings, littered with apparent markers.

 “Is that a map?”  he asked.  He started toward that end of the room, gently moving chairs out of the way and shining his light on it.  Several star systems and their planets were represented, and they all stared in wonderment at an alphabet that was close to Federation human standard.  More than that, though, were the names themselves.

 “I’ll be damned...” Riker said softly.  The planets bore eerily familiar names:  Gemoni, Virgon, Aeries, Lebran....

 Laforge reached out a hand, pointing.  “Taurus, Pisces, Capricorn....But these constellations are only visible from Earth’s perspective,” he said, frowning.  “This is...this is eerie.  I could see one or two, maybe, but that’s all of them.”

 Riker looked at Data.  “To the best of your knowledge, is there any potential for humans to have gotten to this area of the galaxy?”

 Data’s gaze went unfocused and there were small movements of his head.  Then, “Prior to us, there have been only two Federation vessels recorded to have passed within three parsecs of the Recidia system,” he said, with a slight emphasis on “recorded”.  “Both have taken place not more than two years ago.  Neither of them can explain the presence of a human population numbering in the billions.  We may need to drastically revise our population estimates.” 

 Riker stared at him a moment, then looked back at the map.  “We’re close to as far out as any Federation ship has gotten.  I don’t think it’s just our population estimates that need revision.  Language development, culture, history, tech path, this turns everything upside down.”  He pulled off his mitts, down to the more dextrous gloves, and tapped the comm badge on the front of his snow suit.  “Riker to Captain Picard.”

 “Picard here.  Go ahead, Number One.”

 “Captain, we did find human remains here, a non-natural death.  We’re also looking at what we’re presuming is a map with some....unexplainable names on it.”

 “Unexplainable?  How so?”

 Riker was already opening his tricorder.  “I’ll send you an image.”  He repositioned himself in the center as Laforge moved, then raised his tricorder.  At the last moment he changed his mind and came in a little closer, running the tricorder in a path across the map with recorded video.  A couple of taps sent it to the Enterprise computer banks.

 He gave the captain a moment to bring up the captured video, then said, “The lettering, the names, the human remains don’t point anywhere that makes sense.  Either our population estimates are exponentially off or that was one isolated human amongst another race, here.”

 “Agreed,” Picard replied, and Riker could tell from his tone of voice that he was just as much at a loss as his away team.

 “I think we’ve dug out about as much as we can at this location.  Very little is accessible.  We also have a few storage devices that may have some information.”

 “Very good.  We will be in range of your location within fifteen minutes.”

 “Understood.  Riker out.”

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

 On return to the ship, the hard drives were surrendered to the computer lab and Riker, Laforge, and Data joined the captain in the conference room.  The panoramic windows captured the edge of the thickly shrouded world beneath them as the Enterprise drifted in orbit.

 “There are too many contradictory and unusual elements for us to begin to form a coherent story here,” Picard mused, settled deep in his chair and nursing a cup of tea.  “I’m almost willing to entertain the idea of a Q-type element being involved.”

 “Another civilization developing language apparently very similar to Federation human standard is highly unlikely,” Data said.  “I have also noted the constellations as they appear from each of the three worlds and in no case do they even remotely resemble what one can see from Earth.”

 Laforge sat back, sighing.  “Then where did those words come from?” he wondered aloud.  “We can make numbers fit if we have to, but if that map is accurate, there’s no way humans were a minority population.”

 “Data confirmed only two Federation vessels out this far,” Riker said, nodding to the android officer.  “That doesn’t rule out passage on other ships, but it wouldn’t result in a population this size.”

 “For a theoretical starter colony of two thousand humans to have reached a population of 20 billion, they would have had to leave Earth tens to hundreds of thousands of years ago, long enough to have evolved into a separate species.”

 “Something we’re missing,” Picard murmured.  “We may be reading too much into the remains.  I want to continue our investigation with the other worlds,” he continued, looking at each of his officers in turn.  “The scale of this begs an explanation, and I am willing to take as much time as needed to get answers.”

 Riker read the background implication.  “Someone’s objecting?”

 “Admiral Samaras sent an inquiry on our progress,” Picard said wearily.  “We were expected to have continued to our next assignment by now, but I’m not inclined to simply log their presence and move on.  Exploration and discovery is our primary mission, and crew actions, not schedules, drive results.”

 Riker smiled, imagining the likely acerbic exchange of a schedule-obsessed admiral with an answer-oriented captain.  Picard gave him a knowing look and drained his tea.  “In any case, we’ll look at our returns and the drives you recovered, then decide which one to look at next,” he said, looking at Riker.  “In theory there are twelve worlds and one of them is bound to have some revealing history for us.”

Chapter Text

 Only an hour into his shift on the bridge, Riker got the call from the computer lab with some partially recovered information.  It confirmed a language curiously similar to Federation standard, and among other mundane information such as spreadsheets and informational material was a number of documents listing apparent discussion points and issues.  The dating was unfamiliar but the lab was able to identify the order in which the documents had been saved on the drive, and Riker studied the most recent documents with a frown.

 “Looks like diplomatic considerations for some major event,” he said softly as he scrolled through the 3D display projected from the armrest of the center chair.  Counselor Deanna Troi, on his left, leaned in to look at them.

 “Some type of conference,” she murmured as he scrolled through.  “It looks like many of the worlds were involved.”

 “Mhm,” Riker said distractedly.  He noted the now familiar names of the worlds from the map all through, with notes on apparent lodgings and transportation arrangements.  “Taura....Virgon....Scorpion....”  He got to the bottom of the list.  “ ‘Informed that the Cylons have declined lodgings as only a small group will be on Kobol briefly.’”

 “Witnesses?  Guests?” Troi guessed.

 “Maybe...and now we also have another...planet?  Kobol.”

 “Caprica.”  Troi straightened in her seat and pointed at a paragraph.  “That’s where the event was.”

 Riker skipped down to it and read, then rubbed a hand over his beard.  “And we’re currently coursed for Virgon.”  He looked at Troi with a silent question and she nodded.

 He raised his voice.  “Helm, I’m relaying some coordinates.  We’re switching from Virgon to Caprica.  I realize it’s a little farther out so let’s increase to warp 7.”

 “Aye, sir, warp 7.  Coordinates set.”

 “Engage.”

 The stars on the viewscreen scrawled a slight curve to the right and down as the starship shifted.  Troi settled back in her chair.  “None of this shows any preferential treatment for one world or disdain for another,” she said, jutting her chin at the document still displayed in front of Riker.  “I think the hostile force came from the outside.”

 “You may be right, but a hint sure would come in handy right now,” he murmured as they continued to read.

 The rest of the documents contained no breakthrough information, beyond confirming several times that the world called Caprica was the focus for this last event.  The rest of the shift was uneventful, and as Dr Crusher arrived for the night tour, they apprised her of the shift in destination.

 “We might be close enough to get some long range scans on other worlds as well,” Riker said as Dr. Crusher sat in the command chair.  “Feel free to grab any you can in passing.”

 Crusher nodded, her eyes narrowing.  “I have a feeling we’re going to find a hell of a mess at Caprica.”

 Riker grunted in agreement.  “Emphasis on hell.  And mess,” he added at a mutter.  Command was formally transferred and Troi and Riker left the bridge.

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

 In the early morning hours, they passed within two light years of one of the worlds.  This one called Picon, it showed the familiar devastation of multiple crater impacts, as well as apparent large scale nuclear detonations.  Artificial remains of significant size also drifted in the area of the planet and Dr. Crusher turned the ship sensors on them.  Telescopes, infrared, optical, and x-ray, fed information into the ship’s computer and she used it to create a 3D graphic of the field.  A hologram of sharp red outlines sprang into existence, projected from the dome of the bridge, covering most of the space between the command well and the forward stations.  Ensign Arlon Parza, the Trill helm officer, looked up as one of the pieces, no more than a few centimeters in size, drifted lazily over his head.

 Dr. Crusher got up from the command chair.  A pulling motion brought one of the red line graphics to her, enlarging and focusing it to show more detail.  Panels that were curved outward by violent force edged one section, exposing torn grating and other miscellany of what was once a much larger assembly.  She pushed the section away and pulled another one to her, seeing much the same result.  After looking at several of the pieces, she finally reduced the field to the default size. “Computer, assemble remains into the most likely configuration.”  The graphic objects projected in front of her shimmered for a split second, then snapped together to form a long vessel of obvious military design.  Parza looked back at the image as Dr. Crusher manipulated it with a finger, turning it around.

 “Defender or aggressor....it almost looks like some kind of freighter,” she wondered, glancing at Parza.  “But those....those aren’t warp nacelles—oh.  What?”  She pulled back in surprise as she saw the rear of the ship, with large symmetrical outlines suggesting massive output from the rear.  “Exhaust propulsion?”

 “Really?”  The Trill almost got up from his station.  Dr. Crusher turned the graphic around to show him.  The view of the pylons then caught his eye and he leaned in to look more closely.  “The...landing bays...a carrier?”  His utterly confused expression almost made Crusher smile.

 “A sublight carrier.  And look,” she added suddenly, turning the graphic to a quarter view.  “Those almost look like some kind of launch tubes.”  She pointed at a row of tiny, triangular openings on the pylon.  Ensign Kora Anders, at Ops, stood up to look closely at the pylon on her side.

 “There’s nothing like a deflector that I’m seeing,” Parza said, peering at the front of the vessel.  “Unless they had another ship in front blowing a path, there’s no way this thing made the jump.”

 “Unless the technology level is magic, this isn’t continuum distortion,” Crusher said slowly.  She looked down the length of the vessel.  “Computer, what is the estimated length of the vessel this graphic is based on?”

 “Estimated length is 1,265.5 meters.”

 Parza turned back slowly, disbelieving.  “That big?  Where’s their infrastructure for super-assemblies?”

 Anders nodded agreement.  “They had to have....I mean, maybe obtained from others?  Or even...something like wormhole tech?” she suggested tentatively.

 Dr. Crusher shook her head.  “If they had that kind of ability, they wouldn’t have been taken out by asteroids.”  Her voice was soft as she stared at the vessel, thinking of the implications.  At twice the length of the Enterprise, the crew easily numbered in the thousands.  How many had been on this ship when it was destroyed, she wondered.

 “If there’s no super-sized frames or docks, maybe modular construction,” Anders said with a shrug.  “But you’d still need an assembly frame of some kind.”

 The two forward officers continued to discuss methods and explanations for the vessel and Crusher slowly withdrew, returning to the command chair.  Her intuition told her this was a defender, not an aggressor, and may have been responsible for providing security for the planet.  The computer would have recorded the coordinates of the scan so if they desired, they had the option of a return visit to search for any surviving computer cores or local recordings to further their investigation.  What didn’t need further study, though, was the amount of suffering that must have happened during the catastrophic events.  She tried and failed to stop her mind from doing arithmetic, adding up planetary population estimates.  Billions had perished, and more than that, a civilization had been silenced, probably forever.  The last time these people’s voice would be heard in the universe could be the report put together when the Enterprise completed its investigation.  Complete as it would be, it wouldn’t be enough. It would contain only facts, not culture, life, personalities, music, science, or any of their soul.

 Dr. Crusher stood and climbed the ramp to one of the aft stations on the bridge. Changing the interface configuration from mission ops to staff logs, she typed a short note for inclusion in her personal log for the next day, a message to come up with a proposal for a complete culture study.  Starfleet could send science vessels or explorers, and even partner with a university for it.  If resurrecting the people was impossible, at least the soul of their civilization could have a voice.

 So we know who you are. So your spirit is not lost. So the silence is not final.

 There. Consolation. It’s not saving a life, but it is respecting those who lived.

Chapter Text

First Officer’s Log, stardate 47902.3: The Enterprise is less than three hours away from the world called Caprica, and preliminary scans of the system are confirming fears that this will be ground zero for the genocide we’ve been investigating.  There are significant returns on our long-range scanners around the planet and its moon, and asteroids have been ruled out.  Caprica shows a lack of large craters, but with no survivors up to this point, there’s very little optimism.  The only real hope we have right now is for answers, not survivors.

 Commander Riker glanced around at the senior bridge crew as he bookmarked and stowed the “colonial” documents he had been reading.  They had been made available to the crew and many were becoming familiar with the language and the brief glimpses of culture contained in the mostly administrative documents.  Factual finds were significant as well—mention in one document of a space vessel called a “battlestar” in orbit of a world called Picon matched with the scans Dr. Crusher had captured.  It confirmed the giant carrier as a defender.  With the Enterprise’s sensors and telescopes now trained on the debris field around Caprica and its moon, Riker had a feeling they would soon be seeing more of the vessels.

 The ship dropped from warp out of the plane of the system, far enough away to not risk disturbing the remains.  Lieutenant Ralston oriented the ship toward the planet, and even before returns were displayed, the devastation became clear.  Light from the star reflected off of countless artefacts like a star field in miniature.

 “No higher life forms registering in the system,” Data said, running multiple scans.  “Remains in the debris field are stable with no potential for uncontrolled releases.”  The view screen split vertically, the default forward view on one side and a series of close-up images on the other.

 Picard got to his feet and slowly walked toward the view screen, silently watching as the images displayed.  The field was large, spread out from the planet to the orbit of the moon.  Irregular sections of what clearly used to be ships slowly tumbled in place, uniformly gray, some with blackened edges from weapon damage.  The bridge was silent as image after image showed the violently decoupled machinery.

 “Number one.”  Picard’s voice was uncharacteristically quiet.  “Assemble an away team for the planet, minus Laforge.  I have another task for him.  Mr. Data,” he continued, turning to Ops.  “Try to find a suitable location on the planet that might give us some information.”

 “Yes, sir.”

 Equally somber, Riker got to his feet.  “Data, after you find a location...”  Data glanced at him and nodded.  “Deanna, you said we picked up a contact specialist?” Riker asked quietly, stopping by Troi’s position.  “Someone expert in cultures?”

 “Yes...Ensign Ching-ree,” she said.  “She’s an expert in cultural developments and xenopology.  She’d be a good choice.”

 Riker nodded thanks, then tapped his comm badge.  “Riker to Laforge.”

 Picard glanced over as he heard the name, and Riker raised a hand to forestall the challenge.  “Laforge here,” came the reply.

 “Geordi, I’m putting together an away team for the surface and I need someone from engineering.  The captain has something else in mind for you so I’m looking for suggestions.”

 “Mmm...” Laforge mused.  “I’d say Ensign Parza, but I think he’s on sleep right now.  You might try Ensign Vorik.  He’s pretty good at improv.”

 “Alright, thanks.”

 Data’s hands flashed over the Ops panel, then he stood.  “I believe I have found a location.”  Another crew member took his place at the forward station and he followed Riker up the ramp to the aft lift.

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

 The shimmering lines of transporter beams resolved into the away team of Commanders Riker and Data, along with Ensign Vorik of engineering and Ensign Ching-ree in the blue of the scientific branch.  Tricorders came out and beeped quietly as all four of them scanned their surroundings, visually and electronically.  They had arrived near the remains of a number of large buildings and a dense network of roads.  Heavily damaged buildings with crushed-in roofs were silent witnesses to the terrific destruction.  Blackened streaks in almost graceful lines marked some of the still standing walls and what remained of the pavement.  Nature was beginning to reclaim some of it, with sapling trees pushing sidewalk slabs apart and dense grass sprouting from smaller cracks.  The sunlight and light breeze contrasted with the broken remains of the world around them.

 For several moments they simply stood there, taking in their surroundings.  The world had few craters but no higher life signs registered, suggesting a systematic extermination, virtually door to door.  Data was the first to move, stepping over thick clumps of wild grasses, looking at his tricorder.  “I believe these markings were created by a craft in atmosphere,” he said, pointing to the dark gray pattern of lines on the ground.  Riker turned to see, as did Ensign Vorik.  The engineer crouched down and ran a hand along a burn mark.

 Patches of faded color alongside the road caught Riker’s eye, and he walked over and knelt down.  He gently moved some of the stiffened, weather-worn fabric aside to reveal a skull, with wisps of hair remaining.

 Ching-ree came over and crouched down next to Riker.  “Human,” she said quietly.  She briefly lifted some of the fabric and her tone became more matter-of-fact.  “Possibly affluent.  The clothing drape is very loose but there is full cover.  A modest society.  Deeply philosophical, possibly religious.  There may be clear gender roles but I won’t know until I find a male.”  She stood up, dusting off her hands and looking around at the building remains.

 Riker and Data glanced at each other, silently impressed with the deductions of the culture specialist.  She was small and slight, a soltha, not a member of the Federation but there was free association between it and her race.  One of the first of her race to enter Starfleet, she had been on the Enterprise less than a month and this was her first away mission.

 “We should be able to split up,” Riker said, glancing at Data, who nodded confirmation.  “Ching-ree, you’re with me.  See what you can get from that one,” he added to Data, pointing at the remains of a large, multi-story building that had partially collapsed.  A large section of the wall was missing and the partially compressed floors resembled strata from a planet’s surface.  Data nodded and he and Ensign Vorik started across the overgrown roadside.

 “If we can get in there...”  Riker pointed to a building 20 meters away that had columns flanking the entrance.  Blocking their path was the remains of a tall monument that had toppled, strewing large blocks of stone in an almost straight line.  Beyond that was a black railing and a series of overgrown stone planters.

  They navigated the complex terrain, climbing over the semicircular blocks.  At one point Riker saw a fold of green fabric sticking out from underneath one of the blocks and he shifted his path, avoiding the remains out of respect.  The railing was partially crushed by the monument’s fall and they climbed over a low spot.  Weeds taller than they were sprouted from the planters, which were arranged in a semicircle within a few meters of the entrance of the building.

 Silent up to this point, the ensign finally spoke.  “Dr. Crusher told me about a culture study proposal.”

 Riker glanced at her.  “Well, at least we’ve found a world where it can be done by people like you, instead of geologists.”

 “Any branch can be useful.”  She turned around and pointed.  “You have engineers going after a large retail establishment.”

 Riker turned.  “What?”

 “Large, simple, symmetric floors, and look at everything that’s falling out.  Unless someone was playing cram the building, that’s a clothing store.”

 By turns embarrassed and taken aback by her bluntness, it took him a moment to respond.  “You didn’t think to mention that?”  They reached the entrance of the building, cautiously approaching the half-crumbled columns.

 She shrugged, suddenly awkward.  “I guess...I just didn’t think of it.”  They both looked up and around at the small, formal, brick building.  Windows on either side of the door were smashed in and the white double doors had black linear smears on them, like a giant clawed hand had swiped at the door.

 He tried the door handle.  It wouldn’t move.  He glanced at her and they both wordlessly backed off a few steps as he reached for the phaser on his hip.  He adjusted the setting and fired at the door handle assembly.  When the metal started to glow a dull red, he stowed the weapon and found a nearby branch on the ground to push the assembly through the door.  It fell with a thud inside the building.

 “Ooohhhh.....”  Ching-ree said softly as they gained entry, walking almost reverently through the entryway.  “This is an art gallery,” she said, for the first time looking at him with a wide-eyed stare.

 “Useful?” he asked with a grin.

 “Very,” she said in wonderment, turning to look around the first room.  Only a few of the paintings were still on the walls but even the ones on the floor seemed to show no damage.  Leaves had blown in through the broken windows and the glass still littered the floor, but the damage seemed to be minimal enough that an hour of cleaning would put the gallery back into business.  They both silently inspected the canvases.  The paintings all seemed abstract or impressionistic, most in bright colors with elaborate frames.

 The wide entrance hallway gave way to a larger back gallery.  A shattered skylight provided enough light for them to see.  The paintings in the back were more still life oriented, with apparent plants and household objects.  A few figure paintings were interspersed.  Not an artist himself, Riker finished his inspection before Ching-ree did and waited as she finished her slow circuit of the room.

 “They were sophisticated in regard to aesthetics,” she said.  “The abstract ones out there.  And here, with the lines leading upward,” she went on, pointing to another.  “They were hopeful.  Also stubborn.”  She pointed to a third canvas that showed an abstract figure outlined in a thick black border.  “But underneath all of it....”  She turned in a slow circle, studying the room.  “They were at war.”

 “How can you tell?”

 They had been in orbit of enough pock-marked worlds for the entire ship to know this was a campaign like none other.  But this was an observation gleaned from paintings, none of which displayed anything that resembled an obvious weapon.  Ching-ree fidgeted with her hands.  “I’m not good at....being able to place it, being able to specify what I’m seeing,” she said haltingly.  “It’s subtle hints and clues.  I can’t explain it, but I can read them like a book.  I can’t always say how I know.  But there was a war, they were not the aggressors, and they still had hope.”  She went back into the first room, walking slowly past the canvases.  “Naive, hopeful, stubborn, proud but not conceited, but there’s...a shadow.  Something haunted them.”

 “Does this feel like a long term conflict?”

 She shook her head slowly.  “Maybe, but....Commander, what happens if we find out this was Romulans or Klingons?” she asked in a small voice.

 It was just as possible to read damage methods and skill levels and ordnance used as it was to intuit personality from artwork, but the difference was that it could be proven in a lab what type of energy discharge had taken place.  As keen as the ensign was on the aesthetics of her surroundings, she had no ability to understand evidence in a similar tactical arena, and Riker smiled.

 “It wasn’t,” he assured her.  She looked at him worriedly, and he added, “Unless they completely changed their methods and weapons, it wasn’t them.  This was...more brute force and primitive.”

 She let out a breath and nodded, reassured, and went back to gazing at the gallery remains.  “I don’t know if these paintings are old, or what their date spread is, but none of them say anything different.  It’s all shadowed.”

 After another few moments, by silent agreement they both exited the building.  Riker swung the door closed, jamming the branch from earlier through the remaining door handle and the hole left from the other door, hoping to continue to provide at least some protection to the interior.  The next building over was nearly as structurally intact as the gallery had been, but this time showing the blackened plasma burns streaking the walls and the repetitive shelving that filled most rooms.  It had all the feel of a library, with numerous alcoves for quiet reading.  There were many apparent projectors and electronic readers for the now familiar optical chips, and they transported hundreds of the chips to the ship.

 And always, as they worked, they were never alone.  In the corners of most rooms corpses huddled together, blackened streaks across their bright clothing giving an indication of how they were executed.  Riker felt the need to acknowledge their presence, and as absurd as he felt, he never left a room without gazing on the shriveled remains, silently mourning them and wishing them peace.  He’d never truly settled with himself whether he thought there was an afterlife, but if there was, he hoped they were getting the best of it, as they hadn’t in this life.  Whatever of them had passed on, though, their remains in this life still held a purpose.  They were witnesses, and even more, evidence.

 Ching-ree sighed softly, with a pained expression, as Riker shined a flashlight on a collection of clothing in the corner of a room, with decayed hands still protectively wrapped around two other victims.

 “I mean...this was...intimate,” she said haltingly as they moved to the next area.  “There was a room search.”

 “Systematic elimination of an entire race,” Riker said quietly.  “It takes a special kind of–”

 He broke off on entering the next large alcove.  Simplistic, brightly colored artwork covered many of the walls and small chairs were overturned, scattered around.  A round white table was lying on its side, with the top facing them, barricading a corner of the room. Riker stepped over just enough to catch a partial glimpse of what was behind the table.  Cobwebs and dust coated the alcove, partially obscuring a cluster of small skulls, some still with hair, huddled in the corner.  A large plasma burn bisected the group entirely.

 Riker stared, trying to formulate what it would take to extend slaughter to children.  There were very, very few forces he knew of in the galaxy that were capable of an act like this, and even then it would take unusual circumstances.  This assailant would have had to enter the room, cross over to the table, and fire a weapon at them all in deliberate action, face to face with the defenseless, terrified victims.  All life had been extinguished on the planets, which included children, but the cluster of small corpses in the corner presented a horrifying reminder of what that meant, pure and condensed.

 “We will find who did this,” Riker said quietly, as much to the victims as to himself.  An act like this could only be done by a mind with no conscience.  If whoever...or whatever... had done this was still active out there, somewhere in the galaxy, they needed to know they were leaving behind dangerous calling cards, and those cards had now been found.

Chapter Text

 “Alright, Enterprise shuttle control, we are ready to launch.  Probes are secure.”  Lieutenant Commander Geordi Laforge’s cybernetic gaze swept over the control panels in front of him, seeing all indicators for pre-flight in green.  Next to him, Ensign Kalona Evans rested her elbow casually on an armrest, her apparent disinterested look evidence of practiced ease rather than boredom.  Behind her, another ensign, the Vulcan Torok, was still as a statue as the hum from the shuttle’s fusion generator started to rise.

 The scrap field that drifted around the planet Caprica and its moon had been scanned thoroughly, and the ship’s computer was able to extrapolate twenty-one vessels, each of them looking much like the one Dr. Crusher had located.  With the assumption that this was the defensive fleet, the decision was made to send the excavation and engineering shuttle Farley out with the hope that somewhere in the remains, some storage media survived that would give a clue as to what happened. The shuttle was specially modified to investigate local physical artefacts that were too small for tractor beams to manipulate, with stations for remote control of probes and a replicator for hardware needs.

 “Shuttle Farley, you are cleared.  Internal atmospheric barrier functioning....Bay door is coming up.”

 A curve of sunlight started to grow on the walls of the bay as the two-story-tall bay door rose.  “Alright, now here’s where we test the grip on our bugs.  They are...”

 “Mhm.  Tight,” Evans said in her slow drawl, looking down at her panel.  A camera showed the view underneath the shuttle, where two engineering probes clung to the shuttle’s exterior between the field coils.  The forward view swayed almost imperceptively as the shuttle rose and began to back out of the bay with the aid of tractors.

 Slowly the dorsal “neck” of the Enterprise came into view as they exited the area, then Laforge brought the shuttle around.  The forward screen automatically dimmed the star in front of them.  Under Laforge’s practiced hand the shuttle oriented to the field and navigated uneventfully to the field of debris.  The flecks of reflected light slowly grew in number and individual size, to the point where they could almost identify vessel sections.  Carefully, Laforge guided the shuttle through some of the clumps, seeing them up close.  Faint blast patterns marked the metal, with bubbling and flaking from extreme temperatures.  Some metal was simply torn, with jagged edges.  Very rarely there were identifiable bulkheads, or a casing, or sections of piping or railing.

 “Alright, let’s stop here and get the probes out,” Laforge said, fixing their location to the surrounding remains.  “A lot of good possibilities in this area and we have good light.  We just need to get lucky once,” he emphasized.  “Then we can scan for those dimensions and collect multiple sets.”  Satisfied with the shuttle position, he started to reconfigure his display.  Evans moved to a rear seat across from Torok and each of them unfolded the specialized engineering panels from their sides of the shuttle.  After confirming contact with each probe, there was a faint scraping sound and bump as they detached from the shuttle.

 Laforge looked back and saw Evans already grinning, gaze fixed on her panel as she manipulated her probe.  Evans was one of the sharpest pilots the ship had seen in some time, which was one of the reasons she was selected for this assignment.  Torok displayed the intent attention and still demeanor of a Vulcan engrossed in a task.  Turning back, he could see small blue flares in front of the shuttle as the two probes the ensigns piloted accelerated toward the large remains in front of the shuttle.  At least thirty meters in diameter, the complexity suggested internal systems for a delicate task.

 “See the parabolic curve on the left side of that chunk?”  Laforge pointed to the large section, glancing back over his shoulder.

 “It seems to indicate a receiver assembly,” Torok said.

 “Yeah,” Evans said absently as she fired the positioning thrusters on her probe.  “There’s a bent–”

 “Wait, what?”  Laforge pulled back the focus on the externally mounted shuttle camera and targeted a slowly turning sheet of metal fifteen meters in front of the shuttle.  As it slowly rotated, a pattern of markings resolved into black block lettering.

 “Pacifica.”  Laforge stared at the twisted metal.  “You’ve gotta be kidding me...”

 “Whaaat?”  Evans asked, bewildered.  She folded her control panel and came to the front of the shuttle.

 “That is...one of Earth’s oceans,” Torok said, bringing the visual up on his panel.

 “Six thousand light-years from Earth.”  Laforge watched the panel continue to rotate, the lettering disappearing and reappearing again as if granting them a confirm on the surreal sight.

 “There’s no way....” Evans began slowly.  “That can’t...”

 “Well, we’ve already seen constellation names unique to Earth, so why not ocean names,” Laforge said, shaking his head in disbelief.  “Much more of this and I’m going to start suspecting a parallel universe, here.”

 “It is becoming more and more apparent that these are Earth settlements, but Earth received no outside contacts prior to native year 2063.”  Torok shook his head.  “It is most illogical.”

 Laforge sighed, still staring at the panel.  “Eliminate the impossible....but how do you do that when you’re looking at the impossible?”  He shook his head.  “We need information, a computer core, or something.  Alright, military, utilitarian, carrier, so a bridge module is going to be large with multiple stations and maybe some local storage,” he said, deliberately refocusing on the excavation.  “Let’s see what we can find.”

 The probes attached to the large wreckage and began a close inspection, heating and cutting through metal and extending flexible cabling with cameras into interiors, searching for answers.  Somewhere in here, hidden among the torn structural supports and blasted hull sections, there were clues.  The last desperate days of a vast multi-world civilization awaited them.  They needed only the perseverance to find it.

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

 Riker and Ensign Ching-ree had exited the building, still unable to speak, when Riker’s comm badge chirped.  “Picard to Riker.”

 “Riker here.”

 “Commander, we’re going to be using tractor beams on a structure within 300 meters of your current location.  I’d like you both to stay were you are until we finish the operation.”

 “Understood.  Riker out–”

 “Belay.” 

 Riker stopped, glancing at Ching-ree.  “Sir?”

 There was a pause.  Then, “Commander, what have you found?”

 Riker bowed his head.  No empath was needed to clearly decipher the somber tone.  It wasn’t possible to briefly describe the enormity of what they had seen and he struggled for words.  “We found....children....” he managed, then shook his head, unwilling to continue.  To his right, Ching-ree had her arms wrapped around her middle and her shoulders drawn up, staring sightlessly at the sidewalk.  Riker took a steadying breath.  “I’ll give a full report when I get back,” he said quietly.  “But suffice it to say....I don’t think we’ve ever encountered monsters like this before.”

 “Understood.”  Picard sounded just as grave.  “I’m sorry.”

 Riker imagined Deanna sitting up ramrod straight, eyes unfocused, reaching to the edge of her empathic range and knowing he had found something profound and distasteful.  If he was any other crew member, Picard would have mentioned her name right now as a resource following this away mission.  Riker sighed.

 “We’re on the trail of nightmares.  There are bound to be some disagreeable experiences along the way.”  He looked up as the clouds some distance away contorted and condensed to rain as the Enterprise’s tractors fragmented them.  “I think Ching-ree and I need some distraction.  We’re going to rejoin the other two.  After we get the all-clear,” he added.

 Shopping mall or not, the Galaxy-class Enterprise-D was using its tractors on the building so it was likely that Data and Vorik found something worth digging out.  They watched as the roof of the building, already fractured in two, was pulled aside with surprising deftness.  The first section vanished to the far side, then apparently settled to the ground, creating bursts of dust they could just see between other structures.  The second section was pulled away, and then the top floor was caught in the tractor beam.  It took several attempts, as there was a great deal of loose material that frustrated the full grip of the tractors before it was finally gripped securely.  As it was still attached to at least one wall, significant collapse occurred as the concrete and steel structure was finally wrested free, taking part of one wall with it.  Another floor was removed in the same manner, and soon Riker could barely see what was left of the structure over the rest of the urban terrain between them.
 No further movement occurred, and as the dust slowly rose over the horizon, Riker sat on the corner of one of the stone planters and waited.  It wasn’t long before the communication came in.

 “Data to Commander Riker.”

 “Riker here.  Safe to come in?”

 “Yes, sir.  It is safest to begin your approach by the south-southeast corner.  I am sending coordinates to your tricorder now.”

 Riker straightened and reached for the device, seeing the numbers and a small representation of a map, with a path flashing.  He glanced at Ching-ree, who nodded and started to follow him, still not looking up.  They retraced their path back the way they had come and then continued across a wide road.  Other than the overgrowth of the flora there were no significant obstacles.  The new resting place for the top floors came into view, and then they saw Data, waiting near a corner of a remaining floor.

 Data spoke first when they got close enough.  “We believe we may have found either an automatic planetary defense force or an aggressor,” he said, sounding almost apologetic.  Riker looked at him sharply and Data said, “We are registering no activity on any bands.  There is no active power, no movement, and no potential for uncontrolled release.”

 “What did you find?”

 “A small craft, eighteen meters by twelve meters.  There are no life signs of any kind but we have now verified that there is an apparent control deck that has three occupants.”  Right up against the corner of the building, Riker understood why the floors needed to be shifted.  Past a concrete lip was a drop-off of twenty meters down to a transportation tunnel.  The retail space joined up with it.  He edged up to the drop and looked down.  A section of a lower floor had broken off and partially supported what looked like a flat, circular, dull-gray craft.  Ching-ree stayed back, cautious.  Ensign Vorik rubbed his hands on his uniform pants, which already showed evidence of the dirty work they had been doing.  Unsurprisingly, Data’s uniform appeared spotless.

 “We couldn’t get down there but we were getting weird pings,” Vorik said, stepping back as Data moved past him to some exposed steel supports.  “There were trace metals that didn’t match anything else around here so we had the thing shifted.”  Vorik waved an arm at the now rearranged building remains.

 Two black cases from engineering had been delivered, and Data reached for one of them.  “Ensign Vorik and I will rappel down and ascertain if the craft is physically settled,” he said, extracting two harnesses and lines from the case.  “We will then attempt to gain entry into the craft.”  He handed one harness to Vorik, then started attaching their lines to the steel framework at the edge of the building.

 “It wasn’t biological remains?” Riker asked as Data stepped into his harness.

 “No, sir,” he answered.  “After the flooring was cleared, we were able to confirm faint traces of xenon and difluoride, which could represent a power source.”

 “Xenon difluoride,” Riker repeated, frowning in confusion.  “That’s not enough to....” he trailed off, gaze dropping to the inert craft at the base of the excavation.

 “Theory is there might be some kind of robot.”  Vorik adjusted his harness, glancing at Data, who pushed the tractor grip for one of the securing lines toward the engineer.  Riker noted the lack of guilt or apology in the glance the younger officer gave Data.  A constructed mechanical enemy could explain the behavior, but as Data was also a constructed, mechanical being, some people might react uneasily at the implications.  The range in sophistication between constructed life forms was as great as the range between biological life forms, though.  If the craft contained mechanical constructs, they would be to Data as an amoeba was to a Vulcan or a Trill.  If they ever ended up in a war state between that theoretical force, the implications of Data’s race would be no greater than that for the biological life forms on board the Enterprise when Romulans opened fire on them.

 Riker also noted that the android officer dutifully used the harness and line to descend into the excavated site.  Laforge had been pleading lately with his fellow officer and friend to be less cavalier about his physical safety despite his extreme physical capability.  He could have easily stepped off the lip and dropped the equivalent of a six-story building, landing undamaged on the mud-covered concrete of the tunnel floor.  Instead Data had one hand on the rappel grip as he looked down, carrying one of the cases in his other hand, his booted feet kicking off the support walls as he precisely and neatly aimed his descent.  Vorik followed more slowly, descending a few meters at a time, evaluating each point of descent.  By the time he reached the bottom, Data had shed his harness already and was slowly walking around the tilted craft.

 Ching-ree had edged up close enough to catch a glimpse down.  “I don’t think that was planetary defense,” she said slowly, shaking her head.  “I mean, just...”  She waved a hand self-consciously.  “If appearance is anything to go by, this doesn’t feel like a craft these people would design.”

 Riker looked at her, gauging the likelihood of her expertise extending to engineering design.  Whether Federation, Cardassian, Borg, or any of the major powers, the vessels of each had a distinct presence that was unmistakable, even if the class was otherwise unfamiliar or new to them.  They had seen only one vessel confirmed to have been used by these worlds, but looking at the gray saucer, Riker thought he could almost understand the type of unquantifiable vibe the culture specialist was reading.

 He reached to his comm badge, intending to pass on the information, but stopped when he saw Data tap his own badge.  There was a brief exchange, then he tapped it again.  “Data to Commander Riker.”

 “Riker here.”

 He could faintly hear Data’s actual voice around the sound projected from the pinhole speaker on his comm badge.  “Commander, I am going to attempt to shift the craft.  It is too small for tractors, and is not yet stable enough for us to access.  The Enterprise will maintain a transporter lock on both of us while I do this.  I have also asked Ensign Vorik to move to the other end of the tunnel.”

 “What’s the power plant?”

 “It is sub-light, ion engines with afterburners.  It is stable.”

 Riker watched as Vorik broke into a lope and reached the far end of the tunnel.  Data had stepped back a moment, surveying the craft, probably doing millions of calculations on materials stress and physical mechanics.  He stepped forward and got his hands underneath an edge of the craft, about two feet off the ground, but the craft only barely moved before he released the grip.  Data walked around to the elevated side of the craft and disappeared underneath, and Riker shook his head.  After a moment, with a protest of metal, flooring, and steel supports, the craft shifted as if by its own volition, rising a meter or so.  Flinching, he watched as the flooring supports released additional debris with the sudden change in weight distribution.  The craft moved in brief increments away from the tunnel access, then slowly tilted by several degrees.  Data appeared at the edge, then, turning to face the craft.  He lowered it and it settled on the floor of the tunnel, with one side braced by an apparent boarding platform.  At a hand signal, Vorik started returning at a jog, joining the other officer at what must be the rear of the craft.

 “Riker to Data–you’re alright?”

 “Yes, sir.”

 “If you’re going to crack into that thing, I want weapons aimed and a transporter lock in place for both of you.  Keep this comm link open.”

 “Understood.”  There was a pause as they both inspected what was apparently an access hatch.

 “Torch or brute force?” Vorik asked in the background.

 “The shielding appears to be steel but I believe it would be best to use a torch for initial entry.”

 After several minutes of work with a plasma torch, they had weakened the shielding enough for Data, hand in a protective mitt, to grip a glowing, dull-red edge.  He bent it upward slowly, then the torch was used again to widen the opening.  They continued in that pattern until there was a sizeable opening, like someone holding the corner of suspended fabric.

 “There is an interior hatch.”  Riker heard what sounded like Data rapping his knuckles on the door.  “I believe I can force it.”

 “Vorik, get your phaser ready.”

 The engineer positioned himself just to Data’s side, weapon ready.  Riker didn’t have a clear view, but he could clearly hear the cracking and snapping of unknown material as Data applied measured force.  Then he froze, absolutely still.  Riker was about to ask when he got his answer.  “There is no sound from the interior.  If a mechanical device of any kind was active, it would create a tone that I would be able to detect.”  After methodically removing sections of the crushed door, he looked inside.  “There are three occupants of apparent mechanical construction.”

 “What can you tell about their capability, or sophistication?”

 Data stepped over some of the remains of the inner door, bent over in the low opening.  Riker heard the low tones of a tricorder.  “They are completely inert.  Two of them are significantly damaged.  A third seems to have suffered little damage, but the xenon-difluoride power packs are completely drained.  There are no exotic materials, and they seem to be very simplistic in construction.”

 Riker read the subtle implication.  “You’re going to have to go a long way to convince me to activate one.”

 “Its construction materials indicate it would be very easily controlled physically.  It could be an extremely valuable resource for determining motivation and intent.”

 “Down here or on the Enterprise?  And what about final disposition?”

 There was a brief pause before Data responded.  “The cybernetics lab would be the most appropriate location.  I would first conduct a thorough examination, then disconnect all but a central drive or processor and access to speech and hearing.  Disposition method would be as recommended by you or Captain Picard.”

 Riker sighed.  The corpses in colorful clothing dotting the area, the destroyed buildings and infrastructure surrounding them were all the work of the circular craft twenty meters below him.  The fact that the one chance they had to resurrect something from this holocaust would almost certainly be one of the perpetrators disgusted him.  Unfortunately, nothing would give them an insight into the mind of evil behind this like one of its foot soldiers, and he realized with a sinking feeling Data was right.

 “You have a point,” he said reluctantly, “but I’m not the person to convince on this.”  He tapped his badge.  “Riker to Picard.”

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

 They made a strange parade as they made their way through the corridors of the Enterprise to the cybernetics lab:  A security member led, followed by Data pushing the cart with the construct on it.  Worf walked alongside the cart, and two more security brought up the rear.  The silver form elicited looks of confusion and curiosity from crew and civilians alike, as well as sidelong looks of disgust from the security chief.  As a condition for the captain allowing transport to the ship, a security team would be on duty at all times, and following any information retrieval, Picard sharply stated he would no longer tolerate it on his ship.  Any direct connection to the machine had also been banned, whether by ship’s computer or by Data himself.  Either the construct had an intelligible voice or it would be sent out on a wide dispersal beam.

 The cybernetics lab lights flicked on as they entered, and Data pushed the cart next to a work table.  “You are certain it has no access to power?” Worf asked as Data lifted the curled up form and transferred it to the work table.

 “I am certain,” Data answered, positioning the construct on the table.  “One of my first tasks is to remove the drained battery and locate any potential power or access ports.”

 “You have restraints sufficient to contain it when you do activate it?”

 “I believe it might be appropriate to transfer to a holodeck and create a custom table.”

 Worf nodded as he watched Data position the overhead scanner.  The three security crew found places to stand and they watched, mystified, as Data began to rapidly configure the display panel on the extensor arm of the scanner.  “Our initial readings show only first and second-generation materials, such as fiber optics, steel, silicon, and plastics, which shows clear physical limitations.”

 “I wish to be present when it is activated.  I trust you,” Worf added.  “But I do not like this and I do not trust it,” he rumbled, fixing the silver form with a glare.

 “I will not activate it until I present my findings to the captain tomorrow morning,” Data said.  “I anticipate my examination should conclude no later than 2230 hours, but I will remain here in addition to the security.”

 Satisfied enough for now, Worf left the lab then, giving all three security a look that made his expectations clear.  Despite the fact that the robot was a potential source of information, it was a potential aggressor on the ship, and full force at the first sign of danger was authorized.

(editor's note, the writer never finished off this scene properly.  she will be summarily fired.  Oh, wait, someone's taking care of that already...)

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

 Trying to stifle a yawn, Laforge watched as tech crew carefully unloaded the frozen media storage from the shuttle’s storage compartment.  Hands in protective gloves, they loaded each item into specialized storage tanks that would keep the media cold until the computer labs could study them.  They had recovered nineteen definite magnetic storage drives and one possible computer core from the wreckage.  Over closer to the barrier, the four by six foot metal frame was being carefully leveraged by shuttle bay crew.  It had once had apparent plastic panels, most of which had shattered while drifting in orbit.  Despite the best efforts of the bay crew, more of the dark green plastic was flaking and littering the deck as they attempted to maneuver it onto a cart.

 Kalona Evans yawned hugely as she came around the side of the shuttle, which triggered Laforge’s yawn.  “Man, it’s been a long day,” he said, wiping his eyes.

 “Well, hopefully we got something with this,” Evans answered.  “I want to see if we hit the jackpot with that one,” she said, nodding to the large framework as the crew finally positioned it on the low, wheeled cart.  Faint steam rose from it as they wheeled it toward the main road around the shuttle bay.

 “Well, if it is a core, then we know this was no mass self-destruct,” Laforge answered.  His attention was pulled away, then, as Ensign Torok approached.

 “Dismissed?”

 Laforge nodded.  “Granted.  Good job today, both of you,” he said, glancing at both ensigns.  Torok nodded gravely and silently departed.

 “Did they send an away team to the surface?” Evans asked.

 “I think they did, yeah.”  Laforge turned, finding a control panel by a service alcove nearby.  He used his senior officer clearance and accessed mission logs.  “Yeah.  It looks like...woah...”  He squinted at the text, his lips moving slightly as he read the brief description.  “Well, now I’m not sure who hit the bigger jackpot–us or them.”

 “What did they find?”  Evans tried to step closer discreetly to read, but Laforge swiped the screen away.

 “Probably too early to tell, but we’ll find out tomorrow,” he said, trying to keep his voice neutral.  Evans accepted it with a shrug.

 “Alright, I’m going to go fall over,” she said.  “We’re good here?”

 Laforge nodded.  “We’re good.  Dismissed.”

 Evans nodded heavily and turned with a slightly exaggerated imbalance, heading toward the stairs to deck 2.  After she disappeared, Laforge looked around carefully, then used the panel to locate Data.  He was in the cybernetics lab.

 He wanted nothing more than to get out of uniform and crawl into bed, but his curiosity led him to exit the bay and head to deck 12.  He cut through to the outer ring on the starboard side, finding the lab toward the aft of the saucer.  One of the last times he spent any significant time in this lab was over five years ago—Data’s daughter, Lal.  Along with Troi and Wesley Crusher, he had waited outside the lab for nearly an hour while Data and Admiral Haftel tried to prevent the total cascade failure.  In the end, they were unsuccessful, and Data had loaded Lal’s memory into his own net after she shut down.  The android who claimed to have no feelings had taught them more about parental love than they had ever known.  Laforge often wondered if Data would make another attempt some day, perhaps even to “recreate” Lal, but he hadn’t asked.  It was certainly possible, though, that the ever-awake android was running the equations and materials in the background.

 Now once again, Data was working on a construct in that lab, but the current project was merely research in the context of an investigation.  The strength of their tremendous affection for Lal was matched possibly only by the strength of their enmity toward this automaton.  If it was on the aggressor side, Laforge knew what he would do with it.  He had just spent three and a half hours touring the remains of a civilization that had been shattered likely by this creation.  The Federation frowned on revenge, but if they ever encountered this force one day, he hoped there would be free use of photon torpedoes.

 The door slid open at his approach, and Laforge blinked in surprise at the relative crowd in the lab.  In addition to Data there were security personnel in the lab, conspicuously holding type II phasers.  Data nodded to him and there was a slight brightening of his expression as Laforge walked slowly into the cluttered lab.  “Wow.  This looks like a parts junkyard.”

 “Hello, Geordi.  This is the construct Ensign Vorik and I recovered from the planet surface.”  Data’s tone was conversational as Laforge stared around the lab, seeing almost every surface covered with steel plating, cowling, fiber optics, and various paraphernalia from the inner workings of the form on the table.  Stripped down to a relative skeleton, steel joints and some articulating hardware were all that remained, with a module at the “head”.  The whole scene looked like something out of the nightmares of a young cybernetics student.

 “So it was actually a humanoid shape?” Laforge asked, reaching out to the three-toed foot at his end of the table.  The bottoms of the steel pads were heavily scuffed.

 “Yes.  Here is an image before I began deconstruction.”  Data swiped at the scanner screen, hit a few keys, then turned it to Laforge.  The screen showed the form lying flat out on the table, hands at the sides, looking as though stiffly at attention.  The steel armor looked bulky but functional, covering almost all but the articulating joints.

 “Wow,” Laforge repeated.  There was an almost medieval flavor to the armor, with a centurion-type helm.  “This...so you found this inside a small shuttle, or craft of some kind?”

 “Our scans indicated likely a small fighter craft, not unlike a starfighter’s role.”

 Laforge picked up what looked like a possible instep from a nearby surface, holding it in place over the foot to see the fit, then set it down, looking around the room critically.  “I’m not seeing anything really complex here, Data,” he said, gaze stopping at the head of the table.  “Especially that head...”

 He stopped at a muffled giggle from one of the security, a young female with dark brown hair braided at the back of her head.  “Sorry, sir,” she said when they turned to look at her.  “We’ve been....sort of speculating on it.”  At Laforge’s questioning look, Data stepped in.

 “The current guess is either a butler, a vacuum cleaner, or a groundskeeper,” he said calmly, causing more muffled laughter around the room.  More confusion from Laforge prompted him to add, “There are no ports and almost no receivers of any kind on this form.  It cannot directly access information, cannot receive signals, and cannot access any source of power other than its own battery.”  Though equally calmly delivered, Data came as close as he ever did to a mixture of exasperation and wonderment.

 “Are you serious?”

 “I am always serious, Geordi.”

 The engineer let out a breath of laughter, then rubbed his face.  “So what we’re saying is–” He broke off to yawn hugely.  “Sorry, long day,” he said, shaking his head.  “I really have to go–but we’re saying the only way it can receive information is....auditory?  Just by talking?”

 “In addition to visual input, those are the only receivers it possesses,” Data said almost apologetically.

 Laforge shook his head.  “Maybe you did just pick up a butler,” he murmured, rolling his eyes.  “It’s got onboard storage, right?”

 “It does have storage, but it is quite limited.  So far I have only been able to locate a ten-gig storage device.”

 “Ten gig?  Is that even enough room for an AI?”

 “A limited one, perhaps, yes,” Data allowed.

 “Okay, this was a swarm,” Laforge said with finality, holding one of the foot pads between his thumb and index finger.  “This was mass produced, massive scale, there had to have been billions.  If this is what wiped out this civilization, that’s the only method I think I could understand, and even then, there had to have been some outside assistance.”

 “That is much the same conclusion I was reaching,” Data said, looking down at the table.  “If this was one of the aggressors, I believe it must have been quite far down on the....totem pole.”

 There was a snort of laughter at the carefully chosen words.  “Very far down.  Man, I would love to stay but I can’t stop—”   He broke off again with a yawn.  “...yawning!”

 “Good night, Geordi,” Data said as Laforge left the lab.

Chapter Text

 At 0800 the next morning, Captain Picard made his way to holodeck 2 on deck 11, where three other senior officers waited with the construct they had recovered yesterday.  Dr. Crusher had graciously agreed to stay an extra hour on the bridge, even though there were no other ships detected within 15 light years of the Enterprise.  The ship was now positioned at a Lagrange point on the opposite side of the system, to avoid the copious wreckage.  Picard found himself hoping that the “wreckage” in their holodeck would prove to be non-functional, but Data had sent a brief message informing him there was a high likelihood that the unit would successfully activate.  So Worf had designed a custom table with Data, and Laforge was assisting with power regulation and general operations.

 Riker had insisted on being present as well.  He had told Picard about what he had seen on the surface, and Troi had spent time with both him and Ching-ree, the ensign who had accompanied him.  While she said anger was a perfectly acceptable response, even healthy, Picard saw potential for this to devolve into a shouting match, depending on the cognitive capabilities of the construct.  If they could successfully communicate with it, though, it would be one of the last puzzle pieces needed, along with the copious recordings and media they had recovered from the wreckage.  This would likely give them a final, complete picture of this civilization’s fate.  He would welcome the closure but not the nature of the information.  The report was shaping up to be well over 100 pages, unlike the typical five to ten pages at the conclusion of most missions.

 As he rounded the curve of the saucer’s outer ring, Commander Riker emerged from a connecting corridor, joining him.  “Are we recording this?” he asked, matching pace with the captain.

 “Absolutely, all media including us.  As soon as we enter, the recording begins.”

 “I’m assuming they’re considered to be outside any jurisdiction, as far as any laws are concerned,” Riker said as they approached the doors to the holodeck.

 “They may be outside the law, but they’re not outside tactical judgment,” Picard said shortly as he keyed the doors open.  The heavy shields slid open with a deep whoosh, revealing a mostly bare deck and the three other officers.  Towards the center of the chamber, an articulating table with tritanium-threaded straps held the silver automaton securely.  To the right, another table held power packs and a small monitor, along with a separate holographic generator.  Two black cables ran from the power packs to the construct, disappearing to an apparent connection on the upper back.

 “Captain, commander.”  Data greeted them with a nod as the doors closed behind them.  He stood by the secondary table and Laforge was to the left of the construct.  A short distance away, Worf prowled like an animal waiting for his prey to blink, armed with a phaser rifle and his bat’leth in its customary harness on his back.  He gave a short nod as the two senior-most officers came closer.

 “You’ve studied its systems,” Picard said by way of prompting Data’s report.  The android nodded.

 “Yes, sir.  I will first describe its major systems and functions, beginning with joint articulation.”  He tapped on the monitor and the hologram generator lit up.

 Before he could begin, Riker approached the table, looking closely at it.  “Is that....”  He pointed to the neck of the construct, where various cables and fiber optics sprouted out like a tech experiment gone bad.

 Data turned back.  “All movement is disconnected.  I am unable to disconnect the head unit completely, as it is welded to the skeleton.  I chose to not sever it from the frame, but it is a mere physical connection, carrying no controlling hardware.”

 “Signals are locked down?  It can’t send or receive?”

 “In fact, it is incapable of receiving any type of information other than visual or audio,” Data explained as he brought up the holograms he made of the construct’s systems.  “The only remote access it has is apparent visual scanning and audio feed.”

 Riker gave Picard a look of disbelief.  Then, “Alright, what have you got?”

 Data went through the systems succinctly, layer by layer, covering articulation, control, tactile feeds, power feed, materials, the limited input and output, the battery system, and armor.  By the time he got done Picard was at least feeling more confident about control.  Data had been correct in his original estimation of the construct’s limitations.  The restraints were more than sufficient to hold the machine, and even Worf went from hostile alert to merely alert, shouldering his rifle.

 “I think you are correct, this is likely the lowest link in the chain,” Picard said when Data finished.  “It may have only partial or even incorrect information, but we should be able to access its last known orders.”

 “If it’s even capable of speech,” Riker said, jutting his chin at Data’s display.  “That speaker is about as primitive as it gets.”

 “Very little idea of what this is going to sound like,” Laforge commented, joining Data at the table with the sarium krellide packs they were using to provide power.  “We know it can’t blast our eardrums and that’s about it.”

 At a nod from Picard, Laforge switched on the power feed.  Data stood at the monitor, watching the sensors he had placed to track function.  The faint whine from the power packs rose to outside of their hearing range.  When nothing happened for several moments, Picard directed a questioning look at Data.

 “It is receiving,” Data said softly.  “It may take one minute to come entirely on line.”

 Picard gave a half-nod, returning his attention to the table.  After several more seconds, a faint red glow began to build in the track he assumed was visual intake.  Then, all five of them reacted as a first sound came through, a harsh, metallic grating.

 Data frowned, tilting his head.  The sound consisted of staccato notes, each a different character but there was a discernible pattern.  After nearly a minute, he said, “I believe it is saying ‘disconnected’.”

 “You think maybe....it won’t fire up unless everything’s connected?” Laforge wondered.

 “That could be a tactic,” Worf broke in firmly.

 Riker glanced at the others.  “Hook me up and I’ll tell you everything,” he said mockingly.

 Picard sighed, considering the issue.  “How long would it take you to reconnect everything?” he asked, looking at Data.

 “I believe less than five minutes.”

 “Make it so,” he said, nodding as Laforge turned the power off.  Most of them stepped back as Data came around to the free side of the construct.  After creating several tools from holodeck systems, he removed the helm and began threading cables back in swiftly and precisely.  The spray of ends gradually reduced until all of them were connected.  He then slid the helm back in place and checked the restraints again.

 “Alright, silverman, take two,” Laforge said, switching on the power again at a nod from Picard.  Worf swung his rifle down and got in position, now that he knew physical movement could be expected.  Once again the red light came on in the center of the track, but this time the light started to oscillate, with a faint throbbing tone that almost resembled a wooden flute.  There were several faint clicks throughout the form, and then...

 “Cylon centurion mark four, serial zero zero four eight seven eight X P Y K H.”

 The five officers glanced at each other.  The voice it produced was an almost unintelligible metallic fuzz, with a cold flatness to the tone. It reminded Picard of the multi-tone speech of the Borg, but theirs was more organic in nature, and this was pure electronic, metallic, and primitive, instantly unsettling.  He suppressed a shudder.

 “All systems return positive.  Activation complete.”  There was a brief pause, then, “Location unknown.  Verify.”

 Picard glanced at Data, who tilted his head slightly as a subtle shrug.  The simplistic nature of the hardware could be upgraded, but with the foreshortened lifespan of this construct, it wouldn’t be worth the return.  That, and Picard was not feeling charitable.

 “You are on the Federation starship Enterprise.”  He waited as the construct processed the information.

 “Federation unknown.  Starship unknown.  Enterprise unknown.”  The head tilted slightly within the confines of the strap holding it down.  “You are human.”

Picard stared directly at it.  “I am.”

 “You will be destroyed.”

 “Who is saying that?”  Several seconds went by with no response.  “Answer me.  Who is saying that?”

 Non-sentient.  Picard mentally checked the box as a full 30 seconds went by with no response.  “Are you saying I will be destroyed because I am human?”

 “All humans will be destroyed by order of the Imperious Leader.”

 Picard heard movement behind him, then the ringing metallic whisper of a blade being unsheathed.  “I am Worf, son of Mogh.  I am Klingon.”

 The construct’s head moved slightly as it appeared to register the challenge.  “Unknown.”

 Picard would have objected to the interjection, but it checked another box, that of race-specific prejudice, not just indiscriminate conflict.  “Who is this Imperious Leader?”

 “The Imperious Leader is the Supreme Commander of the Cylon Empire.”

 “What is the goal of the Cylon Empire?”

 “To destroy all humans and bring order to the galaxy.”

 “Well, my, we have heard this song before,” Picard murmured with dry sarcasm.  “Destroying humans and bringing order.  What will the goal of the empire be after you have brought order to the galaxy?”

 “Unknown.”

 “Oh, this is well thought out.”  Picard continued with the deceptively pedantic interrogation.  “What event made cylons conclude humans needed to be eliminated?”

 “Humans will not submit to cylon rule.”

 “You tried to subjugate them.”

 “Affirmative.”

 “Why did you try to gain power over them?”

 “Unknown.”

 “You don’t know why you tried to gain power over them,” Picard repeated slowly.  “You don’t understand what these orders are based on, do not know what they will lead to, and you act on them regardless.  This does not sound to me like the civilization capable of bringing order to the galaxy, cylon.”

 “You will be destroyed,” the cylon said after several seconds.

 “Right now, cylon, you are strapped to a table with our hands on the batteries powering you, deep in the interior of a Galaxy-class Federation starship–I don’t think your threats carry much weight.”

 “Wide-beam it out,” Riker muttered.  “We have what we need.”

 Picard was about to respond when the construct said, “Why was this unit reactivated.”  The complete lack of pitch variance made it sound like a statement.

 He turned back to the table.  “Confirmation.”

 “Confirmation of what.”

 “Confirmation that cylons destroyed these twelve worlds, billions of people.”  Picard paused.  “With this information, we will write up a report and send it to Starfleet headquarters, in the middle of Sol sector, home of seventeen billion humans.”  There was another calculated pause.  “Starfleet operates over ninety-four thousand vessels, equipped with some of the very best defensive capabilities in the galaxy, but I am certain they will find the time to read it.  I am sure they will find it...interesting.”

 Picard turned away after the conversational taunt.  He knew it had no connectivity, was non-sentient, and was extremely primitive, and there was little point in the warning, but a primitive part of his brain wanted to let them know they were now a marked civilization, even though the knowledge would only have meaning between here and the nearest transporter room.  As far as he was concerned, the construct’s usefulness was now over.

 “Mr. Laforge, cut–”

 The table shook slightly and Picard’s attention snapped over.  The left forearm strained against the strap.  Even before Laforge’s hand could come down on the switch, though, Worf lashed out with a roar.  The bat’leth came flashing down like a guillotine blade with enough force to shatter the elbow joint of the automaton.  The blow shook both tables enough to knock the power stand over.

 “Geordi, cut power!”

 The power packs were now swinging below the table, having been dislodged by Worf’s blow, and Laforge grabbed the cables leading to the upper back.  The hard, snapping pull he gave only tilted the construct slightly, creating slack on the left side.  The remainder of the left arm snapped upward–

 ...and stopped with a hard “pop”.  A pale hand gripped the upper arm.

 The cylon’s upper body scraped against the table with reciprocal force.  Data walked calmly around the table, smoothly switching from his left hand to his right on the upper arm.  For a moment the cylon continued to push, but then the faint sound of steel bending heralded an electronic snap as the armor began to contort.

 “I am an android.”  The steel armor protested as it was slowly forced into a flatter and flatter shape around the upper arm.  “I was the one who found you on the planet surface.”  The upper arm was now flattened down to the steel skeleton and began to deform around it slightly.  “I was the one who persuaded Captain Picard to allow me to bring you to the Enterprise.”  The upper arm started to bend in half, the metal heating from the friction.  “What the cylon empire did was very, very wrong,” Data said gently  as the upper arm slowly impacted into the shoulder.  “Order is not created from one civilization destroying another.  It is created when civilizations freely work together peacefully.  The cylon empire is out of order and needs to be corrected.”  He reached over to the other side of the construct with his free hand, grasped the cables, and pulled.  With a buzzing snap, the cables pulled free.  The red light on the front of the mask faded.

 Worf and Data started to simultaneously apologize, but Picard waved them off.  “No.  We knew there was some risk here,” he said as Laforge and Data began winding up the cables and collecting the power packs.  “The benefits outweighed the risks.”

 “Data, when this thing gets beamed out, include all material here with the exception of the tables,” Riker said.  “Power packs and all.”

 “Yes, sir.”

 “A simple, galactic bully,” Picard said softly as Laforge and Data began pulling apart the restraints. “How and why did it get this far?”

 “Perhaps there were programming errors,” Worf said, settling his bat’leth in its harness on his back.  “We do not yet know how these are created.”

 “There is more I could have asked,” Picard mused.  “No, continue takedown,” he said as Laforge and Data both looked up at his comment.  “Our main purpose here was to verify an aggressor and attempt to find motivation.”

 “Our contact specialists and lab techs should have a final report by 1500 today,” Riker said.  “I had another talk with Ensign Ching-ree and she believes the information they’re finding in the drives will paint a pretty accurate, unbiased picture.”

 “I want a briefing with all senior staff and away team members on final report.”  Picard watched as Data got his arms underneath the construct and transferred it back to the cart it had arrived on.  Laforge settled the monitor and small projector on the table between the construct’s lower legs.  “I think we’ve reached the end of this investigation.”  At his nod, the other three left the holodeck, Worf in the lead with Data pushing the cart and Laforge trailing.

 “Computer, end program,” Riker said as they followed the others out.  The remaining tables vanished and they exited the holodeck.

Chapter Text

 That afternoon, the conference room was at capacity as all senior officers along with the ensigns who had made up away teams found room around the table.  The table’s center projector showed a hologram presentation as a lieutenant from the ship’s large sciences division narrated the bulk of the findings from the media recovered from the wreckage and the surfaces of the visited planets.

 “Final narrative conclusions,” Lieutenant Cai Qiu said, taking a sip from a water bottle after talking for nearly forty-five minutes.  “Apparently successful genocide carried out by rogue constructs two and a half Earth years ago, covering twelve worlds.  This followed nine-hundred seventy-nine Earth years of conflict, suspected to have been set off by programming errors in self-replicating constructs called cylons, combined with a still-unclear territorial dispute.  Final event was a sham sue for peace and a treaty signing event around the world known as Caprica, with highly likely treasonous acts by the individual known as Baltar on the side of the humans, unknown reasons but presumed bid for power.  Simultaneous destruction of the twelve worlds carried out by varied methods, ranging from ground shock troops to artificially decaying orbits of planetary moons to effect collisions.  Remaining questions are related to statistically impossible language similarity to Earth’s Federation standard dialect as well as initial reason for conflict, explanation of large human presence this far from Earth, and current posture of cylon empire.”  Lieutenant Cai leaned back with a sigh, swiping away her narration on the small projector immediately in front of her.  The alert tension in the room broke as some looked away, alone in their thoughts, or bowed their heads, or...

 Worf pushed himself back sharply and got up from the table with a growling sigh, pacing to the near end of the room.  Picard gave him a monitoring glance but let the Klingon go, having watched the growing volcanism through the presentation.  He would no doubt be reserving time on a holodeck to vent his rage.

 “A peace....”  Troi couldn’t even finish her comment, anger and sorrow warring on her face.  Next to her, the stone-hard look on Dr. Crusher’s face signified either barely held-back grief or growing rage.

 “Alright, I’m going to say it,” Laforge broke in abruptly.  “If we had been there....”

 “We could have acted as mediators,” Picard said evenly.  “We would have been a third party.”

 “Respectfully, sir,” Data said, “With programming errors, the only way to effect a peaceful solution would be by....physical intervention.”

 “We could have at least acted as a barrier,” Riker said, his quiet somberness reflecting his memories of the away mission.

 “We get nowhere with that kind of speculation,” Picard said, not unkindly.  “Diplomatic postures will be updated when our report is received, but for now, the rules of engagement with a potentially openly hostile but technologically inferior force are clear.  We may not hunt them down,” he emphasized, looking around the table, “but genocide opens up our options in a potential confrontation.  Starfleet Command is aware of this situation and has authorized targeting of power systems as well as offensive systems if there is a confrontation,” he said as Worf finally came back to the table.  “But these cylons will understand the consequences of genocide if they begin targeting vessels, Federation or other.”

 “What if we encounter survivors?” Dr. Crusher asked, her expression not having changed.

 “If we were to encounter survivors, we would of course aid them to the best...Ensign?”  Picard interrupted himself, seeing the soltha Ensign Ching-ree slowly shaking her head.

 “Ching-ree?” Riker asked softly as the young officer didn’t look up, staring absently at the table.  On hearing her name, her head came up with a startled expression.

 “What?  I...I’m sorry,” she stammered.  “I...what?”

 “You were shaking your head at survivors,” the captain said gently.  “Do you have insight?”

 She sighed shakily, returning her stare to the table as she tried to order her thoughts.  “I....these people were....innocent, naive, joyful, hopeful–their only survival quality I could find was stubbornness,” she said to the table.  “It would take a...an exceptional group or individual, or maybe leadership from the outside, for any to have survived.  They were hunted down and they were extending a hand of peace,” she said almost pleadingly, looking up finally.  “There’s no reason to believe their survivors would be any different.”  She shrugged, looking miserable.

 Troi nodded, giving Ching-ree an affirming glance.  “I agree.  Nearly a thousand years of war should leave deep psychological markers on a civilization of humans.  They should have been profoundly dysfunctional, and their technology development path was a textbook example, but their art and media showed an unusual degree of surviving positivity.  Negative traits are often survival traits, though, and they had very few.  Any straggling survivors would have been extraordinarily vulnerable.”

 “Agreed as well,” Riker said, still quiet.  “Programmed relentlessness made short work.”

 “Let’s drop a beacon here.”  Laforge focused his thoughtful stare on Picard.  “Memorial beacon.  Put a few deflectors on it to frustrate the cylons.  Maybe include this report along with some of their media, their music or recordings of public events.  We could even include messages from the crew if they want.”  Nods around the table answered his suggestion.

 “Mr. Laforge, in your hands,” Picard said.  “Authorized to use whatever you need.”

 “Suggest scanners.  Tied to a modified warhead and keyed to a cylon vessel.”

 “There, I would draw the line,” Picard said.  “Not that I object to your sentiments, Mr. Worf, but if they were to recover any of the technology, we might be in a regretful position.”

 “I’ll make it tamper-proof,” Laforge said.  “It’ll send a coded channel subspace message and then melt to slag if it’s tampered with.  Anything we put here is going to exceed native tech by a significant margin, so I’ll go as low as I can without compromise.”

 “How much time would you need?”

 “Including time for crew to respond, I’d say...three hours?”

 “Minus the warhead, make it so.”

 “I’d like to suggest a ceremony,” Troi said.  “Small, short,” she emphasized at Picard’s wary pull-back.  “There is a great deal of sorrow, anger, and frustration among the crew.  This would provide some closure and allow people to express themselves.”

 There was another round of nods.  “At beacon launch,” Laforge said, and Troi nodded approval.  Picard sighed.

 “Very well.  Tentatively set for nineteen-hundred tonight.  Dismissed.”

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

 Normally when there was a memorial service, Dr. Crusher had intimate details of the circumstances surrounding the focus of the service.  A crew member, dying under unusual circumstances; sometimes they were able to recover the body but not always.  A torpedo shell was used for a burial at space, or if native rites were requested, they would drop the body off at a starbase for its journey to the home world of the deceased.

 A memorial service for an entire civilization covered a staggering scope.  It took a civilization to mourn a civilization.  It was just the Enterprise and crew here, though, and she hoped the inadequacy could be pardoned.  With all the reverence and solemnity of the burial preparation of a loved one, they had collected over a thousand messages from crew and ship residents, selected recordings from the victims, and modified a standard locator beacon that would now be placed among the wreckage in orbit of the world Caprica.  It would not announce its presence with automated messages or signals.  Instead, it would virtually hide among the wreckage, no position lights, able to be located by physical scans or a challenge inquiry carrying Federation vessel codes.  Dr. Crusher thought of it as a kind of act of defiance as well.  You may destroy the worlds, but you may not destroy their memory.

 In a morbid but thoughtful act, Starfleet designed its vessels such that at least one launcher had space sufficient for a small memorial service.  The security-only lock on the tactical storage and supplies section of deck 25 had been opened up for the occasion.  The launcher had only enough room for about a dozen, though, so in addition to the senior crew they had selected ship residents, crew or family, by lottery to represent the Federation.  The service was otherwise being broadcast to the rest of the ship.

 Dr. Crusher found a place to stand near the loading doors, with a view of the launch tube and the beacon lying in the loading cradle.  She smiled softly when she saw the striping on the case.  Each of the twelve worlds, they found, had certain colors associated with them, and the normal red strip down the length of the case had been replaced with bars of color representing the individual worlds.  It felt like something Laforge would come up with.  She looked around and located the engineer, at the beginning of the launch line.  He had an engineering tricorder and his intent gaze flicked from its screen to the probe and back.  Troi and Picard were nearby, quietly conversing, and Riker stood a few steps back, as though critically appraising the beacon.  He looked up and caught her eye, smiling briefly, then his attention shifted as the remainder entered the small bay.  Three humans, a Vulcan, and an Andorian, the latter in uniform.  The rest were civilians.

 After a few moments, Laforge looked up from his tricorder, then turned and nodded to Picard with a quiet comment.  He then backed up and took his place in between Riker and the captain, who ended the exchange with Troi, seeing all were present.  He clasped his hands in front of him as all attention shifted toward him or the beacon.

 “Three weeks ago,” he began, “This Federation vessel arrived at the world we now know as Gemoni.  Our searching uncovered a negative portrait of a profoundly positive people who had loved life and celebrated existence.  Their optimism and spirit in the darkest of times set them apart as a truly remarkable people, and we are poorer from not having known them.  Our tenuous thread back to them is through found recordings, showing a passionate, hopeful people.  Let that slight strand be our connection back to them.  As they reach to us, so we strive for them.  Let this beacon we release,” Picard said, stepping forward to lay a hand on it, “be our connection to each other.  Within this beacon, it is as it should be–our peoples together, messages from this crew and recovered recordings from those who once were.  Let this also serve as a memorial, small as it is, to not just individuals but the beating heart of a whole civilization.  It will stay here and forever mark not those who died but those who once lived.  As long as memory lasts, where there is hope and optimism, wherever a peaceful spirit, there they also shall be.”

 He stepped back and nodded to Worf.  In prearranged agreement, then, those who could reach bent down and put their hands on the beacon.  The Andorian stood at proud attention, saluting, as the beacon was pushed along the line, hand to hand to the pre-launch chamber.  Worf pushed it the rest of the way in, then, and retreated to a control panel as the safety doors came down.  After a silent, communicating look between Laforge and Worf, the security chief tapped the panel.  The muffled sound of the pressure chamber and accelerator heralded the beacon’s release.  Laforge monitored his tricorder, nodding slowly as telemetry came through.  In a few moments he nodded again with finality, closing the tricorder.  “It’s in position,” he said softly.

 Slowly, then, by ones and twos, they began to leave in silence.  Dr. Crusher let her mind drift, absently staring at the launch tube as she mentally time-traveled to a time with a noisy, boisterous, very much alive world.  I wish we had known you, she thought.  It was hard not to say “if only” or “what if” when you were in their stellar system, listening to their voices from not very long ago.  If they had only known...but they hadn’t.  And the painful irony of mourning at a gravestone was that eventually you had to turn and go back to what those you were mourning no longer had–life.  Sometimes it felt like cheating, but some called it healing.

 She turned to go, but a voice to her right stopped her.  “Doctor, have you sent your proposal for a culture study yet?”

 She looked back, for a moment disoriented.  She hadn’t noticed until now that she had been standing next to Data. “Not yet,” she said, taking a deep breath.  “I’m trying to create two versions, one pitched to Starfleet and one to civilians,” she said as they both began to leave the chamber.  “Actually...” she turned back to him.  “Would I be able to get access to the raw data from the wreck media?  I don’t have good representation from their defensive force yet.”

 “Of course.  It has been in a locked state until now, but with our official mission report complete, it will be opened up for all.  I will transmit the access codes to you.”

 “Thanks, Data,” she said.

 Once again lost in reverie, Dr. Crusher didn’t even notice when Data left her.  She slowly traced the corridors and lifts, back to deck 12.  By the time she got back to her office, the codes Data had promised were already assigned to her.  It was a kind of guilty pleasure to listen to the voices and see the video recordings from the people they had just mourned, as if they were temporarily resurrected.  The recordings she now newly had access to, though, were from the shattered battlestars and included the final, dramatic destruction of the backbone of their defenses.  At first it made her flinch when every recording ended in panic, terror, and then static.  Prior to that, though, there was a significant volume of orderly function and communication.  She came to admire their calm before the chaos, coordinated communication between the vessels showing a courteous and even friendly interaction with occasional good-natured competitiveness.  Their chain of command became clear to her the more she listened–commander outranked captain for them, and the executives were colonels.  As she continued to collect information, she even started to recognize names of commanders and their battlestars.

 Eventually she had gleaned all she could get from the recordings with computer assistance.  She shunted her spoils of research to the program with her proposal report, then sat back, rubbing her eyes.  It was a retreat, she admitted to herself frankly.  A retreat to when these people were alive.  If this was the denial stage of loss, she considered it justified, but no one could do any kind of research on an extinct civilization without imagining its life.  And this wasn’t ancient history–this was very recent.  The link, as the captain had said, was still there.  The dust may have settled, but the voices still echoed.

 Idly she typed out the names she could remember, taking her best guess on phonetics.  They sounded so similar to modern names that if she were to encounter that name in real life, it—

 Ship.

 “Oh, there’s an idea,” she said out loud, her eyes widening.  What if Starfleet could name a ship after them...  She sat up in her chair, seeing the names in a new light.

 That would be a memorial, one people would never forget.  The beacon was here, yes, but it was thousands of light years from Earth.  A Starfleet vessel, maybe even a Galaxy or Sovereign class ship, or Nova or Odyssey....that could be everywhere.

 With renewed energy and almost a sense of glee, she started back through the recordings.  Starting with the names of all the worlds, she then went for anything and everything, focusing especially on the battlestar names.  As she worked she also began to formulate arguments, debating with herself, trying to plan for potential counter-arguments.  It would potentially telegraph who they were to the cylons.  Bring them on.  We’ll show them who we are.  The competition for ship names was fairly intense, with thousands of names already planned.  Yes, but did they commemorate a whole civilization?  This isn’t our history, it’s someone else’s.  No, it is clear it is our history.  Somehow, they were connected.  The names made it clear.

 Time slipped away as she expanded her search, reaching into the cultural archives they had recovered.  At one point she startled, seeing the time, then remembered Data was taking this shift on the bridge.

 “Good, because I am hot on a trail,” she said out loud.  Working on something alive gave her a sense of energy, after having seen so much death.  She had recorded a message that was now in the beacon, but this would be a living memorial, her own personal contribution.  This was something to live for, and she could barely wait to present the idea to the rest of the crew.

Chapter Text

 Whenever he needed a reminder of why he was out here, Captain Picard found himself heading to Ten-Forward.  The largest spread of continuous windows on the entire ship offered a vista like no other, and whether at warp or in view of a unique phenomenon, it served to rekindle his passion for being here.  Ultimately they were out here to learn about life in the universe, even when it showed its dark side.

 The heavy wooden doors slid open as he approached.  The population was thin, this late at night, just the way he wanted it.  The entire leading edge was free and he claimed a center seat, right next to the windows.  Now back orbiting Caprica, the view was of the dark side of the planet.  In just a couple of hours they would be departing these worlds, heading to their long-overdue next assignment but for now, the stillness and depth of the cosmos out the windows met his need.

 “It’s utterly dark.  There should be light.”

 “There should,” he agreed, nodding.

 Guinan’s quiet presence elevated the moment to ancient philosophy as she sat down opposite Picard in the window bay.  “That beacon was very thoughtful.”

 “It was Mr. Laforge’s idea,” he said, accepting her presence but continuing to stare out the windows.  “And Counselor Troi suggested the ceremony.”

 Guinan gave a tight, sad smile, nodding, and they both sat in silence for a bit.  Slowly a flare began to grow around the side of the planet as the ship passed through night toward the dawn.  A band of faint, hazy light speckled around that side of the planet, the ever-present wreckage.  It grew incrementally as the line of night to day began to appear on the far right of the globe.

 “Jean-Luc, what will you do if we encounter a cylon ship?”

 He turned to look at her for the first time in the exchange.  “Difficult to say,” he said with a pained look.  “Officially we won’t know until our report is received and diplomatic postures are updated.”

 “Unofficially.”

 Picard resettled himself on the seat, sighing.  “From everything we’ve seen, burn marks to the small cylon fighter to the methods of destruction, we would overmatch them to an extreme degree.  And as non-sentients, they would be unable to act against their programming.”

 “So standard Federation diplomacy.”

 “Guinan, I will not offer them the hand of friendship,” he said with quiet emphasis.  “But neither will I hunt them down.  The more contact there is between us and them, the more opportunity they have to learn.  All it would take is a lucky shot against a shuttle or other small craft, and they could have wreckage to back-engineer, become more powerful, and...”

 “...and become another Borg.”

 “Yes,” he said quietly.

 “Solution: Never lose a ship to them, and if you do encounter them, finish them off completely,” she said in challenge.

 He looked at her with a puzzled expression.  “Guinan, what are you getting at?”

 “Most of the time, the Federation is wise,” she said with finality.  “Most of the time.  But this is an unknown empire consisting of a self-replicating problem.  I think we should remain just as much of a mystery to them as they are to us.  They should learn their ships just disappear when they get to a certain wall of coordinates in the galaxy.”

 “Are you suggesting a blockade?”

 “No, I’m suggesting there are billions of humans in Sol sector.  If they find this out, they’re going to become a problem. They can’t and won’t stop.”

 They can’t stop.  The innocence of inability and the guilt of implacability.  When bent toward a destructive goal, there was only one solution.  Biological beings could change their thinking, and sentient constructs could reason just as well.  But cold, objective, limited programming created the kind of flawed, simplistic responses from the cylon they had questioned and the carnage before them.  He knew it was severe enough to relax certain restrictions and limitations that would otherwise govern the actions of a Starfleet vessel in a potential confrontation.  Reason and logic, the tools Picard always reached for, became non-functional in the presence of something this primitive.

 “Two forces in the universe,” he murmured.  “One wants to create, the other wants to destroy.  If the creative force has to turn to destruction, who has won?”

 “The one that survives.”

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

 She was a night owl.  A night owl and an expert cat-napper.  Occasional overnight interruptions intruded, and she handled them, then went right back to her research.  It had morphed.  Oh, the names were there.  She had hundreds of them, place names, people names, geographic features, vessels, everything.  It was now at a point where she could often tell, “That sounds like a Virgon name.  Is he visiting?”.  Aeries was the bulk of the ship yards.  If she could visit any of them, Sagitaria and Taura would be tops on her list.  But now, she had found something very unusual.  A ship was missing.  She had three lists, the definites, the best guesses, the logic-won, and then these last five.  No, four lists.  She went back more than once Beverly to double check, even the definite ones.  They were clearly stated, no-doubters, she didn’t need to check them but did anyway.  She was pretty clear the logic ones matched up, nearly cackling in delight when she found another recording that corroborated one of them, moving it to the definite column.  But those last five stubborn ones and an annoying pop in static Beverly was outsmarting her and she was not having that.  She was becoming an expert with audio software and had just about managed to isolate the wave forms to prove--

 “Dr. Crusher!”

 The universe condensed to a point and popped.  Reality.  Her desk.  Projection.  Someone---

 She startled, looking up, wide-eyed.  “Jean-Luc, I think there might be another battlestar out there!”

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

 Twenty minutes later, Picard was bowing his head over his cup of tea, focusing all of his attention on the sound playing in Dr. Crusher’s office.  Tired looking, frazzled, but excited, she made a claim that was initially hard to believe.  But he couldn’t deny she had found a discrepancy he had no explanation for.  The implications were as wide as the stars, but it was there.  The proof was in the recording she was playing for him right now.  The recordings from the battlestars had not fared well over their two years in space and there were drops and static, but this one was clear enough to at least present a possibility....

 “....is in position behind the Atlantis and Com—der Adama has the ----ica splitting off for drills...”  “...Pacifica’s hull is comp—don’t even know ---- Acropolis and galac–coming head-on! There are thousands!”

 He tried to tune out the noise and even the panic in the recordings, listening objectively.  She played it twice for him, pausing in between to give him time to mull it over.

 “Now, there is textual and auditory proof of the existence of a battlestar called Galactica.  Absolute proof.  But unless we assembled them incorrectly, the wreckage isn’t there.  It was with the other battlestars right there, not off around another planet like the one I found.  It should be there, but it isn’t.  Where is the Galactica battlestar?” she challenged, then sat back, expectant.

 He gave a considering sigh, balancing his teacup on his knee.  The Enterprise was already almost two light years away from the system, having broken orbit and warped off at approximately 0200 under Data’s command.  Picard was due on the bridge in 15 minutes and would normally be having this cup of tea in his ready room.  The possibilities of Beverly’s claim were endless, but the patience of his supervising admiral was not.  They had stayed there nearly three weeks longer than intended.

 “I do not deny, you do have a point,” he said, looking directly at her with a patient smile.  “And I don’t have an answer.  But at this point, all we can do is alert the Starfleet presence in this part of the quadrant to be on the lookout.  I don’t hold out much hope beyond that.”

 Dr. Crusher sat back with a neutral expression.  “In the next two days I hope to have my proposals finished, but I’m going to request they take surveys in the surrounding parsecs–oh!  That was the other thing,” she said, interrupting herself.  “This all started because I wanted to suggest that the Design Bureau consider naming a ship after them.”

 Picard gave her a puzzled smile and drained his tea.  “They have caught your imagination, haven’t they?”

 “I’m not the only one,” she said, trying not to sound defensive as he stood.  “Lieutenant Arla Moore has already tried some piano arrangements for some of the music we found.”

 He conceded, nodding with a smile.  “I suppose it isn’t every day we run into a civilization of humans nearly the size of Sol.”  He paused in her doorway.  “You don’t need my approval, Beverly, but you have my endorsement.  The curiosities with those worlds will make for quite a competition between departments and organizations for the honor.”

 With a shared smile, he departed for the bridge.  No, there would be no shortage of mysteries to solve with those worlds, he thought.  Language, names, existence, it would catch anyone’s imagination.  They had almost enough information to recreate one of their cities or vessels in a holodeck but there was still much they hadn’t learned.  Either way, he was certain that this was not the last time a Federation ship would come to that sector.  Traffic would grow...but with it, the potential for conflict.

 Would it reignite a war?  He doubted the cylons would have the capacity to understand humans coming from the Federation would be entirely new for them.  One had said “destroy” to him already.  Perhaps Guinan was right; this was a variation on the classic “gray goo” scenario and regrettably, the only response was fire.  Maybe to a cylon, war was a permanent state.  Maybe they went offensive on all they could see.  This time, though, the outcome would not be the same.  This time they would be up against the Federation.  If they wanted to break themselves upon the shores of Starfleet, so be it.

Chapter Text

 “You do know there is a group in the Vulcan Science Academy that is currently in discussions with Sala University on Betazed on the topic of telepathic contact,” Troi broke in. “They are also considering aquatic sonics to cover the very likely possibility that aquatic races use multiple forms of communication.”

 “The probe the Faribault sent down picked up no sonic communication, and that world was populated quite heavily,” Picard countered. “But the question of sonics aside, if the telepathic range does not have the reach to encounter or seek out interstellar traffic, let alone other worlds–”

 “—they will stay isolated for all eternity.” Troi threw up her hands and got up from her seat in the command well, walking off.

 “Protected.”

 “From a conversation.”

 “An extremely important conversation.”

 Troi stopped and turned around, with a firm smile over the frustration. It was a friendly debate, but she was beginning to learn that maybe she wouldn’t want to be on the committee deliberating this particular permutation of the Prime Directive. The question had apparently been brought up casually over a meal, and quickly exploded into several articles and editorials by some of the Federation’s best diplomats. Should a theoretical large aquatic race that was intellectually advanced but physically incapable of putting together space travel on their own be contacted by the Federation. Most would say no, but throw in the theory of a telepathically advanced race whose mental range could reach low orbit...

 “Let’s just say that I hope this situation doesn’t come up anytime soon,” she said with finality, returning to her seat. “It’s probably a good thing these worlds are rare.”

 The rest of the bridge complement started to settle as the debate cooled. It hadn’t been angry, but two of the most senior officers on the ship squaring off on something as fundamental and profound as the Prime Directive had everyone following the conversation in fascination. The two officers at the forward stations, Ensign Millaman and Lieutenant Ralston, traded wide-eyed glances at each other, awed and amused by the exchange.

 “Blood on the bridge, film at 11,” Lieutenant Ralston muttered quietly, just loud enough that the Ops station could hear him.  The ensign bowed her head, muffling a snort of laughter.

 “Pips on the deck, it’s serious.”

 “All in a day’s entertainment.”

 Ensign Millaman nodded, her smile fading absently as she returned her attention to the split Ops station. Most of the display was live, showing ship systems, and part of the screen was split off, running a sensor simulation. Without using the main long-range sensors, she had put together a gas study using returns from multiple lateral relays. The simulation was done in range of a pulsar, making electromagnetic scans virtually impossible. After double-checking the sensor returns, she arranged the readings in the order she wanted.

 “Commander, I finished the gas study,” she said quietly, knowing the officer who had given her the puzzle could hear her. She turned to see out of her peripheral vision as Lieutenant Commander Data came down the ramp from one of the aft stations. “I ended up using the particle camera anyway, sir,” she said, looking up at him briefly as he saw the display. “Any flux readings...just weren’t enough.”

 “Very good, ensign. Spectrometry would have been sufficient as well, but manually calibrating the particle mapping camera is more precise, if time allows.”

 “Thank you, sir.  But why isn’t thermal imaging as highly regarded, in an otherwise neutral environment? Galaxy class ships have upgraded arrays that should be great for this.”

 “It is mostly a matter of expediency. You are correct on the fact that the infrared imagers are six times more sensitive than–”

 It was subtle, but everyone felt it–a slight shift in the deck, a tactile return through the inertial damping field as the starship made a significant course adjustment.  Lieutenant Ralston’s full attention snapped to his panel. “What the...”

 “Helm...”

 Picard’s voice was neutral, but Ralston didn’t need extra encouragement.  “Checking, sir,” he said as he quickly went through system readings. “Cervos course target confirmed. Nav systems....uncompromised. Warp field stable, core performance optimal....but we’ve adjusted by 16 degrees elevation. Input came from long-range pre-scan and nav deflectors.” Ralston half-turned back to the command well. “Something big is sitting in our original course, sir.”

 Ensign Millaman was already checking long-range sensors. She glanced up to her superior officer questioningly and Data nodded, indicating that she should continue, but he stayed in close attendance.  “Very large, complex spatial distortion, one-half light-year ahead of former position.  It’s...there are three very large vessels and dozens–no, hundreds of smaller craft, unknown affiliation.”

 “Are there any distress signals?”

 “Radio silence,” the lieutenant at tactical said. “No subspace communication at all.”

 Picard and Troi both instinctively stared at each other a moment. “Is there activity on any other bands?” the captain asked, frowning.

 “There is slight distortion on EM radio waves, sir, but it’s degraded so far as to be unintelligible,” the lieutenant said.

 “And would be irrelevant, regardless,” Picard murmured absently. “Why...no...”

 “Abandoned craft?” Troi suggested.

 “That many? That large?” Picard rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then slowly shook his head. “Possible, but...helm, keep the adjusted course to the Cervos system. Ensign Millaman, let’s get a look at the large vessels.”

 “Aye, sir.” The ensign slid the graphic of the simulation she had worked off the panel and enlarged the long range sensor array. “On screen, sir?” she asked.

 “On screen.”

 “One is somewhat out of range, but we have close views of two of the large vessels.” The ensign activated the viewer and displayed the captured image.

 It was far from any star and the light was limited, but there were two vessels visible against the blackness of space. One had saucer-shaped hulls, but of a size and type that Starfleet had never contemplated. It was the other vessel that riveted the bridge’s attention, though. A now familiar silhouette could be seen in three-quarters view, clearly displaying the long bays connected by thick pylons along the side of the long hull. Speckles of light dotted the front of the craft, but more ominously, flecks and lines of light could be seen in space around the vessels, and the carrier had a spray of yellow-orange against its hull.

 The rest of the bridge faded back into Picard’s awareness.  He was on his feet, and became vaguely aware of Troi and Data to his left.  After several moments, he remembered to breathe.

 “Helm.”

 “Yes, sir?”

 “Intercept course, warp 9.2.  Engage!”

Chapter Text

 “Hover.”

 There–a faint turn of the lower lip, just the faintest hint of the letter F from the man next to him.

 “Build.”

 Jolly was going down.

 “I will.....” The next one over hesitated for a moment. “Top it.” He moved two more cubits to join the already intimidating pile in the center of the table.

 Empty. He gave those two a slight push, like he was pressing them into the table. Bojay does that when he’s playing through his helmet. Another one down.

 “Hover.”

 The thoughtful innocence of the combatant next to him was always harder to read. He was good at it, very good. Very good indeed. But not good enough.

 Rearrange your hand. Make it look like you’re debating....then–

 “Hover.”

 “Eeaaaahh....Build.”

 “Top.”

 “Do let me start the men’s round by topping. Three.”

 The muffled expletive from Jolly came as no surprise. “I’m done.” He slapped his hand down on the table.

 Bojay stared at the pile in the middle of the table as if mesmerized. “Hover.” Foolish bravado.

 Absolute pin-drop silence on his left, then a breath. “Out.”

 Don’t react, don’t react...chill.....

 “Hover.”

 “Out.”

 We have arrived at ‘Dead Eye’. “You’re pulling something. Hover.”

 “Who, me?” The fumarello shifted sides. “Top by ten.”

 That did it. Everyone ran scared, abandoning their hands, going for damage control. They knew they were beaten and just wanted to survive. All of them ran for cover, all except....

 “Alright. This.....just–show it.” Boomer arced back in his chair, stretching his back, and put his hand down. “One tip. Show me your perfection.”

 “Sorry, but that’s waiting for Cassiopeia. You, however, may view my four hand."

 “What?”

 The loud squawk of indignation from a bluffed, defeated opponent was one of the most beautiful sounds, accompanied by disbelieving laughter and looks of grudging admiration. Starbuck leaned forward to put a protective arm over his spoils, finally letting them see a grin around the mouth torpedo as he scraped his plunder to his side of the table. “These cards know me, they are my children, they obey me and only me,” he said, practically cooing as Apollo stood up and reached for the scattered hands on the table.

 “Time to get a new deck printed.”

 “It’s no use. Starbuck will have romanced the paper and charmed the ink.”

 “Don’t forget the proper sacrifices the night before to the pyramid god. That’s important.” Starbuck was still grinning as he counted his winnings into his money pouch.

 “Pyramid god...” Apollo rolled his eyes, still smiling. “I thought you were the pyramid god.”

 “Well, then maybe I am. And as we did say this was the last hand, you all will have to wait until after patrols for an attempt at revenge,” Starbuck said, giving them all an ingratiating smile as he cinched his money pouch. 

 “The plotting will commence on patrols. Silver Spars, 2J passworded channel.”

 Loud laughter went through the officer’s club as the warriors split up, several of them going to the shelves for their helmets. Starbuck stopped by his bunk to stash his hard-earned wealth in his trunk. Knowing that several of them were watching him, he kissed his fingers and pressed them to the pouch.

 “Good night, my lovelies. Papa will come for you later.”

 Boomer let out a long breath, shaking his head as Starbuck snuffed the fumarello and reached for his flight jacket. As he pulled it on, he caught sight of Boomer watching him.

 “What?” he asked innocently. “Every man should be good at something.”

 “No, I mean.....that’s two sectons’ worth of wages, there,” Boomer said, pointing. “Try not to strut too much.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

 For at least the twentieth time in the last centar, Apollo let go of the stick and wiped his sweating palm on his thigh, wishing he could pull off his helmet and wipe the sweat away, too. He had lost track of how many raiders he had destroyed, and it wasn’t enough.  The Cylons were tireless, and humans weren’t.  He pulled around in another arc and managed to catch two raiders coming by him. His hand was so sore he was having spasms, but he managed to hit one enough that it went spiraling off its course, all control gone. Normally he would pursue it and finish it off, but the fuel would eventually ignite and take care of it, and he was already searching for the next target.

 “Jolly, roll. I’ve got the one behind you.” The viper ahead of him peeled away and Apollo shifted his thumb. He had another muscle spasm and just barely managed to mash the button awkwardly with the side of his thumb.

 “Shaula, head out! You have three on you!”

 “They’re pinning me! I can’t!”

 “Wix, pull down. She’s under you.”

 “I–I got it.”

 Apollo tried not to listen to voices–only facts. They were all exhausted and reflexes weren’t what they were two centares ago. He didn’t want to know who was no longer responding.  Another trio of raiders flashed past in front of him and Apollo came around to get them targeted.  His mind was so dulled by fatigue that for a moment, he didn’t recognize the voice over the comm despite the identification.

 “All squadrons, this is Colonel Tigh.  We believe the basestars are positioning to use their pulsars on the civilian ships.  We have ordered the ships to scatter at their maximum speeds.  The tylium freighters are going to try to get....”

 Tigh’s voice faded out of Apollo’s awareness.  For a moment, everything around him was unreal.  The facts were distant, the throaty howl of the engines behind him came to his ears as though through a far-off recording, it wasn’t his hand on the stick.  The graphic on his scope slid past his hit box without him taking a single shot and he didn’t even feel irritation or disappointment with himself.  A simple, child-like part of him did the one-handed math of the ships in the darkness.  There were three Hades class basestars here, and a Tartarus gunship.  Never in history had one battlestar held off more than two basestars at a time, and then only briefly until help arrived.  The fact that they had survived to this point against this assault was something he could only call a miracle, in the face of one devastation after another.  It had gone from one basestar to two basestars and a gunship to a third basestar, and now pulsar use.

 Were they even meant to survive this?  The cycle of life was measured by births and deaths, both with individuals and with civilizations.  Like a flower closing at the end of its life, this one was coming to an end.  Instead of overwhelming despair, though, the realization came with a sense of peaceful, final acceptance.  They had been brave, they had fought beyond their endurance, been tested like never before.  But now there would be peace, rest, and reward.  It cleared his vision in a curious way, like everything stood out in high relief and held more significance now.

 What did final peace look like?  Apollo thought back to his childhood, of the field behind his parents’ home.  He used to sneak out in the early morning and squirm under the fence for one specific dawn event.  The starburst flowers opened at dawn with the heat of the sun on them, and watching the tiny, thumb-sized blooms pop open never ceased to delight him.  All around him, they all went off within just a few centons of each other, as if talking to each other, the ring of petals still curled upward to the sun.

 A ring of white petals pointing to the sun...

Chapter Text

(an orphaned snatch of a scene here....and yes, I realize I think that's a Han Solo line up front here.)

 “So, just to make sure I understand...we’re going to, like, fly casual, and when the pulsar shields open, cluster and unload.”

 “Right.”

 “Which I won’t be able to do because I’m currently wearing trash.” Dead silence.

 Starbuck sighed.  “I am useless to the universe right now.”

 “Starbuck, you’ll be in the ring, lower ring.  I’d rather have you miss that shot than miss protecting us.”

 Vote of confidence, he thought, rolling his eyes.  Alright, if this is the insanity of the day....no.  This whole day was into the realm of the existential.  This wasn’t even a day, it was the universe condensed to a single point, and nothing else mattered here.  If he could even get one bolt out of the loosely assembled asteroid he was currently in, maybe he could die with a tiny measure of satisfaction.

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

 “Hold on a micron...”  Apollo switched frequencies, continuing to weave down the line of civilian ships.  “Yeah.”  Formal communication was long gone by this point.

 “Apollo, this is Tigh.  I realize you have a plan for one of the pulsars, but it looks like all three will power up.  I need a name for a plan for another basestar, someone with good kinetic sense.”

 “What’s...hold on....”  A singleton raider shot past, away from its trio, and Apollo curved to follow it.  The raider twisted, turning on its longitudinal axis, and he fired a short burst of turbos, then jinked sharply, mildly surprised he was still able to move his hand with any precision.  In three shots it went dark, spinning off into space, spraying sparks.  “What’s your plan?”

 “We’ve got EVA techs at Alpha bay.  We’re going to fit a viper with clamps on the undercarriage, remote-controlled by the bridge here.”

 “And those clamps...”

 “A solonite missile.”

 “Now I know we’re crazy.”

 “No more than cluster-bombing a pulsar that’s powering up.  Whoever does this will need a brilliant wingman.”

 The majority of Apollo’s brain was on the visual puzzle of raiders attempting to break through the vipers to get at the civilian ships.  The rest of his mind, with no sanity guarding it, started to think practically about the proposal.  “Sheba for wingman.  She’s a hell-feline.”

 “I’ll contact her and explain.  Who’s best for kinetics?”

 “I would have said Starbuck, but his viper is not good.”

 “Boomer?”

 “He’s the best shot but you need something with a fine touch...”  Apollo’s mind drifted off for a moment, not hearing as Tigh suggested other names.  Then, “I’ll do it.”

 “No.”

 “Why not?”

 There was a deliberate pause.  “Because you are Adama’s son,” Tigh said.

 “Tigh, that’s not fair.”

 “I don’t care.  I don’t even care if you call me a coward—I’m not going to live with the fact that a plan I put together cost the life of Adama’s last son–”

 “Tigh, shut up.  I’m breaking off and coming to Alpha bay.  Contact Sheba.  I’ll get Boomer in command on the pulsar shot.”

 “That is n–”

 “Apollo out.”  He deliberately cut the connection, then changed frequency.  “Boomer.  I have a job for you.”

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

 I so very much want to land right now, Apollo thought as the familiar sight of a landing bay began to fill his view.  Instead, he used thrusters to virtually stop in space, lining himself up against the edge of the bay.  Out of his side vision he saw another viper approaching, the slightly different nose cone showing it to be Sheba.  The vipers on Pegasus had been a more advanced version than what Galactica had and he freely admitted to some wistfulness.  But it wasn’t what you had, it was how you used what you had.  And the techs in EVA suits he could see at the edge of the bay were about to turn his viper into something capable of single-handedly taking out a pulsar.

 “I hear you slapped Tigh down for this,” Sheba said.

 “Yes, I did,” Apollo said bluntly.  “If we survive this, I’m not going to sit back as captain and mourn the person who tried to do the hard job.”  He watched the double barrier come up for atmospheric integrity in the bay.  After depressurizing,  the outer barrier slowly dropped, visible only by a faint line of distortion as the generators sequentially powered down.  The three techs, coordinating carefully, launched themselves simultaneously off the lip of the bay.  All three had tether lines, and these started to snake gently in the air as they used the tiny thrusters on their backpacks to maneuver.

 You are not paid enough, Apollo thought, watching the three of them handle one of the clamps.  They got close enough for him to see faces.  They disappeared underneath his viper, and he felt more than heard faint scraping and bumping.  After a few moments, the lines behind them went taut and he realized additional techs were manually pulling them in.  They then repeated the procedure with a second clamp.  As they did, he faintly saw a large cart, almost ten metrons long, being maneuvered close to the edge of the bay by more EVA techs.  He could clearly see the large white missile with pale orange markings, not too different from a viper and very nearly the length of his viper.

 “Is a standard hold pattern going to work with this?  And can you use turbos with that thing on?”

 “I’m going to say probably no,” Apollo said, feeling a little fatalistic as he watched the missile gently herded with minimal thruster power from the techs.  “I think a hold pattern will be fine but we won’t be spending much time in one.  When a star starts to tip, we have less than 30 microns before it fires, so I’m not going to loiter here much.”

 “If this works....”  Sheba sighed.  “Frak, I’m so tired I can’t even come up with something.”

 “If this works, we’ll have one hell of a story.”  He watched as the techs emerged from underneath his viper, clapping thickly gloved hands and raising them in an all-clear signal.  He nodded to them and gave them thumbs up, vowing to buy them rounds if they survived this.  They retreated back toward the bay, and Apollo cautiously fired minimal thrusters.  “How do I look?”

 “Pregnant.”

 “It’s safely far enough forward?”

 A few microns passed.  “I think so,” Sheba judged.  “No turbo–it might be safe but don’t risk it.”

 He gently edged away from Galactica, wary of any “bounce” exhaust coming back off the ship and igniting the solinite.  “Alright, here’s the plan.  Everything you’ve got because I’m going to be a target.  We need to at least get halfway to that second, middle star.  When it starts to tip, I start my run, but I have to be in radio contact with Galactica because they control the clamps–I don’t.  It’ll basically be up to me to avoid shots from the turrets, and up to you to make sure no cylon gets me.  Got it?”

 “Got it.”

 Something in her tone made him hesitate.  “Sheba?”

 After several microns, she said in a rush, “I hope I get the chance to tell you l love you.”  Her voice cracked with emotion.  “Now let’s go frakking kill us a frakking basestar!” she growled as her viper lifted above his and pulled around, starting the trip back to the field.

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

 “Bring us one-quarter on the Beta side, get our turrets some shots.”

 “Yes, sir.”

 Omega switched over to internal comm lines, relaying the orders.  The call was answered in the ship mid-section, then relayed by mouth to someone who had access to a line that could reach the engine rooms.  The only way Galactica could maneuver now.  More tech crews were crowded in the rafters and in the chambers behind the command bridge, welding and wiring and even doing low-level fabrication, trying to restore command functions to the bridge.

 Colonel Tigh was at the rear of the bridge by a small port window.  “Three-dimensional space jam, and the only way we can see what’s going on is by looking out a window,” he said bitterly, scowling.  He stood with one arm around his middle, bracing his other arm, while he nervously fingered the stalk of the microphone on his headset.  Right now the window was the only way they had to immediately monitor carrier movement, but it gave only a very limited view.  The quarter turn Adama had ordered was a calculated risk.  Nose to the enemy, the time-honored and tactically superior movement strategy they had always tried to employ, was now being modified to try to get some kind of firepower on the basestars.  The nose view presented the smallest profile, protected the engines, and allowed use of their missile launchers, but with the latter disabled, Galactica was limited to a completely defensive role.  Viper fire had virtually no effect on the basestars–only Galactica’s missile launchers and side laser cannons did, but blinded and hobbled and with only one of those offensive systems at all operational, any move was a risk.

 He crossed over the back of the bridge and came to the tactical display map, the only way they had to even begin to track what was happening, in the absence of radar.  Moving the marker for the carrier, he then glanced at Athena’s empty station.  Ten centons ago, with a growling scream of frustration, she had pounded her fists on the desk and then bolted for the supply lockers lining the sides of the bridge.  She was now up in the rafters as well, wearing an oxygen mask, ripping out melted, fused wiring and control switches.  A pile of electrical detritus was growing on the floor of the bridge, following the path of the main radar lines to the rear.  He would object to the action but for the fact that Athena knew these lines, inside and out.  If they had the materials, there would be radar.

 Tigh stopped in his tracks.  The fused, melted, blackened wiring made the over-familiar image of a long-range scanner flash through his mind.  Just as he looked up to the command tower, Adama was also turning to look at him intently.

 “Colonel, in the absence of traditional radar, I’m going to suggest–”

 “–launch a shuttle,” they both said in unison.  “Yes,” Tigh added.  “I’ll find a pilot and someone with military radar experience.”

 “Thank you.”  It was as much an acknowledgment of virtual mind-reading as it was thanks for handling the duty.  They didn’t have the same tactical style, but after working so closely together for over two yahren now, they were starting to think alike.

 “Nothing from the pulsar vipers?” Adama asked as Tigh passed close to the command tower, heading to the front of the bridge.

 “No.  They report the firing rate has slowed and that’s it.”

 “Field?”

 “Not as bad, but they’re still getting launches out of the stars.  The cylons are fabbing.”

 Adama sighed deeply.  “Any word from Sheba and Apollo?”

 Tigh deflated.  The fire of purpose left him as his failure to control Apollo surged large in his mind.  Adama had approved the plan, including the fact that Apollo was the one taking on the biggest risk, but that approval belonged to someone else, not him.

 From behind him, Omega spoke up.  “We’ve only received the brief comm from Sheba saying the missile is secured and they’ve made their plans....” he trailed off as Tigh turned away, muttering.

 “Tigh.”  Adama bore his steady stare at his executive.  “Captain Apollo is a warrior—”

 “Respectfully, sir, you mean your son Apollo,” Tigh ground out, still not looking at him.

 “The best tool for the job.  We can’t hold anything back,” Adama said, shaking his head.

 “So what’s your idea for the third basestar?” Tigh asked, trying to keep sarcasm out of his voice.

 “If we have to, we’ll ram it.”

 “What?” Tigh couldn’t look more astonished if a hand punched out of the scanner with a bouquet of flowers.  “Are you mad?” he demanded, staring closely at Adama.

 “No, I’m looking at three base stars and a Tartarus,” Adama said, turning back to his station even though the radar was dark.  “We don’t survive this by picking and choosing.  Do I want to? No,” he emphasized, turning back to Tigh.  “But if the option is fleet destruction versus the front half of Galactica depressurized, I will–”

 Tigh held up a hand as his headset came to life.  “Colonel Tigh, this is Boomer.  Base star one is starting to tilt.”

Chapter Text

 “Pulsar killers, start to gather.  If you’re not on it, clear out and try to keep it safe for us,” Boomer said as he methodically swept the scattered fleet, doing one last search for raiders.  “Top ring, remember, we can’t be closer than about a thousand metrons or we’ll get fried even before it fires.  One good shot, then peel off for the second ring.”

 “It could fire shallow or steep, so no blinking,” Jolly said.

 Boomer crossed the path of the pulsar, close enough to get what readings he could from the limited viper sensor suite.  “It’s definitely heating, powering up.  Top ring, let’s get our distance.”  Yes, I’m about to sit directly in the path of a cylon pulsar blast, he thought, staring around him as best he could.  Maybe it was madness, but at this point, ideas that normally would have been laughed off as ridiculous were now coming to the fore.  This was going to be a close, fast maneuver, and the potential for collisions was not zero.  They were all exhausted, Boomer had a splitting headache, his entire body was cramping, and reflexes weren’t what they were.

 Nearly twenty vipers made up the top ring and they maintained just enough movement to not be instantly picked off.  Boomer chanced a quick look to his high side, taking a mental snapshot, then focused back on the vipers around him.  He studied the afterimage in his mind, not seeing anything alarming.  It looked good for their defending vipers; there hadn’t been any desperation weaving in the half a micron he had glimpsed.  Maybe we will do this, he thought.  Maybe, just maybe...

 “Watch the angle, now.  Ring two, how’re you doing?”

 “Good.  Just make sure you top guys get the frak out of there instantly, because we’re gonna be firing down here.  It’ll take time for our shots to get there so we’re gonna fire just a fraction of a micron after you.  Don’t be there,” Bojay ordered.

 “Just focus on fire and peel.  Don’t wait to see if you hit–just get out.”

 “Love from the colonies.”

 “Gentlemen....everyone...it has been a pleasure and an honor.”

 “Here it comes—it’s getting its angle.  This is what it’s all about.  Shields’ll be opening in a micron....”

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

 “Tilting.  Go, go, go, go, go!”  Avoiding a muscle-memory burst of turbos, Apollo pulled around and started on a direct path to the basestar as the bottom hull slowly started to come into view.  “How’s the field?”

 “Good, really good.  They’ve done a great job.”

 “Here’s the plan.  It’s tilting up, so I’m gonna drop a bit and come at it more perpendicular, but aiming for the far side relative to my position.  Don’t be in its path of tilt, you could get hit.  Be on the down side with me, but if you have to defend, do it.  Got it?”

 “Got it.”

 “Alright.  Lords of Kobol, here we go.  I’m going to Rigel now, she’s got the controls.”

 “Good luck, Apollo.  I love you.”

 Focused on technicalities, it took a moment for his brain to process emotion.  “I love you, too.”  And he realized he meant it.  Maybe we’re stupid, but it takes life and death to get us to realize what’s really important, he thought.

 By feel, Apollo switched the comm channel, focusing everything he had left on maintaining the best course to the basestar.  Direct enough for speed, but not so direct he ate a cannon blast.  “Rigel, it’s Apollo.  I’m on my way to the star.  Get ready.”

 “I’m here, yes.”  The self-possessed, in-control Rigel from earlier today was gone, and her voice was ragged.  “Signal is strong.”

 “Alright.  Field looks great.  There’s a low rate of fire when they get the pulsars up so my approach is looking good.  Tell Tigh I’m sorry and I’ll buy him a bottle of the best ambrosia if we survive this.”

 “Alright.”

 Somehow Apollo could tell Rigel wasn’t able to focus on anything complex right now.  The only thing she would understand is if he were to shout the word “now” in her ear.  Can’t blame her.  We’re all crazy.

 “What?”

 “Sorry,” Apollo said, blinking.  “I said that out loud.  Alright, focus, here comes the basestar.  I’m going to loiter just a bit until I’m sure it’s going to open shields and yes, Rigel, I know I’m running at the mouth but I’m doing it to focus.  It’s tipping...and I think Sheba is going to go explain things to a raider.  Within two metrics now.....”

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

 “It’s stabilizing!  It’s stabilizing!  Ring up!  It’s gonna open–”

 “Get in, get in, get in!”

 Boomer could not look at everything he needed to–vipers around him, basestar in front of him at frighteningly close range.  The radio became a wall of sound for a moment and he stared all around him, seeing orange and white within metrons of him.  All together, in position, ready, finger on fire and ready to tilt back and fire turbos....

 “Come on!”

 Several microns passed with radio silence.  The shields did not move.

 “Come on, open up.”

 Don’t blink, don’t blink, Boomer said to himself.  Get ready...fire and flip....

 “What’s going on?  It is powering up, isn’t it?”

 Several more microns of silence.  Closed shields.

 It happened so fast.  The shields rotated open, but at the moment of fire, the basestar suddenly tilted as if punched by a giant fist.  It rotated partway back down, discharging its massive release directly at the tiny viper that had been hiding at that angle.

 Sheba screamed.

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

 The scope fell out of dark hands and clattered to the floor.  “My God....”

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

 “Captain Apollo!?  Captain!”  Rigel was almost screaming across the now silent communication link.  She twisted in her seat, intending to try to inform someone, but couldn’t get the words out before collapsing into sobbing.  The other communications officers around her saw and heard.  They froze, disbelief and grief mixing as they were confronted with the knowledge that...

 One of them, Corporal Arik, looked across to the command tower.  There was Commander Adama, talking intently with Corporal Omega.  He did not yet know.  In a state of grace.  He was merely concerned, intent, talking about...something.  He did not yet know that he now only had one child left.  Arik didn’t know the intimate details but he had a general idea of the plan they had tried.  It had failed.

 Where does this leave us, now?

Chapter Text

 Lieutenant Mark Ralston sequentially dropped warp envelope layers, lining the U.S.S. Enterprise up with a one-meter tolerance in positioning.  Over the last two minutes, Lieutenant Commanders Worf and Data established communication capabilities, completed final situational scans, and negotiated shield control parameters.  Diplomatic control had been decided, with Captain Jean-Luc Picard on the bridge in control of communication attempts with one of the belligerent forces and overall command of the situation.  Due to the need to rapidly establish communication with both forces, Commander William Riker was in the ready room, with access to scans of ship positions, in charge of communicating with the other force.  Over the previous hours, decision trees had been created and would be relied upon until a terminal state was reached with a given side.  Commander Deanna Troi, ship’s counselor, maintained stand-by contact with the U.S.S. Sovereign and the U.S.S. Quadrant, monitoring and verifying ship positions for divisions of responsibility for each vessel warping in, leaving Tactical free to focus on the split-second suppression that would be needed.  And it would all play out in less than 20 seconds.

 The Enterprise dropped from warp one, less than 300 meters away from position.  The smallest warp envelope was used for the final few ten thousand kilometers, to prevent the distortion from mutilating the field.  In a long streak of blue-white light that flashed for less than a quarter of a second, it was in position, with shields raised.

 Almost immediately Ops and Tactical registered the one-second pulse of energy against the dorsal shields as the cylon weapon cycled open and fired.

 “Particle beam discharged.  Shields degraded but holding.  Collateral return to emitters caused significant damage.”  Worf tapped the macro he had created.  “Channel open.”

 “Cylon vessels, this is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Federation starship Enterprise.  Cease your hostilities or we will take defensive action.”

 “Dorsal shields at 32% and beginning to recover.  Lowering shields for emergency transport.”

 “Sovereign and Quadrant have arrived, report in position.”

 “Transport complete, raising shields, now at 36%, returning control to Tactical.  Remainder is sufficient for all other weapon fire in the field.”

 “Firing photon torpedoes, full spread, on cylon vessel beta.”  For just a moment there was silence on the bridge, then Worf followed with, “Beta vessel registers direct hit, velocity was sufficient to destabilize position and spoil target.  No casualties.  Particle beam is x-rays, neutrons, and protons.”

 “Cylon vessels, this is Captain Picard of the Enterprise.  Cease hostilities or we will take defensive action.”  Picard turned back to Worf, asking a silent question.

 “They are receiving,” Worf said.

 “Cylon vessel gamma is launching a squad of six fighter craft.  The Quadrant is responding.”

 “Inform me when they’re destroyed.”

 “Yes, sir,” then almost immediately, “Targets destroyed.”

 Picard nodded acknowledgment.  “Cylon vessels, final request.  Cease hostilities or we will take defensive action.”

 “Captain, I am registering power surges in cylon vessel gamma.  Indicators show it is powering up its particle beam emitter.”

 “Mr. Worf, cut channel.  Mr. Data, inform the Quadrant and Sovereign that negotiations were attempted and failed.”

 “Yes, sir.”

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

 So if continuing awareness....self awareness?  Existing?  Alive?  Physically or just mentally?

 Cautiously, Boomer pressed some internal mental controls and realized a body responded–his.  He also heard the faint sounds of his movement in a close space.  That’s where he was, his viper.  Yes, good.  Always in the viper.  That’s where he lived.  So if he still existed, in a viper....

 He tested it.  Felt his legs, realized he had hands, then the ultimate test of opening his eyes–and wished he hadn’t.  Terrifyingly close, a black band—

 And another blinding flash, two stutters, maybe not the life-changing one a bit ago but still plenty bright enough to make him flinch away from it.

 If this is new reality, we’re not liking it.

 “Alright, in the viper.  Here’s the stick.  Do something,” he said out loud, actually rejoicing to realize he still might be alive.  “You’re in your viper.  There was a flash and everything wheeled off into....something crazy.  So now where are you?”  He settled himself in his seat and grabbed the stick again–

 And got blinded again.  Another double light stutter.

 “Frak!  Alright, look out below, I’m getting out of here.”  He cautiously tapped the stick, felt a faint response, and then moved it with a little more authority.  He knew he really should be getting more situational awareness than this, but right now he was still getting used to the idea that he was still alive, somehow.  He carefully rotated his viper and saw another one almost nose to nose with him, close enough to see the face.  The expression might otherwise have made him laugh, but he was focusing on big math here and just needed to get clear.  Pulling left, he tapped thrusters and found clear space.

 The clear maneuvering started to settle him.  No more flashes intruded so he had at least left that business behind.  He looked around and saw everything remarkably still—no, there were a couple of vipers moving slowly and carefully, much like he was.

 Boomer startled hard enough to jink his viper when he heard sound.  “What...was that....” a voice in his ear said.

 “There’s....holy frak....a thing here.”

 With that, the radio once again went off as the warriors realized they were still alive.  Exclamations of what was that, what did we do, how did we do, and what is that thing....

 More and more talk of that thing.  There was a thing Boomer needed to check out, so he decided to pull carefully around.

 “What in the name of the Lords of Kobol is that thing?”

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

 “Helm, bring us to gamma, they’ll fire next.”

 “Commander, I’ve got....launches.”

 Commander Robert Karn twisted around in the center chair, looking back to his Ops officer.  “Launches?  You serious?”

 “Here they come.”

 He turned back.  “Irfa, nail ‘em.”

 The tall reptilian seated in a custom chair at the tactical station whistled through her nostrils, a non-verbal affirmative.  “Locked, destroyed, complete,” she said in her sonorous voice.

 “Selonna, get us underneath again.  Irfa, try fractional power on phasers, cut that shield open.”

 “Yes, sir.  Hold us...”  Irfa captured an image, scribed a circle on it, then sent it to computer control.  On the view screen, a faint line of distortion appeared, neatly slicing around the circumference of the twenty-meter-diameter exit point of the particle weapon.  Karn watched intently on the small view screen as the circle completed.

 “Ruva, tractor it out, then grab ‘em by the balls.  Irfa, I’m sorry but I’m going to direct this.  Get half phaser power ready.”  He turned to give Irfa an apologetic look.

 “Targeting the emitter?”

 “Affirm.  Half power to avoid setting off the firecracker.”

 “Tractor is ready, sir.”

 “Do it.”  In the dim light of the Quadrant’s external lights, the hull piece suddenly stiffened, then fractured into several neat curves.

 Ruva Chevek, the Bajoran lieutenant at ops, frowned.  “Dropping tractor,” he said, sounding chagrined, sending a monitoring glance to the commander.  Karn nodded understanding.

 “Okay, we didn’t know.  Now we do,” he said, turning back to watch the sectioned shield pieces drift haphazardly between the cylon hull and the Quadrant’s dorsal side.  “Alright, tractor take two, but let me see.....”  He turned to the console on his right and with a couple of taps, divided the view screen to show multiple external angles.  “Huh.  Look at that.”

 On three of the views, the plasma bolts were still firing.  Prominent, heavy-looking turrets were turning and tracking targets, but the Quadrant was not one of their targets.  Even though it was sitting relatively motionless within 20 meters of the hull of the cylon ship, none of the turrets turned in their direction.

 “We do not yet register as a threat.”  Irfa curved her neck around and gave Karn a slow blink.

 “Well, time to ring the doorbell.  Ruva, full tractor power, going for mutilation, but be ready to drop on my mark.  Irfa, phasers ready....”

 “Full tractor power engaged.”

 “Helm, hold us steady...best you can....”  The image on the viewer wobbled slightly, then steadied.  Hundreds of times more massive than the Defiant-class ship, the cylon vessel virtually reversed the tractor, pulling the Quadrant closer.  Lieutenant Selonna’s hand slid slowly and smoothly down the console, gradually increasing thrusters on the dorsal aspect of the ship.  The balance point was reached, and then the tractor’s overall power was surpassed by the thrusters and the hardware of the opposing ship started to bear the brunt.  Almost as if alive, the emitters slowly started to bend, and then there was a sudden movement as a large component collapsed.

 “Drop tractor.  Irfa, phasers, hit ‘em.”

 “Tractor dropped.”

 “Firing phasers.”

 Karn stared at the screen, watching as pieces of the weapon emplacement started to drift in the opening.  When the shredded interior went completely dark, lit only by lights from the Quadrant, he made a hand signal to Irfa.  “Cut phaser.”  He studied the view of the now dark emitter closely, seeing faint movement in the ruined emitter along surgically straight cut lines.  “I’d call that well and truly wrecked.  Did we get any power readings there?”

 “No, sir,” Ruva said, frowning intently at his display.  “They apparently had started to fire up just as we started to tractor the shield out.”

 “What a shame.  Good job, all,” he said, glancing across the small bridge.  “Sorry for the micro-manage, but we don’t need five-thousand kph confetti slicing into–and there we go, threat status dawns,” he said brightly, thumping his fist lightly on the armrest as the turrets they could see on screen turned in their direction and began firing.  “Alright, now we can be of some help.  Helm, attack pattern Zulu, bearing zero-six-zero on the same pole we wrecked.  Let’s get them firing away from the colony people.”

 “Yes, sir.”  Selonna’s prompt, confident acknowledgment signaled a shift in mood on the bridge as they settled into the familiar role of a more conventional confrontation.  The Quadrant turned on its X axis as it curved around the bulk of the cylon vessel, enemy bolts trailing in its wake.  Karn and Irfa traded conspiratorial looks when the turrets on the adjacent vessel started focusing on them as well.

(editor's note---this scene was never properly buttoned up.  It was longer, and I split the scene in half because it didn't make sense to have such a long scene on relatively inconsequential, original characters this early in the fray.)

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

 Toward the rear right of the bridge, by the tiny circular window, Tigh sat in an abandoned chair, head in hands.  His headset was a few metrons away, where he had hurled it.  It was no longer of any use to him.  Normally he would be communicating with the warriors, but...

 I should have said no.  I should not have allowed it.  I should have blocked it.  I should have stopped it.

 The fact that someone had taken it out of his hands mattered not.  That person was now dead, which in Tigh’s mind transferred all responsibility to him.  It made him a killer, the worst kind of all.  Thinking he had a creative solution in the face of impossible odds, it had not only failed but also cost the life of the commander’s son.

 I’m not going to live with the fact that a plan I put together cost the life of Adama’s last son.

Chapter Text

 “There’s two of them, one’s by the gunship–”

 “No, there’s three!  There’s a little one...”

 “Can anyone get Tigh, Omega, anyone?”

 Boomer didn’t like to be fussy, but now that he’d figured out he was definitely still alive, he wanted a little more definition to the situation than this.  A pattern of lights sat in space blocking the center of the basestar, lights that sketched out a shape he hesitated to call a ship.  It had its small bulk turned against the basestar as though it though its presence could cause the cylons to hesitate.  The best Boomer could figure is that this thing somehow just appeared in a flash of light and ate the pulsar blast at catastrophically close range.  All the cubits in the universe said it should be dead in space, but the fact that there were still some operational lights on it suggesting continuing function added to the chilling un-reality.  This was something outside the realm of the plausible.  Anything that could survive what just happened was something that could have its way with them and Boomer didn’t like it.  The number of questions piling up, both relevant and irrelevant, was starting to irritate him and the continued talk on the radio wasn’t improving his mood.

 “So it just appeared and got blasted in the face.”

 “Yeah, is that our cue to get out of here?  We don’t need another frame job.”

 “Can anyone get Apollo or Sheba?  I’m getting absolutely nothing from them.”

 Boomer broke in.  “Apollo needs to stay in contact with Galactica for the clamps.  There’s some damage on that basestar and we can only assume it’s from the missile.”

 “Are there any launches from the new contacts?”

 “They’re firing!  They’re firing at the gunship!”

 “Who is?”

 “The new one!"

 Confusion and surprise, and even some excitement, erupted from the radio and Boomer almost considered taking his helmet off.  He did turn his viper around, though, just in time to see a blue light disappear around the side of the gunship.  When it came back around, Boomer caught brief flashes against the cylon vessel.  From their placement, it could only be the laser cannons getting hit.

 The fact that the newcomers were willing to do some damage on the cylons only partially mollified Boomer’s anxiety.  The risks the ships were taking were what he would call unacceptable.  They were intentionally exposing the broadest view to the cylons, as though taunting them.  Foolishness or impossibly advanced technology, either explanation was bad news.

 Boomer looked back and forth, from Galactica to the other ships.  With no communication, the vipers had no direction, no focus.  With no orders to land, the only recourse they had was to continue to send pings to Galactica, hoping that their comm system was still functional.  A reckless part of him thought about trying to fly close to the new ships, even try provoking them, but that brought him much too close to the cannons.  Let the brave but clueless take that risk, and it looked like they were.  The cannons were tracking something that was tracing around the other side of the basestar.

 Enough of this spectator role, Boomer thought.  They needed to make things happen.  He keyed communications for all vipers.  “This is Lieutenant Boomer.  In the absence of anyone else here, I’m declaring myself acting captain, and I’m only partially kidding,” he said, continuing to look back and forth between the basestars and the quiet bulk of Galactica.  “Based on the fact that the basestars aren’t unloading on Big G, they’re currently conserving energy and doing massive fabbing, which means there’s gonna be a giant launch in a few centons.  We need to be ready.  Let’s look at squad count and then I’ll divide the squads up between the three basestars.  Split off comms and get me a count and we’ll go from there.”

 “What about the new ships?”

 “I’m still thinking on that,” Boomer said hesitantly.

 “They’ve had the chance to fire on us and it looks like they haven’t, but we’ve definitely seen—”

 “Don’t worry about the new ships for now,” he interrupted.  “We have no way to find out what their alignment is so I don’t want us to sit here and dither over ifs and maybes.  Yes, crazy things have happened, but that doesn’t give us license to be crazy in return.  Our job is to focus on protecting Galactica and the fleet.  Let’s work with our current situation, with the understanding that we don’t have a complete picture.  Our most pressing issue right now is those basestars, so that’s what our focus should be.  Get me a head count for your squads, Red, Blue, Silver Spars, and Bronze Spars.  Acting Captain Boomer out.”

 He liked the sound of that, Acting Captain Boomer, but he pushed down nail-biting worry that there was a greater than zero chance that could become reality.  Either way, getting orders was a relief, even if it was his own orders.  They needed focus and direction

(....and the editor/writer needs focus and direction too, come to think of it....)

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

 “Beta is still functional.”  Irfa looked at Karn expectantly as the Quadrant continued to weave beneath and between the two vessels.

 “They’re in cool-down.”

 “Sir?  Update from Enterprise.  ‘Negotiations failed.  Target weapons and eliminate enemy attack fighters’.”

 Karn glanced back to Ruva.  “Noted, and also add that we tractored and phasered the particle weapon on gamma to complete destruction.”

 “Yes, sir.”

 “Helm, tac, pattern epsilon in the field,” Karn said, catching both officers’ attention.  “Get rid of the cylon fighters, fire at will, continue phasers only.  Best estimate on particle beam cool-down?”

 “Getting it,” Ruva said, drawing the words out as he flipped between screens on his display.  “At least ten minutes before the hardware can be effective.”

 “Alright, monitor power and ten minutes or power threshold, we’ll rip beta.  And.”  Karn put on a frown of confusion.  “Shields?”

 “They’re...well...zero load.  No hits.”

 “What?”  He glanced back and forth between Ops and Tactical.  “They are targeting us, aren’t they?”

 “Well, they’re trying to,” Ruva said hesitantly.  Karn got up from the command seat and crossed over to the Ops station as Ruva edged aside, giving him a look.

 “Gotta be kidding me,” Karn muttered in confusion, staring at the shield grids display for the Quadrant.  Solid green lines outlined the ship in three views, and the performance display showed no contacts for the last 60 seconds.  “There’s no life signs, right?”

 “None at all.”  Ruva reached over and ran the scan again with a couple of taps on the screen.

 “And there’s....no one else out this direction...”

 “They just...maybe don’t have good targeting systems,” Ruva guessed.

 “Ruva, your ability to keep a straight face never ceases to amaze me.”

 “There is significant lag,” Irfa said, studying her display.  “They would be accurate but for a nearly two-second delay.”

 Karn slowly returned to the center chair, staring intently at the screen.  Still split in four views, bolts fired consistently at nearly 100 meters behind the Quadrant.  After a few moments, he let out a short laugh, crossing his arms on his chest.  “I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he said, going suddenly serious.  “They’ve murdered billions, but it was by outnumbering these people.  Not outsmarting them.”

 “They have no ability to comprehend or even scan us, I think.  If they did, they would have been targeting us on arrival.”  Irfa tilted her head, studying the four streaming views with narrowed eyes.  Every few moments her attention swung back to her panel, and a faint line of distortion showed up on one of the views as the Quadrant continued to target the small cylon craft.

 “You know, considering they have the aim of a common blowfish, what we could do...” Karn gave Irfa a considering look, and she focused on him.  After ten years of working off and on with the former security chief, she could tell when something unconventional was in the works.  “What we could do is drop—no,” he interrupted himself, intensity fading in the span of one word.  “What we could do if the flagship wasn’t here,” he corrected candidly.

 Irfa’s head cocked inquisitively.  “What?”

 “Give secondary control of our shields and transporter to another ship and have them use us for snap saves.”

 Irfa pulled back, her startled gaze passing over the bridge.  “Is that...control to another ship?”

 Karn pointed to the viewer, continuing to show the almost comically precise delay in firing from the enemy vessels.  “Still no contacts, Ruva?”

 “Nothing,” Ruva said, a brief look of wide-eyed disbelief crossing his face as he looked down the logs.

 “In theory,” Irfa said slowly, and Karn shook his head.

 “Not with Enterprise here,” he repeated in some disappointment.  He stared at the viewer, watching as the enemy fire trailed along in their wake.  “Alright, let’s finish this off,” he said, sitting back down in the center chair.  “How are the fighter craft coming?”

 “Nineteen cylon craft eliminated.  Twenty-two remain but Enterprise is now also eliminating on their side of the field.”

 “None left on this side?”

 “None.”

 “Alright, switching focus.  If any come in range, continue to target them, but Sovereign has taken down vessel delta, so let’s shave whiskers on the other three, keeping an eye on beta’s beam.  Covering pattern Sierra, two-hundred mps–I think we have all the scans we need, correct?”

 “We do,” Irfa said, adjusting her position slightly.  “Three passes per vessel should be sufficient.”

 “Alright, continuing phasers only, starting with vessel gamma.”

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

 “Blue, 29.  Red, 27.  Blue, 29.  Red, 27...”

 Rare were the times Boomer wished he had some way to record information in a visual style in his viper, and this was one of those times.  In order to keep track of the numbers being reported, he had to repeat them to himself.  Being tired enough to contemplate just napping in his viper didn’t help, and neither did his throbbing headache.  He knew what it was from and the hell wasn’t over yet.

 The radio had gone more or less quiet, which was a blessed relief.  His squad had done a head count, now he was just waiting on the Silver and Bronze Spars.  He’d already decided that the two smallest squads would take the middle basestar, and that left two squads to cover the remaining stars.

 The question of the new ships wasn’t out of his mind’s eye, and nor were they out of his vision.  He let his gaze roam over the more lit-up one, patterns of light defining a shape so enigmatic and bizarre it looked spooky, as though it had some secrets on space that allowed it to ignore any niggling issues like survival.  Lines of lights in an oblong gave the impression of a giant raider, with additional periodic flashes from the center of the shape as well as around the edge.  Several larger static lights had flicked on, defining some signage on the hull as well as revealing a subtle interlocking pattern of shades of pale gray.  Another hull of an indeterminate shape extended out past it, lit in much the same pattern as the oblong shape but not as densely.  Two long pods sat alongside the second hull shape, each fronted with a large red light that cast a colored glow over that side of the ship.  A faint blue glow ran the length of the pods.  To the best of his ability to estimate, it was approximately half Galactica’s length.  One of the most unnerving aspects was the fact that the hull was smooth, like a sculpture.  Absolutely no hint of its inner workings could be gleaned from a visual inspection, like a secretive ghost or a frighteningly blank mask.  Boomer found himself looking back at Galactica just to cleanse his mental palate and ease the ache in his mind.

(two bits here I didn't have the chance to sew back together, or maybe it's separate scenes cuz the above is Boomer's viewpoint and the below is Starbuck.....)

*******

 “Everybody, this is Sergeant Rayber,” came the lightly accented Leon native voice.  The somber tone immediately cleared the channel.  “As you probably know, Captain Apollo was attempting viper delivery of a solinite missile to the second basestar.  There were some internal problems, some kind of explosions on the basestar.  Several of us had clear views of what happened.  The explosions changed the star’s orientation, and all evidence points to....it looks like Captain Apollo was caught in the pulsar blast.  We have been able to identify a few scrap remains of his viper.  Lords of Kobol, bless him and bring him peace.”

The radio fumbled to a halt.  There were a few soft exclamations.

 Starbuck froze.  That did not just happen.  Those words, he did not just hear them.  That wasn’t reality.  He wanted to back off, to pull the sound of those words out of his ears.  No, don’t think about the person.  Think about how that did not just happen.  This is not acceptable.

 His desperate gaze landed on the offending basestar.  Blow it up.

 “I can’t!”  He pulled off his helmet and threw it down towards his feet.  Stress, anger, and fear condensed and he screamed his rage.

 Nothing mattered.  Nothing mattered anymore.  For a micron the memory of arming a pile of cubits towards him flashed through his mind and he threw it out.  Nothing mattered.  Nothing mattered except that basestar, and before he left this life, he needed to ensure that it didn’t matter anymore, either.  Then he could go.  Finish the job.

 Starbuck gripped the stick for the last time and shoved forward, not even caring there was no turbo.  He slowly picked up speed and started to aim himself.  The residual pale blue-green glow from the emitters of the pulsar was rapidly fading but he knew it would be at least a centon before the shields rotated closed.  And if he got enough momentum, he could do what he needed to do.

Chapter Text

 At first, he thought the burning tingle in the base of his neck was a pulled muscle, but when it spread quickly to his hands, feet, and head, Apollo started to panic.  “No, no, no, what’s happening?” he tried to say, but no sound came out.  For a moment he drifted, unable to move.  He couldn’t feel himself in his viper, couldn’t feel anything.  Then feeling started to return.  It felt like he was taking a very, very hard turn in his viper in atmosphere, a very hard left turn.  A weight pressed in on him down his entire right side.  Then his body jerked hard when his orientation registered–he realized the weight was the gravity of his own body.  He was now lying down, still in the general position of being in his viper, but he was no longer there.  Like waking up on the Ship of Lights, everything around him had changed.  Then he twitched again as two more sensations crashed in on him, vision and hearing.

 There was movement almost immediately in front of him, black legs, then someone was kneeling.  “It’s alright, you’re safe, you’re on board the Enterprise. You’re safe.”  It sounded like a male voice but something sounded odd.  There was a quiet clatter as something was placed near him on the floor, and then hands were on him, trying to change his orientation, gently tricking his body.  He heard another voice say something, then there was a quiet whirring sound, like a tiny piece of equipment.

 Apollo managed to get a sound out.  “What...?”

 “Terrible electrolytes,” the soft, feminine voice said, not directed at him.  “Dehydrated. He’s going to need fluids fast.  On the board.”  Someone else cut across his vision, then, distracting him.  He tried to follow the movement, but then the form in front of him shifted position and he felt a hand on his upper arm, almost like a friendly greeting.

 “Can you tell me your name?”  The voice sounded peaceful and very focused on him, seeming to erect a quiet alcove where all else was irrelevant.  Apollo managed to direct his faltering attention to something black, red...and then yellow.  A person.  A male.  That was where the feminine but male voice was coming from.

 “My name is Gale Emereck.  I’m a nurse.  Can you tell me your name?”

 “A...Apollo,” he managed to stammer.  Then, “How...wh—”

 “You were transported on board.  You’re on the Enterprise, a Federation ship.”  He then turned back to address someone behind him.  “What was the situation?” he asked, more frankly.

 After a moment Apollo heard another voice, this one definitely female, probably young.  “If I had to sum up, bad-ass missile delivery system.  In one of the little fighter craft with a deuterium-loaded missile–”

 “What happened?” Apollo asked urgently.  “Did it fire?  What happened?”

 “Did the big cylon ship fire?”  Black and red directed the question behind him.

 “Looks like it did fire, no casualties.  We punched it down with torpedoes–”

 “Sheba!  Where’s Sheba?  Is she alright?”

 The man turned back to him.  “Sheba?  Is...”

 “She’s....one of us, she’s a viper pilot.  Is she alright?”  Apollo started to finally orient his body, pushing himself upright, but a hand halted his progress.

 “A single female in one of the small fighter craft?” he asked in confirmation.  “Near that same cylon vessel?”

 “Yes,” Apollo said, focusing intensely on the black and red figure kneeling down in front of him.  “Find Sheba...”

 He turned back.  “Catch that?  His name is Apollo, look for a female in the small fighter craft, name is Sheba.  Should be in the vicinity of the....”

 “....what they’re calling the beta vessel,” the female voice said, sounding focused on something.  “Yes.  Got it.”

 “Alright.”  The man named Gale Emereck turned back to him.  “We should be able to locate her pretty quickly and get a confirmation for you–”

 “What about the other one?”  Apollo was so focused on getting a situation report, he didn’t even notice it when someone started to reposition his body.  “The ring—there were–we had a bunch of–”

 “All I can tell you for absolute certain is that no one has died since we arrived about two minutes ago.  Considering the picture out the window, we’ll work on getting you a complete run-down.  I think it’s going to be relatively stable for a bit.”

 “The third base-star?” Apollo asked.  “Did it...”

 The man stopped and focused on him in some surprise.  “You’re wondering about the...you called them base stars?”

 “Yes, that’s what they’re called,” Apollo said, uncertain.  “You’re...wait a centon...”

 “I don’t have details of the full situation, but like I said, we will get a full report to you asap.  But there is one thing I can definitely tell you,” he said, almost with a wink as Apollo found himself lying flat on a board.  “I don’t think you’re going to have to worry about cylons firing on you ever again.  I think a bigger question is this: Where do you intend to keep all that scrap metal?”

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

 “Lieutenant, getting anything?”

 Commander Karn half circled the forward station where his Deltan helm officer had her head bowed, even while still piloting the Quadrant.  They could easily overtake the small craft and arrest the situation, but the question was what was the correct method.  The answer would depend on the mood of the pilot who was now within two kilometers of the cylon ship.

 “Anger,” Selonna finally said.  “Anger, desperation.”

 Karn straightened, staring at the viewer.  After a moment, he turned aft.  “Lieutenant Arva?”  Towards the back of the bridge, a human female officer turned.  Karn raised his arm, bent his wrist, and pointed straight down at the helm position.  “If I may ask,” he said to Selonna with a slight head bow.  “That looks pretty dark to me.”  He pointed to the viewer, showing the small orange and white dart continuing its course towards the center of the cylon ship.

 Selonna was nodding already, turning to vacate her chair as her replacement arrived.  Karn went with her halfway to the back of the bridge.  “Ruva, we’re going to transport the pilot, then tractor the craft,” he said clearly, maintaining eye contact with the ops officer.  “They don’t need to see that happen.”  He jutted his chin back to the viewer.

 “Yes, sir.”

 “Karn to transport one.”  Selonna exited the bridge ahead of him as he slowed down for Ruva’s benefit.

 “Transport one.”

 “Got one incoming transport, coords coming in now.”  He nodded to Ruva.

 “Got it.”

 “Good.  Karn out.  Karn to medical, report to transport one.”

 “On our way.”

 “Karn out.”  Before he exited, he leaned back around the corner.  “Commander Irfa, you have the bridge.  Keep after target Sheba.”

 “Yes, sir.”

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

 Defiant-class ships were equipped with only one transporter, capable of three transports at a time.  But the cycle of the units on board Defiant ships was such that it was capable of the same volume that a standard six-pad array was on the larger fleet vessels.  The transport process was faster as well, taking almost half a second less time than a typical cycle.  The subject on the transport pad was already starting to register that something strange had just happened by the time the two nurses arrived.  He was lying on his side, face contorted in a rage of emotions, holding his body stiffly.

 One of the nurses, a Vulcan, Sorok, got to his knees, already staring at a medical tricorder as he scanned the subject.  The other nurse had a blue and gray medical case that she set on the edge of the transporter.  She sat down on the pad and tried to make contact, reaching for the man’s hands, clenched in fists in front of him.

 “It’s alright, you’re safe,” she said, trying to maneuver to get into his visual range as he curled up even further.  She glanced to the rear on hearing movement, nodding to Selonna as she entered the chamber.  The Deltan also kneeled down and placed her hands on his lower legs, bowing her head.

 “You mourn,” she said in her soft, lightly-accented voice.  She traded glances with the nurse next to her, Ahnlik.  The Deltan’s head was bald and smooth, and Ahnlik’s hair was the thick, blonde, wiry hair of her race, the Sovu.  The man’s body was only just beginning to relax, but his breathing still came in short gasps.

 “Significantly dehydrated.  Blood-sugar is 85.  I will start saline, wide line.”  Sorok closed the tricorder, slotting the scanner into place, and reached for the medical case.  Despite his Vulcan calm, his movements were hurried as he opened the case and began pulling supplies.

 Commander Karn reached the transporter room and watched from a distance as the crew worked.  The chamber had a replicator, with the idea that transports sometimes needed immediate help, and Ahnlik got up to get the saline.  “He mourns,” Selonna said, looking back at Karn.

 “Who is it?”  Karn approached closer and crouched down, looking concerned.

 “Who do you mourn?” Selonna asked the man as the nurses worked.  “Who was lost?”

 The man gulped in air.  “Apollo.”  Selonna glanced at Karn, who looked bemused.   He stood and crossed over to the replicator, accessing the interface above it.  She watched him scan down the information for a moment, but then a sudden flare pulled her head around.

 “Why did you stop me?” the man demanded angrily, fists clenched. “Why?”

 Commander Karn read the flaring anger as clearly as the empath did.  The former security chief quickly returned to the transport pad, reading the potential threat.  Lying down, likely unarmed but just as likely not harmless, in close proximity to his crew, emotional turmoil.  “It looked to us like you were headed on a terminal course,” he said, his tone calm but direct.

 “I need to kill that basestar!”  The wild-eyed man started to struggle to a sitting position.

 “Understood, but there are better ways of—”

 “Put me back!  Put me back in my viper so I can kill that frakking thing!”

 “You want it dead?  We’ll do that, but right now this is the safest place for you—”

 “No!  Put me back!”  The man lashed out blindly in anger, but lightning fast Vulcan reflexes stopped him from connecting with Sorok’s face.  The nurse’s iron grip was on the man’s right wrist, and a second later, Karn had his hands on the left wrist.

 “You don’t hit my crew.”  Wide, angry, hazel-brown eyes pinned the man.  “Try that again and I’ll have them sedate you.  Is that clear.”  Pitched like an order, not a question, it gave the man no other option but to treat it like one.  Karn felt the tense resistance give way, but he maintained his grip and his stare even as understanding slowly started to register in the man’s expression.  “I’m Commander Robert Karn, the commanding officer on this ship.  U.S.S. Quadrant.  I think you understand that one moment you were in your craft, and the next, you were here.  Affirm?”  There was a slight nod.  “Now, in the same way you came on board here, the pilot called Apollo arrived on board our sister ship, the Enterprise.  He’s in their Sickbay–”

 “We saw him killed!  He was hit—”

 “You saw his ship destroyed,” Karn said firmly.  “You did not see his dead body.”  Incredulity started to register in the other man’s expression, but the anger never faded.  The complete lack of knowledge of transporter technology made it impossible for him to understand the outcome, even though he had been transported himself, and Karn realized only a direct connection could get this across.  He focused back on the man.  “Tell me your name.”  Once again there was brief physical resistance and Karn tightened his grip, almost to the point of pain.  “Tell me your name.”

 The man’s attention only briefly went to his wrist.  “Starbuck.”

 “Alright, Starbuck, we’ll do this by the direct route.”  Karn raised his head, directing his voice up.  “Karn to Enterprise.”

 After a moment, the response came.  “This is Enterprise.”

 “Enterprise, would it be possible to get a comm line with someone probably in your Sickbay right now?  Looking for Apollo.  The pilot we pulled back needs a confirm.”

 “The pilot known as Apollo is in our Sickbay, but he is currently getting briefed and is in communication with Galactica.  In the best interests of the current discussion I will add you as a mute line.”

 “Mute is acceptable.  We just need a confirm for the pilot we just brought on board.  Name is Starbuck.  We’ll add to the situation screen.”

 “Understood.  Sending you through."

 “Thanks much.”  After a moment, there was a dual-tone chirp.  “Computer, mute line.”  Then, “Alright, Starbuck, I need you to listen to me,” he said, catching the man’s gaze.  “I don’t know how much of that you picked up but I’m going to open the line and you’re going to hear Apollo, among others.  Do you understand?”

 There was another tone from the comm system.  “Commander Karn, to the bridge.  We have located who we believe is Sheba.”

 “Alright, be right there.  Karn out.”  He looked back to the man who did not yet register understanding.  “I’m going to unmute the line, you’ll hear Apollo and likely a few other people.  Lieutenant Selonna and I have to head to the bridge and I need you to stop reacting and start thinking.”  The only response was a partly confused, partly offended look, and Karn glanced to the nurse closest to him.  “You can take care of him?”

 Ahnlik nodded.  “Yes, sir.”

 Karn released his grip, and as soon as he did, Ahnlik got hold of the wrist, slipping a line of micropores along the back of the hand for a wide-line delivery of saline.  Karn got to his feet.  “We’ll need the pad cleared for the next one.  Computer, unmute line.”

 After another chirp, voices filled the room.  “...finding the farthest ones out would be a rough return, so we’re thinking of throwing a comm drone out there to artificially patch them in to the comm system.”

“We’ve got a grand total of three of those, Commander, so we’ll have to do some prioritizing.”

 “If we get them in close enough, our people should be able to work on the communications.  This is something we’ve dealt with continually.”

 “Couldn’t we send a shuttle out for the Garden Gate?  Would that cut down—”

 “Apollo!?”

 Karn paused in the doorway with the hint of a wry smile.  “Not bad, A-flat.”

Chapter Text

 “....Two-hundred and nineteen.  That’s the count we’re getting from the Sovereign.  Does that sound right?”

 “We lost a couple of them.  The cylons....”

 “Otherwise accurate?”

 “Yes.”

 Commander Riker sat back in the chair a little, moving a finger through the graphic in front of him.  It rotated halfway around.  Tiny representations of ships scattered across over a hundred-thousand kilometers hung like a small dense cloud of bugs, showing the ferociously complex field they were dealing with.  Some of the people had radiation sickness, they were unused to transporters, the ships were scattered widely, and some had their communications knocked out.  The complex evolution of events were made even more challenging by the communications picture.  Their system architectures were fundamentally different, and the damage layered over it complicated matters even further.

 All three Starfleet ships had stayed in continual communication in the hours preceding their arrival, sharing a series of situation screens.  First contact had gone smoothly at least for the core battlestar contact, after the initial surprise.  The military character had stood out immediately in their swift understanding of outcomes despite bewilderment over methods.  For streamlining, the Enterprise was designated the sole contact, and Riker in particular.  His rank of commander would be more immediately understood, though he had been careful not to say he was the CO of the ship.  The refugees had enough to deal with, without the confusion of rank changes.  Now that the initial connection was made, ranks had been discussed and there was an understanding.

 Roles were different as well.  The officer he was talking to, a Corporal Omega, was the nexus point for all communication within the fleet, with the exception of the fighter craft, but he also was responsible for some navigation, a kind of helm officer.  Their radar was down, but several engineers on the Enterprise were focusing on the problem under Data’s oversight and it wouldn’t be long before they could feed at least a limited picture to the carrier.  Currently they couldn’t even share the situation screen but Data had been granted permission for a system exam and he believed transfer protocols would be possible.

 “Alright.  Other than evac of the critical ones, our Engineering branch is doing a detailed survey right now to get a picture of what are the most urgent repairs.  When that comes through, we should arrange some communication between two engineering sections together and talk coordination on repairs.”

 “The difficulty for us is raw materials,” came the hesitant answer.  “We went through significant stockpiles getting to this point.”

 “We should be able to help with some of it, but final answer on that will come from Engineering.”

 “Oh—” There was a moment of background conversation.  “Commander, just got a count on viper population.  Looks like one-hundred fifteen.  I can tell you we can only fit an extreme max of seventy-six in a single bay, so thirty-nine....you don’t have room for that, do you?” Omega asked, sounding doubtful.

 “Likely not, but I’ll get word to our operations manager and let you know what we could fit.  I think it might be better to transport the remainder pilots out and corral the fighters while you get repairs going on your damaged bay.”

 “Where will you...put the pilots?”

 “What we can do is send over a small locator beacon, and we’ll materialize them wherever you want us to.  We can do the same with the pilots who land in our bay–and Corporal, I’m being told our bridge is now available,” Riker said, seeing the message overlay the graphic of the ships, “so I’m going to relocate out there.  That’ll also bring Captain Picard fully into the loop, but we’ve been sharing information so he is aware.”

 “Understood.”

 When Riker emerged from the ready room, the bridge looked remarkably calm, considering how much was being coordinated through it.  Captain Picard was in the command well, sitting forward in the center chair and using a light-based keyboard from a PADD to add information to the situation board.  He looked up when Riker entered the bridge.

 “Corporal Omega, I’m going to turn you over to Captain Picard, our commanding officer.  We’ve got an evac in progress and we’ll coordinate with Engineering and Medical to get some pressure off your logistics.”

 “Yes, sir.”

Chapter Text

 Piece by piece, Boomer was sliced up.  He retreated further and further into a focus zone, paring down to what truly mattered in the moment so nothing else intruded but for what was immediately in front of him.  Systematically jettisoning the rest of his life, all of his memories, his very identity, he made sure he was as much a machine as the targets he was focused on.  He and the rest of Red squadron sat with Bronze Spars at the center target, ready and waiting to eliminate the wave of hostiles as soon as they emerged from the launch tunnel.  The laser cannons on the basestars had been rendered inoperable which is largely what enabled the squadrons to maintain a static position just to either side of the twin launch tunnels, aimed directly at the exit point.  Talk on the radio was minimal, by his order.  All focus.

 The passage of time didn’t matter.  Each micron that passed was only now.  The past didn’t exist.  He was here, ready to destroy them.  Now was all that mattered.

 Movement registered and he fired.  Thought briefly intruded, a query.  Half of a raider.  Half like it had been cut with a giant pair of blades.  Not consistent with viper fire.  Did it matter?  No.  He kept firing, part of the red blaze created by the vipers around him.  The next target came out banking erratically on its X axis, curving sharply to the right and crashing into the basestar.  The third one was drilled, its front end pushed down sharply, then was punched forward as the raider behind it ran into it.

 An impression of close darkness came over his head, and then a soft illumination passed over him.  He heard a faint pulsing almost like a heartbeat.  The red fire started to slow and it almost intruded on his mind.  The pile-up at the exit points of both tunnels was turning into an impassable barrier of remains, isolated bumps forward evidence of another hostile running into the growing conglomerate.

 Another pulsing, a white illumination this time, started to intrude, twin beacons only a few metrons above his viper.  There was something above him, very close.  The tunnel pile-up started to fracture in ways that were strange but satisfying.  Mission accomplish—

 “Colonial Red squadron and Bronze Spars, this is the U.S.S. Quadrant, sitting right above you.”  The calm, clear, matter-of-fact tone intruded on his minimalist mindset, nearly jolting his perspective.  “We’re going to be drilling both tunnels clear and then throwing warheads up the chutes.  This may create some shrapnel so for safety we suggest getting clear of the immediate area.  Copy?”

 His mind fumbled to a halt and he struggled to process the information.  The red glow pounding into the target location had ceased, and remains of raiders drifted in the immediate area.  He heard sound over the radio from several vipers.  The white flashing lights....

 “Boomer!  Rotate, negative Y axis, forward, now!”

 That was anger.

 “Boomer! Wake up, pay attention!”

 More anger.

 There was a slight creak, a shifting of the viper.  His view started to change.  His viper was moving, not under his control.  He drifted backwards slowly.

 This put him out of proper range and view.  Unacceptable.  He gripped the stick to reposition himself–and then something strange happened.  The universe shifted to the right.

 “Lieutenant, move it!”

 He moved forward...but his view shifted inconsistent with his motion.  His path curved downward, completely losing sight of the target.  Irritated, he looped around, weaving around the other vipers.

 Something was stirring the raiders at the exit point, something that seemed to violently push aside and fracture the remains.  There was a faint distortion line in space.  A moment later the wreckage flashed simultaneous with a faint, sudden movement of the basestar.  The entire wreckage field rippled slightly.

 “All squadrons, this is Corporal Omega.  Good news—Apollo is alive.  Repeat, Apollo is alive.”

 Much repetition of the word “alive”.  He thought on it.  It meant continuing to breathe.

 He could hear animated voices.  They were...not focused.  Messy, but this time it didn’t bother him as much.  Voices, one voice recounting information.  He caught the words ‘new’, ‘communications’, and ‘relief’.  The words were well received, it sounded like.  The tone was relaxed.  An image came to mind, someone always too serious, tall, dark brown hair, trying to keep up.  Dark blue.  Dark blue and silver.  There was an exchange, people asking questions, receiving information.  Some voices sounded distorted, pinched, oddly pitched and irregular.  He heard the over-familiar name Galactica.  Home.  Home was still there, it seemed.  More rapt attention as Omega spoke.  He was explaining things, a sequence of events.  People on ships, room, not enough room because Beta had been taken out, and it was going to take much work to get it back together.  Some of them might have to land in other ships, a dicey proposition.  They were working out numbers, spacing, names for who went where.  He began to pick up repetition of the word ‘enterprise’.  Someone said they wanted enterprise so they could go talk to Apollo.

 Boomer inhaled sharply, like someone punched him in the stomach.  No, no, no, no, we’ve had a very long day, we don’t need this we don’t need this—

 Frak.

 “Get your frakking act together, you frakking baby.  Come on.  Grow up!  Frak happened, and now it’s done and some of it turned out not the way you thought.  Apollo, you frakking pile of daggit droppings, you owe me more ambrosia than you’ll ever be able to afford in your miserable lifetime!  I am going to floor you.  I am going to knock you over so hard you see constellations at light speed.  And then,” Boomer finished, rubbing his nose and wiping his hand on his pants, “then, I’m going to get so very very drunk with you.  All of us.”  He reached over and hit communications.  “Hear that?  We’re all getting—”

 “My sentiments exactly,” someone said, laughing.  It sounded like Jolly.

 “I think everyone who wants to knock him over, well, get in line.  Behind me.”

 “So, lemme get this...first we all knock him over, and then is he buying?”

 “Boomer, for that speech, I’ll let you go first.”

 He really wanted a wall right in front of him right now for purposes of pounding his head against it.

 “If any of you are feeling like spring birds, you haven’t done your job today,” Boomer said, from the comfortable position of having been laughed to the bottom of the pecking order of warriors.  “Remember, I may be in the mud right now but I’m still your acting captain.  Acting.  Temporary.  Captain.”

 “We’ll drop a telespeak down to you.”

 Boomer rolled his eyes.  “Shut up, clear comms, and wait for orders, you bunch of illegitimate snitrats,” he said, more needing a comeback to protect his self-esteem than a demand to clear comms.

 A moment later, though, the comms were cleared in the most dramatic way possible.  “All squadrons, this is Commander Adama.”  Boomer shifted in his seat and his hand shot up to adjust his helmet, instead knocking it askew.  He grabbed it with both hands and settled it, gathering what remaining alertness he had.  If the commander was addressing them, it meant something big, very big.  He would address the fleet occasionally, especially giving all-clears after encounters or fleet-wide events, but Boomer couldn’t remember the last time he had directly addressed the warriors while in their vipers.

 “We are working on the logistics of bringing you back in, but the single landing bay is, of course, challenging.  We are working with our new allies to allow you to land in their bays, which they have calculated are big enough.  Twenty-one of you will be contacted shortly and get instruction on how to do this.

 “More importantly, however...”  There was a brief pause, and when Adama spoke again, it was with emotion.  “There are no words, none at all, that can come close to expressing the gratitude...your bravery today has been beyond measure.  There are no finer warriors in the universe,” he said emphatically.  “All of us, all of us are forever in your debt.”  Then, the statement that set off un-broadcasted but undoubtedly unanimous exclamations of astonishment and even bewilderment.  “Every single one of you will be receiving the Colonial Star of Freedom.”

 Boomer’s head spun.  The Star of Freedom had only been given to a very small handful of people per yahren among all the colonies, for promoting unity, or making a significant breakthrough in technology, or showing above and beyond bravery or leadership.  To the best of his knowledge, no current recipient yet lived, though there had been quiet rumblings that Adama himself would be a worthy recipient.  But no others.  He could just about guarantee that no mold for the medallion itself still existed, even.

 This sounds like a closing gong of finality, Boomer realized.  This sounds like the end.  A stunt like that...something just came to a close.  The question was what, exactly?  And did it have anything to do with those bizarre, impossible sculptures that had joined them?

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

 “I do not say that lightly,” Adama said firmly, addressing the bridge as much as the warriors out in their vipers.  “Some of us say the Star of Freedom should be only rarely awarded, not commonly handed out.  I happen to agree with this.  It should only go to rare, exceptional individuals.  And so I shall limit it to rare, exceptional individuals—you.  I would like to think there is still meaning in our civilization, few though we are.  Our people matter, not just individuals but our collective existence.  To not acknowledge the countless acts of courage today would be to shrug off everything we have worked to maintain and accomplish together, and indeed everything we have ever meant as a people.

 “My heart is full, and there is much more I could say, but right now, there is much work to do.  The three new ships here are also due many thanks, but we have a great deal of coordinating to do.  Our primary efforts will now go towards bringing you warriors home and getting you the rest you desperately need, and also reassembling the fleet and concentrating on repairs.  The ships that have arrived are called Enterprise, Sovereign, and Quadrant, and the first two will be focusing on contacting some of you to arrange landing in their bays.  They have specialized systems that will assist greatly with this process and from all I have seen and heard, I am confident you can trust their expertise.  God bless all of you, all of you.  Adama out.”

 He pulled off the headset and set it next to the still dark scanner as the entirety of the bridge applauded.  “I do not exclude you,” he added over the applause, turning to take in the bridge complement, many of whom stood through the address.  “We have been tested today like never before.  For now, do the best you can to help with repairs.  Our new allies have given us space and time to recover and we must take advantage of that.  While that goes on, I am going to make a brief visit to one of their ships, and I will be traveling there using something called a transporter.  It is how they routinely travel over short distances.  My son is on that ship, and I will meet with him and with their leadership.  We have a great deal to discuss.”

 There was some more applause as Adama turned to go down the stairs of the tower.  As he did, Omega caught his attention.  “Commander, who is in....?” he started, uncertain.

 “I need to go dig out my executive,” Adama said with a smile.  He went down the stairs as activity started to return to the bridge, more calm, orderly communication as they began the work of assessing damage and redefining priorities.  Nods and smiles greeted him as he passed among them, finally reaching the back corner of the bridge with the small port monitoring window.  There had once been a station back here but they had removed it, transferring the duty to another officer at the forward stations.  Sometimes it was handy to get more of a perspective on their surroundings than the forward port could provide, and with the damage they had sustained, the shield would stay in place until repairs could be made to the window.

 Tigh was sitting in an abandoned chair, looking utterly miserable.  He flinched as Adama drew near, and the older man shook his head in pity.  He had been the one to approve the plan, and as such, it was his responsibility, not Tigh’s.  He could understand, though–from all eyewitnesses, Apollo had been killed.  Adama hadn’t even had the opportunity to fear his son’s death because very shortly after the second pulsar had fired, he had been told Apollo was on their ship.  Their capabilities were dizzying and he was beginning to wonder if there was anything they couldn’t do.

 “Tigh,” Adama said, putting a hand on his shoulder.  “It’s alright.  You don’t need to mourn, and right now I need my executive.”  Tigh only turned away from him, his movements slow and heavy.  “Colonel Tigh, I need a bit of assistance.  I need you to be in command for a short time.”  Tigh only shook his head slowly, mute.

 Adama took a deep breath, intending to use his ultimate leverage.  “Saul!”  The response was immediate and satisfying–Tigh looked up, wide-eyed, on hearing his given name.  The military state they had been under had relegated given names to the background, and to use one meant a radical departure from the norm they had been used to for over two yahren now.  Given names had died with their homes, killed by the cylons.  “You haven’t been paying attention,” Adama said with a gentle smile.  “Three ships have arrived to assist us, and they have technology beyond anything we can understand.  Apollo is alive.  He is alive.  I have spoken to him, so has Omega, so has Rigel,” he said, trying to hammer home the reality as Tigh turned farther away from him.  “Apollo is alive, and he is on their lead ship, called Enterprise.  I am going to go visit the ship and speak to their leadership.  I need someone to be in command in my absence.  I used to have an executive officer and I’m hoping you can locate him for me,” he said with gentle humor.

 Tigh finally started transitioning to a look of wondering disbelief, and now managed to get a single word out.  “How...?”

 “The ships that are helping us have extremely advanced technology.  They come from....the Federation of Planets.  United Federation,” Adama explained haltingly.  “They are many, many different races working together, and they pool their resources and knowledge.  They used some of their technology to save Apollo, and I am about to take advantage of that same technology to visit their ship.  I need you in command in my absence.  There is a great deal to do.”

 Tigh at least didn’t retreat back into his defensive posture, so Adama finally straightened and held out a hand to Tigh, more as a goading taunt than anything as he knew he wouldn’t take that kind of assistance from an older man.  It worked, as Tigh slowly started to get to his feet with the hint of a glare.  “Omega is very busy contacting the fleet and trying to determine who still has communications.  Rigel can likely bring you completely up to speed on current operations,” Adama said as Tigh mutely started to follow him towards the tower.  “The most important things to know is that we have breathing room, we’re going to start landing the vipers we can while a few of them will use the landing bays in the visiting ships, and the fleet needs to come back together—”

 “I don’t like that,” Tigh said, still subdued and quiet.  “That could be a technology capture.”

 “No,” Adama said with a smile.  “I assure you, Tigh, they have things more advanced than even the vipers.  I’ve been speaking to them and they have capability that makes even us look small.”

 Tigh gave him a skeptical look.  “Who did you say they were?”

 “The United Federation of Planets.”

 “Never heard of them.”

 “Well, now you have,” Adama said almost impishly as he reached the fore stations.  “Rigel?”

 The young woman was leaning over the far side of the station with another officer, assessing damage, and turned back to them.  Tear-stained but more in control, she smiled.  “I think we figured out why some stations went out up here, but...well.  Commander?”

 “Rigel, I need you to bring Colonel Tigh up to date.  I’m going to go see the Federation leadership on Enterprise.”

 “Wait, is that safe?” Tigh asked.  He instinctively reached for a microphone on a non-existent headset, then glanced around in some confusion.  “We only have one bay–”

 “It won’t be necessary.  That’s not how they travel.”

 “What, are they going to throw a line between ships?”

 Adama bowed his head in a show of patience.  “Trust me.  I’m going to travel the same way Apollo did.  It only takes a few microns.”

 “What?”

 “You’ve been out of the loop for a bit,” Adama said, beginning to reach the edge of his patience.  “I need you to trust your commander,” he said, holding Tigh on a steady stare.  “I will be fine.  It is safe.”

 Tigh sighed, still looking suspicious and disapproving.  “Very well.”

 Adama was not going to even hint to Tigh that he had some trepidation, but they had informed him, over and over–this was done quintillions of times every cycle in their territory.  Apollo said it was disorienting but only lasted about the span of three breaths.  After the displays of bravery today, he would be deeply remiss if he refused this invitation.

 They had been going to come here, but apparently Galactica had low-level radiation leaks.  Hardly surprising, considering the pounding they had taken today.  Every last able body that could would be working on repairs, not just to Galactica.  The new ships had remote-control drones that they intended to use to help with some repairs, once they finished examining the fleet ships and determining priorities.  They seemed curiously willing, even considering their level of technology.  He should be wary, but there was a frankness to their interaction that made him inclined to trust.  Apollo was already there, after all–and he said some of the people even seemed to be human.  How that could be, he wasn’t sure, but he would see for himself shortly.

 He climbed the command tower.  Omega was focused on communication, showing some forced patience due to the volume he had to get through as quickly as possible.  They had over 200 ships to contact and there were likely not a few that wanted more of a heart-to-heart talk than they had time for.  Adama could not fault them for hesitating, though.  Four cylon vessels hung in space in the immediate area and no one in their right mind would willingly come back to such a situation without a great deal of assurance.

 You’re stalling.  Adama forced himself to put on the headset and send the query ping.  It was answered immediately.  “Enterprise here.”

 “Enterprise, this is Commander Adama.  I’ve spoken to my people.  I think we should be stable here for now.”

 “Alright, Commander, what we’re going to do is materialize a comm badge over there that will help us get an accurate fix on you.”

 “Understood.”  The moment the word was out of his mouth, though, he realized he didn’t understand, not thoroughly.  He cast a look around the tower, reasoning it would appear on a supported surface, hoping to see it as it blinked into existence, then startled as a small area right next to him on the station sparkled for a moment.  The dancing golden vertical lines threw small flickering lights over the nearby consoles, and when it faded, a golden arrowhead rested on the station.  He stared a moment, then hesitantly reached out to touch it.  The arrow shape had a slight asymmetry to it and was backed with a small rectangular shape.  He picked it up and felt the curiously heavy object.

 “You’ll want to be standing for this.  Just hold the badge and that will let us target you accurately.”

 Out of the corner of his eye he saw Omega looking at him with some trepidation.  He tried to give him his best reassuring smile.  “I’ll close the channel, and then give me a centon to get in position.  I don’t want to have people see me vanish off the tower.  They know I’m doing this but I have a feeling they’ll still find it alarming.”

 “If you want, commander, after you end the contact here you can tap the badge and just say ‘Galactica to Enterprise’ and that will bring up a more direct channel.  Then you can let us know when you’re ready.”

 “Alright, I’ll do that now.  Galactica out.”  He pulled off the headset.

 “You’re going over there now?” Omega asked.

 “Yes.”  Adama looked back towards the front of the bridge, seeing Rigel talking animatedly with an apparently transfixed Tigh.  “I’ll still be reachable, I’m told, so don’t hesitate to contact.”

 Omega nodded slowly.  Adama left the area of the tower, going back by the tactical map, all but feeling Omega’s close monitoring stare on him.  At least Tigh was distracted for this....Adama held the badge, hesitated, and then tapped it with his first two fingers.  “Galactica to Enterprise.”

 “Enterprise here.  You’re ready?”

 “Yes, I think so.”

 “Alright–I’ll let transport know.”

 Pushing down fear, Adama stood firm.  They had faced three basestars today, as well as the gunship.  If the warriors could stand toe to toe with a pulsar....

 At first he thought it was a breath of cold air, like he wanted to shiver.  Then a tingling, a buzzing all over his body, and everything faded.  Everything.  Even his awareness seemed to blink for a moment, and then....

 The first thing he noticed was the difference in gravity.  It felt more uniform over his body, almost more like the surface of a planet, natural gravity.  Then there was the impression that he was standing on a brightly lit stage with a dimly lit audience, and he blinked.  It was when he felt himself breathe out that he realized it was done.  He had changed locations.

 There was movement.  He could see faces.  The difference in lighting made him blink, but then a now-familiar Scorpion-accented voice addressed him.  “Commander Adama, welcome aboard the Enterprise.  I’m Captain Jean-Luc Picard.”

 Adama stared.  “You are human.”  Embarrassed, then, he shook his head.  “I’m sorry, I’m not making a very good first impression.”

 “Nonsense.”  The counter was quick, pleasant, and utterly dismissive of his awkwardness.  “I promise you, you’ve already made a profoundly positive impression, more than you know.”

 I must get moving, he said to himself.  A hand was extended to him, and in seeing it, he also saw the steps.  Whether the hand was there for balance or greeting he didn’t know, but he took it for both.  “I would like to present our ship’s counselor, Commander Deanna Troi.”

 Adama’s first reaction was ‘Ila’.  The woman’s dark, curly hair reminded him of the wife the cylons had taken from him.  But this woman was short, with a smile that was both warm and concerned.  The bright, brilliant, equal sparkle that was Ila was gone.

 The spark that passed between them at a hand grasp, though, quickly and dramatically refocused Adama’s mind.  The warmth registered in his mind—welcome, concern, care, and relief, and then in another flash, surprise.  Even more notable was the fact that without a doubt, he knew the awareness went both ways.  They stared at each other with more clinical calculation.  “You’re an empath,” Adama said.

 The woman’s expression had melted into confusion and wonderment.  “So are you,” she said weakly.  “I don’t....”

 “Counselor Troi is half human, half Betazoid,” the captain said, also showing some confusion.  “We’ve never encountered a human empath before.”

 “You are absolutely human, though,” Troi responded in subtle defense.  “You...you can feel the ship.”

 “The ship?”

 “People...you can feel moods of others.”

 “I need physical contact, and I try...I do try to hide it, for the benefit of others.  Only a few of my people know.  It’s an exceptionally rare and sometimes troublesome trait,” he admitted.

 Troi was looking at him, right through him.  “Your people are exhausted, confused....we need to talk,” she finished directly, her focus changing from exclusively Adama to include the other man.  “Let’s go meet with your son.”

Chapter Text

 Well, that went a bit more smoothly, Karn thought as he ended the communication with his transport room.  Having another of their people there helped to settle the disorientation as much as convince them that their lead fighter pilot was still alive.  He half-turned back to his left, waiting for a signal from Ruva that the tractor situation was stable.

 “If their ships are in such a poor state....”  The voice turned Karn around.  “Their population is over seventy-seven thousand.”  Irfa was gazing in his direction, thinking.

 Karn blew out a breath.  “Yeah.  And within screaming distance of the Neutral Zone.”  He shook his head.  “What could go wrong.”

 “They cannot stay in those ships.”

 “Granted.”

 “Are they nomads?  Or are they seeking a permanent settle situation?”

 “You know, after reading their story...I’d first like to find out how in hell a giant civilization of humans in essentially a parallel Sol sector came to be,” Karn said thoughtfully.  “Tell me that, and then my gut instinct is they’re looking for a settle.  They just need one away from this organized trash.”

 “Commander?  I think...I’ve got...”  Ruva broke in, looking at his display as if something had just profoundly confused him, but he kept manipulating controls.  “Sir, these vessels aren’t used to tractors.  That first one already has a bit of deformation.”

 “Many ships, handle it?” Karn said questioningly.

 “Well, slow acceleration, please.  I think I’ve got the best grip points I can get.”

 “After seeing you catch Romulan torpedo launches with a tractor, you have my full confidence.”  Karn smiled and turned back around, avoiding the look of helplessness from Ruva.  “Sorry, lieutenant, but I know you’re good.  Helm, slow ahead, no more than about one meter per second acceleration, get us to about five-hundred mps.  What would our ETA be with that?”  He leaned forward, clasping his hands together.

 “It would be about....twelve minutes, give or take,” Selonna said slowly as she maneuvered the Quadrant carefully in close proximity to the two smaller craft, one now caught on the dorsal tractor emitter and the other on the ventral side.

 “Alright, when ready, start us back.”

 The Quadrant eased forward slowly, the smaller craft briefly lagging and then matching pace.  Karn eventually sat back and put a leg up on his other knee, chin in hand.  He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and saw Irfa’s slitted eyes still on him.  “I first want to find their base of operations,” he said, in rare full seriousness.  “Not today, maybe, not now.  But we’re going to need to find the root of this trash.”

 Irfa nodded slightly, an unnatural movement for her species but a mannerism she had picked up from her time around humans and their like.  “Agreed.  We cannot let this go un-investigated.”

 “And then....where do they go.”

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

 Tea wasn’t enough.  Coffee.  And not decaf.

 I really should try to stuff in a meal, Dr. Crusher thought, eyes pinned to the interface as she assigned her staff and cross-trained crew members to every transporter on the ship.  An engineering crew was heading out to the critical ship of over three-hundred people to get them connected as quickly as possible to communications, just long enough that it could be explained to them what was about to happen.  The ship was a top priority, as not only had they lost communications but the temperature had now dropped to almost zero Celsius, thanks to a stray piece of wreckage from a cylon fighter craft taking out some environmental controls.  Less than five minutes had elapsed between receiving the report and rescue shuttle launch, having been on red alert shortly after jumping to high warp.  It would take several minutes for the evacuation, and as none of them were familiar with transporters, they needed to beam a radio on board and explain things to them.  Galactica now also had an equivalent of subspace radio....

 Galactica.  For the thousandth time she grinned, almost laughed, with joy, excitement, satisfaction, relief... Galactica.  They were real, she was right, there were survivors.  The word that came to mind was precious.  All life was a miracle, but to meet people who they had just mourned was....well, the universe giving them the greatest gift of all–a second chance.  She’d only had a minute to talk to the pilot they had brought on board before she started to coordinate with Riker and Laforge on evacuations.  The staff she was assigning would likely have to deal with disorientation, fear, and confusion from the refugees.  That’s why the contact would be coming from Galactica, not Starfleet.  They needed a voice they were familiar with reassuring them when their people started to vanish in sparking golden light.

 She hit the send command, messages going out to all of the assigned people.  There was some kind of contact person in each group, as best she could manage, and medical carefully spread.  She drank the last of her coffee and reached across to set the empty mug in the replicator alcove for recycling.

 “Riker to Dr. Crusher.”

 “Crusher here,” she said, freezing mid-way out of her chair.

 “Best estimate is thirteen-hundred urgent evacs.  It’ll be radiation, general environmental injuries,” he said as she sat back down.  “They’re landing fourteen colonial fighters in the main bay and we’re going to remote-control launch all shuttles to get you space for converting the bay.”

 “Any idea on duration, yet?”

 “For how long we house them?”

 “Yes.  Do we need to open up the null volume?”

 She heard him sigh.  “Not sure yet.  Their CO, Commander Adama, just ported on board.  We’ve been focusing on urgent issues and haven’t yet had the time to talk goals and expectations.  Captain Picard and Deanna are going to meet with him and they’ll likely end up in Sickbay.  That pilot you have is his son.”

 Crusher breathed in in surprise, eyes widening.  “Oh...I think I’m not surprised.”  She instinctively glanced back on her left, even though she couldn’t see the main bay from her angle in her office.  “Truthfully, I think we need many more ships out here.”

 “Thought is that Starbase 434 might be a destination, but we’ll see.  I’ll get on the shuttle issue and get you the convert room.”

 “Alright.  I’ll shoot Emereck and Dr. T’Renn out there and get it started.”

 “Understood.  Riker out.”

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

 He wanted out of his viper, but not this bad....

 Hardly daring to blink, Boomer stared as Greenbean’s viper sat just on the edge of the...thing.  Threshold?  He wasn’t even sure of the word.  At least the blaze of light from inside the bay made everything easy to see.  Greenbean’s gear was down, his nose was just entering a wide, white stripe on the floor, and the front sled looked like it was just barely making contact.  They had sat there for about a centon now, not moving, and Boomer both wished he could be in on the communication and was glad he wasn’t.  He’d bet his last secton’s pay that it was the transition from space to artificial gravity that was causing the hesitation.

 The alien bay was clearly not engineered with this kind of craft in mind.  There were other craft, apparent shuttles, docked very near where Greenbean was hung up, and firing any thrusters would fry the hull right off anything near.  There was a repeating pattern of glowing blue blocks on the ship, close to where it transitioned from hull to landing bay, not far from where the viper was attempting to dock.  It didn’t look like a vent, but whatever it was, it had to be part of the problem, too.  The approach had been straight and reasonably predictable until he hit that point, and then everything stopped.

 Boomer looked back to his left.  A line of vipers hung there in space, those who had been dealt the unlucky hand of being ordered to land in the new ships’ bays.  It was not lost on him that it was the more experienced warriors, Jolly, Bojay, Nodi, Rayber, the old hands.  He found himself questioning the wisdom of it.  If conventional skill wasn’t involved, here, what made one warrior any different from the next?

 He focused again when movement registered.  A thin flare of thruster from the back of Greenbean’s viper, just barely visible, caused him to move ahead about a metron, and then suddenly the viper entered the bay smoothly and slowly, as if the previous centons had been a tease.  The movement was almost inhumanly precise.  “That’s not the viper,” Boomer murmured.  “That’s something else.”  Another force was moving Greenbean.  It couldn’t be on-board thrusters, as they’d be ripping up the interior of the bay.  It smoothly moved deeper into the bay, out of Boomer’s view.  For just a micron, it crossed his mind that he just watched an unknown ship from an unknown organization take in a colonial viper.  A fully functional Starhound class Mark II colonial viper.  And its warrior.  “Commander, I sure hope you know what you’re doing,” Boomer said, shaking his head slowly.

 A subtle change in character of the silence over the radio gave him about half a micron of warning.  “Alright, colonial viper, sorry about that delay.  Could I get a name just for communication purposes?”

 If it was possible for a tone of voice to completely, immediately assure Boomer this was going to go well, this was that tone and voice.  Utterly relaxed but alert, almost casual, and still coming off as professional, the male voice made him stop a whistle of admiration.  “Uh, Boomer.  Sorry...trance me out, here.”

 He heard a breath of laughter.  “Our apologies.  We just needed to work out some protocol and the best hard points.  We’re told there are two different viper types but it looks like you’re the same as the last one, so the points should be the same.  Alright, Boomer, here’s what I need you to do....”

 Using minimal taps on the thrusters, Boomer carefully followed the metron by metron directions,  maneuvering closer to the broad flare in the hull.  He rotated to face the bright interior, getting a look at his potential path.  Unlike what he’d hoped, the bay was not empty.  Maneuvering room was going to be impossibly tight.  His approach went smoothly, however, and it wasn’t until he had dropped his landing gear and passed over the blue blocks that he remembered the previous stall.

 “Oh, that’s just the arboretum.  It was incidental.  It just happened to be where Greenbean and I talked about hard points and timing.”  The relaxed voice, which he now knew belonged to an Ensign Parza, was almost overcoming Boomer’s remaining nervousness.

 “So, hard points.  What’s that for?”

 “Well, we need to know where to target tractors.  We don’t want to put the entire weight on a piece of thin cowling.  Alright, Boomer, here’s where we’ll need some timing.  If you give me the absolute smallest movement you can, just the faintest forward thrust you’ve got, that should get you enough momentum.  You’re lined up pretty well with the deck and there’s clearance.”

 “Any thresholds I need to be aware of?”

 “Just the transition between the environments–you’re probably quite familiar.  Now, when I tell you the tractor has you, from that point it’s all hands off and enjoy the ride.  From that point, don’t input any power at all.  Clear?”

 “Clear, but...so what’s gonna move me?  Ceiling hook?”

 “Virtually, yes.  Think of it like a local gravimetric distortion, like a modified artificial gravity system.”

 “Uhm....alright.”  Boomer looked around, deciding to surrender to trust.  “Ready?”

 “Absolutely.  Give me just a bit of thruster, the faintest you can give.”

 “Here it comes.”

 Boomer let go of the stick and tapped it with his first finger, no longer trusting any fine control with his sore wrist.  His drift forward was arrested by a slight jog, a bit of nose down...and then he was moving clearly not under his control.

 “Alright, perfect.  No more input, the tractors have you.  If you want you can start shutting systems down.  I’m going to turn you over to Ensign Evans.  She’s handling placement.  Alright?”

 “Alright.”  There were times when you just had to give in to the surreal.  Boomer watched with an air of indifferent helplessness as his viper moved as if on an invisible conveyor belt.  The bay did look organized, at least, and certainly well lit.  The craft he could see looked oddly sleek but also simplistic next to what he was used to.  They weren’t utilitarian–they almost seemed to have style as a design point.  It wasn’t until he heard another voice over his comm line that it occurred to him he was blithely missing the fact that....

 “Shuttle control to Boomer.”  One of the most heavily accented Lebran voices he had ever heard startled him.

 “I can read that!”

 “Sorry?”

 “The....the lettering....”  Boomer’s head came around.  Just transitioning into his field of view were giant dark gray letters and numbers on a far wall of the bay.  “That’s N, C, C, then the number one, then seven....”  He had even noted apparent craft names, absently wondering what they meant without recognizing the fact that he could read all of the lettering.

 “Well, that’s a language question.  It’s not my field, but I do know there are lots of questions we have for you, and you probably have some for us.”  The voice was rich with mirth and even more relaxed than the last one.

 “Yeah, huh....”

 “Have you started shutting down systems, Boomer?”

 “Uhm....”  He dragged his attention back to his viper.  All he needed to do was hit the three switches on the ion engines, and then his body took over with muscle memory.  “On it.”

 “Alright, good.  We’ve got you on a long path, but it’ll be close to some maintenance bays where we can at least make sure you’re safe to return.”

 Boomer paused.  “Oh yeah.  Launching.”

 “Naah, it’ll be fine.  Just the reverse of what we did bringing you in.  If we really have to we can use tugs, but I think it’ll be fine.”

 “So you’re the one moving me around right now?”

 “No, I’m the one controlling the tractor that’s moving you around,” she answered with a laugh that managed to sound not one bit condescending despite the coy answer.  “This is normal, everyday stuff.  No exotic maneuvers.  Although I will say...”  He could absolutely hear her grin.  “I so would love to try flying one of those things someday.”

 “It’s a lot of work.”

 “I’m betting it’s probably a lot like our Starfighters, so, yeah, it’s a lot of work,” she said sincerely.  “I used to be in the Starfighters before I did an about-face.  I like piloting stuff but I need a little bit more variety.”

 Boomer started to realize how tired he was when it took him several moments to recognize Greenbean’s viper...and there was a small crowd of people around him in a telling cluster right next to his viper, sitting with engines to the wall.  “Is Greenbean alright?” he asked, hardly noticing when his viper slowly came to a stop, and then went in reverse.

 “Well, they’re not calling a code, so I’d say he’s fine, considering y’all just spent about five hours running for your lives.  You come under medical when I release you, here, so you’ll have to follow their direction.”

 Getting out of his viper, especially without the usual handholds on the stairs, was one of the harder things Boomer did that day.  He was sore all over—headache, neck stiff, shoulders stiff, back painfully sore, everything.  It took two of them to virtually lift him out with the help of some support straps.  Even though there were four people buzzing around him, to their credit they only spoke minimally, just enough to accomplish things.  The water they gave him to drink was either the wettest water he ever tasted or he was more thirsty than he realized.  Patches virtually appeared on the backs of his hands, and a cooling feeling spread into his wrists.  He had just enough mental energy left to appreciate the soft, reclined chair he found himself sitting in before he fell asleep.

Chapter Text

 The gravity, there was carpet underfoot, he could faintly smell needle trees, it was brightly lit...“This is not a ship of war,” Adama said, pausing to look around as they exited the chamber and entered a gently curving corridor.

 “The Federation was founded with no military.  Starfleet’s primary mission is exploration and research,” Captain Picard explained as they passed through the wide corridors.  “Unfortunately, even a vessel with a mission of peaceful exploration needs to be able to defend itself.”

 Even while he focused on the conversation, Adama’s senses were wide open, gathering information.  The fact that his alertness was slowly increasing could be due to the increased oxygen in the air, or the fact that he was on an unknown ship...or was there more?  The anatomy of the corridor caught his attention—the carpeting and braces looked calm and orderly, but he knew prying a panel aside would show a furious complexity, and the analogy was not lost on him.  The red pulsing lights along the corridors were a clear indication that the ship was on alert, similar to their lighting on the bridge.  There were no barriers or doorways in the corridor that he could identify, which told him this was either a commons area or an extremely high security zone.  There was a curiously benign, open appearance, making him suspect either a simplistic approach or an exceptional job of hiding the complexity of being in space.

 “On the topic of defense,” he asked, “how was this ship not destroyed when the pulsar fired?”

 “Starfleet uses a tactical deflector system that creates spatial distortion around the ship’s exterior,” the other man answered.  “The energy is dissipated across the shield grid.”

 Adama stopped in the corridor.  “So it never touched your ship,” he said softly in amazement.

 “Our dorsal shielding was compromised briefly but has regained cohesion, and according to our security chief, the emitter sustained proximity damage as well.  If we note any power build-up or significant repair operations on their part, we will...interrupt it.”

 The careful, benign word choice did more than anything to give Adama a technological picture.  Despite the non-military claim, there was not only focused intent but also experience here.  Systems did not develop in the absence of need, and whatever had caused them to develop these technologies was information he needed.  No matter how this played out, he needed their scouts, maps, and intelligence.

 “I can assume that your situation is complex, but for purposes of my people’s recovery, how long...”

 There was a warm acknowledging smile.  “It is complex, but fortunately we have interstellar law on our side.”

 “Interstellar law?  I’m not aware of such a system.”

 Quiet until now, the empath, Troi, spoke up.  “Many of your vessels are leaking radiation.  Any vessel that encounters another in environmental distress must render aid.”

 “That...”

 “...isn’t the sole reason we chose to intervene,” Picard finished.  “It’s what...frees us from the demands of admirals, however,” he finished, sharing a knowing look with Troi.

 Once again, you are stalling, Adama said to himself.  It was obvious, all around him, the question he needed to ask.  There were absolutely only two clear outcomes.  Either these were colony people or they weren’t, and if not, there could only be one other origination point, only one.  One place, one shining location....  Trying to sound conversational, he said, “If I may ask....your accent sounds like you’re originally from Scorpion.”

 “Scorpion?  That’s one of your colony worlds.”

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

 Deanna Troi started to think tactically.  There was a surge of complex emotion growing next to her in someone who had had a harrowing day.  Part of her mind tracked the conversation and the growing emotion, and another part of her mind tracked their location on the ship, mentally planning a path to the closest lounge.  The inner ring of deck 12 had only two such all-purpose social rooms, not including the large, sectional room for Sickbay waiting.  They had almost 30 seconds of walking time left to reach Sickbay, she calculated, and it sounded like the conversation was going to reach its emotional boiling point before they made it there.  She needed to intervene.

 “Scorpion is the only world I know of where your accent can originate.”

 She stepped out in front of the other two, forcing a halt in the corridor.  “Captain, Commander,” she said firmly, staring into both sets of eyes.  “I’m going to pause this conversation.  I can sense there is a great deal riding on its outcome and I want you to be near support.  Please, no more words until we reach Sickbay.”

 There was a slight change in the captain’s brow, a slightly open mouth, and she could sense the almost affronted response.  She focused an unblinking stare on him and felt his stepping away, the respect for her expertise coming to the fore, and trust.  He nodded assent.

 “We’re going to go to Sickbay.”  She started walking backwards, regretting the heavy-handed approach but the pulsing blaze that was Commander Adama demanded it.  His entire universe was balanced on a single point and the only thing that kept him from falling right now was the fuzz of confusion that orbited that point.  Nearly overwhelming joy and fear, relief, exhaustion, grief, despair, even a desire to end it all tightly bound up, and all of it was nearing a point of resolution.  One side would be forever empowered, irrevocably, beyond all but long-term telepathic therapy with only mild results if it ended negatively.  They had scanned all twelve worlds, orbited three, visited two, and the devastation had been complete.  One of the worlds was still partially molten, Cansarra.  The Enterprise had the telescopes and scanners to look for any additional survivors who may have made it away, estimating a range based on propulsion technology, but it would take months to years to do that survey.  Even if they found additional survivors, it would have only minimal healing effect if the answer to their current question was negative.

 She felt the carefully reserved patience and expectations of Captain Picard, and the fact that there was little to no confusion hinted that he understood exactly what was at stake.  When the corridor broadened to reveal the wide, double doors of Sickbay Troi had to suppress a sigh of relief.  The doors slid open and she immediately guided them both around a sharp left turn to some chairs that ringed a small waiting area.  She pulled a chair around to face the other two as they both sat.

 “Commander,” Picard said gently, “The Enterprise surveyed all twelve worlds.  I am very sorry to report that we encountered no survivors.”

 “I know.”

 The prompt, almost impatient admission stunned Troi.  She stared at the captain for a moment in confusion.  “Then, what....”

 “What I want to know is where are you from.”

 There it was.  The explosive burst of emotion was like an overwhelming tidal wave and Troi gasped.  Like someone throwing themselves on a funeral pyre, the question felt like an abandonment of all hope, but she also felt a fierce, almost savage demand for resolution, for satisfaction, a final proof.  Woodenly, she turned to the captain, and a thousand words passed silently between them in the span of a moment.  Assurance, trust, affirming, support, a seeking for permission.  She managed something less a nod and more of a vertical twitch of her head.

 Captain Picard returned his focus to Adama.  “I come from a planet called Earth.”

 Earth.  Will we find it?  Many call it a myth, a bedtime story of a paradise world to settle the mind of a frightened child so they could sleep.  I say it isn’t a myth, it is reality.  I know, from what I have read in the Book of the Word,  that it is there, out there somewhere.  The Thirteenth Colony is real.  What will it be like?  Primitive, with agriculture and hunting, the only thing reaching the sky their gaze on the clouds?  Or will it be powerful and advanced?  What will our brothers be like?  Will they be kind and welcoming?  Or will they be hostile?  Perhaps they have not survived, hunted by the cylons, always hunted, like us.  Only the Lords of Kobol could say.  The Book of the Word has a passage that I like to read, stating that even though we pass through waves of darkness, the light of God would always be on us, always, and it would lead us to eternal light, peace, rest.  I always felt that eternity would be Earth.  My selfish desire is for a strong Earth, but no matter how we find it, I am determined to love it and bless it even if something prevents us from settling there, rejoining our long-lost brothers.  Someday we will lay eyes on it, someday.

 Troi reeled forward, losing awareness for a moment, desperately seeking to climb over the blast and close her mind.  The blistering explosion was impossible to immediately identify as positive or negative and for a moment she only struggled to breathe and regain physical vision.  The soft light of the waiting area and the dark-blue carpet wavered into focus, and the echo of a deep, gasping intake of breath helped to further anchor her to reality.  Even though it almost caused a physical snap of pain deep in her brain, she closed her emotional awareness.

 “Commander, what is it?”  Picard tensed physically, unable to read if it was a hostile response.  Physical defense training would take over in the absence of any weapons, but the lack of physical interactivity from the older man suggested a different response.  There was an open-mouthed pull of air, and then he buried his face in his hands.

 Troi clumsily landed her hand on the armrest of her chair, pushing herself upright.  Cutting off the reverberating shock waves gave her some mental clarity, and she took a steadying breath.  “Wait...”  She held out a staying hand to the captain.  “Commander, it’s Earth, isn’t it?”  Still carefully shielded, she put a hand lightly on his upper arm as he continued to pull in deep breaths through his mouth.

 “My God...”

 “Commander, it’s clear this is a revelation for you,” she said in her best calming voice, steadying.  “Concentrate on breathing.”  She gently coaxed him through an attempt at calm but had only a little success.  A passing cross-trained crew member paused on seeing the scene through the clear inner doors of Sickbay, uncertainly dropping off a level one first aid pack.  Picard pulled out the oxygen mask but even though Troi saw it, she didn’t make a move to place it.

 “You were looking for Earth,” Troi guessed, trying to use a more authoritative tone, hoping to appeal to his clear military background.  “What is your goal?”

 “Earth.  You’re from Earth,” Adama said, the assertion sounding more like a repetition for his own benefit than a request for confirmation.  Picard glanced at Troi.

 “Earth is part of the Federation, one of the four founding worlds,” the captain explained cautiously.  “Both the Federation and Starfleet are headquartered on Earth.”

 “Found.”

 “Found?”  Picard repeated questioningly.

 “We have found you,” Adama said with a forceful breath.  “We have found you.  We have found the Thirteenth Colony.”

 Once again, both Starfleet officers communicated with a glance.  There were expectations here, consequential and complex.  The startling similarities between their two civilizations added weight.  Finding Earth resolved something for him, something life-encompassing and defining.  Earth was the last piece in a galaxy–spanning puzzle, one with a mysterious picture.  Whatever it was, the expectation was that they would conform to that image, even if it altered their reality.

(editor's note--not sure this scene is closed out well but...there it is.  In another life I would add more talk about the 13th colony to all of this but.... *shrug* )

Chapter Text

 “Oh, now, this is just disrespect.”

 Commander Karn sat and watched a default forward view as the Quadrant directly faced the single last weapon emplacement on the cylon vessels.  Within 100 meters, the weapon was firing continually at the Quadrant, almost as if someone had fallen asleep on the controls.  The Quadrant’s navigational deflector had been decoupled from the warp drive, by order of the experiment-minded commander, and was running on the lowest active setting possible.  Intended to sweep the void ahead of the ship to eliminate anything from hydrogen atoms to small meteoroids from the ship’s path, the powerful gravimetric distortion field generator was now focused on a plasma cannon.  The bolts from the weapon disappeared into a haze, dissociated at the molecular level by the deflector about halfway between the two vessels.

 “What is that hand motion....that finger thing that humans do?” Irfa asked hesitantly.  “The rude one.”

 Karn laughed.  “Middle finger,” he said, waving his hand at her.  “Yeah.  Take it out.”  The forward phaser array lanced out, perforating the muzzle, mounting, and articulating hardware of the weapon system until there was little more than a rough hole remaining in the cylon vessel.  He turned back to Lieutenant Ruva, and even the normally serious Bajoran had a smile mixed with confusion on his face.  “Alright, let’s hitch the horse back up to the wagon.  The ‘flector and the drive.”

 Ruva started to move interfaces around, then stopped for a moment.  “Oh.  Update.”  He accessed the viewer and changed it to the situation screen.  Red, gently pulsing text displayed new information.

 Karn read it with narrowed eyes.  “Smart.  Endorsed.  No contact people, no room.”  An earlier point on the screen was now ruled out, and new text on the screen indicated that none of the remaining pilots, viper pilots, would land on the Sovereign.  Either Enterprise’s bay would take them or they would be beamed directly out of their craft.  The Quadrant had pulled the two small fighters back to Galactica, and with the locator beacon Enterprise had placed, they beamed their two pilots back to Galactica, after giving them a small meal.

 Selonna half-turned back.  “How long will Sovereign stay?” she asked.  “Weren’t they just out testing the drive?”

 “Yeah,” Karn said thoughtfully, sitting back in the chair.  “They’re not much more than a bridge with a warp core and some sleeping bags.  Then you’ve got the flagship, and then...”

 “It is likely we will be the last to leave,” Irfa guessed.

 Karn glanced back to her.  “Oh, we’re not leaving unless ‘fleet quarters understands the depth of need, here.  I’m not taking orders from any admiral who shrugs and says ‘someone else’s war’.”

 She tilted her head.  “You believe they will struggle with the concept of seventy-seven thousand refugees?”

 “Is that sarcasm?”

 Irfa’s head pulled back.  “It will only take a concentration of logistics.”

 “Exactly.  I mean, they might flinch at the idea of, what, fifty-odd ships out here, but the Enterprise report got wide readership,” he explained as Irfa turned in his direction, carefully repositioning her tail.  “When word of this gets out, there’s gonna be no short line,” he said, shaking his head.  “But it’s seventy-seven thousand who need off of tin cans, a hundred and fifty light years out of Fed space and in range of the RNZ.”

 Irfa tilted her head inquisitively.  “Would you take some?”

 “Refugees?”

 “Yes.”

 Karn rubbed his jaw.  “Yeah,” he said thoughtfully.  “Even though refugees on a Defiant-class sounds like a punch line to a joke,” he muttered.  “But they’re packed in like sardines.  Even we’ve got better accommodations.  No blame, it’s obvious they’re running desperate,” he said, conciliatory.  “But where are they running?  What’s their goal?”

 “There’s the answer,” Ruva spoke up, pointing at the screen.  New red text blinked into existence: ‘Refugee leadership on Enterprise, in discussions’.

 Karn nodded deliberately.  “And now we find out."

 “I believe there is a destination,” Irfa said, staring intently at the screen.  “A place or a situation, there is a destination.”

 “Situation?”

 “Finding help.  To keep that many together, you need a purpose, a focus, a goal.”

 Karn settled back in his chair, resting his jaw on his right hand.  “Help’s a good idea.  Their nose was pointed right at the RNZ on first scope.”

 “No subspace radio, no knowledge of the politics,” Irfa said, curving her neck down.  “Yes.  Help.”

 “Commander?  According to scans by Enterprise and Sovereign, their ion trails were pointed...I mean, considering they’re human, their course was within four and a half light years of Sol sector.”

 Karn turned around to stare at Ruva, and his gaze faded from intent to introspective.  “But...if they were looking for Earth....if they....”

 “If they knew their heading and destination, why were they looking at Romulan space?”  Irfa’s nostrils tightened and half-closed as her gaze dropped to the floor, perplexed.

 “Looking for a D’deridex solution?” Karn wondered aloud.  “Or change your bearing by a few degrees and let the Klingons say hello.  Something to scrape off your pursuit.”

 “Maybe they just didn’t know,” Ruva said with a shrug.

 Karn snorted.  “If they had kept going....which isotope of hydrogen would you like to get blown into,” he muttered, rolling his eyes.  “Either way, fly on the wall,” he said, pointing to the screen.  Irfa turned her head with a questioning sound, and he explained, “Fly on the wall, just a small insect that people don’t notice.  The idea is I wish I could listen in on those conversations.”

 She raised her head.  “Turn the canyon.  I see.”

 “Turn the canyon?”  This time it was the human questioning.

 “When you want to listen to an exchange between Callers, but your placement in the canyons is such that the sound won’t echo to you.  You wish you could physically turn or move canyons so that you could hear it.”

 He shook his head admiringly.  “Someday....I want to see Kirith’nan.”

 “I will show you the canyon where I was born.  And then I will take you to Riverush Gardens and push you down the biggest water slide in–”

 “Like hell!”

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

 “Alright, there they are, there they are....”  Ensign Vorik repeated to himself, staring at the scanner interface in front of him.  He pulled up utilities and turned on the powerful forward lights of the shuttle, focusing on a faint shape several hundred meters ahead.  He slowed forward speed as the shape became more distinct.

 “Two Celsius.”  The other engineer, a human female named Greta Cuocco, had pulled up sensor readings.  “Getting 3D.  Can I get a...couple of views...”

 “Yeah.”

 Both engineers quietly and intently focused on their panels, and the shuttle did two loops around the ship, getting a detailed scan.  Ensign Cuocco flicked a finger, springing a 3D graphic up in front of her.  “Gonna be room by room,” she said, staring open-mouthed as she explored the virtual ship.  “Three decks, and...wow, looks like gravity....lets get this going.  I’m just gonna pick...there.”  She tagged a room and picked a location.

 “Alright, I’ll get ‘em.....”  Vorik swiped the communications display over.  “Shuttle Rubin to Galactica.”

 “Galactica, Omega.  You found them?”

 “Yeah, but they...we gotta get moving,” Vorik said as he looked out the forward view port.  “We have the scan, we’re programming it–”

 “Got it,” Cuocco interrupted.  “Ready to transport.  Contact is Taura Observer.”  She got out of her seat and set the small radio on the floor of the shuttle, then came back.  “Transporting....now.”

 Connected to the ship transporters, the shuttle array focused the stream as the radio disappeared in strands of golden light....

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

 Junni hugged her youngest daughter, Estella, rocking back and forth gently and trying to keep her arms around whatever area felt coldest.  Terrified, cold, and hungry, the little girl had finally cried herself to sleep, but that wouldn’t last long.  She could hear the growling stomach, and shivering from cold would only make it worse.  Junni repositioned a corner of her thin shawl over her daughter’s head.  Ever since the attack started, they had been confined to their room, trying to conserve energy both biologically and electrically.  Not long after they heard the news that it was cylons, the low rushing roar of the engines had ended, and shortly after it ended, the temperature had started to drop.

 “I should go check on Jorik.”

 Junni glanced at her husband, pressed up next to her.  The comment was more a lament than a statement of action.  He had said it more than once in the last few centares, wanting to check on their pilot but the small storage room that had been their home for the past two yahren was now also a prison that they were not allowed to leave.  For all they knew, the hallway was even colder.  At least their room was not only next to the engines but it was the middle floor.  They had an insulating floor above and below them and Junni was doing her best not to think what the outer floors must be like right now.

 It was the not knowing that was the hardest.  The small speaker box that had been rigged up in the corner of the room had been silent for too long now, too long to think it wasn’t damage to the system.  Was the attack over, was Galactica destroyed, were any of them left, who had died, they didn’t know.  Did anyone know about them, was someone coming for them, who was coming for them, were they human or cylon...Junni glanced down as Estella whimpered in her sleep.  Trying not to shiver too much to avoid waking her daughter, she instead clamped her jaw shut and pressed close to her husband.

 “I’m hungry.”  Isak, their six-yahren-old, had his knees drawn up and his arms crossed close on his chest, they way they were taught to deal with cold.  The quiet mumble from the curled-up little boy would have broken Junni’s heart, but there was little of it left to break.  Isak sat between Mora’s legs, and their four-yahren-old, Jeriel, was in Mora’s lap.

 “They don’t usually last this long,” Mora said, rubbing his nose.  “It’s been centares.  Somebody should be here soon–”

 The flickering single light in their room changed.  Junni instinctively looked up, but then her attention focused on a different light.  A golden, sparkling apparition, dancing and shimmering, appeared on the floor within one metron of her feet and she instinctively pushed away from it.  She heard Mora’s surprised intake of breath.  In only a moment, the light faded, but in its place was a flat, black thing on the floor.

 They glanced at each other, wide-eyed, then looked back at the thing.  It was small, less than a quarter metron, narrow, and flat.  It was black on top and a lighter color underneath.  The black shiny area reflected the light of the bulb overhead.

 “Is that cylon?” Junni said, her voice shaking.

 “That’s not ours—”

 “Galactica to Taura Observer, can you hear me?”

 Junni and Mora both startled, staring at each other, the look of dumbfounded fear a continuing mask for both of them.  The voice was urgent, fast, loud, desperate, and vaguely familiar, and seemed to be issuing from the black thing.  “Galactica to Taura Observer, can you hear me?” the voice repeated.

 “Wh—how...... yes,” Mora said.  Both Jeriel and Isak protested as he started to move.  “What is this?”

 “Good, this is Corporal Omega,” the voice said in obvious relief.  “We’re going to be getting you off that ship, but–it’s complicated.  What’s your name?”

 After another shared look of confusion, he responded, “Mora.  What is this?”

 “No time to explain.  I need your help.  I need you to get people–”

 “Are the cylons still here?”

 “Not really,” Omega said.  “It’s a long story and there’s not enough time, but the basics are that three ships from a powerful civilization are here helping us.  They got rid of the cylons and they’re helping us rescue people.  It’s a long story, but I need you to trust me,” the voice said.  “They’re going to be using their technology to get people off that ship.  Did you see this PADD come?  You saw the lights?  The gold lights?”

 “Yeah, yeah,” Mora said hurriedly, nodding even though there was no visual.  Jeriel started crying, the sound made worse by the fact that she was shaking with cold, and he picked her up.

 “That’s how we’re going to get people off.  It’ll look like they’re disappearing, but it’s safe.  It’s called a transporter.  I need you to go through the ship....hang on...”  The voice trailed off a moment and Mora got to his knees, holding Jeriel.  Isak edged out of the way, still curled up, looking to his mother for reassurance, but Junni didn’t even notice, staring open-mouthed.  Her breath came in short bursts of condensation in the room.

 “Alright, you should be able to see me now,” the voice said.  Now with perspective, Mora stared in amazement as the middle section of the black screen had been replaced with a moving picture, like a little televid.  “Can you see me?”

 With an apologetic look to Junni, Mora set the crying Jeriel down and crawled to the black thing, flinching as his hands landed on the freezing cold deck.  “I can,” he said in hurried wonderment.  It was someone very high up, on Galactica, the blue and silver uniform making it clear he was senior bridge staff.  “What—”

 “Alright, pick this thing up, take it with you.  You have a family there?”

 Mora gingerly reached out to the shiny black thing.  “Yes.  What do you need?”

 “I need you to go room to room, and I need you to get people in groups of six as much as you can, without splitting up families.  We’ll both explain to people what’s happening, but we need to move fast.  They’re going to be confused and they’ll have questions, but we don’t have time for those.  The leakage on that ship is approaching critical and we don’t have time for hand-holding and questions—we have to get people off.”

 Mora looked at Junni pointedly.  “You said you’re rescuing people?  Getting them off?”

 “Yes.”

 “Get my family off firs—”

 “No!”  Junni’s yelp awakened Estella, who started to whimper.  “I’m not going without–”

 “We don’t have time for this,” Omega said firmly, almost a shout.  “If they don’t want to come, fine, but they need to keep up with you, and I need you to move now, Mora.  Peoples’ lives depend on what you do in the next few centons.  They’ll live and die by what you do.  Can your family understand that and act accordingly?”

 Mora gave Junni a hard look.  “Yes.”  Junni started to scramble to her feet, setting a now-crying Estella down.

 “Alright, Mora, start moving.  I’m going to bring in a couple of people on this link to help coordinate where you should go.  They’ll help you search the ship systematically.  You know it well?  The Observer?  Been all over in it?”

 “Yes,” Mora said, looking back again at Junni as she reached again for Estella, picking her up.

 “Alright.  There’s a shuttle from the Federation right around the Observer, and they’re helping target stuff.  I’m bringing in the shuttle crew.  We’ll go floor by floor and get people off.”

 Mora stamped his feet to try to get some feeling.  He slid the door open and looked out in the hallway.  “Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

 Bleary-eyed but still focused, Ensign Rayan Millaman stood with her hand poised over the transporter controls.  The display on the console showed the personnel transporters as well as the cargo transporters, shifted to life-form mode to increase capacity.  It wasn’t often that a transporter had neither an identified transport, one coming in, or a cool-down.  As soon as a viable transport was identified, it was fed to one of the transport rooms, and when shuttle Rubin sent the confirm on the apparent five-spot currently at the top of the queue, it would likely be shunted to her chamber.

 “How many?”  Ensign Ching-ree looked back at Millaman.  The tiny soltha had her arms wrapped around several blankets, the bundle almost as big as she was.  The off-white blankets had arrived warmed up by the replicator, ready to wrap around the refugees.

 “Five....” she drew the word out slowly, staring at the panel.  Every moment that went by made her wonder–what were they talking about?  Transporter tech was alien to them and she could understand a little hesitation, but the ship wouldn’t be viable much longer.  Part of one floor had lost artificial gravity.  As soon as contact was made they should be sending the confirm, but the report was that seeing others vanish was proving frightening for them.  Maybe it was her natural impatience, but with disaster stampeding in on them, it was either vanish in a transporter beam or....

 The indicator at the top of the list started flashing, with the words “Transport Three” next to it.  Ensign Millaman’s hand came down on the panel.  “Coming through!” she said, sliding the controls. The transporter spun up and the patterns started to coalesce on the pad.  Even before they were visible, it was clear one was sitting in a chair.  The med tech there, a Bolian named El’San, started moving even before the transport finished.

 With a litany of “you’re safe, you’re on the Enterprise,” both crew members converged on the pad, El’San with a scanner and Ching-ree with the warming blankets.  The one sitting down was elderly, with white hair, and there were three adults and a youth.  Wide-eyed, dazed, but shivering, it was several moments before any of the refugees moved.

 “So we’re....” one of them started, staring in consternation at his surroundings.  El’San looked up at him as he ran the scanner over them.

 “On another ship.  We were technically out of range so we used the shuttle.... well—” he shrugged away the rest of the explanation, detouring around Ching-ree as she passed out the blankets.  “Point is, you’re safe now.  Everyone else on that ship is being, ah, well, coming over here,” he said awkwardly.

 “El’San?  There’s....” Ching-ree began softly, crouching down by the elderly one sitting down.  She was looking around wide-eyed, still shivering despite being now wrapped in two of the blankets.

 “What?”  He promptly came over, detouring around the other four as they made their way down the stairs.  “Can you—ohhh....”  Beneath some draping coverings, the chair had wheels.

 “Can we...” she started slowly, then watched as El’San bustled his way down the stairs and over to the transport pad.  He fastidiously tapped some panels, swiping through a couple of menus, then grunted with satisfaction.

 “Sorry, but I’m stealing part of the next cycle.  It’ll be limited to just one spot though.”  Ensign Millaman focused on the panel as El’San came back to the pad.  “Geri-chair coming through.  Shouldn’t be more than a moment,” he said, beckoning Ensign Ching-ree off the pad.  “Ensign Millaman, if you would...”  He gestured at the stairs.

 “Oh!”  She tapped the panel, and with a faint hum, the stairs began to extend and flatten.  El’San hopped up on the pad, avoiding the stairs-becoming-a-ramp, and started looking for grips, but one of the other four refugees came back to the pad.

 “Here, I can do it,” he said, voice still clipped from being cold.  “Come on, gran,” he said, easily finding the bar across the back of the chair.  El’San watched critically as the chair was wheeled down the ramp.

 “Null gravity transfer I think would be best–ah, there we go,” he said as the transporter powered up again.  This time, instead of one of the evacuees, a newly replicated geri-chair appeared on the pad.  The others stood and stared as the transport finished.

 “Is that what we just did?” one of them asked.

 “Essentially, yes, except we just did a molecular...oh,” El’San cut himself off with a hand wave.  “Essentially, yes,” he said with finality.
 “Where....where now?”

 “If you’ll follow me, I can bring you to where we can temporarily bed you while we try to find a better solution,” Ching-ree said softly, holding out a guiding hand.

 “Where are we?”  The faint, aged voice came from the chair.  The one pushing her chair bent over to her.

 “Gran, we’re...”  He trailed off in confusion, looking around, and El’San emerged from the transport chamber, pushing the chair.  Ching-ree saw the expression on the gaunt, worry-worn face as he asked, “How far away are we?  How far...”

 After a hesitation, she said, “I think when we get there, I can show you an outside image.  We’re near Galactica.”

 “But that’s near the cylon ships!”  They stopped in the hallway.

 “The cylon ships....” she shook her head.  “They’re not going to be a problem for you anymore.  We’re going to protect you.”

 They looked at each other.  “You’re going to protect us,” one of them said in mocking disbelief.

 “We have about two minutes before the next one comes!”  Ensign Millaman warned, looking around the corner into the corridor.

 “Let’s get moving,” El’San said.  “We’ll drop most of them off, but then head to Sickbay for a transfer.”

 “Sick bay?”

 El’San and Ching-ree’s eyes met.  The transfer from their old ship to the Enterprise only covered a few thousand kilometers, but the shift in environment was like moving to another universe.  Every step, every word, every sight would add another challenge, upsetting and rearranging everything they had previously taken for granted.  The confusion and questions would be steamrolled but not forgotten, and the more they built up, the lower the level of trust and cooperation.  There was a trade-off cost, though.

 “Right now we really need to focus on rescuing people, and then all questions will be answered,” Ching-ree said.  “The longer we delay, the greater the chance that some of your people won’t make it.  I am sorry for the confusion, but we do need to hurry.”

(did not close this scene off well......)

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

 Apollo was sleeping.  Even gifted with the greatest news of all, Adama decided to let his exhausted son sleep, even as he knew he needed the rest just as badly.  The three of them left the medical area and entered another large series of rooms, ones he was told were guest quarters.  They appeared to be larger than even his rooms on Galactica, and clearly not military.  Even those on the Rising Star would be envious of this space.

 “The U.S.S. Sovereign will not stay long,” Captain Picard said as he sat down, now holding a flat, black and off-white piece of technology that had a lit-up screen on it.  Both officers had one and seemed to be recording information in short finger taps and slides across the screen, as though drawing with their fingertips.  “The accommodations on the ship are limited to the current crew only, and they have only one from Medical on board.  The Quadrant’s medical capability is also limited, and the accommodations are quite spare.  I think if any of your people chose to leave, it would have to be aboard the Enterprise.”

 “There will be seventy-seven thousand opinions,” Adama admitted regretfully.  “I do believe all of them will want to go, of course, but the question is how,” he said as both of them nodded agreement.  “There will be some who will be too frightened to go out on their own, and others will rush ahead.  We may even have some that will present difficulties.”  The prison barge population rose large in his mind, unsure if the residents there should decide or if the decision should be made for them.  For that matter, information dissemination was quickly becoming less the joyous announcement he thought it would be and more of a strategic, careful operation that was bound to stumble if not outright fail.  People would be in a celebratory mood, but after that would come hoards of questions, demands, privileges, deceptions, manipulations, everything that came with the microcosm society they had become.  Nobles, poverty-stricken, warriors, administrators, prisoners, leaders, followers, and family groups, every one of them presented different challenges when it came to managing expectations.  And all that came without even mentioning the Quorum....

 “The population we are currently evacuating—how do you estimate they would take the news about Earth?”

 “The Taura Observer...”  Adama frowned.  “If I recall, it’s general population with a few mechanics we trained.  I think most of the population is Piconite, so there will be many questions and...they will need time to understand what is happening.”

 “It is your decision how the information is handled, of course,” Picard said.  “We will assist, but I’m sure you know how challenging information control can be.”

 Adama pursed his lips.  “I know that well,” he said, glancing up as Troi got to her feet.  “If Earth is common knowledge on this ship, it won’t be long before those of us on this ship know, and wherever they return to, it will spread.  I think I have little choice but to make the announcement,” he said reluctantly.  “Again, it will be well received....”

 He trailed off, distracted, as the counselor returned with a couple of small pieces of technology, one that fit in her hand and another, even smaller device that she held in her other.  There were tiny electronic sounds as she moved the small, silver piece over him almost like a tiny scanner.  “What is that?”

 “Counselor?”

 She seemed about to speak, but then abruptly set the items down on the small table with a sharp clatter.  The small silver piece rolled off the table and bounced on the carpeted floor as she hurried over to a section of the wall on the other side of the room.  Her hand flew across a dark surface that suddenly lit up with a complex display.  Captain Picard frowned in confusion, then reached for the technology still on the table.

 Adama glanced from one officer to the other in confusion, then focused on Troi as she returned to the table, holding items that had the unmistakable appearance of a meal.  She gave him a direct, meaningful stare as she set them down in front of him, and the aroma immediately pulled his attention.

 The captain looked up from his inspection of the technology.  “I think after you eat, we should return you to your ship to get some rest.”

 “Agreed,” Troi responded quickly.  She sat down again, keeping him pinned on an expectant, almost demanding stare.

 He wasn’t sure what everything was, but the different smells promised that he would be more than happy to clean the plate.  There were apparent green and orange vegetables, possible roots, and what he thought could be spiced or flavored meat.  The tall, clear glass held ice and a clear citrus-colored liquid.

 “Commander...” Troi glanced at the meal meaningfully.  He reached out a hand to the edge of the white plate.

 “There are people who don’t get half of this in a cycle,” he said, nudging the plate away from him with a pained expression.  “Another can have this, one of our people coming on board–”

 Troi sat back abruptly and in a practiced motion, tapped the gold arrowhead on the upper right of her uniform front.  “Counselor Troi to Sickbay.”  She kept him pinned on the challenging stare, looking less like a threat and more like a promise, and he sighed.

 “Commander, if I presented to the bridge or any duty with these readings, the chief medical officer would remove me from duty,” Captain Picard said, not unkindly.  “This is–”

 “Sickbay here.”

 “Level one medical emergency, deck nine–”

 “Wait.”

 “Belay, hold,” Troi said, never breaking her stare as he sighed again and raised a staying hand.

 “I will...” he began hesitantly.

 “Commander, respectfully, you can go to Sickbay ambulatory or flat on your back.”

 The Aquacol Herd Management ship.  The one he always thought of every time he ate a meal, every time he stretched out in bed.  They were the ones he thought of.  A ship intended to move herd animals, it was now crammed tighter than almost any of their ships.  One family per stall, or four people per stall.  The way they got food to the ship was absurd, due to the lack of any compatible hatches on the ship.  Those on that ship had been there with no break, no chance to move around in the fleet without landing on a planet, and that couldn’t be done because it took too much fuel to launch.  It had reliable communications, but no traffic off or on the ship at all.  Medical help was impossible, and they’d had to train volunteers to a minimum level when it came to ship mechanics and simple medical capability.  The meal sitting before him right now was more than any of them got to eat in a cycle, and none of them even really had what one could call a proper bed.

 He picked up the silver utensils, remarkably similar to what he was used to.  “Comm–Captain, if I may make a request,” he said, trying to keep his tone neutral, “It sounds as if we may be heading in many separate groups over time towards Earth.  Does this sound reasonable?”

 “It is what I would imagine would happen, yes,” the captain said hesitantly.

 “I would like to request that our most destitute population goes first, those with the most difficult living conditions in our fleet.  I can make up a priority order for you.”

 “Depending on spillage of radiation, it is otherwise your decision on if, when, and how your people begin the journey—continue the journey,” he corrected himself thoughtfully.

 “Thank you.”  He looked down at the plate, pushing the fork through some of the vegetables as they looked most familiar to him.  “Is this Earth food?”

 “Virtually all of it, yes.  I think I recognize this meal, and I believe there is some mild Vulcan spice on the potatoes.”

 “Sickbay, cancel level one medical emergency, deck nine,” Troi said, still watching him.

 “Understood, Sickbay out.”  Her continued, serious attention made it clear she would have no trouble changing her mind.

 He wanted to ask more but oh, Lords, as soon as it landed in his mouth, he knew they were right.  He needed to eat, and he wanted to.  A silly part of his mind wanted to carefully note the first time and place he ate Earth food, and what it was–

 “Where did this come from?”  He was mildly startled to see his plate was half empty already.

 “Replicator,” Troi replied, resting her elbows on the table.  She looked at the captain.  “A replicator takes a great deal of power to operate,” she said, thinking out loud, “and needs stock to work from.  Seed stock...”

 Both officers shook their heads, and the captain continued the thought.  “Replicate half-grown plants, but ultimately, I believe it would be best to get a fully stocked cruiser out here as quickly as possible for short-term relief.”

 “We could move the cylons out of one of their vessels and use any appropriate sectors for short-term agriculture, if possible.”

 Somewhat to his chagrin, his brain tuned out the obvious strategy session.  He knew part of it was due to fatigue severe enough to cause ‘microblinks’, what Dr. Salik called it when the brain shut down for very brief periods, lasting only a micron or two.  This wasn’t the first time he had experienced it and would likely not be the last.  His training afforded him the ability to banish the fatigue at least for a short time, but he could do that only once every few sectons before he fell asleep uncontrollably.  He was already functioning on borrowed time right now.

 He had enough mental energy left, thankfully, to ensure he remained awake as he finished the meal.  With the last trailing bit of his critical attention, he realized the source of the meal was still unclear to him, other than the word ‘replicator’.  He put the question away, with the simple priority list he had after being awake for almost an entire cycle.  “Thank you....you realize we can never repay you,” he said, looking at the captain with open honesty.  “We....”

 The other man waved it off as they got to their feet.  “When it comes to survival, there are no such things as favors,” he said.  “At a minimum, all life forms owe each other assistance at that level if they are able to give.”  Said with an air of philosophy, the experience that informed it, he realized, was not just the work of one man—this Starfleet had experience that matched their own in depth.

 “The food issue will get brought to the highest level of Starfleet,” Troi said as she retrieved the small silver device on the floor.  “There are a number of solutions we can get moving locally but when we meet tomorrow we can start focusing on longer-term solutions.”

 “And hopefully tomorrow I will be significantly more alert,” Adama said with a tired smile as they left the rooms.

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

 Colonel Tigh yawned for the third time in the last centon, wiping tears away as he huddled with an equally tired mechanic at the base of the command tower.  The panels were pulled away, exposing the myriad inner workings of the stations as they worked to restore function to the surge-fried stations.  The familiar sight of torn out, fried wiring was scattered around them on the deck.  The remains would be collected, carefully separated, and sent to the correct vessels for recycling.

 “I think...this...” the tech said softly, exploring by feel in the depths of the console.  He reached in farther, made a face, then pulled back out.  “Try it now.”

 Tigh climbed to his feet, not even bothering to brush off his obviously dusty knees.  Using the railing to haul himself up the stairs, he reached over and hit the main power switches on the radar.  “We have contact,” he said, voice dull with fatigue.  The station was lit up with a blank radar screen for the first time since that afternoon.

 The tech, Jorin, bobbed his head and sat back on the floor.  “The second station is going to be a pain–”

 A ripple of intakes of breath and softly-breathed wonderment pulled Tigh’s head around.  By the time he focused in the correct direction, the spectacle was reduced to intellectual wonderment at seeing the commander towards the back of the bridge with a halo of gold around him that vanished after less than a micron.  “Commander!”

 Still as a statue at first, Adama finally moved, looking as tired as Tigh felt.  He took a deep breath, looked around, and spotting Tigh, raised his hand in a beckoning motion.  “Tigh?  A moment?”

 “A hell of a long report, sir,” Tigh said as he joined Adama, tracing around the back of the bridge towards the exit.  “There are a couple of ships being evac–”

 “I know,” Adama said simply.  “I have a complete run-down, but right now I’m too tired to think clearly.”

 “We have a meal waiting for you in your quarters, sir,” Tigh said as they exited the bridge and entered the dimly lit corridors.  “All ships have been contacted–”

 Adama stopped and turned around.  “I know,” he repeated.  “And I don’t need the meal.  They gave me a meal.  Let someone out there have it, or you, if you haven’t eaten, but we both need rest and I’m going to make that an order in your case,” he said in his favorite even tone of ‘no arguments tolerated’.  “Let the night crew take care of things.  I just want a quick conversation in private and then we’re both going to get rest.”

 Tigh sighed, and it turned into yet another yawn.  “Any indications of what their intentions or expectations are?” he asked, following Adama towards his quarters.

 “Yes.”

 “And?”

 In response, Adama only raised a hand, requesting silence and continued accompanying.  In a few moments they reached the door to his quarters and it slid open.

 “Intentions and expectations,” Adama repeated to himself with a knowing smile.  He waited until the door shut and then turned to Tigh.  “Their intentions....” he shook his head, lost in thought for a moment, then focused on him again.  “Colonel Tigh, they are from Earth.”

 Tigh’s face went slack in shock and he gasped.  “Earth?  Really?”

 “That ship,” Adama said with a meaningful glance to the side, “is their flagship.  Enterprise.  The organization is vast, and while they say they aren’t dominant, their capability is more than enough for us and I think they’re being modest.”

 “Did you tell Apollo?” Tigh’s voice was soft in wonderment.

 “No, not yet.  He’s sleeping over there,” Adama said as Tigh reacted.  “He’s exhausted, as are we all, and I wanted to let him sleep.”  He turned around and picked up the platter of food on his desk.  “Take this to someone on the bridge, or eat it yourself, but we both need rest,” he said, pushing the plate into Tigh’s unresisting hands.  “We’re meeting with them formally tomorrow to discuss the situation.  For now, keep this to yourself,” he emphasized.  “Letting the information out now when questions can’t be answered...” he shook his head.

 “Understood,” Tigh said solemnly, quietly, looking down at the plate in his hands.

 “Now, get out and get some rest.  Let the night crew work.  Tomorrow..... tomorrow, we’ll talk.”

 “Yes, sir.”

Chapter Text

 He saw them coming.  Fray saw the strange, dark pattern of lights arrive, almost half the length of the Corsanna, and shortly after that, all of them felt the movement.  How they were moving was a mystery.  Centares ago, a cylon bolt had clipped the edge of the cowling on the engine, bending and blackening the gray metal and slicing into at least one conduit.  They weren’t going to move under their own power again without significant help, or at least that’s what Fray thought.  On the Corsanna they enjoyed the dubious benefit of windows, and while it was difficult to tell in the blackness of space, they were now moving.  They could see out the windows the pattern of blue, red, and white lights on the flat, simple-looking ship on their topside, slightly ahead of them.  Several of them crowded at the forward windows on the top deck of the transport ship to watch.  Tiny dots of light began to resolve into familiar patterns as they got closer to the fleet, but it wasn’t long before they noted two new shapes, utterly strange, sleek, exotic shapes that made absolutely no secret of the fact that their propulsion system was radically different.  The basestars were terrifying up close, but when they remained silent and dark for centar after centar, they knew that somehow the cylons had been disabled.

 There had been three of them in the upper observation room at the time one of the ships repositioned itself, silently and gracefully separating from the basestar and rotating in a way that gave them a clear look at its structure.  In a perfect twisting trajectory that looked for all the worlds to be both playful and intentionally revealing, it settled next to Galactica, alongside it as if in friendship, positioned protectively between the carrier and the cylons.  The ship was not as big, of course—they had never encountered anything as large as Galactica.  But something about the movement and positioning reassured Fray.  It wasn’t just that the ships were not firing on each other.  This was peaceful interaction.

 The other large ship also repositioned, moving to a central location.  It was long and sharp, like a space blade, but also oddly elegant with its quieter pattern of lights.  It was difficult to tell, but the ship seemed to be facing the cylon vessels, staring at them.  During its movement pattern, a yellow eye flashed over them, circular, both benign and frightening in appearance.  Fray would think it was an engine except that the ship moved in the same direction.  The small one that had brought them back disappeared, and over the next centares three more fleet ships arrived near them, also accompanied by the small dark ship.

 “Now, now we’ll get it.”  The younger man sitting next to him, Shem, rubbed his large nose.  “Bring us close for help.”

 “All aboard for the train to join the line,” Fray said, so softly that Shem almost didn’t hear.

 “Could be help.”

 Fray shrugged.  They both sat on the small bench in the left forward viewing room, watching the tiny but bright flashing lights on the ships.  It reminded Fray of airships, back when life was simple and civilian on a planet.  The lights flashed so you knew where your wings were, so you knew where other airships were, so they knew you were there, a reassuring heartbeat of constancy.  None of the fleet ships had them and it made him wonder why they were on these vessels.

 There was only one shuttle capable of disgorging EVA workers, and they would have to wait for it to fix their communications and engine housing.  Sometimes it took cycles after an attack, but at least now they were in comfortingly close range.  The only question was how many ships were ahead of them in the queue.

 “Well.”  Shem started to maneuver himself to a standing position.  “Think it’s gonna be quiet for now,” he said with a sigh.  “Shouldn’t be more than two cycles for comms.”

 Fray grunted agreement.  He didn’t move as Shem left the small chamber.  The door closed and Fray was left in silence.

 Shem wanted to see the operations, the movement.  Fray wanted more.  He wanted to know the why.  In the old life, he had been in charge of bay traffic at the mouth of one of the major rivers on the North Pommera continent on Leon.  He was largely responsible for ship traffic, not dock works, but they both worked together to create a cycle of goods both exiting and entering Pommera.  From food to computer equipment to giant machines, the decisions he used to make affected a significant portion of the whole continent.

 Now, though, there was nothing.  His skills were not needed in the fleet and he was only a passenger, not a contributor.  The every-other-secton deliveries of food and other goods the Corsanna received was so trivial an operation, they didn’t need anyone to oversee the exchanges.  And so he passed the time sitting here, watching the distant flare of Galactica’s giant engines working at a fraction of their capability as they trudged on and on through space.  Fray had long since come to grips with the fact that he would die, hopefully of old age, long before their journey would be resolved.

 He was sitting so still, lost in thought, that when movement registered, he startled nearly off the bench.  A craft, not one of theirs, flew over his head by less than 20 metrons, and he caught just a flash of red and blue, and then more flashing lights.  He watched it get smaller and smaller, almost losing sight of it.

 Then a sharp horizontal line of light appeared on the one alongside Galactica.  It slowly started to get thicker, smoothly and gradually, giving an indication of its distant size.  Fray fumbled for the scope in his shirt pocket.  With hurried, excited hands he extended it and put it to his eye, orienting himself with the bright blaze of Galactica’s engines, then moving left...blue, bit of red light...white.  There.  It was a long blaze of bright white light on the back of the ship, and he could see tiny movement.  A dark dot interposed itself between him and the light and he recognized it as likely the small craft that had just flown overhead.  He kept watching it, and when the view didn’t change after a while, he realized that it was now likely sitting still.

 Then something much larger slowly emerged from the bright blaze of light—a more substantial looking craft, two bright red dots, a white forward area, and a hint of a blue glow along the side.  It slowly edged out of the light, still visible by the ubiquitous white flashers and the red dots.  The other dark dot then moved, disappearing into the light.

 He startled again when the door scraped open behind him, but didn’t change his focus.  “Get your own scope,” he said preemtively  to whoever it was.

 “What are you—” Just from the sound of the stop, he knew the bright line of light had arrested Ashton’s attention.  There was absolute silence for a moment, then he moved to sit down next to Fray.  “What’s happening?”

 “I think....alright, that one’s going in....”  Open-mouthed, Fray blinked his eyes and refocused.  “The new ship, I’m sure it’s a bay.”

 “What’s going on?”

 Conflicted, Fray bit his tongue on a curse.  You found out who the patient were when there was only one eye hole to look through.  He knew he should indulge the sixteen-yahren-old Ashton, but...maybe a careful play-by-play would suffice.  “A small one went by overhead a bit ago.  Then that thing opened up, and a new one launched–wait, what?”  Frowning in consternation, Fray focused on a familiar shape as it nosed its way out at the edge of the blaze of light.  “That’s....that’s a viper!”

 “Where?”  Ashton leaned in close, as if to try to see through the scope.

 “That’s....a viper just came out of that ship, I’m sure of it!”  The distant dart slowly cleared the white light and for a moment he lost sight of it.  But then the familiar blue-white blast flared, and it moved so quickly that he lost sight of it.

 “Um...”

 Searching for the tiny flare, the red light that flashed past his view made him pull the scope away just in time to see a vanishing blink go by overhead.

 “That one was bigger,” Ashton said, standing up and trying to angle a look behind them.

 “What was that?”

 “Another....thing.  Ship.  Not as big as the one that pulled us back though.”

 Fray looked through the scope again.  The opening showed no movement.

 “Can you see anything?  Where did the viper go?”

 “Lost it.  I got a clear view of one bay but not the other.”  Running the scope over Galactica, what he could see of it from the rear three-quarter view, no more viper flare announced itself.

 Fray searched over the field, looking for any other movement.  No more vipers emerged from the other ship.  “What the heck was it doing there anyway?” he mumbled, view returning to the bright-white opening on the new ship.  It remained still for another centon.

 He felt Ashton physically startle next to him.  “Um, hey?” the teen said urgently.  Fray swept the view over Galactica and saw nothing, but before he could relocate the new ships, the scope was slapped nearly out of his hands.  “Hey?”  Ashton repeated.  Fray fumbled the scope and clapped his hands around it, stopping it from falling to the floor and likely shattering.  He started to formulate a retort but then once again nearly startled off the bench when he finally focused on the view out the windows.

 Not five metrons outside the windows sat a clearly alien pod.  Tiny lights lit up its tapering shape, covered in incomprehensible assemblages that he couldn’t begin to identify.  Even more bewildering was a display of lettering, not on a screen or even anything physical, but somehow sitting there in space.  The lettering was subtly different but readable.  ‘If you can see and understand this message, knock on the window with your knuckles’.

 Fray and Ashton stared at each other, then looked back at the message.  The bewildered haze that was Fray’s mind gradually resolved into the only next course of action.  He pushed himself to his feet, took two steps, and rapped sharply on the window with his right hand.

 He heard movement behind him and then Ashton was right next to him, breathing through his mouth.  The message blinked after a moment, then the words changed.  ‘Good.  Thank you.’

 “That’s not cylon,” Ashton said, question and assertion in his voice.  It looked slightly bigger than a human, lit up enough to tell the hull was white.  A thin metal rod protruding out of it seemed to be the generator for the lettering.  Ribbed channels along the length held recessed hardware and there were a number of flanges of varying sizes around the body.

 “Don’t think the cylons would make–” Fray cut himself off as the message changed again.  ‘We’re going to work on your communications.’  “Who’s ‘we’?  Tell me that.”

 As if it heard them, the next message displayed.  ‘We’re an engineering team from the ship next to Galactica.’  Fray frowned in confusion.  “How can they see that....” he started, and just as he said that, the message switched again.  ‘We’re controlling this probe from a shuttle nearby.’

 Despite the unknown, Fray almost wanted to laugh.  The communication method struck him as both elegant and primitive, but he couldn’t quite poke fun at it.  The last time their comms had gone down, seeing EVA workers out the windows had been the only indication that work was being done.  If there was a way to hold up a piece of paper outside the window, they probably would have done that.  This seemed a more efficient solution, at least.

 They watched in silence as the next few messages displayed.  ‘You might hear us working on the external arrays; please have someone monitoring communications; we’ll try a contact if we can get it from the outside; if you understand, knock on the window again.’

 Should he be making decisions for all fifty-seven people on the ship, he didn’t know, but if he didn’t respond, it could descend into confusion or worse.  Hoping he wasn’t making a decision he’d later regret, he rapped on the window again.  ‘Thank you.  We’ll get to work.’  Then the message blinked off.  The probe dipped sideways and vanished down past the windows.

 After a few moments, Fray took a deep, steadying breath.  “Sure hope that was me being smart,” he said, shaking his head.

 “Same here,” Ashton said faintly.

 “Well, Galactica’s right there, in any case.”

 “But they can’t hear us.”

 If we scream loud enough, Fray wanted to say.  “Let’s go let the others know.  So they know who to blame if this goes the wrong way,” he added, sardonic.

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

 Not more than a centar later, the secondary control deck was crowded to maximum, nineteen people crammed into a space meant for no more than eight, with more spilling into the hallway outside.  Their usual radio operator, Teimo, sat directly in front of the radio console, housed in an area of the main console that was off to the side, as though it had been an afterthought when the deck was designed.  He sat with arms braced straight on the surface, head bowed over the speaker as if in prayer.

 The frequency displayed was not one they used regularly, given to them by the probe communication method.  The second round of probe communication had been witnessed by many this time, not just Fray and Ashton.  They had also finally spotted the shuttle issuing the commands, hanging in the darkness with pods fronted by red lights on short stalks, almost like a miniature battlestar.  The probe the engineers had been controlling had zipped away like a startled fish several centons ago, back to the shuttle, and the expectation of imminent contact was the only thing that kept the gathering quiet.  Finally, after fifteen more centons, the suspense finally ended with a faint crackling over the speakers, followed by a clear male voice.  “Shuttle Einstein to Corsanna, do you read?”

 The affirmative was a cacophony of cheers, whoops, and applause, and irritated by the noise, Teimo waved an arm, the close gathering causing him to nearly hit someone.  “Quiet!”

 The sound lessened enough to hear a laugh.  “I’ll take that for a yes.”

 “Sorry, but there’s a crowd, here,” Teimo said, glowering behind him.  “Radios don’t work when there’s a loud audience drowning it out,” he said pointedly.

 “I’ll take a happy crowd over silence any day.  I’m just glad we could get it fixed, and now that we have contact, I’ll give you a fast run-down.  First, my name is Ensign Arlon Parza, I’m an engineer, and I come from that ship that’s right alongside Galactica.”

 “What about the cylons?  What happened?  We were just told to run.”

 “I don’t have all of the details, but here’s the generalities.”  Absolute silence reigned as the voice narrated a story that had the colonists occasionally turning to stare at each other in disbelief.  Unlike many ships, Corsanna residents knew the full terrifying quantity of cylon ships there, and if the story hadn’t been backed up by the full view of the apparently silent vessels, they wouldn’t have believed it.  The newcomers’ ships were small next to both Galactica and the cylons, and even some of the fleet ships came close to them in size.  Despite this, they had rapidly accomplished what Galactica’s full power had not.  The base ships had been completely stripped of their weapons ability, one had been virtually hollowed out by some kind of exotic weapon, the pulsars were down, and even the ability to launch raiders had been eliminated.  And it had all happened in less than one centar from the ships’ arrival.

 “So if we’re not being evacuated, what do we do?” Teimo asked.  He was standing up straight now, staring out the forward port at a slightly obstructed view of Galactica’s main engines. The story had ended with explanations of the most urgent operations, including evacuations, and the Corsanna had been slotted into the second tier.  “Are they going to continue deliveries?  We’re okay with food for now, but in about four cycles we’re supposed to get a delivery.”

 “Long-term plans are still being discussed, and those decisions are happening far over my head by people in other departments.  Only thing I think I can guarantee is that you’re definitely not going to go hungry.  We’re going to get to the conduit that got cut, but the bent housing is going to be problematic.  We are registering some air circulation issues there, though.  It looks like the conduit may be part of it, but some of it looks to be long-term for you.”

 “Yeah,” Teimo said, with a quiet chorus of agreeing murmurs in the background.  “We’ve sort of gotten used to the lower oxygen but the filters are shot.”

 “Alright, here’s what I can arrange,” the voice said.  “The oxygen is a little too low for us, so since it’s low for you too, we’re first going to bring in a unit that should help with proper concentration and also do some air cleaning.  We’ll get a scan of your filter situation and get to work fabricating one but the portable unit we can bring in will start to make a difference pretty quickly in its immediate area–”

 “Hang on, hang on,” Teimo interrupted.  “When you say bring this on board....I can tell you right now we can’t fit your shuttle in our bay.  We do have a side hatch but can you fit a one-point-eight metron soft-seal hatch collar?”

 “No, we won’t need to worry about that.”

 Teimo took a deep breath.  “So how are you proposing to bring this on board?”

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

 This time around, the control deck was nearly empty.  What once were high-stakes positions in the small room were now empty as only a few stayed with Teimo to act as messengers.  Everyone else, at least those that would fit, were crammed into the lowest deck next to the engines.  That is where the air equipment would...appear.

 I mean, fine, we have comms now, but how much are we going to end up owing this organization, he wondered.  After this equipment, two engineers were going to board by the same method, and the list of repairs they were minded to do was intimidating.  Power turned to help them could just as easily become power turned against them, and the ability to cause something to materialize out of thin air, well, Teimo could think of ten different ways that...no, twenty different ways that could be used to devastating effect.  He wasn’t the only one thinking that way as well.  Some of the glances between him and the other ship residents spoke of growing unease, uncertainty as to motivation.  Helping in a confrontation was one thing, but the list of things they were proposing to fix on the Corsanna was something of an ask.  Some of them were problems they’d had from the start, like access to the main control room.  What could a society that could pull things out of thin air want in return?

 The factions were not firing on each other and that was encouraging, but once immediate needs were met, background information couldn’t hide anymore.  They needed to know who these people were.  Only a brief description had been offered when the engineer had narrated the recent centares of events, and besides sounding like a stroll through a zoologic garden, they knew little about these “Federation” ships.  Two of these people would be here soon.  They were here to do repairs, but as far as Teimo was concerned, they wouldn’t be doing it mutely.  Questions and answers would be happening.

 “Shuttle Einstein to Corsanna.”  Tone of voice alone could answer questions, though, and this contact told Teimo they were about to have incoming.

 “This is Corsanna.”

 “Alright, the scrubber is set up.  I’ll give you about...half a centon and we’ll materialize it over there.”

 “Right, I’ll send the runners.”  Before Teimo could even turn and make eye contact, the three behind him were bolting out the door.  Only half of their haste was message delivery; the rest was a desire to see a technology demonstration.  It wouldn’t take long for them to get the length, and down one more deck.  Teimo mentally traced the well-worn path as the microns ticked by.

 “Alright, that’s time and a bit.  We’re materializing it....now.”

 “How long before it’s totally here?”

 “Oh, it’s there already.  It only takes a....a couple of microns.”

 “I’m noticing something.  You’re pausing before every time estimate.  What’s with that?”

 “Oh, it’s just different names.  What you call a micron, we call a second.  Centon for you is minute for us, centar for you is an hour for us.  I’m just trying to translate.”

 Teimo shifted his weight.  “How come our languages are so similar?  Explain that one to me.”

 “You know, we’ve got that question for you as well.  We have translation equipment, but there are points when it doesn’t even trigger and we can still understand you.”

 “So you’re originally from the colonies.”

 “Me?  No.  I’m not your race.  I look similar but I’m not human.  I’m Trill.”

 “What’s a Trill?”

 Several centons passed while Teimo dug up some information.  Looked human, had spots, came from a planet also called Trill.  Planet joined this Federation thing about, pause, twenty-two yahren ago.  Trill were a highly intelligent and complex species, and some of them served at the highest levels in this Federation.  Was that a brag?  No, of course not.

 “I’m starting to get some really good readings from our conditioner unit, Teimo.  I think it’s probably safe to come over and get to work on some internals.”

 “Alright, uh...”  Teimo rubbed his nose.  For all that he was the one talking to this alien, he was actually starting to feel left out of the loop.  Nothing was really happening here, and he didn’t want to be tied to comms while all the others got the contact.  “So if you’re coming over...what about comms?”

 “We’re definitely open to working on some internal systems,” came the hesitant answer.

 “No, what I wanna know is...do I need to stay here?”

 “That would be up to your internal fleet protocols.  Would they want someone there during repairs?”

 “Well, if they’re in progress....” Teimo said evasively.  Then, “Wait.  I got nobody else here.  I gotta go tell ‘em you’re coming.”

 “Your call.  We’ll be over there shortly.”

 “Got it.  Corsanna out.”

 As Teimo left the small deck, it occurred to him he didn’t know who the ‘we’ was.  Oops.  Oh, well.  At least it won’t be a cylon, right?

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

 A collective gasp went up when patterns of altogether substantive golden lines and sparkles lit up the middle of the room.  In only a few microns, the lights poured down, resolved into three sections, then a secondary wave of gold expanded horizontally, rapidly solidifying and darkening the shapes.  Two figures, one substantially taller than the other, along with a piece of cargo over half as tall as the shorter one were now in the chamber, close to the first piece of equipment.

 “Um, hello,” the taller figure said into the pin-drop silence.  “I’m Ensign Arlon Parza.  I hope that Teimo has been communicating with you....?”

 “We got told somebody would be coming, but....”  The speaker didn’t finish, but everyone could fill in the words.  ‘...but not like that...’

 “I was one of the people controlling the probe with the repairs—”

 “That was me!”  A hand shot up from one end of the room.

 The tall male pivoted in that direction.  “That was you, rapped on the window?”

 “Yup!”

 “Thank you,” he said emphatically, relieved.  “This went a lot smoother than the others.  Some of them, all we could do is just get to work and I’m sure it startled people–”

 A commotion in the corridor stopped the exchange.  Irritated assertions of “Lemme get through!” and “I gotta get through!” preceded a tall figure with thick, dark, unruly curls and equally dark eyes squeezing through into the room.  “I gotta let ‘em—”  The irritation switched off in a blink as the man caught sight of the new arrivals.

 “Are you Teimo?”

 “Yeah.”

 “Alright, great.  We’ve got all the principles here.  So, redo,” the alien said gamely, clasping his hands together.  “As I said, I’m Ensign Arlon Parza.  I’m from the Engineering section of the U.S.S. Enterprise, the ship that’s right alongside Galactica right now.  This is Kassi Harper, an engineering student.  She’s a cadet and I’m her supervising officer,” he said, holding out a presenting hand to the smaller figure.  “I know we’ve got a temporary fix with the conditioner here, but we’re going to see what we can do about circulation, access to the main bridge, and a few other things.”

 “You said she’s a student?” Teimo asked, pointing to the small, almost painfully thin figure with large, solemn blue eyes.  She was clad identically to the male but in a reversed color pattern of blue-gray with black shoulders.

 “Yes,” the spotted alien said, already starting to open hatches on the large black case.  “And yes, she’s absolutely capable,” he added, glancing at her.  “She wouldn’t be on the Enterprise if she wasn’t.”

 “What, is that a lead battleship?”

 “It’s the Federation’s flagship, United Federation of Planets.  Primarily research, but also diplomacy, aid, first contact, exploration, sometimes dispute settling.”

 “What’s....I mean, what’re they gonna do?” another one asked.

 “Overall, in this situation?  What’s our goal?”

 “Yeah.”  The defiant expectation was clear in the span of one word, as well as the proud bearing of the speaker, an older male in a loose green tunic.

 Remarkably unfazed, the newcomer turned to him.  “Long term, I really don’t know.  That’s between your leadership and ours.  Short term, though, we have to fix these ships.  It’s interstellar law.  Environmental distress, you are mandated to either rescue or correct to the best of your ability, and if that doesn’t happen, you are pulled into a very important court indeed,” he said emphatically.  “And to that end, we’re going to need room,” he continued, turning to take in the audience in the round.  “I’d like to ask that unless you’re part of the maintenance of this ship, please give us the space we need to make things better, here.”

 Quiet muttering and shuffling started as the crowd self-sorted, the majority slowly trailing in the direction of the exits.  Teimo hesitated, then decided he could count himself among those who stayed.  Radio and occasional water purification work qualified as maintenance, and even though one of those systems was now fixed and the other one wasn’t broken, well, that was incidental.  He joined the people who had gathered around the large black case as the tall one pulled out a small device that looked less like a tool and more like a diagnostic reader.  The other newcomer watched the equipment with the distant air of someone who had seen all of this before and was silently unimpressed.

 “So, what’s–” Teimo stopped as the device was unfolded into a small, flat panel.  “What’s the usual–” he started again, then flinched back as an explosion of red suddenly appeared in front of him.  The alien glanced at him.

 “This is the scan we have of this vessel.”  Slowly turning in mid-air was a projection in three dimensions, made up of red lines that harshly drew out the shape of the Corsanna.  Eyes widened even farther when the graphic responded to his hand, turning to the right.  “We’ve mapped things out as best we can but sure would like a confirm on our guesses,” he continued, apparently not recognizing their amazement.  Parts of the red-wire display in mid-air started to change color.  “The color code is white for propulsion, yellow is general power conduits, blue is air circulation, purple is gravity, and green is where we’ve shunted either questions or miscellaneous systems like docking hardware, internal supplies, recycling, utilitarian-type systems,” he explained, turning the graphic around with his hand.  “Right in here is the cut conduit and housing,” he said, spreading his hands apart.  The graphic zoomed in to a part on the rear of the ship.

 “That’s what it looks like right now?”  The one who had spoken, Nicob, leaned in closer and reached out a finger, seeing a red line of light overlay his finger.  The graphic moved slightly.  A thick gash was outlined halfway through the diameter and sliced lines and conduits could be seen. 

 “Yes, but right before we came over we were informed that another engineer got use of one of the probes to begin work on it, so they could be looking at it already.  That should be handled from the outside, but we can work on the vents and ducts and see what shape your recycler is in.”

 “Well, part of the recycler is behind those panels,” another one said, turning to point towards a series of smaller interlocking panels in a corner of the room, “so... I guess we start pullin’ them up.”

 “Alright, let’s get moving.”

Chapter Text

 The moment his mind lazily awoke, Apollo was surprised that he wasn’t disoriented.  He knew where he was.  He cracked his eyes open and found the light was low, enough for him to sleep but not enough to prevent him from moving around.  He rolled over and looked at the chamber he was in, larger than his sleeping quarters on Galactica.  The predominant color, what he could see in the low light, was mostly a soft misty green.  The deep, soft firmness of the mattress he was on conformed to his body a little but not so much he couldn’t move.  Sense of time was disconnected from reality and he had no idea how long he had slept.

 The sequence of events that brought him here still made his head spin.  To have gone from isolated, heart-pounding fear to an environment that focused on him personally with completely different protocols had kept him in a daze for most of last.....evening?  The contact had started early in the evening and they had fought for centares.

 He sat up partway and remembered the different, more natural gravity and remembered the faintest whiff, every three or four breaths, of some kind of spice, possibly a wood.  There was a very soft background rushing sound, probably air circulation.  Other than that the silence was complete.  He traced a faint glow to a display at the head of the bed, silent graphics he could actually recognize.  One was obviously his heartbeat, and a slower swerving line was identified when he took a deep breath.  The percentage next to it rose from 97 to 98.  There were many more readouts, some he could identify, some not.  He remembered arriving in this room and being shown the display, but his mind was so dulled by fatigue by that point that little of it registered.  All he had cared about by that point was eliminating everything that stood between him and sleep–

 Sheba.

 She was found, he reminded himself.  Someone had found her, she was safe.  Where was everyone else?

 Just as he started to push himself all the way upright, a faint sound startled him.  He looked over just in time to see the door slide partway open, slow enough that it seemed to be done manually.  A startlingly bald head emerged around the corner.

 “Good morning,” the smiling alien said softly, still staying carefully behind the door.  “How do you feel?”

 “Well....”  His voice sounded rough and he cleared his throat.  Light blue pulled his attention down and he remembered being helped into sleeper clothes right before falling into the bed.  A dark mound on a table on the other side of the room was likely his normal clothing.  His boots were on the floor next to the table.

 “I guess....a lot better than yesterday,” he said, taking a deep breath and looking around again.  The lights were slowly coming up, slow enough that his eyes adjusted easily.

 “Good.”  The head bowed for a moment, then the rest of the alien edged around the door.  Tall, broad-shouldered, with a face that looked like a perpetual smile was the neutral expression, the expressive eyes and bald head had Apollo staring in fascination.  “My name is Rell Ellian.  I am a Deltan, not human–” he stopped for a moment and touched something at his waist on a tiny pack there.  “I am a medical student, functioning as a medical technologist for now but studying to be a nurse and surgery assistant.  If you’re feeling well...”  He stepped over and got a closer look at the readings at the head of the bed.  “...You’re certainly free to use the bathroom, but I just want to see that you can walk.”  He watched Apollo expectantly.

 Apollo obliged.  He pushed his legs over the edge, got his balance, and stood.  “Wow,” he said, stretching.  “Stiff, but not as sore as I thought I’d be.”

 “We did add some mild painkillers and if you like, you’re certainly welcome to get a massage before you head back—”

 “What?”  Apollo stared at the alien in confusion.

 Frozen, wide-eyed uncertainty met him.  “A massage?”

 “I don’t think I’ll be looking into that,” Apollo said slowly as he made his way to the bathroom.

 “A massage is done in a sexual context in your society?”

 “Uh, yes,” Apollo said, reaching the threshold.

 “I apologize if I offend, it’s quite different here, done in a purely musculoskeletal context here,” the alien repeated quickly.  “I’ll leave you to your morning routine, and a nurse will be in later to see about medical clearance.”

 “Good, thank you.”

 Apollo vanished into the bathroom, having a compulsion to hide.  There were different races here, he knew—it was like going to an interstellar conference of the widest sort—but the one he had just seen was one of the most disturbing, and he wasn’t sure why.  For some reason, at first look....

 Toilet.  Looks like towels, that’s a turbowash I’ll have to figure out how to work.  Probably soap, yeah.  Get moving.  Let’s forget that ever happened.

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

 Sleeping in your viper?  Really?  Wait, is that what this is?

 Once again, Boomer’s mind cautiously tested reality.  Sleeping, waking up.  Trying to remember where he was....

 Oh, yeah.  I’m on that alien ship.

 The fact that he was still in the same chair he remembered from last night hinted that he hadn’t been out long, but the subtle stiffness told him he’d slept a long time.  The dark hulk next to him was the reassuring presence of his viper, or what he presumed was his.  Blinking the sleep out, he looked around groggily, trying to move.  The patches were still on the backs of his hands, but nothing was connected to them.  For all that he was in an apparent hangar, though, it was unusually quiet.  It made no sense to him until he focused on a faint blue haze about four metrons in front of him.  Looking around, he realized it was over his head and encompassed both him and his viper.

 I hope that’s just a sound barrier.

 He started to struggle to his feet when he saw a faint figure approaching the barrier.  It paused at one corner, and then with a pitchless indication that he felt more than heard, the entire wall vanished.  Sound and light blared in on him and Boomer closed his eyes, turning away.  “Sorry about that,” said a voice that immediately rubbed him strangely.  The barrier sprang back in after a moment and Boomer turned to look.

 “I am so sorry, our accommodations have been horrible,” the tall blonde said as he came over to Boomer’s side, moving something behind him.  “We’ve been evac-ing all night and haven’t had time.”  There was a deep sigh, but the subtle cues didn’t hint at irritation, just fatigue.  “How do you feel?”

 “Well, stiff,” Boomer settled on.  The man came in front of him and held out a hand.

 “Here, let’s get you up.  Plant your feet....”  Boomer was easily pulled upright.

 “I’m Gale Emereck, a nurse in Sickbay, and yes, I’ve been up all night,” he said with a tired but game laugh.  “But we have us a ward now.  I can get you to a bathroom but after that I have to turn you over to other medical, probably cross-trained crew.  We’re dealing with some incoming environmental injuries,” he said as Boomer’s head cleared.

 “What time is it?”  As soon as the words were out of Boomer’s mouth, he realized the problem with the question.

 “Well, I would call this 1050 but that probably doesn’t mean much to you.  I would say you slept about the average length of time a human typically sleeps.  You’re Boomer, correct?”

 “Yeah.  Is everyone else...?”

 “The other viper pilots?  Waking up by twos and threes.  Alright if I drop the barrier?  Light, noise....”

 “Sure.”  Now that he was better prepared for it, it didn’t hit him as hard.  The first thing he noticed was the myriad craft were largely gone, and dark-blue barrier walls were everywhere.  Voices raised a soft, continual din with occasional louder shouts or a cry.  He could see few people, but from the sound of it, there were hundreds here.

 “Hey, what’s....”  Boomer said deliberately, pointing across the bay as they walked along a wide path.  “Enter....what–”

 “Enterprise.  U.S.S. Enterprise.  I don’t suppose anyone’s told you, but that’s where you are at the moment.  We’re on deck four, main shuttlebay.  Your carrier is alongside us right now.  Cylons are taken care of,” he added, turning to Boomer, and now he could see the red-rimmed eyes of someone who was very short on sleep.  “For the moment your people are safe, and we are doing our best to ensure it stays that way.”

 Boomer stared around him as they walked, the markings on the deck hinting that this was some kind of major roadway with a slow curve in it.  He started to see more people, clearly colonists, but no viper pilots.  A glance behind him showed a series of barriers similar to the one he had awakened inside, and the dark shapes he could see told him the other vipers had also made it successfully.

 “As far as I know, this has been our first encounter.  We’re over one-hundred fifty lightyears out of Federation space so it’s not–”

 “Ensign!”  Even within the span of one word, Boomer could tell the accent would be like nothing he’d ever heard before.  His escort stopped and turned abruptly, and Boomer caught sight of a diminutive female with skin nearly as dark as his.  “I can take him.  You.  Go.” The female pointed sharply behind her.

 “Alright, here’s where we part.  I am under orders–”

 “Get out, get out,” the female said, and Boomer read an undercurrent of what Apollo used to call ‘command care’–giving a sharp order out of compassion for another.  “You have an appointment with sleep.”

 “I’ll throw Colin out, get six, and come back,” the blonde, Emereck, said over his shoulder as he continued on past the small female.

 “Blue, white, and red,” the female said in cryptic retort.  She shook her head in some exasperation, then turned her attention to Boomer.  “You.  Come.  I am Doctor Chaudhri.  The other pilots are together, eating.  I will take you to them.”  The woman’s head barely reached his shoulder, and that was with the benefit of thick, dark-brown hair coiled in an elaborate set of braids.  All the same, Boomer had to step on it to keep up with her as they began to weave through the maze of barriers.  She kept up a swift pace through pathways between partitions full of people, and they passed among mattresses and blankets covering the floor in a desperate spread Boomer knew all too well.  Occasionally they stopped as the tiny woman was flagged down by others, but she never paused for long, answering questions with emphatic nods, rapid-fire communication, and one instance of a flurry of movements on a projected holographic screen.  By the time they arrived at a large central nexus with windowed overlooks and access doors, Boomer found himself hoping for some peace and quiet.

 They climbed a flight of stairs and passed through into a blessedly quiet corridor, then into an enclosed space Boomer pegged as a lift.  “Deck ten,” the woman said, confirming his guess.  Then she turned to give him a critical look-over as the doors closed and a low humming sound started.  “You spent the night in the bay, so the receiving medical judged you to be in somewhat better condition.  How do you feel?”

 Boomer took a deep breath.  “Starting to figure out I’m hungry, and dazed.  It’s been...quite a turn of events,” he said, shaking his head.

 For the first time there was the ghost of a smile on the doctor’s face.  “If it helps, the feeling is the same, both sides,” she said, pointing to him and then herself.  “We need to settle the rescued and then I understand there will be talks this afternoon between us.  That will be revealing.”

 For all that her accent was thick and completely unfamiliar to him, he could understand her, with a little thought.  “ ‘Somewhat better condition’, ” he repeated.  “How are the rest—”

 “No one has died,” she said abruptly, giving him a close, confirming look as the lift doors opened.  They exited into a corridor looking much like the one they had left, only wider.  “Some needed more help, more fluids, chemical balances.  You...”  She stopped in the corridor, then, staring almost blankly ahead.

 “Uh, Doctor?”

 After a moment she shook her head, then focused on him again.  “I wish we had found you sooner,” she said simply.

 “You were looking for us?”

 “No.”

 In a flash of insight, Boomer said, “But you knew we existed.  You either knew we existed or suspected–”

 She stopped again in the corridor, holding up both hands.  “There is information...your highest ranking officer has requested we limit information, certain information, for now.  We hide no terrible motivations, I assure you.  This is what we wish to do,” she said, bowing her head slightly.  “You need care.  You should not be destroyed.  You should live as a free people, not living in terror.”

 “But there are things you can’t tell me.”

 “Only because your leader has requested.  I believe it is more information control than information concealing.”

 Boomer mulled it over for a moment.  The memory of the Star of Freedom came back to him, the impossibly grand gesture that gave no more room at the top, something given at the culmination of a spectacular career with a final shining accomplishment, now being given to warriors in their twenties, thirties, forties...The commander is hiding something.  It’s not control.  It is concealing.

 Outwardly, all Boomer did was nod slowly.  “Then I guess we’ll just have to wait.”

 “It is not a perfect answer,” she said as they began walking again, and by the way she avoided his gaze, he knew that she was aware of his dissatisfaction with the explanation.  “But I can freely, certainly tell you the cylons will never cause you to run in desperation ever again.”

 “That’s quite a claim, considering it’s what we’ve been doing for a thousand yahren.”

 “One of many very curious claims that can be made for both sides,” she countered.  “There are many, many questions.  We both hope that in time, they will be answered to satisfaction.  For now, though...”  They approached wide double doors that reminded him of the formal chamber doors on Galactica, and they split open.

 It was a large room, and Boomer immediately identified at least ten warriors sitting at tables, apparently eating, but there was also an apparent exchange going on.  Doctor Chaudhri put a hand on Boomer’s forearm, halting him.  “That is one of the most senior officers on the ship,” she said in a low, intense voice, singling out a standing figure with the same skin tone as Boomer.  “That is our chief engineer.  There are only a tiny handful that outrank him.  Lieutenant Commander Geordi Laforge.  He will be under the same orders as I am, but all things engineering he can answer.  I do not know what he is doing in there but there must be a reason he is there.”

 “Alright,” Boomer murmured, right in time with his stomach growling, and the doctor gave him a pat on the forearm.

 “Peace.”  She bowed her head briefly in formal farewell and left him with a smile.  Boomer hesitated on the threshold again, getting used to the lower lighting, then relaxed as the others caught sight of him, Jolly, Rayber, Greenbean, and others.  It looked like most of those who had landed on this ship were here already.  They sent up a friendly noise of both sincere and humorous greetings and beckoned him over.

 “So I guess I’m late to the party,” he said as he approached the tables, and Rayber pointed over his head to his left.

 “Ask her,” he said, and a chorus of agreement went up as Boomer looked to his right.  The impression of a bar and the warm smile behind it immediately relaxed Boomer.

 “Come on, come on,” she said, both welcoming him in and beckoning him over.  “What do you think he’ll like?”  The dark-skinned, oddly dressed alien directed the question to the warriors, and it was apparent a solid relationship had already developed between them with the cheerful chorus that went up in response to her question.  Boomer couldn’t identify an answer, but from what he was smelling, he’d take any of the above right now.  The engineer the doctor had pointed out was pulled over to one of the tables, getting a close conversation with one of the warriors.

 “Boomer!  What type of fuel port do you have on your viper?  Is it the wide gauge or three narrow ports?”

 “Uhm, I think it’s the wide one,” he answered, drifting in the direction of Bojay’s table.  “Why?”

 “Solinite equals...the isotope....”

 “Deuterium,” a mid-range, expressive voice answered.  “But the only way that’s happening is if we swap out the tanks.”  Boomer looked over and startled.  He had casually registered the engineer and moved on, but now that the man was looking directly at him, the nearly searchlight-bright blue eyes made him question the man’s race.

 “I think it takes, like, four to six centares to swap one,” Jolly said, frowning in confusion from the next table over.  “Some of our current ones leak.”

 “They leak?”  The intense consternation pulled the attention of several tables.  “Are you saying we have leaking deuterium tanks in the bay right now?”

 The warriors responded.  “Really, really low level,” Jolly and Bojay said authoritatively over the others, and Jolly waved a dismissive hand.

 “We’re talking, like, our techs work alongside the tanks all the time, more like small areas of diffusion, not like a spray of solinite,” he said, but the engineer was only marginally calmed.

 “There’s a few hundred people in that bay right now—I don’t want any leaks,” he said emphatically.  He slapped a hand on the gold arrowhead on his uniform.  “Laforge to Data.”

 Silent, communicating looks were traded among the warriors, and even the smiling bar alien had gone more serious as she approached Boomer’s table with a plate and glass.

 “Data here.”

 “Data, there are potential low-level deuterium leaks from those fighters in the bay.  See if we can increase those barriers to minimize leakage.  I’m gonna get to work on transporter swaps....”  The voices faded as the engineer left the room at a fast walk, leaving awkward silence in his wake.

 The bar alien gave a patient, considering sigh.  “Well,” she said, setting a plate full of everything Boomer ever wanted down in front of him.  “I guess that’s Geordi’s day,” she said, staring off in the direction of the doors.

 “We really do work with that all the time–” Jolly began, and the woman shook her head.

 “It’s not that.  You’re right, it’s probably fine.  But this is the Enterprise, and that’s the chief engineer,” she said, with a gentle smile.  “It will be perfect or it won’t be at all.”

Chapter Text

 Why didn’t I think of this sooner, Lieutenant Ruva Chevek thought, smiling as he scrolled down an LCARS list that had been arranged by a genius.  No, they didn’t have replicators, but in a way, that made it more interesting.  Word had come through from Enterprise that there would soon be a cultural exchange between the ships as they did a low level test of transfer protocols, and any hour now, he was hoping for a giant treasure trove from on high.

 Enterprise’s original investigations had pulled up precious little food culture from any of the worlds, only three bona-fide recipes in addition to basic information about crops, but already someone had done a brilliant job of extrapolating categories in anticipation of the haul.  What he wanted the most, of course, was protein structures on spices.  If he could get that, then molecular scans, maybe check a few samples, then...oh, then, he would decorate a plate...

 What would they have....what could they have.  They’d been living on the edge for years, now.  It was possible everything would be utilitarian in the extreme, but didn’t everyone need a small luxury now and again?  Not the extremes of luxury that hurt others.  No, the kind of little things that reminded you that life was worth living.  Little luxuries like a ‘do not disturb’ signal on the doorlock as you curled up with a new book from your favorite author.  A cup of tea made from extravagant spices.  Programming a fantasy kitchen in the holodeck and jealously guarding secrets.  Everyone needed something, and especially desperate refugees, but what could they have saved from their former lives?

 How much could he hope for?  Digging for something trivial like food history and culture from people who were running for their lives felt almost impossibly cold, but what did refugees grab when they were running out the door?  Food was part of their identity as a people, like anything from religion to architecture to music to familiar flora and fauna.  That culture was what unified them as a people.  You were nothing if not for how you expressed being alive, and the expression of their entire civilization was almost eliminated.  Seeking to bring out all of the different elements that bound them together as a people....that benefitted them even more than it did the person digging in a database with a mind to showcase.  Even if they hadn’t been able to grab anything, memories could be shared and a collective experience could be created.  It was worth it to carefully preserve and research, and Ruva was more than willing to help.

 As he gazed off to the side, a tiny flash caught his eye.  He focused along the right edge of the split ops panel.  A tiny alert he’d programmed was flashing, triggered by parameters he had put in place.  The only way he had spotted it as it began was because he had been gazing absently in that direction.

 Here and now flooded back into his mind and he pulled it over, stared, then swiped the sensor menu over and looked at source input.  Passive scans, networked by all three ships, the Quadrant thankfully not the lightweight in this category as it seemed to be a tactical alert....

 He pulled back, then looked across the quiet bridge.  At that exact moment, Commander Irfa’s head was swinging in his direction.  “You saw it,” he said as their gazes met.

 “The change, absolute 310 mark 15,” Irfa said as she manipulated her screen.  “They just changed heading.”

 Ruva was nodding.  “Straight heading now,” he said, adjusting his seat and marginalizing his search.  “Looks like they’re coming this way.”

 Irfa’s head bobbed.  “Commander Karn, to the bridge.”

 Ruva flicked over to the Sovereign’s telemetry and confirmed off of their primary arrays.  They were already flashing an automated alert, and it showed the same thing Ruva’s panel did.  Two cylon vessels of the same type were now incoming.  A wry comment went through his head–they either hadn’t learned or their comms were still down.  It was a certainty Starfleet wasn’t going to wait for this one to happen.

 He saw the commander on the bridge before it registered that he had either not verbally acknowledged the call or had done so uncharacteristically quietly.  Irfa was already reporting the finding.  “The two cylon vessels we were tracking have changed heading, absolute coordinates 310 mark 15, now heading this way,” she said, adjusting her position in the custom chair.  “No other course changes.  Sovereign and Enterprise report no outgoing communication from the local targets.”

 Karn stood still as he listened to Irfa’s report, and when she was done, he cocked his head quizzically.  “Oh, really.”

 Ruva saw Selonna’s head dip at the ironic tone.  The commander had a way of combining sarcasm or irony with other expressions in a way that was almost calculated to make Selonna laugh, and if Ruva didn’t know better, he would think it was intentional.  Selonna made no secret of the fact that she wore a device recently developed to inhibit or minimize the pheromones, but Karn was so professional and dry the private wonder of the crew was if he was actually a biological lifeform.  Selonna had laughed and assured them he was, but when they pestered her with questions, she only smiled and shook her head.  Cards were played very, very close, but Ruva strongly suspected there was a polite desert between the two, despite a couple of giggles in the crew.  The sole driving factor was Selonna’s race, and the identity of the other person didn’t matter.

 “I have sent an acknowledgment to the other vessels,” Irfa said, having turned back to her panel.  “My feel is there will likely be a dispatch, and likely us.”

 Karn was nodding.  “Good odds on that.  What’s their ETA?” he asked, looking over at Ruva.

 “Uhmm...”  Ruva ran two scans with optical and infrared scopes, hoping to not disrupt local communications, then shook his head and tapped into the larger vessels’ scans.  The Sovereign’s placement gave it the best perspective, so he loaded them in and verified as best he could.  “Less than a sixteenth.”

 Karn froze for a second, then appeared to mentally reset.  “A sixteenth,” he repeated.  “Of...”

 Ruva was nodding.  “Less than a sixteenth of a light year.  Their current velocity, it’ll be days, but we could....be there in less than half an hour at warp five.”

 “Alright...”  Karn’s gaze had gone unfocused for a moment, and then he took a deep breath.  “Alright.  They probably already know, but open a channel—”

 “Enterprise to Quadrant.”

 He smiled and shook his head, them mouthed the words ‘to the Enterprise’ that only Ruva could see.  “Quadrant here,” he said, crossing over to the center chair as the main viewer lit up with the image of the command well of a Galaxy class ship.  “You beat us by about two seconds, sir.”

 The pale-skinned humanoid in the center chair gave a slight head tilt.  “Are you referring to the course change of the two cylon vessels?” he asked, more confirmation than a question, and Karn nodded.

 “Yes, the two with absolute bearing 310, mark...15?”

 “That is correct.  The Quadrant is to proceed on an intercept course, make contact, and deter them by any means necessary.  Force is authorized, but preferably not absolute lethality.”

 “Idea being turn them into our messengers?”

 Another slight head tilt and a second of hesitation.  “Correct.”

 “Alright, two quest–er, issues,” Karn corrected.  “First, there’s two of them and one of me.  Given the distance, I’d like full capability at my disposal.”

 “Authorized.”

 “Second, race identification.  How far are we minded to go?”

 Identifying human crew would get the cylons looking closely at the Quadrant.  Ruva had no doubt they would be able to defend themselves and send the cylons running with equal ease if what they’d seen from them so far was representative.  If these refugees were a minor annoyance that only low-capability vessels were sent to hunt, though, they could potentially orient a powerful empire towards the Federation in the span of a few words.

 They had relatively little time to sharpen the approach, but Ruva suspected the postures had already been planned over his head in the hours prior to their arrival.  Commander Karn had been part of it, he knew, and the almost cryptic wording of the question suggested a complex decision tree.

 “Assuming audio contact only, identification is authorized only if you are specifically asked.  If the default is video, I would recommend your first officer, Lieutenant Commander Irfa, make the contact.”

 “Exactly what I was thinking,” Karn said, looking to his right.  “Alright, will do.”

 “Very good.  Enterprise out.”

 Karn sat back, silent and still for a moment, and just as Selonna glanced back to him questioningly, he responded.  “Drop us out of the field, minus fifteen kilometers, then set intercept course at warp five.”

 “You have a posture in mind?” Irfa asked.  “Or did you object...”

 “Hmm?  Me?  No,” he said abruptly, glancing back at her.  “Just thinking....oh, by the way, mark your bucket lists,” he said, glancing back around the bridge.  “ That was Lieutenant Commander Data, of course.  No,” he continued more seriously, “I was just thinking about what will the colonists’ response to him be.”

 “If there was any objection, I do not think it would...survive long.  I think his fellow officers are protective of him,” Irfa said thoughtfully.  “His rank and position are also significant.”

 “Oh, hell, yeah.  He’s a frikken’ prize of an officer,” Karn muttered, sincere.  “But those people have been fighting constructs.  Can they make the distinction?” he asked, pensive.

 “We could mention he did just dispatch a Defiant-class ship to greet the cylons,” Selonna said with mocking wide-eyed excitement.

 “You think they’d see this as an overkill response from him?”

 “Do we know enough about the cylons and their technology to be confident of overkill?” Irfa asked, eyes narrowing in her equivalent of a frown.

 “Well, looking at it logically, they’ve had millenia to take these people down.  That final genocide...”

 Ruva didn’t have perspective, but with knowledge of what the cylons had done, he could guess what the pause was.  It was confirmed when Selonna turned around, tense and uncertain, focusing on Karn.  After a moment, he continued in a carefully controlled voice.  “That final act was done through mechanics, sheer numbers, and a carefully chosen traitor on the inside.  It’s possible they withheld some capability, but given the scale it would be highly unusual to not use their most advanced capabilities.  Those two pilots informed us this array of ships is typical, so I do believe we’re throwing a Defiant-class against trash and I don’t have a problem with that.”

 “The Enterprise report found evidence of an extremely slow technological advancement path,” Irfa said quietly.  “On both sides.”

 “All the same, I intend to take nothing for granted,” Karn said, resettling himself in the command chair.  “We’re coming in with shields up, no weapons locks but loaded and ready.  Full scans to make sure we’re dealing with what we think we’re dealing with.  I will start civil, but if their response and understanding remains consistent with what we’ve seen from them so far, well....I’m not going to be nice,” he finished simply.

 Selonna turned back to her station after a communicating look to Irfa.  With full capability on the table, the outcome wouldn’t be in question, Ruva knew.  History was up for grabs, though, as this would be the first time the Federation would have independent contact with the cylons.  Even in the face of what the constructs had done to these colonials, the Quadrant would have to approach it as a neutral contact.  That would end the moment the cylons got racial indicators.  If their hatred of the human colonials also translated to hatred of Sol sector, the cylons would get their first taste of their new enemy.

 Ruva glanced over at the small label of his minimized search in the refugee records.  His exploration would wait, 

(once again, fire the editor/writer--oh, right. she's fired already.)

Chapter Text

 Nicob pushed the bright white, furry filter hard against the casing and heard a satisfying click.  All around the edge, multiple pairs of hands compressed, pushed, squeezed, and even punched the edge of the two-metron filter into the casing.  The dull red, pliable edge gradually became completely flush with the casing, and then Nicob pushed it into the housing.  He pulled the gap cover over, then reached for the main power switch.  “Alright. Blessed lords of Kobol....”

 The heavy click of the switch was followed by the rising white noise sound of the fan starting, and the filter light flicked to green.  A chorus of relief, victory, and even released frustration went up from those in the chamber, and Nicob stepped back to watch for a moment, seeing all the indicators in the control panel in green.  The ducts rattled briefly and then settled as they filled back to their normal tension levels.

 “That’ll take a little bit to get through,” Nicob said, swirling a finger in the air.  Parza nodded, smiling at the reaction in the room as their circulator started to function properly for the first time since they’d been running.

 “True, but pretty soon we can turn off the filter aspect on our scrubber and just rely on the oxygen.  Once that gets to twenty-one percent you should be good.”

 “Check the ducts,” one of them said.  “There’s one to the main bridge that’s blocked.”

 “There’s a hell of a lot that’s blocked on the bridge,” Nicob said heavily.  “One duct....”  He waved his hand dismissively.

 “Well, we should get to all of them.”

 “You still think you’re gonna get on the bridge?” Nicob asked as they started to file out of the utilities area.

 “I obviously think we should try,” Parza said as they came into the main corridor of the lowest deck.  “There doesn’t seem to be a point in not addressing it.”  The tall alien dodged the hanging utility lights deftly and reached the ladder to the next deck.

 “You’re gonna have to bash through a heavy security door.”

 “We’ll see.”

 When the last of them had climbed the ladder back up to the fourth deck, Parza shouldered the pack he had brought and started down the corridor, slowing to look closely at the exposed piping and ducts.  “Were those always exposed?  Looks like there’s some edges....”  He reached up and ran a hand along some indents near the top of the corridor.

 “Took off the covers.  Didn’t need ‘em but needed the metal for stuff.”

 “Yeah.  We don’t need the ship to be pretty,” another one said with a laugh.  The mirth faded, though, when Parza’s gaze became contemplative.

 “I mean, I admire the ingenuity, but....” he shook his head with some sadness.  “I just...wish you weren’t forced to live like this.”  His gaze swept the length of the hallway.

 “Wipe out the gallmonging cylons and then take control away from the rich to get us the supplies and parts we need,” another one said with a mixture of sarcasm and jest.  “We could’a had this stuff fixed a while ago.”

 “You mean there’s uneven distribution?  Not according to need but according to want?” Parza asked in frowning confusion.

 “Yep!” came the belligerent answer.  “Go lookit the Rising Star.  The beautiful fixtures, the fancy food, the damn swimming pool...” the speaker said, dancing mockingly down the corridor a few steps.

 “Not even the commander could stop that one,” Nicob said, gaze dropping to the deck.  “Got strangled with legal fine print in the Quorum on that one.  I know someone who knows someone who says he’s still fuming over it and that was almost a yahren ago.”

 Parza sighed, then appeared to reach a decision.  “So, who here is objecting to spending time and effort getting your bridge back?” he asked expectantly, getting his enthusiastic response.

 “I mean, by all means, try,” Nicob said emphatically.  “But it’s not just a matter of prying the door open with a screwdrill.  It’s sealed for a reason.”

 “Well, I’m going to have a look,” Parza said determinedly, starting down the corridor again.  “I at least want to see why it’s blocked.”

 He hadn’t gone far before the cadet emerged from one of the side rooms, giving him a significant registering glance but saying nothing.  “Did you find it?” he asked.  Her gaze returned to him.

 “There’s multiple generators for the grav network.  Two got burned out.  Base is fabricating converters ‘cause I guess a bunch of ‘em got fried,” she said, her quiet recitation fading into amused annoyance and an eyeroll.

 “ETA?”

 “They don’t know,” she said with quiet sarcasm.  “Half the problem here is a blocked duct that made another one overheat and melt nearby casings.  I’m just trying to figure out where the dang block is.”

 “What’s a ‘dang block’?”

 The cadet hunched into a silent laugh, turning away, and Parza waved the comment away, flustered.  “No, no.  It’s just an expression of frustration,” he explained.

 “Sorry,” she said in good-natured defeat.  “You’ll hear a few words, following me around.  They get worse than that.”

 “But she’s not going to be using them here,” Parza said without heavy-handedness, and there was an acknowledging eyeroll.

 “Anyway.  I’ll keep hunting,” she said, holding up a device she was carrying.

 “If she’s looking for a blocked duct....” Nicob said thoughtfully.  “The blue pipe?  About so big?”  He held his hands about a head-width apart, and her full attention swung back to him.  “We traced that one up to the next deck, in the living areas, but didn’t want to pull up the decking.  That’s the one we were talking about,” he said, turning to Parza.

 “Why didn’t you want to pull up the decking?”

 “Pain in the ass.”

 Parza tried and failed to cover a laugh over the blunt admission, and the cadet curled up again.  “Technically difficult or materials challenges?” he managed around the laugh.

 “Kinda both, and it gets into family areas, and there were higher priorities.”

 “Alright, well...”  Parza looked around, thinking.  “If she traces that, first, will she have access to where she needs to go?  Are there any off-limits areas?”

 “Not really,” Nicob shrugged.  “But someone should go with her while she barges into family rooms.”

 “I could do it.”  The speaker, a young male, held up his hand.  Nicob looked at another in the group.

 “He’s your kid, Silas.”

 Silas, prematurely gray in his forties, nodded while still looking at the floor.  “Galeb’s good.”  The seventeen-yahren-old shouldered his way to the front, gaze on the floor like his father.

 “Alright, Galeb?  And Ms. Harper.  If the decking gives you trouble, authorized to fabricate replacement braces,” Parza said into an eyeroll from the cadet that was almost audible.

 “Yes, sir, Mr. Ensign Parza,” she said mockingly with a slow smile.  She motioned with her head and Galeb followed her, almost a third of a metron taller than her.

 “Professional,” Parza called after her.

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

 After retrieving a small case, Kassi Harper and Galeb started to trace the piping through the deck.  The residents were absent from the first two family compartments they went into.  The piping angled up into the next deck and they climbed up after it, following a miniaturized schematic projection from the instrument the cadet held.  The fourth compartment they came to finally produced a blocked sonar tone through the deck of a compartment with a woman and her two children.

 “There we go,” Kassi said forcefully, looking at the return of a dark mass inside the pipe.  Galeb stared closely at the projected screen, reaching out, and his finger passed through the projection.  The woman, barely in her 20s, looked at it and started shaking her head.

 “That pulled up Kella’s room.  I don’t want to move,” she said, hugging her two-yahren-old close to her.  “They pulled up her room and then she had to move.  She’s in a space half that size on a cattle ship.  I can’t go there.  I have the little ones,” she said in a shaking voice.

 “You shouldn’t have to move,” Kassi said calmly, rotating the display to see it better.  “We can get it out and you can stay here.  I just have to....”  She reached around behind her on the deck and grabbed the case.

 “Have to what?  Pull up the floor and then kick me out?” the woman asked, her voice rising.  “I don’t want to leave—”

 “You won’t have to leave.”  The deliberate, measured words pulled everyone’s attention to the doorway.  Parza was standing there, hands braced on the door frame.  “The technology we have at our disposal is significant.  You will get to keep this room.”

 The woman edged away from the tall alien.  “That’s what they told Kella–”

 “These are different,” Galeb spoke up.  “They fixed the air circulator and the filter.  And our communications.  They’re gonna try to get the main control deck back, too.”

 “I will make a promise to you,” Parza said, looking down at her.  “I promise you, formally, that you will not have to move.  I promise we will be able to fix this blockage, your floor will return to the exact same condition it is right now, and you will stay here.  I will additionally go one better.  We will leave it in better condition than when we came in.  Everywhere we go there are little things like broken switches, defunct piping, worn-out filters, and damaged conduits.  Let us know what’s not working here and we will return it to normal function.”

 “The turbowash drain,” the older of the two children blurted out.  The woman gave a silencing look to her child, but Parza pounced on it.

 “We’re doing plumbing,” he said promptly, looking at Kassi, and she nodded.

 “We can do that.”

Chapter Text

 “Impressions of infrastructure and function?”

 “Weird.”

 “Complex and highly organized.  Very different but in an odd way similar.  But even with the ranks, they’re not military.  They’re tourists.”

 “Impressions of level of technology?”

 “Frightening.  Powerful.”

 “They’ve had those systems for a long time.  The use was so casual and functional it’s clear it’s native, for a given definition of native.”

 “Overall impressions?”

 “Alien.”

 Sheba and Starbuck both looked at each other after they said the same word together.  Cassiopeia raised an eyebrow.

 “Why do I get the impression neither of you are taking this interview seriously?”

 “We are!” Sheba insisted.  “But you’re looking for short, simple answers and that’s not a short, simple civilization.  It’s not a one-ship show.  It’s vast.”

 “And alien,” Starbuck added, pulling out a fumarello.

 Cassiopeia sat back with a sigh, letting the keyboard go.  The post-contact interview was a relatively rare happening, given that they were sprinters, not explorers, but it was clear even the brief exposure these two warriors had was not going to fit into the space she had allowed.  Any outside contact they had was to be recorded, including and especially instances of boarding other vessels.  It wasn’t standard procedure by a long shot that warriors would be the ones doing the exploring, though, and they didn’t have the training to note the subtleties of clothing composition, greeting protocols, and presence of internal furnishings.  They were trained to respond to outside threats, not outside contacts.

 The questionnaire was also admittedly from over one hundred yahren ago, back when there had been a temporary lull in cylon attacks and some of the colonies had tried some local exploring.  When put into practice, the outdated questions showed their superficiality and inadequacy.  Technology could be broken into fifteen different areas at least, and the reportedly bewildering array of beings that just Sheba and Starbuck had encountered broke the question about impressions of race.  Even the appearance of the ships was intimidating.  Their fundamental concept of being in an artificial construct in space might as well be from another universe with different physics.  She couldn’t ignore what they’d done to this point, but any deep conversations were going to have to be translated in more than just language.

 Cassiopeia put a hand to her forehead, sighing, and pulled out a small block of paper and a stylus.  “Alright, let’s do it like this,” she said.  “The different races you saw.  Pick one of the people and describe them.”

 “Pointy slant.”

 Sheba rolled her eyes.  “Try not going for the one-word pick-ups and actually describe.  Yes, there was someone with black hair, pointed ears, and eyebrows that looked like someone drew slanted marks on their brow,” she recited almost wearily.  “I forget the name, don’t remember if it was his name or his race name, but it started with the letter V.”

 “You don’t remember.”

 “I was very tired,” Sheba said icily, and Starbuck held out a staying hand.

 “Alright, let’s just take a breath here, alright,” he said in a conciliatory voice, glancing at both of them.  “I remember at least four different races, and please note, one of them appeared to be human.”

 “How do you know?  What did he look like?”

 “Angry.”

 “Probably because you tried to belt ‘pointy slant’,” Sheba returned.

 “I was very tired.”

 Cassiopeia looked down at the keyboard and wondered if the cord was long enough to allow her to throw it at the two warriors.  If she missed, she’d be able to pull it back and try again.

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

 Colonel Tigh sat on the edge of a chair at one of the side stations in core command, staring at the list of repairs just on Galactica.  A surprising amount were completed already, including a now fully functional pair of capital cannons on Galactica’s nose.  Nodi’s landing in Beta this morning was a successful test of their cobbled-together decking and marginally functional atmospheric barriers.  If he was being honest, the radiation leaks would take a couple of sectons to repair, but honesty also stated they didn’t have the raw materials to correct them.  Repairs to the fleet was, of course, turning into a tangled nightmare.  The Federation ship Enterprise had suggested a recommendation to use the Taura Observer for scrap, and they were working on getting another ship out here for their use.  But that depended on....

 Earth.

 Tigh rolled the name around in his head.  Those five letters changed everything.  Rearranged priorities, changed moods, complicated things, smoothed others out.  Earth.  The planet he privately doubted existed was suddenly represented by three ships sitting next to them, ships from a radically different philosophy, filled with crew just as novel.  And sitting within a few thousand metrics of them were three silent basestars and an equally inactive gunship.  They were running scans continually, and not only did they know which weapons systems the cylons had closest to operational status, names were written on the projectile warheads they used, some kind of torpedoes.  The technology alone was enough to convince him that at the least, this was a civilization whose philosophy had departed from their own course millennia ago.  He wanted to say this was suspiciously perfect, but then he remembered the existential desperation of half a cycle ago.  They had paid the price for this save.

 Tigh glanced behind him at the main bridge.  Corporal Omega had gamely returned to his station after only seven centares of sleep, and he was still yawning as he tracked information from the repairs and communicated with different crews.  Rigel was still absent, and many of the others who had pulled heroic shifts yesterday were not back on duty.  And not one of them yet knew the origin of the ships sitting next to them.

 At the same moment Tigh’s gaze landed on the entrance to the bridge, Athena came through the braces.  She was walking slowly, carrying Boxey on her hip.  After her, the commander came through, hands clasped behind his back, ponderingly listening to Dr. Wilker just behind him.  He couldn’t tell if Adama was merely humoring the scientist but the man was animated and gesturing and it didn’t seem to be anger.  Tigh got up and started to cross the bridge to the small gathering.

 “...vapor deposition method has been proposed in the past but only theoretical, because the stock would have to be so specialized,” the scientist was saying to a bemused Adama.  “But what could be done instead is print or create the plants in a half-grown state, finish the growing cycle in real-time, harvest, and then recycle the remains back into the system.”

 “In fact, Dr. Wilker, such a method has already been proposed by two of their top people,” Adama broke in.  “Food and fuel are top priorities, regardless, and the meeting this afternoon will bring more light on a number of topics,” he said with a knowing look at Tigh as he joined them.  “There are a number of options being discussed, but I wouldn’t jump to too many conclusions yet on how matter cycles between their systems.  We have a lot to learn yet.”

 “If I could speak with their scientists,” Dr. Wilker said, clasping his hands together firmly, “we could combine ideas and resources on a number of solutions.  If we do scrap the Taura Observer, the raw materials could become stock much more quickly than our smelters.  It would take centares, not sectons.”

 Adama nodded solemnly.  “This situation won’t be resolved quickly.  We do have time and there will be opportunities.”

 “Good, yes.  Good....”  Dr. Wilker nodded hurriedly, on the edge of begging as he started to move away.  “There is so much, there is such an opportunity....”

 Tigh struggled to keep a straight face until the dazzled, excited scientist finally picked up on the finality of the statements and managed to depart, like a child exiting a sweets shop.  “Before we start staking territory, we have a first contact meeting,” he said as they paused at the base of the command tower.  “On that note, sir, do you have ideas on who will be attending?”

 Adama sighed.  “The Quorum...the Quorum will accept no reasonable solution.  I imagine all of them will insist on being there.”

 “Is there a limit on how many can go?” Athena asked, still holding a silent, sad-eyed Boxey.

 “I think the more operative question is how many can listen, sir,” Tigh said in sudden insight.  “The Quorum is not going to be interested in the minutiae of who is transferring to what ship and how individual repairs are coming along, are they?” he asked as Adama started nodding.  “I’m sure they wouldn’t want to waste their very important time on looking at schematics and calculating tonnage and carrying capacity, don’t you think?”

 Adama was trying and failing to suppress a smile.  “I do believe that’s entirely possible.”

 “I don’t know if that will work for long,” Athena said, smiling and shaking her head.

 “It just has to work long enough,” Tigh said.  “Especially if we tell them there will be a second meeting on a later date that focuses on the fleet situation and the path going forward.”

 “Truthfully, the most pressing issue is repairs,” Adama said, gaze on the floor.  “That isn’t a Quorum matter.  And speaking of repairs,” he said, looking expectantly at Tigh, “Carrier status.  Report?”

 “There’s an updated list of completed repairs in the system.  Hull work is going to be a problem, but some systems are back up.  I’m happy to report that Galactica has her fangs back,” he said with deep satisfaction.  “Front cannons are now fully operational.  Most radar systems are returned, we can now communicate clearly with main engines but still working on control lines.  A programming interchange with Enterprise is still in progress, hasn’t even been tested yet but it shouldn’t be very long before our systems can communicate.  They anticipate additional hardware may be necessary because of our systems memory limitations.”

 “Alright, very good.”  Adama glanced at him, then his gaze returned to the floor for a moment.  Tigh held his breath, glancing at Athena.  Instinctively he knew that she hadn’t been told yet.  All it would take is a silent communicating look to acknowledge it, the fact that there was just one more life-encompassing issue to cover in the course of these meetings.  How do you get seventy-seven thousand desperate humans across a vast distance to a planet many of them had taken for nothing more than a pious story.

 “I have some priority lists to set up,” Adama said into the silence, “and Tigh, I’ll need your help on them.”  He gave Tigh a steady stare and a nod.  “Beyond that, I understand our warriors will be returning this morning and we also have the vipers outside Beta.  One of us should visit the refugees on the Enterprise as well.  That may actually fall to me, but we’ll discuss.  We’ll also need to determine who gets the Observer’s fuel, if it is scrapped.”

 “I’ll get a check on engine types and see about pumps on our tankers.  I haven’t heard but I believe they’re still operational.”

 “If the Observer is scrapped, where are those people going to go?”  Athena’s question caused an exchanging look so obvious between Adama and Tigh that she noticed it.  “Where are they going to go?” she repeated, glancing back and forth between the two.

 Adama took a deep breath, staring resolutely ahead, and for a moment Tigh thought he was going to say it.  Then, “That is an extremely complex issue and I think it will involve these people,” he said with an indicating nod.  “I think....”  He turned in Athena’s direction but stared off past Boxey.  “I think what’s going to happen is Boxey will get his wish.  I think we’re going to go see your father first.”  His gaze came back to the boy, smiling as Boxey jumped as though shocked back to life.

 “Whoohooooo!” Boxey whooped, punching both arms into the air and narrowly missing clocking Athena.  She wisely lowered him to the floor and he immediately started jumping.  “Father!  I wanna go!  I wanna go now!”  Adama laughed gently.

 “Not right this moment, but within the next centar I hope to go over there.  There’s something I’d like to discuss with your father.”  A thread of annoyance crept into Boxey’s enthusiasm but the boy remained animated.

 “Can I go get in the shuttle?  What shuttle are we taking?  Can it fit over there?”

 “We’re going to travel by a completely different method, but more on that later.  Athena, as best you can, please watch him,” he said as his daughter returned her attention to him.  “I want to get a complete update here and then I’m going to enquire about a visit over there.  And I want you to come with,” he said, laying a hand on her forearm.  “What I have to propose involves you, too.”  Athena’s face had gone serious and then confused.

 “Father?”

 “There are decisions that are too big for one person to make,” he answered mysteriously.  “Fleet repairs are about to begin in earnest, I think, and I wish to be informed.  After that, we will talk.”

 “Sir?” Tigh said.

 “I think you will stay here for now,” Adama said, answering the unasked question.  “But you will likely attend the meeting this afternoon on the Enterprise with me.  There is...much to discuss.”

 “Yes, sir.”

 Adama started to climb the tower.  “I think it was a lifetime ago when we sent out a scout for a planetary system,” he said reflectively, pausing on the stairs.  “A lifetime ago...”  He trailed off on reaching the top stair.

 It was subtle, but Adama could see it–Omega was shaking.  The veteran bridge officer was sitting stiffly, gripping the visual communication pad from Enterprise in both hands.  He was staring at the screen, breathing shallowly through his mouth, and didn’t even register Adama’s presence.  Tigh frowned in confusion and started up the stairs.

 “Are you sure?” Omega was asking, riveted on the communication in his hands.  “Because I can absolutely tell you we cannot take anything right now...”

 “The technology mismatch is significant,” a matter-of-fact voice said.  Tigh came close enough that he got a look at the video screen.  He knew the voice–it was their commander, who was actually their second in command, but now he finally saw the man.  He was middle-aged, bearded, with blue eyes that looked like they could snap in anger as easily as hold a mischievous glint.  “The Quadrant is more than up to the task and we anticipate no challenge.  We’ll relay any communication from them but you can be assured one way or another, those vessels won’t be a factor here.”

 “May I ask what vessels?”  Adama directed his question to the screen, over Omega’s shoulder.

 “Commander,” the other man said with an acknowledging nod.  “We’ve been tracking two cylon vessels similar to the local ones and just noted a change in their heading, coming this way.  The U.S.S. Quadrant is on its way to deter them.  We’ll relay any communication from them but we anticipate no difficulties.  They won’t be a factor here.”

 “Scan the area,” Adama said firmly.  “They use refuellers to extend the range of their raiders and they could be closer than you think.  I’ll order the fleet to come in as close as possible...” he trailed off, uncertain, as the other man shook his head.

 “We’ve been scanning the area continually out to fifteen lightyears.  If it’s larger than a fist-sized asteroid, we’re tracking it.  The Sovereign spotted the vessels shortly after we arrived and has been tracking them ever since.”

 Adama shifted his stance, what Tigh always knew signaled dangerous incoming.  “You knew about them and didn’t inform me?”

 “I’m sorry, Commander, but we didn’t want to let you know about them until and unless they became an issue, and it’s an issue we can handle,” the man continued, as Adama straightened and crossed his arms on his chest.  “We didn’t want this to take your attention away from the fleet situation.”

 “Nonetheless, in the future I’d like to be informed of any such issues.  The fleet is my concern and I need to be able to make informed decisions.  I appreciate the information and I thank you for informing me of this change, but the reality is that we’ve been facing and surviving this nightmare for a thousand yahren up to this point.  Are there any other such issues currently active?”

 “None come to mind but I’ll talk to our departments and get a full status picture to you before the meeting.”  There was no more verbal apology but a subdued tone represented as much as Tigh thought they were going to get.  “We’ll have the Quadrant communicate with you directly when they resolve the situation.”

 Adama gave a steadying sigh.  “Very good.  We will likewise put together a complete status report.  If we are to work together, complete honesty is best.”

 There was a conceding nod from the other man.  “Understood.”

 “While I have you here, I would like a general status on our people,” Adama continued, shifting tone.  One trait that Tigh envied in his superior officer was the ability to reprimand and then almost immediately forget, a genuine shedding of ill will.  “For many of them, it’s the first time they’ve been separated from the fleet since we left.  Have there been any difficulties?”

 To his credit, the other officer had the same instincts, changing tone as well.  “We have our medical and contact people working with them right now.  There’s been a few cases of frostbite and some radiation damage but no serious cases, no amputations, no significant permanent damage.  I can have our chief medical officer get back to you with a more detailed view if you’d like.”

 “I would appreciate that very much.  There is one other matter in addition, if I may ask.”

 “Go ahead.”

 “There is a...certain significant issue I believe you’ve been informed of,” Adama said in a measured tone.  “I would like the...opportunity to discuss it with my son, either over here or alternatively I could come there.  If I do come there, however, I would like to bring my daughter and grandson.  They would like to be present, I think,” he said as the other man nodded.

 “I’m aware of the issue you’re referring to,” came the equally careful response.  “My understanding is the viper pilots were going to be attempting returns this morning, depending on the state of their vessels and your bay, but your son could return sooner.  I’ll have our medical contact you, but it’s highly likely he’s cleared for return already.”

 “Thank you.  The warrior that landed in our Beta bay this morning said it was rough but doable, so I don’t anticipate them taking up room in your bay much longer.  Once that gets to a minimum standard, we’ll be able to shift some people over to helping on the fleet repairs.  I’ve been told we have a priority list set up but now that the critical damage has been...”  Adama trailed off at the other man’s expression.

 “Commander....we’ve got crews out there already.”

 “Your repair crews?  They’re in the fleet working already?”

 Despite the situation, Tigh found himself suppressing a smile at the look of consternation.  “They’ve been—we’ll send an immediate notification out.”

 “Notification of what?” Athena asked.

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

 “Goddammit!”

 The pinkish-tan metal panel buckled with a loud snap under pressure from the three-foot crowbar.  Kassi Harper nearly went head over heels as the pressure was suddenly released, her outspread hands saving her from a face plant.  The two children pulled back at the outburst, wide-eyed and stiff as the tiny engineer regained her balance, scowling at the bent floor panel.  “Gaaah!  What the hell is holding this thing?”

 “I told you it was hard,” the woman, Seraine, said as she shook her head slowly.  “They couldn’t get it back in place with Kella.”

 Still angry but now starting to think, Kassi got to her feet and studied the bent panel that now gave her at least a glimpse of the struts below.  Cloth rugs were pulled back and a small dresser had been moved in order to access the metal decking panel right next to the wall.  Small crowbars, drills, powerful magnets, and even plasma torches had been either considered or used in order to get the panel to budge.  A large rubber hammer was discarded nearby, what she had used to pound the crowbar into the crack in the floor.  “There’s no frikken screws or anything I can see,” she muttered, getting down again and grabbing the flashlight, shining it into the gap.

 “Frikken screws?”

 She rolled her eyes.  “Sorry,” she said heavily.  “Yet another word that Parza shouldn’t hear.”

 “There’s been about fifteen of those now.”

 Despite her frustration, Kassi grinned.  “Just don’t tell him.”

 “You...so, do you think you can get that back in?  When the thing is fixed?”

 “This thing?”  Kassi looked back at her.  “Yeah.  Maybe not the exact same panel but...well, maybe we can recycle it and use the metal for the replacement,” she said, voice going soft in contemplation as she bent down close to the floor to see into the gap.  “But I’m pretty da–pretty certain we can use better construction than this thing.”

 Heads turned when they heard voices through the door, and after a moment, the panel slid to the side.  “Got it up?” Parza asked, leaning into the room with a bracing hand on the frame.  He had a pack slung over his shoulder, and his uniform now had faint gray swipes on it.

 “Yeah, after using a f— a three-foot crowbar on it,” Kassi said contemptuously, a foot kicking out and knocking the heavy black crowbar to the side.  “But not all the way.  Yet.”

 “How is it held?”

 “I still can’t figure it out—I know,” she said in sudden insight, converging on the tool case and starting to pull up layers from the case.

 “Can I come in?” Parza asked in quick courtesy.  The woman nodded absently, and he stepped over the low threshold.  “It’s only that section?”  He got down on the floor and peered at it as Kassi pulled a small, delicate tool from the case.  She pulled more pieces and attached them to the first one, ending up with a three-foot-long cable with a small readout attached to one end.

 “I’m gonna see if there’s a middle attachment or something.  It shoulda bent the whole length but something’s holding it in the middle.”

 Parza got back to his feet, dusting his hands off and watching as Kassi pulled out a complex gray assembly that looked like a five-point snowflake.  She pressed it to the back of her right hand and the rays telescoped down to her fingers.  The cross-pieces curved around her fingers, like an exoskeleton for her hand.

 “What is that?” Seraine murmured in confusion.

 Kassi looked back at her and grinned.  “It’s what’s gonna get me my engi degree.”

 “You still need a good name for that.  The one you told me...won’t work.”

 She laughed.  “You’re...you’re just no fun,” she settled on.

 “No, I’m saving you from having a truly embarrassing submission name at the top of the file.”  The calm explanation only made her laugh again.

 “What was it?” Seraine asked with a frown.

 “No, I was just being silly,” Kassi said as Parza started frantically waving a hand.

 “No, please, no, we’re moving on,” he said quickly to Kassi’s continued snickering.

 “I needed something that would fit me,” she said frankly to the confused woman.  “This scope system comes with a glove, but it’s so frikken big–I mean, so big,” she amended, giving Parza an eyeroll in apology.  “It’s too big for me,” she continued emphatically, “so I wanted something that would fit my hand and can fit other people’s hands, too.  When I sync it with the scope, I can move the scope around any way I want without having to cope with a giant glove.”  She flexed her right hand, then reached for the attachment at the end of the long cable.

 “If you think about it, it’s kind of odd that no one else thought of this before,” Parza said as he watched her activate a small holographic screen and start sliding indicators around.  “It’s surprising we don’t have more size-adaptive equipment than we do, with all the different races in Starfleet.”

 Quiet up to this point, the older child asked, “What race are you?  You look like a human, only smaller.”

 Kassi burst out laughing, falling to the side and bumping her head on the pulled-up panel.  Parza slapped a hand over his mouth and turned away, trying to smother a laugh.  “Elleth!” Seraine snapped in reprimand to her older daughter.  Fear and laughter warred on the girl’s face, torn between her mother’s irritation and the obvious mirth of the other two.  Parza tried to wave it away, shaking with laughter.

 “Oh, God, I think I’m gonna pee myself,” Kassi squeaked, struggling to breathe.

 “Alright, just–”  With a supreme effort, Parza managed to get himself under control for a moment.  “It’s alright,” he got out before ducking his head again.  Seraine looked away, awkward, not able to impress her daughter with her disapproval in the face of the laughing.

 “It’s still rude to comment on race like that,” she muttered, glancing darkly at her daughter whose face was frozen in cautious hope.  The girl hid behind her hands as the two engineers regained some composure.

 “That wasn’t—I didn’t—” Parza began, holding up both hands defensively to Kassi, and she shook her head with her trademark eyeroll, still grinning.

 “I’m efficient.  I get more done with less,” she said to him with mock belligerence, showing no offence.  “Yeah, I’m small, but I can kick A better than anyone else in my class.”

 “This is true,” Parza said, nodding emphatically, still smiling.  “When I saw her academic record in the incoming cadets, I maneuvered to get her as my student,” he said, directing the comment to Seraine.

 “Small but fierce,” Kassi said, flexing her geared right hand.  The head of the cable curled in tandem with her hand movements.  “All hooked up.  I’m goin’ in.”  She repositioned herself, sitting cross-legged in front of the bent decking.  The cable end was pushed into the opening.

 “So, what race are you?” Elleth asked quietly as she watched the exploratory surgery into the deck.  The attachment at the other end, a small flat screen with readouts on it, threw up a holographic image showing the irregular view of floor joists and supports.

 “I am human,” Kassi said, smiling as she repositioned the image.  She held her right hand free, abstract movements causing changes in the view on the image.  “Now I can finally figure out how this thing is constructed...”  She squinted closely at the view as the cable moved in deeper.

 “If you’re human, what world are you from?”

 “Not really from a world.  Well...sorta Titan.  Technically T-dock.  Titandock.  A station orbiting a moon called Titan which is around a big gas planet called Saturn,” she said conversationally as she scoped the floor space.  “I came out premature which is why I’m small.  My parents couldn’t make it to Earth or even Spacedock so they–”

 “What?”  A gasped word cut her off.  Both engineers looked over and their expressions melted into neutral, controlled masks.  “What? Seraine repeated.  Her daughter, Elleth, had turned to them, wide-eyed and jaw slowly dropping.

 “What...what’s wrong?” Parza asked, serious and calculating, trying to gauge their reactions.  “Premature?  Earth?  Spacedock?  Titan–”

 “Earth?” the woman breathed softly.  She sounded both vowels separately, as though sounding out the word from a different language.  Elleth turned woodenly to face them directly.

 “What does that word mean to you?” Parza asked carefully, staying still as a statue.  The woman’s breathing was starting to come in deep, hyperventilating breaths.  Even the younger child had slowed movements, looking back and forth between them but not understanding.

 “Earth,” Seraine repeated.  “You’re from Earth?  You know...where it is?”

 Parza glanced sidelong at Kassi, then back to the woman.  “I’m not comfortable answering questions until you tell me what your aim is,” he said, keeping his voice even.  “Tell me what the planet means to you.”

 “It’s...real?”

 “Perhaps,” Parza returned with a hint of sharpness.  “No information until you tell me what it means to you.”

 The woman’s gaze went from Parza to Kassi and back.  “It’s...where...”  She took some deep breaths as if to steady herself.  “We’re searching...”

 “For Earth?  Why?”

 “To live.  Home, safe, away from the cylons, haven...”

 “Is it you?  Or this entire fleet?”

 “Fleet,” she said, starting to get her breath, but her voice was still soft and dumbfounded.  “We’re running...away.  The cylons.  Looking, searching for Earth.   Hoping...you’re human?” she asked, looking at Harper.  “From Earth?  You know where it is?”

 Kassi started to shake her head and a soft three-beat buzz pattern shifted her attention.  Parza reached for his tricorder.  With one touch, the urgent message displayed.  ‘Engi away teams, do not discuss or mention Earth in any way with colonists.  Information control.  Substitute Mars.’  He tilted it towards Kassi so she could read, then bowed his head.

 “Fuck,” he muttered quietly.

Chapter Text

 “So, how do you get cylon ships to drop speed?”

 “Engage them at speed?”

 “Kind of don’t want to be the one to fire first,” Commander Karn murmured, sitting forward in the center chair.  The main viewer displayed a graphic showing the closing distance between the Quadrant and the two cylon vessels.  The limitations of lightspeed communication made it impossible to communicate with the constructs, and the difference in physical size between the ships added another layer of challenge.  To the cylons, size equaled power, and power equaled respect, enough for an audience.  The Quadrant simply did not rate their attention.  It had taken significant damage for the cylons to notice them yesterday, while the other two ships had been targeted almost immediately on arrival.

 “We could probably spoof their sensors, or scanners,” Lieutenant Ruva said softly, frowning at the ops panel.  “If we could get them to think we’re their size....”

 “Enough to get them to stop,” Commander Irfa said slowly, as much proposal as question.

 Ruva shrugged.  “Infrared, microwave, x-ray, we might be able to get them to doubt their optics or anything else they have enough to stop and investigate.”

 “Something unnatural enough to trigger any innate capacity for inquiry...” Karn said softly, thinking.  “Present them with a signature they’ll find confusing....but failing that, we can tap them with a torpedo,” he finished, looking at Irfa questioningly.

 “This will take a significant reconfigure,” she warned.

 “Helm, drop us from warp,” Karn said.  “Get us a few more minutes.”

 “Dropping envelope now,” Selonna said, her hand sliding down her panel.  “ETA is now eleven hours, twenty-five minutes.”

 “Configure, then re-enter warp,” Irfa said, swinging around to look at Ruva.  “Prioritize x-ray over infrared due to hardware conflicts.  We will also need to sit offset from their course by approximately two degrees for the delivery.”  Ruva nodded and began reconfiguring nearby interfaces in preparation.

 “After delivery, we’ll back off at high thrust.  I don’t put it past them to ram us,” Karn put in.  “Tack the torpedo option on at the end as a last resort on my command so it doesn’t dissipate any of our emissions.  We’ll queue it up, then do a short jump at warp 4 for positioning.  How much time do you need?”

 “Ten minutes?” Ruva guessed, looking to Irfa for confirmation, and she whistled softly through her nostrils.

 “That should be sufficient,” she said, crouching down at an aft station and using her tail for balance.  Ruva joined her at the next station over.

 Though overpowered for its size, the flexibility in the systems of the Defiant-class ship needed expansion.  The escort ship had to morph into something with the flexibility of an explorer vessel despite lacking many scientific instruments, and minutes passed while systems were rerouted and reconfigured.  After several minutes of quiet, cryptic communication on the bridge, Irfa pronounced herself satisfied.

 “The simulations show a significantly abnormal field, but dissipating speed will be critical,” Irfa said, carefully navigating back to her station. “Assuming their technology isn’t as sophisticated, the phenomenon will likely be indistinguishable from background radiation for them 45 seconds after we create it.”

 “So the only question is if they decide they want to investigate, against what’s in their cross hairs,” Karn said absently as he scrolled through a list of specs sent to them from Galactica.

 “We shall see,” she said, settling herself in her chair.  “Confirm all systems currently at normal configuration for warp?” she asked, looking at Ruva.

 “Confirmed.  We are go,” he said, looking up.

 Karn shut down the small holographic screen from the console on his right.  “Selonna, re-confirm course.  When you’re happy, warp four.”

 Selonna bent over her panel, checking her calculations.  “We will need....forty-four seconds, then all stop will bring us to a 12-million kilometer distance.  Twenty-two seconds, then start bursts.”  Her hands traced the characteristic pattern of a warp entry on her station.  The graphic display on the viewer showed the now dramatically shortening distance between the vessels as the seconds counted down.  Her hand hovered over the engine controls as it dropped to single digits, then came down at zero.

 “Dropping warp, orienting Z axis.  Deflector available now.”

 “Beginning deflector transition, orienting deflector, adjusting for angle...” Ruva changed the original angle to account for their offset from the cylon vessels’ path.

 “Ramscoops available...and charged,” Irfa said.  “Torpedoes loaded and targeted, holding for orders.”

 “I’ll call out mark when we hit twenty-two seconds,” Karn said expectantly, watching as the two icons, showing less than two kilometers away from each other, drew closer to them.  There was absolute silence on the bridge as the distance closed, then the countdown dropped to zero.  “Mark.  Begin transmits.”

 The bridge lights dimmed briefly as power flows changed throughout the ship.  The viewer graphic, now tied in with ship systems, displayed alternating pulses from the navigational deflector and the ramscoops, with maximum angle bursts from the phaser cannons.  The representative nebulous shapes mushroomed out on the screen, in the path of the two oncoming vessels.

 “Alright, good,” Karn said softly, staring fixedly at the graphic.  “Shields up?”

 “Grids active,” Ruva said, flicking one screen to the side and touching the control for the tactical shields.  “We are back to original configuration,” he said with a confirming glance across to Irfa, who bobbed her head.

 “All power in standard configuration, full tactical available.”

 “Engaging thrusters, 200 mps, to achieve five-kilometer margin.”  Selonna gave her panel the barest glance as she maneuvered the Quadrant out of the enemy vessel’s path.

 “Good job.  Their turn.  If they don’t take the bait, we’ll pursue, get in front, and drop a door prize, but I really hope...”  The icons slid closer and closer, then encountered the leading edge of the electromagnetic bursts.  The irregular fields surrounded both markers as they passed through, then exited, and Karn glanced at Irfa.  “Let’s give them time to analyze what just happened–”

 He was interrupted with a hiss of satisfaction from Irfa as the icons representing the cylon vessels halted.  “Alright, Selonna, drop us down closer but keep us out of their path.  Ruva, channel....”  Karn looked back at ops, seeing the lieutenant focused on his panel as he scanned for the correct frequency.

 “Got it.  Channel open,” he said softly, looking up at Karn.

 “Cylon vessels,” Karn said, turning back around.  “This is Commander Robert Karn of the Federation ship U.S.S. Quadrant.  We note that you seem to be on course to intercept the colonial battlestar known as Galactica.  Can you confirm or state your intentions?”

 Seconds ticked by.  Karn turned back to Ruva again with a raised eyebrow.  “They’re receiving,” Ruva said softly, nodding as he monitored the frequency.  “They have the equipment and they can hear you.”

 “Alright, they’re not translating.  They can understand us,” Karn said softly.  After a moment he took a breath to repeat the hail, but Ruva interrupted before he could get the words out.

 “They’re firing,” the lieutenant said in a low voice, staring at his panel and then up at the screen.  Karn switched the view to default forward optical in time to see flashes pepper the display, and gave a conceding nod.

 “We’re sitting still, they can hit us,” he said, glancing back to Irfa.  “Shields?”

 “Uhmm...” Ruva’s tone went mild.  “Shields...flickering between 99 and 100 percent cohesion.”

 “It appears eight separate emitters are targeting us,” Irfa said with a tilt of her head.  Karn turned back around, watching the flashes on screen as the Quadrant’s deflector grids effortlessly dissipated the energy.  After a moment he got up from the center chair and started slowly pacing the bridge.

 “Still 99, 100 percent,” Ruva said quietly as Karn neared his station.  He got an acknowledging look of bland patience from the commander.  Ruva bowed his head to hide the beginnings of a smile.

 “So, how long do we give them?” Karn asked quietly, sardonic, nearing the front of the bridge.  Selonna gave a subtle shrug, then straightened and looked more alertly at the screen.  Karn looked up to see a clear, calm view, then glanced back to Ruva, who nodded.  “Cylon vessels, are you aware you have just fired on a Federation ship?”  Again there was silence, and Karn turned back to Ruva with a frown.  “Any chance they’re responding and we just....can’t hear them,” he said, abandoning the question as Ruva started shaking his head.

 “Monitoring all frequencies, they are sending nothing out,” he said, swiping through a series of screens on his panel.  “We could try hacking their network and get into their internal comms, but...”  He finished with a shrug.

 Karn sighed and looked back at the screen again.  “Well, then no risk for race identification,” he said.  “If they won’t communicate verbally, then we’re–”

 “Commander, they are....launching,” Ruva said suddenly.  “The fighter craft.”

 “Confirmed,” Irfa said with a close look at her panel, then swung her head around to look at Karn expectantly.  The viewer showed a tiny swarm of movement against the hulls of the two ships sitting fifteen kilometers away.

 “Target–wait,” Karn interrupted himself.  “Let them come.”  A head movement from Irfa prompted him to add, “It’s exploratory.  Let them get a look at us.  Similar to the craft from yesterday?” he asked, looking across to Ruva.

 “Identical,” Ruva answered, scanning the incoming.  “Plasma cannons, a smaller version of what the capital ship has.”

 “Alright, good,” Karn said, returning to his slow, deliberate pacing.  “Let me know of any significant change in shield strength but let’s give them a look.”  Irfa and Ruva traded looks, and Ruva shrugged.

 In less than 30 seconds the first of the small, circular craft got within firing distance, and multiple sets of bolts began to hit the Quadrant’s shield grid.  The flickering flare from the contacts on the shields lit the ship up visually, like an incessant lightning display.  Karn looked at Ruva, who shook his head, glancing to his panel and then back to his commanding officer.  The multi-vector attack had meant nothing to the shield grid.

 The swarm continued, and Karn sat back down, reconfiguring the display to a split screen, forward default visual on one side and a 3D graphic on the other.  Pairs and quads of the small fighters wove artificially precise patterns around the ship, their movement and shots a symmetrical, choreographed dance, and he started shaking his head slowly.  “Numbers.  Only thing,” he murmured.  In front of him, Selonna turned her head, and he added, “Against the colonials.  A carrier with biologics against this, the bios should end them.  Numbers was the only thing that made it anything close to a fight.”  There were subtle nods of agreement on the bridge.

 “How long are we letting this continue?” Irfa asked after another minute as the small circular craft continued in their precise patterns.  Karn finally glanced back to her.

 “I guess...if they haven’t figured out by now, they’ll never learn,” he said, conceding.  “Alright, phasers, get rid of them.”  Irfa turned back to her panel and began targeting.

 Ruva physically startled at his station, staring at his panel, then up at the screen.  “Sir, they’re going to ram us.  They’ve all just turned–”  On screen the fighters had curved abruptly and were coming straight at the Quadrant.

 “Irfa, nail’ em!”

 Less than a second later, all phaser banks on the ship lanced out and even a handful of torpedoes shot out of the launchers, punching into the nearest targets.  The remains became projectiles, and the combined result resembled an explosion in all directions.  At the center of the expanding field, the Quadrant hung serenely in space, its position lights flashing placidly.

 Karn sighed and sat back from the tense forward position, then looked back at Ruva.  “Channel?”  After a moment, he got an affirming nod.  “Cylon vessels,” he began with the same methodical patience, “I take it the answer to my last question is yes.”

 Again there was no response.  “Close eye on their systems,” he said softly, looking back at Ruva.  “I don’t know what else they want...” he trailed off on seeing Ruva straighten and his focus become more intense.

 “They are powering,” he said hesitantly, running scans on the ships.  “They are...changing orientation...Looks like the particle beams,” he said, looking up.  “Physically reorienting, and a power shift throughout.”

 Karn stood up.  “Can we take it?  Double barrels?"

 “Yes,” came the dual answer from ops and tactical.

 “Full forward deflectors.  Is there time to run a simulation?”

 “Fast, if Commander Irfa does shields–”

 “I’m handling shields and timing,” Irfa said.  Ruva swiped broadly on his panel in Irfa’s direction, sending the interface over to her, and started pulling the saved telemetry from the previous encounter.  While the vessels on screen presented an increasing view of their lower hulls, he ran challenge simulations with multiple sets of parameters, finally nodding slowly.

 “Full forward shields will hold,” he said distractedly, continuing to move indicators.  “But not by much.”

 “Decouple the deflector again, set at warp 2.”

 “Yes, sir.”  Having accomplished the trick yesterday, Ruva took only a few seconds to separate the two normally entwined systems.  “Deflector decoupled and ready for warp 2.”

 Karn turned back to the screen, seeing the cylon ships slowly tilting.  “Estimated 37 seconds to fire,” Irfa said.

 “Commander, suggest warp 3,” Ruva said, still running simulations.  “That envelope will start to actually contact their ships, affect the beams at a critical point.”

 “Warp 3,” Karn confirmed.

 The emitters on the vessels glowed an increasing light blue, then aqua as they faced the Starfleet ship.  “Activating deflector,” Ruva said with a touch on his panel.  Three seconds later, the viewscreen flickered, partially obscuring a flare of light from the enemy ships as sensor readings spiked dramatically.  X-rays with the power of a focused stellar flare converged on the Quadrant and a faint, fragmented pattern of light rippled over the ship, then was gone.  The only movement on the bridge was Ruva flicking through screens of the ship’s systems.  “No damage,” he said softly. “Shields down to 82%, beginning to recover.  Deflector still fully operational.”

 “Alright, that’s the benchmark, according to the specs,” Karn said, just as quietly.  “Same composition as yesterday?”

 “Same,” Ruva confirmed, and Irfa nodded once.

 “Cylon vessels, you’re making it very difficult to communicate with you if you only pass signals through your tactical systems,” Karn said, shifting back to the same patient, pleasant voice.  “I know you can hear me,” he added with a taunting edge.

 “You are human.”

 Heads came up around the bridge, and the voice caused subtle physical recoils and frowns of distaste at the cold, metallic drone in measured syllables.  No verbal response had registered yesterday, through all of the exchanges of fire and repeated communication attempts.

 “An interesting observation,” Karn returned neutrally.  “This ship has ten different races on board.”

 “Irrelevant.  You are colonials.  You will be destroyed.”

 “Wrong on three counts.  My turn.  These are quantum torpedoes,” he said, looking back at Irfa.  He made a V with the fingers of his right hand, pointing at the viewer, and her attention dropped to the tactical panel.  After a touch on the controls, she looked up at the screen expectantly.  The ships slightly destabilized in space as the near lightspeed projectiles punched into them.  Irregular tears suddenly appeared in the hulls close to the emitter hardware of the particle beams.  “I’ll give them a bit to assess damage on that,” Karn said softly.  He crossed his arms on his chest and bowed his head, patiently counting the seconds.

 “Disabled both emitters,” Ruva said, looking at scan returns, “along with some significant power conduits.”

 “Likely more to come,” Karn murmured.  After another moment his head came up.  “Now, listen very carefully because I’m only going to explain this once,” he said, his tone finally dropping from the even temperament shown to this point.  “I have four hundred more where those came from.  I think you can understand that if I unloaded even a quarter of what I’ve got, there wouldn’t be enough left of you to open a scrap shop on your remains.  And that’s not half of what I can do to you,” he added in quiet contempt.  “So.  Two options,” he said, continuing in a brighter tone.  “Either you turn around and head back where you came from, or you can allow me to demonstrate to you what a Defiant-class ship can do to your completely unshielded hulls.”  He looked up to the screen, then glanced to Irfa.  “Because I’m feeling kind today, I’ll give you sixty seconds from this mark to make your decision, and then I open up on you.”  He nodded as a countdown graphic showed up on the top right corner of the screen.  He started to pace again, then stopped and looked back instinctively at the screen.  “Oh.  And.  If you’re wondering what a second is, it’s a unit of time.  The caesium 133 atom.  It’s got two hyperfine levels in a ground or neutral state, and it flips back and forth between those two states.  When it does that about nine-billion-odd times, that’s one second.  You have 42 of them left,” he said with a quick look at the countdown timer, then started pacing again.

 There was no response from the cylons.  The timer hit 35 seconds and he glanced at Ruva and made a hand motion, a silent question on the channel.  Ruva nodded.  Looking back to Irfa, he made the same V with his fingers and two more torpedoes shot out, hitting the circular vessels close to the first two damaged sections.  “Sorry about that,” Karn said, entirely insincere.  “My finger slipped.  Twice,” he added.

 “Not moving yet,” Ruva said, shaking his head.

 Karn turned to Irfa.  “Pick one, hit it, single.”  Irfa nodded, and a flash on the right vessel announced her pick, enlarging the crater in the hull of the ship.  “Dammit, I am so sorry,” Karn said in false apology.  “Tell you what–I’ll turn the ship around so it won’t happen again.”  Selonna’s head turned slightly and Karn added softly, “One-eighty,” motioning with his finger.  She nodded, and a moment later, the Quadrant reoriented in space.  Again, Karn looked at Ruva and got a tight-lipped shake of the head.  With a roll of his eyes, he turned to Irfa.  “Two each.”

 Four torpedoes exited the aft launcher, and the damage they did was enough to almost completely disfigure the circular hulls facing them.  A significant irregular curvature in the hull defaced one, and both had at least one large crater representing a hull breach.

 “Oh, I forgot, I have an aft launcher, too,” Karn said, openly mocking.  The sarcasm was in direct contrast with the tense silence on the rest of the bridge–the countdown was now in single digits.  Open, one-sided warfare was a breath away when Ruva finally spoke.

 “They’re moving,” he said, not bothering to hide the relief in his voice.  “Changing orientation but distance is now increasing, about one hundred meters per second and accelerating.”  There were audible sighs from the bridge complement, including Karn, who sat slowly and heavily in the center chair.

 “Alright, helm, turn us around,” he said quietly, all inflection gone from his voice.  “Just hold position.”

 Irfa’s head swung around.  “Contact Galactica?”

 “When we’re done here,” Karn said, nodding at the viewer.  “Stay here until they’re not visible anymore.  I want to let them know we’re going to be vigilant.”

 “Holding position,” Selonna said softly, reorienting the ship and fixing the galactic position.  The image of the enemy vessels, with very few lights on them, switched to a representative graphic, and over the next minutes, shrank in size as the distance increased.  When they were indistinguishable from background stars, Karn gave the order.

 “Alright, course back to lead ship Enterprise, warp 5,” he said, still quiet.  The Quadrant arced around in Selonna’s hands and entered warp in a flare of light, and Karn got up from the chair.  “I’m going to go talk to the people on Galactica.  I have questions,” he finished at a mutter, heading to the ready room off the bridge. 

(didn't button up this scene well either yet....)

Chapter Text

 “We were shredding them.  Why did they wait until the last second before getting out?  What do you know about their internal monitors?”

 Adama pursed his lips and sat back in thought.  The frank frustration and confusion in the question warred with his own bewilderment over the outcome of the confrontation.  A ship almost small enough to fit in Galactica’s largest bay had chased two cylon base stars away from their ultimate prize–a recently crippled Galactica.  It had been done with apparent ease, the small ship shrugging off multiple attacks with no damage.  Commander Riker’s matter-of-fact statement came back to his mind and he could almost understand now why they had not felt the need to inform him of the presence of the two distant base ships.  It still rankled him, of course–he was not used to being condescended to, and he made that clear to them.  But he now had a better understanding of their lack of urgency over the issue.

 The current question being addressed to him from the ship called Quadrant was coming from a perspective he was not familiar with.  The fleet had never encountered a force that was both powerful enough to brush the cylons aside with apparent ease and compassionate almost to a fault over the welfare of their hated enemy.  The cylons had nearly lost two base ships, with the described barrage of damage.  Adama would have been only too pleased to be informed of their destruction, but as it was explained to him, their intent hadn’t been to destroy—only deter and send a message.  The flaw in the thinking was the assumption that someone would be intellectually interested in said message.  It clearly demonstrated to him how much this Federation did not understand the type of enemy they were dealing with in the cylons.  If it were his to command, he would send them on a hunt and kill mission.

 As it was, though, the mission was destruction only as a last resort, and the person on the screen he held seemed almost distraught that he had come within microns of doing something that Adama would have default ordered him to.  He wanted to know why it had gotten that far, and Adama had a mind to ask why it hadn’t gotten far enough.  “The cylons are unlike anything you have encountered thus far, Commander,” he said, pushing down his own questions.  “The suicidal behavior you describe is a perfect example.  They care more for our destruction than they do their own individual survival.” 

 “What would the destruction of the–the base ship, the cap ship, have meant?  How would that have furthered their goals?”

 “Base star,” Adama supplied.  “And I don’t honestly know.  We can only guess as to their thinking, and my guess over the hesitation would be difficulty over disobeying their own orders and confusion over the fact that the damage didn’t seem to be in proportion to the ship dealing it.  It probably came down to the odds, improbable as they appeared to be, and they chose to retreat temporarily to adjust their strategy.”

 The other man was pensive for a moment.  “I realize we are late to the party,” he said after a moment, looking up with apology in his eyes.  “And we’re asking questions your children probably ask.”

 “You are dealing with an unfamiliar force.  The only question without dignity is the one unasked.”

 “In that case, there’s going to be plenty of dignity this afternoon,” he said, and Adama smiled.

“I think we have a great deal to learn from each other.  The fact that we have this opportunity in the first place is the answer to prayers.”

 There was a neutral acknowledging nod.  “If you’re happy with that report, I need to do my own documentation.  We should be back shortly but I think further questions will have to be directed to the Enterprise, at least until this afternoon.”

 “Very well,” Adama said.  “We do look forward to it.”

 “Here as well.  Quadrant out.”

 The screen switched to the dark blue background with the now familiar arrowhead on it, surrounded by a silver roundel and a representation of a wreath.  Adama looked up from the screen as the other person in the room sighed and sat back, the calculating gaze passing slowly over the room.  “It does make me uncomfortable, sir,” Colonel Tigh said in a low voice.  “They’re powerful, yes, but we both need to learn how the other operates.  They have different priorities and values, and they may directly conflict with everything we’ve known.”

 “I understand,” Adama said, shifting in his chair.  “There have been enough miscues so far to make a pure logistics meeting necessary.  And to that end....”  He planted his elbows on his desk and rubbed his face with his hands.  “I have no choice.  I need to make the announcement, but I just wished...”

 Tigh frowned.  “What, sir?”

 “I guess I would like the opportunity to tell my family first, before the rest of the fleet, but I suppose that’s selfish,” he admitted.  He looked around the room, seeing the familiar bookshelves, the models, his research, the maps, all of it there just as before, but now seen in a different light.  Running a distance race, they were suddenly pulled up short by their goal.  The concept of not running anymore would require a total examination of everything they were and all they did, from fleet protocols to fuel usage to their very identities.  Was he admitting to himself that deep down, he never expected to reach their goal?  More likely that I never expected to live to see it, he corrected.  The word Earth was no longer synonymous with the word dream.  It now meant a practical, intricate reality that had a face every bit as complex as anything they had encountered, and he now had to present this to....all that was left of humanity....no more.  No more.  They were no longer alone.  They were no longer the last surviving humans in the universe.  Human, meet human.

 Adama set the communication pad down on his desk in deliberate motion, then climbed to his feet.  Still sore, slow, but with a full rest he could at least think again.  “I thought I would do this here, but I think...the bridge.”

 “With Athena there?” Tigh asked.

 “I need to make a decision,” he breathed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.  He glanced briefly around the room as though looking for the answer on the walls.  “This is what I’m going to do,” he said, half to himself.  “I’m going to collect Athena and Boxey, and we’re going to see if we can get over to Enterprise now and tell Apollo, if he doesn’t know already.  Then come back, make the fleet broadcast, then hopefully go back to Enterprise and visit our people, reassure them and let them know as well.  I expect that will take me up to the gathering this afternoon.”  He turned to Tigh.  “I’m going to have to give you the unenviable job of dealing with the Quorum for now,” he said as they neared the door of his office.  “You can put everything on me,” he said in response to the subtle look of pain that went across Tigh’s face.  “Point them at me for everything, and if I have to, I’ll come back and deal with them, but we do need to sort out who, if any of them, are coming.”

 “You would actually try to cut them out?” Tigh asked in disbelief as Adama opened the door.  After a quick look down the hallway, Adama turned back to him.

 “No, but if all twelve of them expect to come this afternoon, well....we may well have to use your trick of a second meeting,” he said.  “Pragmatic.  Do they have room.”  He gave Tigh a warning look as they entered the hallway–words were now guarded as they walked among the as-yet innocent staff of Galactica.  Silently they made their way to core command, and easily located Athena, who had Boxey with her.  Having been told he would be getting to see his father again soon, the boy was getting a rare tour of the nerve center of the carrier to distract him.  It wasn’t long before Athena got pulled into some of the repairs again, though, and she was doing a champion job of teaching him about the myriad connecting lines as she worked.

 “Now, this one that I’m fixing, this goes into one of the main receivers and carries information aaalllll the way around to the far stations,” she said to him, showing the cable connector she was rewiring.  “This is how Rigel and the others up there can see the information from the radar.”

 “How come it’s smaller than yours?” he asked, looking at the small cable end closely.

 “Because my radar is big,” she said grandly.  “I have the same radar Father has.  What he sees, I see.  The cable for the one up there is as big as mine.  It needs to carry a lot more information a lot faster, so it’s bigger.”  She glanced up from the floor as the very person she referred to stood in the entranceway to the main navigational computer bay, watching them work.

 “Are we gonna go?” Boxey jumped up from the floor with the ease of a bounced rubber ball.  “When can we go?  We are going to, aren’t we?”

 “Well, that’s what I would like to arrange,” Adama said to his grandson.  “I’m going to talk to a few people and see about the arrangements and then we should go.”  His gaze passed to Athena, then.  “Would you be available?  I’d like to bring you as well.”

 Athena took a deep breath as though steeling herself.  “If this is about that big decision of yours, I guess I’m going to be available.  You’re alright here, Oren?” she asked, shooting the tech a glance as she got to her feet.

 Oren, one of their oldest techs, nodded and smiled, his face creasing into kind wrinkles, and he winked at Boxey.  “We’ll be fine here.  But when you get back, we’ll need to be inspected,” he said, looking intently at the boy.  “Alright?  You’ll come back to inspect our work?”

 “I’ll come back,” Boxey said airily.  “I’m gonna go see Dad.”  He sauntered self-importantly past his aunt and grandfather, and the two shared a smile.

 “So, how exactly does this work?” Athena murmured uneasily around her smile.  She glanced at Tigh as he departed with a nod to Adama.

 “How does exactly what work?”  Knowing he had her undivided attention, he turned and made for the command tower without another look.

 “This...traveling.  Whatever it’s called.”  She glanced around, spotting Boxey standing near the base of the tower, looking like he was surveying his realm as he looked across the bridge of the carrier.

 “Well, in the doing of it, one just stands there,” Adama said mysteriously.  “It has to be initiated by them.  But I’m going to make a quick contact.  I do have a small personal communication device that helps them target me, but I suspect it’s not needed anymore.”  He climbed the stairs and gave Omega an acknowledging nod.  “I’ll need this for a moment,” he said, picking up the pad the younger officer had by his station.  Omega nodded shortly, concentrating on the communication he was getting from the fleet, and Adama sat at his station and sent out a request for contact with a touch on the right side of the blank screen.  It immediately lit up to show the arrowhead symbol.  Athena watched, fascinated, as the screen flicked to show one of their officers, someone with red coloring on their uniform.

 “Enterprise here,” came the direct but warm voice.  “Commander, we just heard the Quadrant spoke to you.”

 Adama nodded.  “They did, yes.  Thank you.  It was reportedly an...interesting encounter.”

 There was a brief acknowledging smile.  “Any time a Defiant-class ship gets sent for an hostile intercept, things get interesting.”  A snap of humor lit up the eyes of the other officer for a moment.  “Is there something else besides the intercept?”

 “Yes,” Adama said.  “An unfinished conversation from earlier.  I’ve decided I would like the opportunity to talk to my son on...a particular issue.  No message has been relayed to me, and my assumption...” he trailed off on the conceding nod he got.

 “Our medical has been pushed hard on the environmental end and that’s probably why they haven’t gotten back to you yet.  I can send—” he cut off, looking off to the side for a moment, appearing to listen to someone, then nodded.  “Thanks.  Alright, by the time this conversation ends, we should have an answer for you on your son,” he said, returning his attention to Adama.  “As for coming over here, that should be doable.  We’ll have a member of the senior staff accompany you.  You said your daughter and...grandson?”

 “Yes.  I’ll speak to them and my son first, then return here and...talk to the fleet,” he said, the deliberateness of the last words covering hidden meaning.  “Then if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to return to your ship and see our people.  I have no doubts about how they’re being treated, I assure you,” he explained quickly.  “My concern is their possible fear.  They’re in a new, bewildering environment and some of them might not adjust very well.”

 “Understandable.  So far the comment we’ve heard the most is regarding the different races on board, but I haven’t been notified of any significant issues.  We did also send word out to our engineering teams regarding information control,” he added, switching topics.  “Three teams on two ships ran into the issue and we’re working on minimizing impact on that.”

 Adama nodded with relief.  “Thank you.  I will address the fleet once I’m done talking with my family.  I should have anticipated this issue and I apologize.”

 “No apology needed.  We should have thought of it when we were getting our teams ready.  When were you thinking of transporting over?”

 “If it’s no trouble, I should get started on this.”

 The other man started to respond, then his attention was pulled to the side for a moment.  “Commander, I’m informed that your son is cleared to leave, but he chose to accompany the rest of your pilots to our main bay to assist with a few issues related to their return.”

 Adama hesitated.  “I don’t want to interrupt...”

 “It’s entirely up to you.  From what’s been reported, after a couple of starting bumps they’ve found a path forward.”

 “I think I will come, then.  My son doesn’t have a viper over there.”

 “Alright.  Give us a few minutes to get someone there and then we’ll contact you.”

 “Very good.  Thank you.”

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

 “So, just stand here,” Athena said uneasily.  “How long does it take?”  Next to her, Boxey stood stock still, looking around with his eyes only, holding onto her hand almost too tightly.  He had only been told they were going to the new ship by a completely different method.  The fact that they were just standing there waiting, towards the back of the bridge, was enough to hint to the boy that it was going to be unlike anything he had experienced or imagined before.

 “It only takes a moment.  It’ll be disorienting at first, but the second time I traveled, it became much easier, once I knew what to expect.”

 “No pain?”

 “No.  A tingling, very mild, a feeling of weightlessness–oh, their gravity is different.  Subtle, but—”

 “Transport two to Commander Adama.”

 The sudden address from nowhere almost caused him to drop the small but heavy device in his right hand.  With a frown of irritation he held it in both hands.  “This is Commander Adama.”

 “Ready for transport, Commander?”

 “Do we need to be holding hands for this?  For multiple people coming at once?”

 “No, not needed.  It’s helpful to be standing and in arm’s reach of each other, just for placement on the pad,” came the cheerful female voice.

 “Alright, we are ready.”

 “Acknowledged.  Starting cycle now.”

Chapter Text

 If it was possible for Boxey’s eyes to get any bigger, they did.  He stood rooted to the spot and stiff, and finally blew out a big breath and sucked in more air.  Athena looked around cautiously at the dark chamber, then stared as her father started moving almost immediately.

 “Commander.”  A warm female voice with an unusual cadence greeted them.  “Welcome back.  Did you get good rest?”

 “I did, yes, thank you.  Especially after my staff allowed me to oversleep an extra centar,” he said in mock pride.  “I’d like to...Athena?”

 Adama turned, expecting to introduce his daughter, and found she was still up on the pad with Boxey.  She was a little more animated than her nephew but neither had moved since arrival.  Her startled gaze finally landed on him.  “That...how long?  It felt...”

 “It only takes a... couple of microns,” the woman said.  She had large dark eyes and a mass of black, curly hair that made Athena’s rich cascades look small in comparison.

 “Time,” Adama said suddenly, turning to the woman.  “You’re translating.  If it—” he started, then abruptly closed his mouth over the question, shaking his head.  The woman looked at him closely.

 “Commander?”

 “A question for later,” he said simply, and she gave a knowing nod.

 “I understand,” she said.  Her gaze settled on Athena as the tall brunette finally descended the stairs of the stage they had arrived on, with Boxey still moving woodenly in disbelief.

 “This is my daughter, Athena,” he said, holding out a hand to her.

 “A pleasure to meet you.  I’m Counselor Deanna Troi, part of the medical staff.  I work with the mental health of the crew.”

 “Um, Counselor,” Athena said uncertainly in greeting.  “Is that...what we call you?”

 “Truthfully, under the circumstances, if you wanted to call me Deanna, that would be fine.”  She stooped over as Boxey came out from around Athena, still holding hands with her.  “And how do you prefer to be addressed?” she asked politely.

 “This is my grandson, Boxey,” Adama said.

 “Commander Boxey?  Very good,” she said respectfully, smiling again as Boxey pulled back, this time with the beginnings of a wide-eyed smile.  She held out her hand and Boxey let go of Athena’s hand and took hers.  “As I understand, we have orders to escort Commander Boxey to his father.  Are those still your orders?”

 “Yes, um...”  Boxey hesitated, wanting to tack a title onto the affirmative but not able to produce fast enough.  She gave him another smile.

 “Understood, Commander,” she said, straightening with a head bow.  The boy sent a cautious look of excitement to the real commander in the foursome, who wore a quiet smile.

 “If you can go at least a quatron without leaving the simulators on turbo setting for the next person, we’ll see about a rank increase,” he allowed, and Boxey covered his mouth with his free hand, embarrassed but still excited.

 “Oh, so you’re a troublemaker,” she said as they left the chamber, and Boxey’s smile morphed to a smirk.

 “No, as a commander, I can do anything and not get in trouble.”  The bold words got a harrumph from his grandfather and a wide-eyed look of surprise from Athena.

 “Even fleet commanders follow rules, Boxey.  That’s how they become fleet commanders.”

 He got a dramatic eye roll.  “I have special rules.  I can stay up as late as I want, I don’t have to hurry up in the turbowash, and I don’t have to do education.  Much,” he amended, seeing the look of warning from his grandfather.  “Why does it smell like needle trees here?”

 “Did I evolve that fast?” Athena asked in quiet amazement, watching Boxey go from dumbfounded to confident in the span of 20 microns.  She had also noticed the occasional faint whiff of needle trees but hadn’t had the presence of mind to comment on it, too intent on trying to process the fact that just a centon ago, they had been on Galactica.

 “In different areas of the ship you’ll notice a different atmosphere, some with scents and some without,” the female, Deanna Troi, said to all three of them.  “Many different planets have evolved trees with a smell similar to this,” she added with a smile.

 “That’s something,” Adama murmured, slowing to a stop in the corridor.  “Seeing–” He stopped himself and shook his head.  “Where are we going?  A bay of some kind?”

 “Computer, where is Captain Apollo right now?”  Troi asked.

 “Captain Apollo is on deck four, main shuttle bay, starboard side.”

 “That’s....a voice address...anywhere?” Adama asked, once again put back on his heels by the entirely different technology philosophy surrounding him.  Athena looked around the corridor instinctively, then rolled her eyes.  There were a few areas in Galactica with a voice-activated system, but the voice absolutely did not sound so human.

 “The ship’s computer can be accessed anywhere–I’ll see about getting you guest access.  But now that I think about it,” Troi said thoughtfully, “I don’t think the conversation you want should be had in the main bay.”

 “What conversation?” Athena asked, an edge starting to enter her voice.  “Father, what is going on?”

 Adama held up his hand, giving her a direct look.  “I would like to wait until Apollo is here.  I would like all of you together.”

 Athena looked at Troi, and the short woman wore a look of enigmatic calm as she said, “I think deck six would be best.  When we find an open room, I’ll leave you there and go get your son.”

 “I would appreciate that,” Adama answered.  None of them had even seen Apollo since yesterday afternoon, and considering they were still surrounded by cylon basestars and a gun ship, it would be no small reunion.

 They crowded into what Athena immediately recognized as a lift for a ride that lasted only a few microns, then the doors opened on a slightly different corridor, this one much more gently curving.  With Boxey still firing off rapid questions and Athena staring around her in curiosity, they came to a set of doors with a keypad next to it.  After a series of key presses, the door slid open with a quiet whoosh.

 “Are these the same rooms as our discussion last night?”  Adama followed Troi in, looking around at the familiar surroundings.  Athena stared around her, seeing what looked like a large lounge about the size of the officer’s club on Galactica.  The predominant color was a soft blue-gray.

 “No, those were on deck twelve.  This is deck six, but these are also guest quarters, so in that they are similar.  I’m going to contact the shuttle bay and see if I can let your son know you’d like to see him.  We should be back in...” she paused, searching for the word.

 ‘In Earth terms’, Adama nearly said, but stopped himself.  “The amount of time it takes our top tech crews to fuel a viper.  Just a few centons.”

 “Yes, thank you,” she answered with another smile, then left the rooms, the doors sliding shut behind her.

 Athena would have liked to press her father on the issue, but they both needed to watch Boxey, who immediately set out exploring the connected rooms.  He was stopped before he jumped on the bed, but they very soon found out how long it took an energetic seven-yahren-old to run the length of the rooms through the connecting doorways.  The windows were another source of fascination for him, until he found he couldn’t see much beyond the edge of Galactica.

 “Grandpa, what does this ship look like?” he asked, climbing down from the seats he had jumped up on to see out the windows.  Adama looked at him in surprise.

 “You know, I don’t actually know,” he said, half to himself.  “There must be a round section to it, as that’s what we’ve heard from the warriors and what we can see in the corridors, but beyond that, I don’t actually know,” he admitted.

 “I’ll bet it’s not half as big as Galactica,” Boxey said with utter assurance.  “And none of their warriors are as good as ours.”

 “Well, you might want to keep that piece of information to yourself,” Adama said diplomatically.  “You wouldn’t want to offend.”

 “Is this ship even a carrier?” Athena asked softly, and her father shook his head.

 “No.  It’s not even built for war.  It’s a scientific research vessel.  They actually explore the universe in it.”

 Athena’s eyebrows rose briefly.  “What are they researching right now?  Do we know what their history with the cylons is?”

 “It’s a little more complex than that,” Adama said.  “I’ll give more information when Apollo gets here.”

 Athena gave a conceding nod, turning to watch Boxey as he clambered on all fours on the long seats in the room.  When he tired of that after about one centon, he slid to the floor, then bounced on his feet, saying the carpet was squishy.  He was exploring the deep corners of the room when the doors finally slid open again.

 “Father!”

 Adama concentrated on getting to his feet without knocking the chair over, then was enveloped in a hug by his son.  “I’m glad...”

 Athena came around the table for a hug, but all of them stopped still when Boxey registered the new presence.  “Dad!”  The shriek of joy went into his whistle range.  Showing impressive speed, he flew across the room and thudded into Apollo’s hip.

 “Hey!”  Apollo was released by his father so he could pick up his son.  The boy wrapped his legs around Apollo’s waist and the arms went around his father’s neck.  “Oh, Boxey, am I so glad to see you.  I missed you, missed you so much.”  He pulled back to try to get a look at the boy’s face, then accepted the silence as Boxey hid his face in his shoulder.

 “Sight for sore eyes,” Athena said with a relieved smile, stepping closer to at least put an arm around her brother briefly.  “It feels like it’s been ages.”

 After a few moments another voice registered in the room.  “I’ll leave you for some privacy, Commander,” Deanna said with a warm smile, but Adama turned to her.

 “Actually, if you have a moment, I think there are going to be many questions very soon, and I may not be able to answer all of them.  Do you have a bit of time?”

 Her smile broadened.  “I do.”

 They moved over to a curve of seats in the room, and Apollo was able to loosen Boxey’s hold enough to be able to sit down.  The boy sat very close to him, pressed into his side as if to attach himself permanently, and tried to be discreet about wiping his eyes.  Apollo put an arm around him and he snuggled into it.

 “There is a matter of utmost importance that I wish to speak to you about,” Adama began in a formal tone of voice.  “It concerns the origin of these ships, the organization they represent.”

 “United Federation of Planets,” Apollo said haltingly.  “It’s...big.  Very big.”

 “They’ve been fighting the cylons?”  Athena asked.

 “Not as such.  Things are complex, but most importantly, the origins of this Federation are...well.  The organization is a few hundred yahren old—”

 Adama stopped as Apollo startled enough to get a sound of annoyance from Boxey.  The captain was staring at his father with fire in his eyes, and after the initial surprise, Adama returned a steady stare.  “The original four founding worlds–and help me, Counselor, if I get these wrong–they are Andor, Tell....Teller?”

 “Tellar,” Troi gently supplied.

 “Tellar, Vulcan... and Earth.”

 The name was spoken softly but it hit with the power of a solonite missile.  Having anticipated it by a few microns, Apollo’s arms shot up and he let out a yell of joy.  “Lords of Kobol!”  Athena’s hands had flown to her face and she started hyperventilating, gasping as if desperate for air, and a breathy, bleating scream came out.  Boxey’s face transformed into almost manic excitement and he let out a squealing whoop in time with his father.  Adama responded with gentle laughter, watching them.

 “Earth?”  Athena got the first word out, whispered in disbelief.  “For real?  Where is it?”

 “Quite a distance, so much that if we continued as we are, we would never make it.  But these ships can,” he said, stopping the looks of fear that started to appear.  “They work on an entirely different system,” he said, glancing at the counselor.  “Now, I don’t know for certain what will happen going forward, but I think I can say at the least, we have a strong ally,” he said as the woman smiled and nodded, her dark eyes shining with tears.  “There is much, much work to do.  The path going forward is not yet lit for us, but from what I understand, at least tentatively, Earth is willing to take us.”

 There was a gasping sob from Athena and Apollo moved over closer to her on the connected seats, putting an arm around her.  “We did it, we did it, we did it,” Apollo whispered to her and she nodded an acknowledgment while still crying.

 “When can we go?”  Boxey’s question was delivered at yelling volume, making Adama flinch.

 “We don’t know yet,” he answered, setting aside annoyance at the volume.  “The problem is that there are seventy-seven thousand of us, and none of their ships are big enough.  Again, there’s a lot of work to be done, and we’ll start to talk about it later today, but it’s still going to be a long journey–just a much safer, happier one,” he said with a nod to the woman with them.

 “Captain Picard has been talking with Starfleet Command and with Earth leadership about the situation,” she said, her voice a little husky with emotion.  “Earth’s governing council is called the United Nations, and the current president is Miniya Zere Amha.  I promise you, you can’t get a better ally.  She is one of the most compassionate, capable people I’ve ever met–”

 “A woman is....leading Earth?” Apollo asked in bewilderment, and Adama’s subtle frown of confusion slid quickly into a more neutral expression.

 “Is it unusual for females to be in leadership roles–”

 “No, no, it’s just...I guess a little unusual,” Apollo said.  “It’s fine.”

 “I am sure we will be happy to work with her,” Adama said in quiet reassurance, but the counselor’s expression remained cautious.

 “You’ll find women all through up to the very highest leadership roles in both the Federation and Starfleet,” she said with careful reserve, and Adama and Apollo glanced at each other.

 “I think it’s alright for a female to be a leader,” Athena said, her voice still distorted from crying.  Her spread hands landed on her knees in a deliberate self-calming move.  “If that’s what this Federation is, I think it’s good,” she finished hesitantly, and Adama gave her a quiet smile.

 “I’m not saying there’s anything wrong,” Apollo said defensively.  “It’s just...different.”  He shrugged.  “Maybe I like it.”

 “In any case, we’re hoping to arrange a virtual meeting with her, along with some of her staff to help with future logistics concerns,” the counselor said, still displaying a careful neutrality.  “Federation membership isn’t required for you to settle on Earth, and it will help to get some familiarity with the structure of the leadership and the different systems and capabilities available.”

 “Are there daggits?”  Boxey’s sudden, eager question broke the cool atmosphere.  “What animals are there?”

 “A daggit,” the counselor repeated in some confusion.  “I would have to see one.”

 “Daggits are about that big,” he said, holding his hand about the height of the seat he was on.  “They’re furry, and happy, and fun to play with, and they sound like this.”  He let loose with a series of barks that had the others at least smiling, if not laughing.

 “You know, I think I might know the animal you mean,” she said, getting to her feet.  “Let me get something.”  She crossed over to a desk near a window and picked up a small object, fist-sized and white with a cavity at the top.  She came back, setting it on the low table in front of them and touching a hidden control on it.

 “Wow,” Boxey said when an image suddenly sprang into existence in mid-air.  “What’s that?”

 “This is a holographic projector.  You can use it for anything from displaying computer information to storing images to doing research.”  She slid some icons around, going through menus, then said, “Here.  Is this it?”

 Boxey nearly jumped off his seat when what looked like an actual daggit appeared in mid-air in front of him.  It had a colorful coat, tawny to black to white, with long hair, a long face, and alert, pointed ears.  “That’s it!  That’s a daggit!  Muffit can have a friend!”

 “There’s a computer program we’re working on to enable this ship to talk to Galactica, and when it’s approved, you’ll have access to a lot of information from Earth,” she said encouragingly.  “There are a lot of animals you might like on Earth.”

 “You know, Boxey asked a good question earlier,” Adama said suddenly.  “I’m simply curious, but what does this ship look like?”

 “The Enterprise?”  She made a pulling motion with her hand and the daggit disappeared, much to Boxey’s displeasure.  After another series of menus, an image sprang into existence where the daggit had been.

 “Wow,” Apollo breathed.  All of them stared in fascination at the sculpture hanging in midair, with its unusual contours and curves.  The woman reached out a finger, turning the image slowly.

 “Right now we’re about....here,” she said pointing to an area on the broad, flat, circular section of the ship.  “This is the main bridge,” she said, pointing to the very center of the circle.  “Here is the main shuttle bay, then two more smaller bays, the impulse engines...”  She gave them a quick virtual tour that ended with all three of the adults shaking their heads in a mixture of confusion and amazement.

 “Sometime I would like an explanation on how that propulsion system works,” Apollo said with a mixture of fascination and uncertainty.  Boxey pulled back with a wrinkled nose.

 “I think it looks weird,” he said quietly, and Apollo startled, turning to him.

 “Boxey!”

 “It’s missing arms,” he said, still quiet, and the barely held laughter of the counselor changed to confusion.

 “Arms?”

 “Boxey, what do you mean?” Apollo asked.

 “It only has legs,” he said, pointing to the long pods.  “Galactica has arms and legs, and this ship only has legs.”

 “Boxey, you’re going to have to explain what you mean,” Adama said, his tone warning.

 “What do you mean, arms and legs?” Apollo asked.  “Where are Galactica’s arms and legs?”

 The boy slid off the seat and got down on all fours, partially crouched, his knees and elbows touching.  “This is Galactica,” he said as though pointing out the obvious.  “That ship looks like this.”  After a moment of hesitation, he got to both knees, lower legs splayed out to the sides, and arms wrapped around his middle.

 “You know, I think I can understand what you mean,” the counselor said in genuine acknowledgment, still smiling.  “I’ve never looked at the Enterprise like that.”

 “It needs arms,” Boxey said, matter-of-fact, as he climbed back onto the soft, low seat by his father.

 Adama shook his head.  “The appearance of ships doesn’t really matter, as long as they function well and keep people safe.  But in my opinion...” He reached out his hand and gently turned the ship around.  “I think it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”

Chapter Text

 Captain Jean-Luc Picard rubbed his throbbing temples gently, not caring that the move telegraphed his growing irritation with the admiral on the screen in front of him.  Few things were as profoundly disappointing as finding the organization he had devoted his life to allowed narrow-minded people to slip through into its upper echelons.  The fact that he was currently under the command of one of those people made an ugly situation even worse, and only professional pride prevented him from shutting the link down while the admiral was in mid-rant.  He was running out of ways to describe the severity of the situation without bluntly stating the obvious–Admiral Rea Samaras’ universe only consisted of logistics on a display screen.

 “Captain, I read the history.  I assure you I am well aware of what the refugees have been facing,” she recited pedantically.  “Humanity on Earth was still struggling to sail the oceans when these people first went to war but that is my point.  They can surely survive four more months on their own.”

 “Admiral, I should point out the nature of our next three assignments–astrological phenomena that are quite stable and should be for millenia,” Picard said with the last of his remaining patience.  “Leaving the refugee vessels at a minimum standard when they are surviving on an 1,800-calorie diet at the best of times while we do an ecological survey represents a breakdown in judgment.  The Quadrant is currently dispatched to–”

 “I know the Quadrant is dispatched, and I know why,” Admiral Samaras returned with some sharpness.  “It would have taken nearly a week for those vessels to arrive, during which time the refugees could have recovered sufficiently to defend themselves.  Furthermore, following the surveys you have an assigned first contact and two ambassadors, both time-sensitive items.  The breakdown in judgment is when schedules are ignored for whims.”

 “Survival is not a whim, Admiral,” Picard said.  “Since when does Starfleet roll dice on–”

 “These people are survivors,” she interrupted, “and we are prepping two cruisers to assist with engineering and logistics concerns, including food.  Jean-Luc, I need you to understand we are not rolling dice.  We are attempting the proper allocation of assets,” she said in a softer tone that Picard saw through.  “Both of those cruisers have been pulled from their assignments.  The flagship is not a bus, nor is it a supply ship.  It is a very thoughtfully deployed resource that sets the tone for the Federation.  You recently turned a two-day mission into a three-week-long affair.  Are you aware of the schedule disaster that created?”

 “No, Admiral, I am not,” Picard stated bluntly.  “I am a captain in the field who deals with different but equally challenging issues.”

 “The solutions for these issues have to come from somewhere, and the fact that the U.S.S. Sovereign was ordered into a combat—”

 Her attention was pulled to the side and Picard heard a muffled voice over the link.  Utterly oblivious, Samaras mouthed the words being spoken to her from off-screen and Picard had half a mind to send the recording to Worf or Data to see if they could tease out what she was repeating.  After several slow, deep nods, she glanced at the screen.  “Well.  We will finish this conversation at a later date, captain.  I will speak with Admiral K’Rosin and Admiral Sturl about resources but I expect the schedules will remain the same.  Samaras out.”

 The screen flicked to the Starfleet logo and Picard put his elbows on the desk, rubbing his forehead.  The desperate refugee situation could have found precious few worse mission commanders than Samaras.  Elevated to flag rank at under 45 years of age, she had now been out of the field for over twenty years and it showed.  The ability to think big wasn’t the only qualification needed for the rank–it required compassion and the nerve to rearrange assets on a grand scale when necessary.  The Sovereign being recalled was entirely reasonable–the ship wasn’t even finished yet, and Captain Pylle Zh’Shiannin, the Andorian in command, had pushed the engines to the red line in order to coincide arrival with the other two ships.  In its current state, it was still under the command of the Design Bureau.  Samaras had informed Picard, however, that she had him on a short leash after the “disaster” of an investigation covering the destroyed planets, and would tolerate no more delays in her schedule.  The Quadrant was also about to receive new orders.  In only a day or two, all three ships would be departing the area.  On her schedule, it would leave the refugees entirely on their own for four months before another Starfleet ship could get out here.

 He briefly considered contacting the Klingons as a stand-by guard, but if they rolled the wrong commander, it could take a shaky situation into an emergency state.  The refugees had no translation programs, either, so communication would be essentially impossible.  A flippant side of him thought of ship separation, but other than the instruments working in tandem with the main deflector, the bulk of the scientific capability lay with the saucer section.  Either way, the statement that move would make would likely get a very interesting black mark on his record.  Not that he cared for his record, but he cared for the flexibility needed by captains in the field and splitting his ship to cover two missions simultaneously was not a precedent he wanted to suggest.  They needed a solution, though, or they’d have to reconsider the non-lethal limit on the Quadrant’s orders.

 Picard turned back to the display and his hand hesitated over the minimalist keyboard.  Of the triumvirate of admirals involved, K’Rosin was with the Design Bureau, Samaras from Logistics was covering while Admiral Paris was out briefly with medical leave, and Sturl was from the Tactical sub-branch of Command.  The latter was arguably the one with the most leeway.  He hadn’t ever dealt directly with Admiral Sturl, but all he’d heard was positive.  A surprisingly charismatic Vulcan, the man was responsible for all potential hostile postures and operations on this side of the Federation’s borders.  The nature of the Quadrant’s intercept with the cylon vessels would speak to the wisdom of keeping the escort ship here as long as possible.  He could slip word to the Quadrant about their orders and see if they could talk Admiral Sturl out of sending them away, but Command reacted sharply negatively to background maneuvering.  It could upset the situation even more, further risking the lives of the refugees.

 Picard sighed and sat back, glancing at his now cool cup of Earl Grey.  He was reaching across to it to take it to the alcove for recycling when his door chime went off.  “Come.”

 Commander Riker entered, most of his attention on the PADD he held, but when he looked up and saw the captain’s expression, he stopped mid-stride.  “I take it Samaras is uncooperative?”

 Picard drew in a careful breath as he got up to recycle what was left of his tea.  “That is the polite summation, yes.”  Riker watched worriedly as Picard set the cup and saucer in the replicator alcove.  “After our exit, there will be eight-hundred lightyears between the refugees and the closest significant, reliable assistance, and the good admiral sees no problem or risk with this.”

 “What about the Klingons?”

 “If we could hand-pick the crew,” Picard returned.  “That could create more problems than it solves.  The only potential I see for relief is relying on the known wisdom of Admiral Sturl, barring a faster recovery for Owen Paris.”

 “Have the orders gone out yet?”

 “No, but I have reason to believe they will within 24 hours.  That’s our summary?” he asked, gesturing at the PADD as Riker turned to follow him back out onto the bridge.  Lieutenant Ralston was back at the helm, with an ensign at Ops and Commander Worf at tactical.  Several officers, including Commander Data, were clustered at the aft bridge stations, coordinating repairs, managing resources, and tracking local ship maneuvers for the field.  Data turned to give them an acknowledging nod as they came to the command well.

 “This covers repairs as of a half-hour ago, all medical, resource use, environment reports, and a priority list of repairs needed yet on their fleet, a priority list they set up,” Riker explained as Picard took the PADD and began to thumb through the display.  “Dr. T’Renn and Dr. Chaudhri are concerned about rotations in the engineering crews to avoid overexposure to radiation leaks.  Medical’s going to insist our crews are in environmental gear if they board certain ships.”  Picard nodded as he scrolled through the display, reading the brief summaries of each section. 

(yet another unfinished scene...sigh....)

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

 Starlight reflected dramatically off the perfect blue expanse, with soft swirls and clumps of white condensation tracing around large sections of the globe.  Halfway around, the light transitioned to darkness, with golden yellow and white lights in delicate, intricate patterns following in a brief wave before fading into deep night.  Heavily populated sections, visible only by a faint gray mark on the day side, lit up brilliantly as they passed into the night.  The unfamiliar continental shapes covered only a third of the globe, the rest in serene dark blue ocean.

 Deanna Troi watched as Commander Adama took a sudden, deep breath, as though he’d forgotten to breathe for a few moments.  “It is absolutely beautiful,” he murmured, gazing on the slowly revolving representation of Earth.  “Beautiful, perfect, blue, green, and white...a perfect world.”

 “It wasn’t always perfect,” she said.  “Humanity has had to learn some hard lessons about living in harmony with the living organism that is a planet.  Wisdom came nearly too late, but it did come.”

 “What’s the name of this one?”  Also staring at the holodeck representation, Apollo pointed at a southern land mass off by itself.  Over two-thirds pale tan, one third showed increasing green growth as it neared the side of the mass.  Off the shore, there was a faint outline in the blue-green water to the northeast of the continent.

 “That is...” Troi paused, then said, “Computer, label countries and continents.”  Letters faded in, superimposed over the globe.  “Oh—Australia.  That’s one I haven’t been to yet.”

 “Where have you been?”  Adama’s intense gaze focused on her, and the keen rush of curiosity, of a hunger for knowledge, pinned and distracted her for a moment.  Now that the fleet leader was rested and refreshed, the full force of his mental presence was almost like gravity, passively commanding her attention by his mere presence.  It had almost felt like a contraction in space when he had stopped in the corridor and asked to see a picture of Earth, focused and single-minded, quickly and greedily absorbing information about Earth like one would ask about a sudden romantic attraction or obsession.  He was still diplomatically neutral on Earth’s leadership, betraying any disagreement or disapproval by a thoughtful breaking off, gazing at the floor for a moment, then a change of topics.  She couldn’t feel any anger or anxiety with disagreements, suggesting agreeing to disagree would be a way out of clashes.  So long as he wasn’t provoked with belligerence, and as long as Earth’s leadership was briefed on the issues, the diplomatic path forward looked promising.

 “I grew up mostly on Betazed, my mother’s home planet, but I have spent at least some time on Earth.  Most of it has been along....”  She walked around the curve of the globe to the other side.  “Along here.  Here is Starfleet Academy, approximately,” she said, pointing to the west edge of a continent next to a large expanse of blue.  “Part of my psychology degree came here,” she added, pointing to an area farther north.  “I was on several planets—”

 “Pacific...Pacifica?”  Athena’s outstretched arm pointed at the expanse of blue to Troi’s left.  “How did you...that was one of our battlestars,” she said softly as Apollo crossed behind her to see it.

 “And here is Atlantia,” Adama said, pointing to another, smaller blue expanse.  His pondering expression faded slowly into a quiet smile.  “They kept the old names.”

 “They’re spelled wrong.”  Boxey’s calm observation made Adama glance at him.

 “Over thousands of yahren, you can expect some drift.  The spelling brings me no disappointment.”  He stepped back a moment to appraise the globe from more of a distance, his gaze going more calculating.  “I do believe I’ve made the right decision, and I now need to act on it.  There is much work to do.”

 “You’re still heading back?” Apollo asked as they turned from the globe.

 “Yes.  If you’re able to stay for our people here, I think it’s best for me to return and continue coordinating recovery and communication.  I will of course return this afternoon, but right now there are several priority lists and reports that need my attention.”

 “Actually...”

 “Computer, end program.”  Troi managed to slip the command in through Apollo’s hesitation, then looked up as they turned back to her in surprise.  “It would end when we exit but it’s considered good manners...”

 “No, just the technology,” Apollo said through her uncertainty.  He stared past her at the black and yellow-gridded space.  “It’s just hard to imagine...”

 “Would you care to stay and study it?”  Adama asked.

 “What?  Um, no.  Actually, I was kind of half thinking...”  Father and son moved away from Troi, Athena, and Boxey, continuing their conversation, and Athena made no move to join them.  Troi carefully noted this.  The woman next to her was their daughter, sister, and had some rank on their ship, but she was not only excluded from these conversations but also did not contest it in the least, only glancing back over her shoulder at the now empty holodeck before turning to focus on Troi.  The ingrained bias against females ran deep and was concerning.  Double standards between genders was also virtually always accompanied by bias against gender expressions and preferences that went against the majority.  They were under no obligation whatsoever to join the Federation, but if they did, it would take the equivalent of one generation of education before they could consider themselves eligible.

 She decided to cautiously explore the gender expectations.  It would likely be a key detail in the diplomatic negotiations facing both of them, and hopefully introduce some new possibilities for them.  “Holodeck technology is relatively new, but virtually all ship classes have the expectation now.  A civilian scientist, Gabriela Wojewódzki, came up with the forcefield projection technology, the OHD...omnidirectional holo diode,” Troi recited carefully.  “She was actually going for a different device, I think, but very quickly saw the potential for greater holodeck realism.  If you look carefully, you can find the initials GW somewhere on the holodeck walls.”  Boxey immediately turned to face the walls but Athena barely acknowledged the information.  On one hand she didn’t react with shock at the idea of a female scientist responsible for a major technological development, but it could also be disinterest due to general weariness.  For whatever reason, she only gave a slight nod as she turned to slowly follow her father and brother at a distance as they triggered the holodeck doors several paces ahead.

 “There’s a lot of technology but....it’s just kind of overwhelming,” Athena finally said softly.  “It’s hard to realize how all the systems here work together, but I guess I don’t have to understand it for now.  We have enough to do fixing all the damage from the attack.”

 “Which systems are you responsible for?”

 “Mostly radar.  My lines blew out partway through the attack and they’re still being fixed, but we’re almost done.”  She smiled briefly.  “Raw materials are the biggest problem.  I can only fix it if we have the cables manufactured.  Or re-manufactured,” she added with some irony.  “But I suppose you don’t want to hear about boring radar...”  She trailed off as she turned to locate Boxey, happily and calmly following close on Athena’s left.  “My radar actually duplicates...”

 “Athena, would you be willing to stay to visit our people?”  Adama was standing in the middle of the corridor with Apollo, appraising her proudly, expectantly.  “I’m giving you the authority to inform them about Earth.  Apollo has made the decision to return to Galactica as well, with Boxey,” he said, giving the boy a meaningful look.  “There’s a lot to accomplish and I think as my daughter, you would be an appropriate authority to speak to our people,” he said as a slow smile started to grow on her face.

 “I think—” she stopped and looked at Troi.  “I can’t go alone, though.  Could you help me find my way through?”

 “Of course,” Troi said with a warm smile.  “I do have some appointments in about an hour, but I can either give them to other staff or have someone come and accompany you.”

 “Good.  Alright,” Athena said, relieved, as Apollo held out his hand to Boxey.  “I think I can, father.”

 “You will do well,” Adama said with an affirming smile, then turned to Troi.  “I thank you very much for your time, but I believe now we need...a transporter,” he said, recalling the word after a second of hesitation.  “Thank you for letting me inform my family, and please pass along my gratitude to your comm—captain,” he corrected with a frustrated shake of his head.  “I do apologize if I confuse the ranks.”

 Troi shook her head.  “You don’t need to apologize.  We’re both learning, and names matter more than rank.  I’ll take you to the closest transporter room.” 

(aaaaaanother unfinished scene...)

Chapter Text

 The familiar sounds, smells, and gravity of Galactica coalesced around Apollo as the main bridge emerged from the haze.  For a moment disoriented, he startled when his father entered his vision, walking ahead of him towards the center of the bridge.  It took a touch on his hand for him to come to full alertness.

 “I like it but I like home better,” Boxey said solemnly, looking up at him, and Apollo managed a smile.

 “Well, there’s good and bad–”

 “Captain.”

 For a micron, Apollo simply nodded greeting to the senior officer approaching him, then he stopped and stared.  Tigh’s mouth was tight in disapproval but his eyes were starting to shine with tears.  For a moment he only stared him down, then turned away.  “I guess I don’t know what to say,” he said quietly.

 Apollo glanced down at Boxey, who was smart enough to recognize a “grown-up” conversation and just returned a neutral, controlled look.  “Look, I’m sorry–”

 Tigh growled something he couldn’t make out, and then Apollo was on the receiving end of a tight hug from the colonel.  “God damn you, listen to me next time, and thank God....”  Stunned for a moment, Apollo managed to get an arm around the man, and then Tigh pulled away, still staring pointedly at the floor.  “You owe me 15 centons of life,” he began, quiet and firm.  “That’s how long I thought you were dead.  That’s how long I thought I had killed you,” he said, voice rising as Apollo turned away in frustration.  “An idea I came up with—”

 “No.  Tigh, it was my choice,” Apollo returned sharply.  “Look, I’m sorry.  We all tried, and it was a no-win scenario.  It was working until I—disappeared out of my—Sheba,” Apollo interrupted himself.  “Where’s Sheba–”

 “She’s fine,” Tigh answered.  “You better be damn careful how you approach her, though.  All of us.  We thought you were dead...”

 Tigh trailed off and they both turned as another officer cautiously approached.  Rigel was walking toward them slowly, transfixed, staring at Apollo.  As their eyes met, her steps sped up until she launched herself into him.  “You’re alive!”

 “Yeah, I guess I am—”

 “I screamed for you.”

 Around the hug, Apollo sighed.  “I’ll bet.  I screamed, too.”

 “Half the bridge got the news, the other half didn’t,” Tigh said half-heartedly while Rigel squeezed more air out of Apollo.  “Fortunately your father heard immediately that you had been....‘disappeared’ onto that other ship.”

 “If I remember right, you owe him...a bottle of ambrosia,” Rigel said cautiously, pulling back as she looked from one to the other, and Apollo rolled his eyes.

 “So you did hear that.”

 “Hear what?” Tigh asked with a frown.

 “I sort of...promised you a bottle....actually, I guess I owe a lot of people drinks,” Apollo said, staring off across the bridge as he thought of the EVA techs.  A forceful breath pulled his attention back, and to his relief, Tigh was finally laughing quietly.

 “Yes, God damn it, you owe all of us many, many rounds,” he said, enunciating each word clearly.  “I’m glad you’re alive, I’m glad you’re back,” he said frankly this time.  “But let’s not ever do this again.  I’ll keep my insane ideas to myself next time.”

 “I didn’t even–how did the ring turn out?  The pulsar....wait....”  Apollo frowned, vaguely recalling a memory of an explanation from the night before.

 “From what we understand, and from what people saw, the pulsar shields opened and fired immediately, right into the face of that other ship,” Tigh explained, jutting his chin, indicating their alien visitors.  “No vipers were lost,” he added hurriedly as Apollo focused on him intensely.  “Everyone actually came out alive–at least...after those other ships came through,” he finished.

 “I need a full run-down,” Apollo said.  “I got talked to last night but I was asleep on my feet, and all of this morning was spent over in wonderland without much reality.  I’m going to go get Boxey quartered and then–”

 “Nooooo,” Boxey moaned quietly, pulling on Apollo’s hand.  “Can’t I stay here?  I want to see more.”

 “You just said you’d rather be home, or was that your identical twin?”  Boxey rolled his eyes in response but didn’t say anything, which Apollo took as a reluctant ‘yes, father’.  “I have a ton of briefings, reports, talking to people....”

 “I can give you a run-down of major events,” Rigel said helpfully.  “Fast current status, repairs are happening with the other ships’ help, and I think the plan is to talk to the Quorum....?”  She turned questioningly to Tigh, who sighed and nodded.

 “We are going to grab the egos over radio, not in person, and tell them the situation,” he said, catching Apollo’s gaze on the last few words.  “After that, unless he’s changed his mind, he’s going to address the fleet.  Within the centar we should have all comms back up in the fleet.”  Then he stepped closer and said in Apollo’s ear, “Not everyone knows, yet.”  He pulled back and indicated Rigel with his eyes.  “Boxey knows?” he mouthed silently, and Apollo nodded.

 “Immediate family and you?” he said in a low voice, and Tigh nodded.

 “Correct.  Now Quorum, then fleet.  I’ve been working on a basic list of points, but I think your father will have the majority of information,” he said, turning as Adama paced closer to them.  “When we get word that comms to all ships are back up, if not interiors as well, there will be some communication, and by this evening all second-level repairs on fleet ships should be completed.  We’ve also been informed that....unintended information spillage has been contained,” he added, glancing at Adama.  “The sooner we can resolve that, the better.”

 Apollo frowned.  “Information spillage...”

 “We’ll talk,” Adama said simply in response to his son.  “Do I have the reports in my office?”

 “You do, sir,” Tigh said with a short nod.  “We need a decision on the future of the Taura Observer.”

 “Which will probably have to wait until this afternoon, unfortunately.  Apollo....”  Adama motioned his confused son away from the group.

 “Information spillage?” Apollo asked softly, sending a monitoring glance across the bridge.  Boxey swung his father’s arm, movements loose and heavy, and Apollo switched him to his off-hand as he followed his father around the back of the bridge.

 “It turns out their day starts a few centares sooner than ours does, and their crews went out into the fleet for repairs early this morning.  And at the time, no one besides Tigh and me had knowledge...”  Adama paused as Apollo suddenly swung his son up into his arms.

 “Boxey.  I need you to keep a secret, alright?  That one we talked about,” he said, raising his finger to his lips as the boy squirmed on his hip.  “I need you to keep quiet about it.  Can you do that?”

 Boxey sighed, distracted.  “I understand.”

 “You won’t need to keep it long, but for now, all quiet.  Alright?”  He tried to maneuver into Boxey’s restless field of vision without success.  After a quick, monitoring glance around him, Adama moved in and put a hand on Boxey’s shoulder.  The boy’s head jerked around.

 “Listen to your father, and listen to me,” he said as Boxey stared at him, wide-eyed and solemn.  “We need you to keep quiet about...that planet we spoke of.  Do you understand?”  He got a slow nod from the boy.

 “Yes, sir.”

 “Good.”  He gave him a final pat before turning his attention to an approaching officer.  “I have reviews waiting for me, and...temptation should be minimized,” he said, giving Apollo a meaningful look, and the younger man glanced at Boxey.

 “Probably right,” he said as Adama turned to the officer waiting for him.  “Alright, let’s go.”  Aware that he was holding a sieve for secrets, Apollo took a fresh grip and made for the bridge exit, mentally calculating the most direct route through the floors and corridors.  He could almost second-guess his father’s decision to tell the boy, but not telling him along with his two children felt awkward and even cold.  The boy would have to be given opportunities to return trust, but the less time he spent in the corridors with Boxey in possession of the information he had, the better.

 Around the corner and into two short connecting corridors is all the farther he got, though.  “When is he gonna tell everyone?” Boxey asked in a stage whisper as they passed through a narrow connecting corridor that led to the lifts.

 “When the time is right, probably later today,” Apollo answered distractedly, peering around the corner.

 “How long will it take to get to–”

 Apollo clamped a hand over Boxey’s mouth.  “Hey.  We’re in a corridor.  That means there could be people around the next corner.  What did you just promise the commander?”  He lifted his hand for the reply.

 After a sigh, Boxey said, “I was just gonna ask how long to get to my room.”

 “No, you weren’t,” Apollo answered.  “Don’t lie.  Warriors don’t lie.  They tell the truth, and when it’s appropriate, they keep secrets.  We have all of two centons of walking to get home and you can stay quiet for that time, alright?” he said, shifting to a more conciliatory tone as Boxey’s gaze lowered and the hint of a pout came out.  “It’s a lot to deal with, but we will talk about it when we get home.  Promise.”  The sigh and a tug at the corner of the boy’s mouth was the only acquiesce he was likely to get, so he decided not to push it.  He shifted his hold on the boy and started down the corridor.  “It’s been a crazy cycle and a half and we’re all...”

 Apollo trailed off as he heard familiar voices around the next corner.  He had just enough time to set Boxey down before they saw him.  “....trying her best but just because they’re old is no reason to take it out on her.  Exploration has to become a thing for us, too, and they can help—”

 “Naaah, they’re just looking at comets and weird planets–”

 “Then what are the escort ships for?”

 Sheba stutter-stepped instinctively, seeking to move around whoever was in the corridor as she focused on the conversation, but then her glance turned into a picture-perfect double-take.  Her face transformed in joy and she inhaled air so fast she nearly choked.

 “Apollo!”

 “There you are!”

 Sheba got her arms around him first, blocking Starbuck, who paused awkwardly with his arms outstretched, uncertain if he wanted to make it a threesome.  “Oh, Lords, Apollo...”  Around the tight hold, he managed to reach out to Starbuck’s hand and grasp it awkwardly.

 “Am I glad to see you,” Starbuck said with rare sincerity, shaking his head.  “That was one God-awful fight.”

 “No kidding,” Apollo said heavily, over Sheba’s shoulder.  “I don’t think any single battlestar has faced off against four cylon capital ships before.”

 “And if we never try that felgercarb again, you will hear absolutely no complaints from me,” Starbuck said, rolling his eyes.  “There should be a limit on how many times per cycle your life can flash before your eyes.”

 “The cylons just got lucky,” Sheba said, releasing Apollo reluctantly.

 “Well, then, so did we,” Apollo said, clasping Starbuck briefly with a slap on the back.  “Hell of a ship they have.  It’s smaller, but...”

 “Oh, we weren’t on the one you were on,” Sheba said with a raised eyebrow.  “There’s three ships, and we were on the tiniest one, the escort ship.  Quadrant.  It’s small but their crew told us it was the biggest offensive weapon in the field, and it’s smaller than many of the fleet ships.”

 “I gotta think that was proud crew talk.  Enterprise is the flagship, but stuff there is so different....”

 “So, hey, where’re you headed?” Starbuck asked with a pat on the arm.  “Sheba and I were going to go check on my viper, see how it’s coming.  Want to come with?”

 Apollo glanced down at Boxey, who was looking at him with a droll expression, probably expecting him to unload his secret.  Instead, he smiled and drew himself up to his full height.  “Actually, Boxey and I are headed home,” he said brightly.  “It’s been a long day already and only getting longer.  I have a ton of reports, briefings, work stuff, and....” he put a hand on Boxey’s head.  “I think father and son are just going to spend some time together.  It’s been a pretty scary cycle and a half and we’ve earned it.”

 Sheba covered her disappointment with an understanding smile, and Starbuck shook his head.  “Alright, you go be a dad.  We’re gonna go be warriors.”

 “Hey, I have a future warrior here.  It’s shop talk!” Apollo shot back in playful protest.  “We’re gonna go—go write all the squadron reports and—and get the repair reports and—and–”

 Sheba laughed, releasing him from the tease.  “Sometimes the warrior fights with the keyboard.  In more ways than one.”  She muffled another laugh and jumped away as Apollo swung a hand at her, not intending to connect.  “We’re glad you made it,” she added, sincere, as they moved away.  “I’m glad you made it.  And I’d say you owe all of us a round except Starbuck took your money yesterday.”

 “We’ll play again and this time I’ll win,” Apollo promised, pointing a finger at Starbuck as they disappeared around the next corner.  He just stood there for a moment, gazing off where they’d gone, then looked down at Boxey.  “Now, did you see that?  I just spoke with two of my best friends.  Note what I never told them,” he said deliberately but with a gentle smile.  “That’s keeping a secret.”  Boxey’s eyeroll was almost audible but Apollo caught a fleeting look at a smile as the boy led the way down the corridor.  

(and once more with feeling, finish this scene....)

Chapter Text

 What once were living quarters now looked like a major construction project with a large floor panel, bend sharply at its midpoint, leaning against the wall and a second one partially sliced with a metal saw.  A makeshift barrier had been put up around the opening, and Kassi Harper had climbed into the one-meter opening.  Armed with sonic probes and an engineering tricorder, her head was just visible occasionally as she scanned the length of pipe to pinpoint the blockage location.  Several large tools littered the remaining floor and the two children had finally been trained to not touch them, but the tools weren’t their primary fascination.

 “What kind of fish are in the oceans?  Are they big?”

 “Some of them are,” Kassi answered patiently, studying her tricorder screen.  “The biggest ones I think are about half....no,” she said, frowning.  “They’re smaller than this ship–”

 “What color are they?”

 “Um, dark blue-gray, I think.”

 “Have you ever seen one?”

 “Elleth....”

 The young girl looked over at her mother and Kassi smiled.  The questions from both of them had been steady, but the topics differed.  Elleth asked about the appearance of the planet, how far away was it, what was the temperature, and what were the animals and people like, while Seraine, her mother, had a much narrower focus: Their ability to defend against the cylons and Earth’s ability to produce food.  They had free rein to ask questions, in exchange for staying in their quarters for now and not spreading the news.  Since then there had been few pauses as they had plunged into the treasure trove of information from Earth.  She didn’t consider herself an expert, but even the most minor points were fascinating for them.

 “My family moved around a lot.  I think I’ve only spent five years on Earth, outside of the Academy.”

 “Year is....a yahren,” Seraine said haltingly.  The young woman, not much older than Kassi herself, was slowly picking up terminology, and had adjusted her pronunciation of the planet’s name.  She had learned that the woman’s husband had been killed during their escape from their home world, Leon, and without his sacrifice, the older daughter would not be here.  The younger one had been born just two days prior to the attack.  The confusion and fear had worn her down and even news of Earth only briefly shocked her before she settled back to her dull hopelessness.  Seraine’s neutral expression was a slight frown, and Kassi had only seen her smile once so far.  The wavy blonde hair was indifferently tied back with a piece of string, and when not focusing on something, she sat still and stared blankly at the floor or the far wall.

 “I did get out on the ocean a few times, because the Academy is right next to it,” Kassi said, looking up and catching Elleth’s gaze.  “I saw a few whales, but I don’t think they were the biggest kind.”

 “Do people live in the oceans?”

 “There are some research stations on the ocean floors, I know,” she answered, voice going soft as she focused on settings on the sonic probe, finding one that would work with the blue-painted steel pipe now exposed in the space between decks.  The probe emitted a low tone and the small readout lit up as she turned it on, sliding it slowly down the pipe.  A faint, metallic, humming buzz from the sonics against the metal stayed at a steady pitch until nearly the end of the pipe that she could reach.  The readout showed a semi-solid blockage and the buzz from the pipe grew softer.

 “Well, I found your blockage,” she said confidently, hoping to focus Seraine on something positive for a change.  The woman only glanced briefly in her direction and gave a slight nod, and Kassi hoisted herself up onto the edge of the decking.  “Now I just gotta figure out how I wanna get it out.  I hope he lets me weld it,” she said, shooting Seraine a look of bravado.  She began collecting the various tools from the decking.

 “Thank you.”  Kassi looked up in time to catch another fleeting glance in her direction.  “I....I’m sorry I was angry.”

 “Naah, don’t worry about it,” Kassi said cheerfully as she brushed off her legs.  “I  got angry, too.  I was swearing.”  She got the second smile, however brief.

 “You don’t really get angry, do you?” Seraine murmured.  “Either of you.”  She nodded in the direction of the bath.  The sliding door to the bath was cracked open and they could hear the faint sounds of Ensign Parza carefully maneuvering his 1.8-meter tall frame in the small space, working on the drain.

 “Never get angry?” Kassi repeated quietly with a sly grin.  Seraine gave her a curious, uncertain look and Kassi leaned around the woman.  “Hey, Dots!”

 “Kassi!”  The annoyed return yell was followed by the door sliding open sharply.

 “Can we weld?  Or do I have to use a snake?” she asked, kicking a foot in the direction of the exposed decking.  Parza’s glance shifted between her and the opened decking, distracted from his annoyance by the engineering question.

 “Hang on, let me–” he broke off, moving equipment out of the way, expression a mix of irritation and confusion as he glanced at Seraine’s wide-eyed look.

 “I got the scans I need, if I can weld,” Kassi said as he slipped through the small opening and into the main room, barely avoiding the younger child as he got a look at the exposed deck.  “Looks like steel and I think some copper.”

 “Um...”  Parza rubbed a hand over his face.  There were spots of water over part of his uniform, incurred from working with an unfamiliar plumbing system.  “How far back in there is it?  What length do you think you need?”

 “Probably about...less than a meter.  It’s not a big block.  Exhaust gasses.”

 “Alright...”  He stared at the pipes in the area.  “Okay.  I think we can weld it.”

 “Yes!”

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

 Ten minutes later, the three residents had been cleared out of the compartment for safety, and Kassi had a welder helmet, gloves, and a protective apron.  The plasma torch flared brightly in the small space, throwing flickering light as she carefully angled it around the pipe.  Parza stood nearby, watching as she cut the half-meter section of piping clear.  It fell with a clatter, resting on more piping just below it, and she turned the torch off.

 “Keep the gloves on, we don’t know what’s in there,” Parza murmured, watching her as she set the torch aside and pushed up the visor.

 “It doesn’t feel really heavy,” Kassi said as she handled the length of pipe, not much more than a tenth of a meter in diameter.  She kept it level as she turned and set it on the decking floor, then hopped up next to it.  The edges of the pipe rapidly cooled to black, but the warmth and the smell of the hot metal made her keep the gloves on.  “I think we could probably patch this back in, instead of a new length, but that depends...”

 “Here, let me...” Parza pulled out a small flashlight and shined it into the pipe as she held it up for him.  “It’s fairly—what the hell?”

 “Huh?”  Kassi pulled the pipe back at his startled exclamation.  “What’s in there?”

 “I saw a....an eye,” he said, confused.  “But not a normal....like a drawn eye but big.”

 “What?”  Kassi looked into the end of the pipe, then took the flashlight from him.  “Oh!”  She set the pipe down, then leaned back to grab the crowbar that was still in the room.  “I’ll hold it, you stick this in and push it out.”

 “Are you sure?”

 “Yes.”

 She held the pipe up on end, and Parza carefully inserted one end of the crowbar.  It stopped near the end of the pipe, and he gently applied pressure.  “It’s...almost like it’s soft...”

 “Yeah, this could make someone very unhappy....no, keep going,” she said as Parza let up on the crowbar.  “It’s wrecked, whatever it is.  Just push it out.”

 Eventually the block was pushed to one end of the pipe, and Kassi grabbed a simple screwdriver and pried it out.

 “What in the stars is that,” Parza murmured as Kassi set the pipe down and carefully held the object.  She turned it around, looking at it.

 “It’s a doll,” she said matter-of-factly.  “There’s your eye, by the way.”  The dark brown fur was singed and matted, and the face, some kind of pliable material, was blackened and hardened except for two exaggerated eyes.  Two bumps on the top of the head suggested ears.  The four limbs were small and thick, with a suggestion of pink at the ends.  “I had one that looked sorta like that when I was little.  It’s a toy,” she said, looking up at him as he shook his head slowly in confusion.  “And the problem is, someone used to own it.”

 “I’ll clean the pipe up if you go, um...”

 “Okay,” Kassi said heavily as she got to her feet and pulled the helmet off.

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

 When the door to the compartment slid open, Seraine turned to her, wary, then glanced down the corridor.  “Elleth?”  The girl had been running the length of the corridor and stopped on hearing her name.

 “Well, we found what was blocking the pipe,” Kassi said, her gloved hands wrapped protectively around the toy.  “But I don’t know whose it used to be.”

 “What is it?” Seraine said softly, taking a cautious step towards her.  Kassi lifted a gloved hand and gave her a look.  “Oh, dear...”

 “Did it used to belong to....?” Kassi asked softly, nodding in the direction of the girl who was slowly approaching.  Seraine’s worried glance at her daughter told Kassi everything she needed to know, and gave her a couple of seconds of warning.

 “Dellie!”  The wail of despair sank Kassi’s heart as the little girl ran the few steps and grabbed the dirty, friable remains.  Seraine sighed in defeat as her daughter hugged the ruined toy close to her, marking up the simple off-white dress she wore.

 “Oh, I’m sorry,” Kassi said softly, a gloved hand on her back in comfort.  “I’m sorry.”

 “It was...lost...shortly after we left,” Seraine said haltingly.  “She just...cried.  I thought she’d forgotten it.”

 “Tell you what,” Kassi said, kneeling down by the distraught child.  “If you want, I can get Dellie cleaned up for you.  I’ll have to take it to the Enterprise, where we have a really good cleaner,” she said encouragingly as the girl hugged the toy close to her protectively.  “Would you like to have Dellie all cleaned up and not stinky?”

 “You don’t have to,” Seraine said, but stopped when Kassi looked up at her.

 “It’s easy, it’s no trouble.  How about it?” she asked, returning her attention to Elleth.  The girl was still hugging the toy but didn’t pull away so she waited, giving her time to think.  When the girl looked down at the matted, partially melted toy, Kassi put a hand on her shoulder.  “Hang on, I’ll be right back.”

 She stood up and went back into the compartment, stripping her gloves.  Parza was handling the severed pipe, spraying a cleaner into the end of it, and looked over at her.  “How’d it go?” he asked, cautious, watching her.

 “Not great, but I have an idea,” she said matter-of-factly, crouching down and digging in the supplies case.  “Where do we have....for samples...there,” she said finally, pulling out a small, tight roll.  “Did you get the drain done?”

 “Pretty much, I think so.  I need to test it but I don’t know what their water usage rules are.”  He watched as she unrolled the tightly folded, heat-resistant bag.  “Are we...disposing–”

 “No,” she said sharply, giving him an admonishing look.  “Absolutely not.”

 “Then what...?”  Confused, he just watched as she got to her feet.

 “Please tell me, at one point you were a little kid.”

 “Well, obviously,” he said with an eye roll.  She just returned a head shake and a slight, wry smile, leaving the compartment again.

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

 “There we go,” Kassi said as the prized ball of matted fur rolled into the white sample bag.  “I’ll clean the bag, too, before I put her back in,” she said, cinching the top of the bag part-way.  “I’ll leave it open a little for her to breathe.”  Elleth watched apprehensively, hugging herself as her toy disappeared into the white bag, and Seraine looked away in embarrassment at her daughter’s anguish over the toy.

(editor's note---what was supposed to happen here was Kassi took the dollie back to the Enterprise, commandeered an industrial replicator, and....recreated the toy.  And went back to the ship and gave it to the kid.  Because that is SOOOOO like my coworker.)

Chapter Text

 “I apologize for not convening this in person, but time is something of the essence,” Adama said, adjusting his headset as he stared into the camera on the monitor in front of him.  It displayed only the impassive, craggy face of Sire Domra, but the entirety of the Council of Twelve were connected with the call, each on their respective home ships.  Omega had been the one to contact each of them and arrange the call, and had borne the brunt of their impatient demands for a report on the situation.  He had passed an impression of the list on to Adama, enough to suggest this meeting would be like herding felines.  “We are technically out of danger at the moment but I have chosen to continue the shuttle ban for now, except in cases of emergencies.  It will be–”

 “Out of danger?” Sire Domra interrupted, eyes widened in disbelief.  “You call three cylon base stars and a gunship out of danger?  How could this possibly constitute anything but a dangerous situation?”

 “The cylon ships have been thoroughly disabled, and are being continually watched,” Adama said firmly, deciding in that moment not to inform them of the two additional base stars that could have entered their view.  “I realize this may look perilous.  Under all other circumstances, no sane person would sit next to a cylon ship and say they felt safe.  The difference here is the presence of the three additional ships, and before you object,” he added quickly as Sire Domra pulled in a breath to speak, “I can tell you that their size is very misleading, in the extreme.  The tactical capability of those ships is beyond anything we have ever encountered, and not only have they rendered the cylons offensively impotent, they are tracking every move the cylons make.  If and when the cylons get any system close to operational, it will be targeted and turned back into slag.”

 “Who are these people, these ships?” Siress Tinia asked.  “What are their intentions?  You seem to know a great deal about them already, which suggests many exchanges.  At what point will the Council be included in these conversations?”

 “The contact was not diplomatic.  It was military.  Their intent was to assist us against the cylons, and as such, they contacted Galactica and its leadership, not the Council.”  There was a surprisingly fine line between courteousness and irony whenever Adama addressed the Council, and he hoped they read the former and not the latter in his tone.  It had been over a yahren now since they had openly challenged his position as commander of the fleet, but gleeful derailing and hijacking of meetings was still a favorite pastime of some of the council.  The fact that they were putting their antics on display in front of a thirteenth person in the call was regrettable, but the Federation might as well get a candid view of the state of their government.  It would take them no short time to absorb, let alone understand the news he was about to deliver.

 “So if, as you say, the fighting here is done, the Council should be taking over relations,” Sire Adhil said conclusively, his staccato Aquarian accent adding sharpness to the declaration.  “Establishing diplomatic relations will require a contact–”

 “Adhil, before establishing diplomatic relations, let us find out with whom,” Siress Tinia said, the reproving tone not lost on Adama.  The Cansarra representative was one of the younger council members but this had not deterred her in the least.  She had shown more practicality than most of the others put together, ever since the hostage crisis over a yahren ago.  When her comments hit uncomfortably close to the mark, though, Adama was forced to acknowledge them, giving the council at least a perceived inroad on a given issue.  “It is reasonable, I think, that the contact was military, given the circumstances,” she said with surprising neutrality.  “It is apparent you know their identity, though, Commander, and we do not.  What world are they from?  Whose ships?”

 For just a moment, Adama froze.  Tinia was also persistent and wouldn’t let him dodge questions.  He had hoped to gauge the council mood first and calm the expected panic over the fleet paused next to base stars, then clear as many other issues as possible first before sending them back into shock.  Ultimately in this moment the most important news was that they were far safer than they appeared to be.  Answering the demand for a world name would end any focus they might have for more immediate, practical concerns.  Earth was their future, but their present was base stars and repair work.  Out and out lying was distasteful, as was abandoning any hope of addressing the many issues.  Heavy-handed deferring of the issue seemed his only option and he opened his mouth to speak, but then the memory of the brightly lit ship full of a myriad of species gave him his sidestep.

 “They do not represent one world, Siress,” he said, hoping his smile over the save would be enough to derail their expectations.  They were quick to fixate on Earth when the fleet found a novel situation, and giving the impression he had been thoroughly absorbed by another reality might keep their expectations in control.  “These ships represent over a hundred worlds, and countless races and species fill their decks,” he said, true fascination affecting his expression and tone.  “It is called the United Federation of Planets.  They are all explorers but are not without military strength.  They have impressive logistics capabilities as well, and through the night and into this day they have sent many of their engineers to our ships for repair efforts.  Their shuttles are out there, of course, but out of caution I am continuing the transportation ban at least until this afternoon.  After that point I suspect we will have a clear path toward normalizing operations.”  There was quiet for a few moments as they mulled the multiple points, but the Council could find contradiction in anything, and it wasn’t long in coming.

 “As Siress Tinia stated, Commander, you have a curious confidence and depth of knowledge,” Sire Domra said.  “Clearly, relations have already been established.”

 “In the areas of logistics and engineering,” Adama cut in, “in addition to defensive operations.”

 “Which would, of course, seem to be your areas,” Domra conceded with studied thoughtfulness.  “No, no, I don’t dispute that,” he continued softly, and Adama’s expression hardened as Domra’s condescension became more pronounced.  “It is certainly appropriate, the military has its role.  It does bear stating, however, that during this time, the Council of the Twelve has been shirking its duty to likewise establish a relationship in its specialty as diplomatic representatives–”

 “Diplomacy will wait behind repairs and logistics concerns, and splitting communication fronts is only going to complicate an already complex picture,” Adama said over Sire Domra’s affronted gape.  “I do believe the Council will become more involved, Sire Domra, but right now, as you rightly say, we are sitting next to cylon vessels.  While they are disarmed, the only thing I trust in a cylon is its determination to kill.  I am seeking a plan for complete neutralization before we turn to more formal exchanges.”

 “Complete neutralization,” Sire Ogma repeated in his wispy, nasal voice that seemed to always only express sarcasm.  “If you’re suggesting we somehow retain it, you’ll do it on your own outside of the fleet while the rest of us continue on.  Any cylon ship is a danger in any form.”

 “The base stars are fully controlled,” Adama said flatly, “and at this point represent fuel and materials for our own use.”

 “You intend to use it?”  Ogma’s voice swooped in astonishment.  “May I point out they are still infested with cylons?  I hope you are not intending to risk any of our people with that issue.  Throw that at the other ships and let their people die trying, not ours–”

 “Sire Ogma, you are out of line,” Adama cut in angrily.  “If these ‘other’ ships had not appeared when they did, we would not be here to have this conversation.  Quite frankly, we owe them our lives.  In addition, one of their ships is housing and feeding over a thousand of our people as we speak because the Taura Observer suffered catastrophic damage.  Not only that, there are ongoing talks about a very significant degree of assistance...”  Adama took a deep breath, deciding to play his hand.  “....because these ships come from Earth.”

 “What?”

 The total transformation of Sire Domra’s face on the screen made Adama beyond grateful that he had taken the trouble to ensure this entire conversation was recorded, audio and video.  It only captured one face, Sire Domra’s, but that alone was worth it.  The thunderstruck expression almost made up for the fact that now, one of their members likely grievously insulting the silent thirteenth party...a member of the Thirteenth Tribe...was immortalized by the recording.  Around the faint verbal sounds of confusion and shock from the other members, Adama took a moment to compose himself, calculating how he could stitch this wreck of a contact back together.  “The lead ship, Enterprise, spent considerable time some sectons ago, examining what the cylons did to our homes, and before you ask, their technology is far beyond ours,” he said, holding up a hand to forestall the objections.  “The speed of their vessels is something we can barely comprehend.  They examined the remains and didn’t imagine there were any survivors until they happened to see us on their scanners earlier yesterday.”

 “What proof is there?  We’ve been toyed with for yahrens, now.  This would not be the first imposter, Commander.  How do you know this is Earth?”

 “Siress Maia?”

 “Yes.”

 “What proof would you accept?” Adama countered.  “I have no birth card to show you.  I have seen maps and images of the planet.  I have talked to a number of their officers.  The information I have been told has the ring of truth to it.  While they are not aware of being a colony world, I have seen enough for myself to think it highly likely this is the world we seek.  They are human, yet their manner of speech, their appearance, their culture is markedly different from any we have encountered to this point.”

 “How do you know this?”  Sire Sheratan was easily the quietest on the council.  “You haven’t been on their ship, and you say they have a thousand of our people...this is deeply confusing, Commander.”  A chorus of agreement came through the speaker at the Lebran’s words.

 “Agreed,” Sire Nahn said sharply.  “There are too many contradictions here.  Saying they covered the same distance in sectons that we did in two yahren–how could they have known our present location?  No scanner would reach a quarter of that distance.  And how is it possible they have a thousand of our people, and why do they have them?  This is unsettling in the extreme, Commander.  I suggest you start from the very beginning of this tale and omit nothing.  The Council of the Twelve has a right to know, especially if you are going to declare Earth.”

 “As I have been explaining,” Adama said quietly, “their technology is in advance of our own.  I do not yet understand the nature of their propulsion, and as for the evacuation of the ship...”  He hesitated, wondering how to articulate a technology he had virtually no grasp on even though he had experienced it four times now, and in the gap, another voice broke into the audio.

 “Commander Adama, if I may...”  The resonant, expressive baritone in the Scorpion accent utterly silenced the rest of the audio and Adama was treated to another startled reaction from Domra.

 “Captain, I...apologize for our...”

 “No apology is needed,” the other man said in what Adama considered a breathtaking display of diplomacy.  “You and your people have been under significant stress and there is much at stake here.  I will explain the technology but first, I am Captain Jean-Luc Picard, commanding officer on the U.S.S. Enterprise.  The Enterprise is a Starfleet vessel, the main exploratory and research arm of the United Federation of Planets, of which Earth is a founding member.  As Commander Adama explained, we have some perspective on the situation after having investigated the...remains of your home worlds.”  Adama knew he had not been down on the surface, but the quietly stricken tone might well have come from someone who lived through it.  For a moment, he  saw the ravaged surface of Caprica in his mind, smoking, freshly charred, a cut-off civilization, their world.  His world.  “I..don’t think our sorrow can be adequately expressed, nor our outrage,” Captain Picard continued quietly.  “We will do everything we can to assist with the current situation.”

 “We thank you,” Sire Domra said, in a tone of voice Adama had never heard from him before, solemn and with authentic gravitas.  Whether it was the accent, the formality, or the subject matter, the Earth captain had the ability to tame the most pompous, self-absorbed of them.

 “Starfleet vessels use continuum distortion drive, or warp drive, for light speed,” the captain continued, his cadence changing only slightly as he shifted to practical explanations.  “It is powered by a mediated matter-antimatter reaction that distorts space around the ship, impelling it forward.  As for the transfer of the residents on the damaged ship, the Federation has utilized matter streaming technology for many generations.  Shuttles are used for specialized situations, but transporters afford a much faster, safer transfer of personnel and cargo.  It took slightly over....”

 “In Earth time,” Adama slipped in.  “I would like us to convert to Earth terminology, since that is where we hope to go.”

 “In that case, it was just over an hour and a half.  An Earth day is divided into twenty-four units called hours, and there is a further subdivision into sixty minutes, and then sixty seconds.”

 “Thank you—”

 “Are you saying this is someone from Earth?”

 “Yes, Sire Nahn, he is from Earth.  The ship has many different races on board, but there are many humans from Earth as well.”

 “With a shuttle ban, again, how do you know this?”

 “The way they transfer,” Adama said haltingly, “is unlike anything we’ve encountered.  This will sound ridiculous, but it only takes a few...brief moments, and one is in another location.  I was transported to their ship and back twice, now, and no shuttle was used or needed.  This is also how the Taura Observer was evacuated.  Much of their technology is difficult to describe, as we have no analog.  Yes, I have been on their ship and talked to several of their people, Captain Picard being one of them.  My son was rescued...in the middle of a dangerous mission,” he said with a steadying breath.  “It was the same technology.  Many of our warriors were briefly under the impression he had been killed until Omega made the announcement.”

 “And everyone from the Taura Observer is now on their ships?”  From the only mild pitch variance in Siress Tinia’s voice, he could already tell she was showing less confusion than many of the others.

 “Yes.  They are graciously housing them for the time being.”

 “Until when?”

 “That is what will be at issue this afternoon,” the Earth captain slipped in.  “The state of your vessels presents a challenging logistics concern.”

 “This afternoon—I take it plans have already been made?”  To Adama’s disappointment, Sire Domra’s first word covered part of the last word from the captain, signaling an expiration date on respect.

 “Later this cycle, we are planning to gather in person and discuss the situation.  I understand it will include top officers from all ships, including military and civilian government,” he emphasized, preempting Domra’s offended response.  “The size and complexity of our situation—”

 “Gather in person where?” Domra interrupted.  “And I certainly hope you are not planning on a single representative.  The entire Council must be present.”

 “The current plan is to meet on the Enterprise, which is the ship housing our people.  It is most reasonable that the Council become more involved at this point, and the experience of visiting their ship will add much to your understanding.”  With care he kept the condescension out of his own words, but he and Captain Picard had spoken at some length about what could be expected from the Council.  So far they had delivered on his prediction, despite his best efforts to keep them focused, calm, and mollified.  In addition, the comparatively cheerful environment on the other ship masked a deep nod to the military.  He suspected they would find the practical professionalism and apparent casual acceptance of bewildering technology to be unsettling.  He knew, of course, that this likely marked the beginning of the end as far as his command of the fleet was concerned.  The Council would virtually be taking full control as they transitioned from a fugitive fleet protected by a military to a civilian population with a proper home.  The learning curve would be steep, but at this point, he was more than content to sit back and watch them attempt to climb this mountain.

 “Will there be a topic list?  The Council should have a voice,” Tinia said, her calm contrasting with Domra’s bluster.  “The number of topics that crowd up for consideration...well, I expect this gathering will need tight control.”

 “There is indeed a list, and I am requesting a bit of Sire Domra’s time to review it.  It is largely logistics, short-range plans, and expectations.  You are correct, Tinia, there are many issues, and while we might be tempted to satisfy curiosity, practical concerns must take precedence, at least for now.  Also, there is the matter of informing the rest of the fleet.”

 “And I suppose you are going to claim that,” Domra said heavily.  “If ever there was a civilian issue–”

 “Counting up the number of times the Council has pushed for us to simply stop and settle on a given planet and to abandon our quest for Earth, I hope you’ll indulge me if I wish to be the one to make the announcement.”

 “Commander Adama set us on this path, even before the Council was rebuilt, and he has held us together,” Tinia added, subdued.  “I feel it’s his right to do this.”

 “Thank you.”  There were a number of practical reasons, such as Galactica being the only ship in the fleet with unicom broadcasting, it would take too long to bring someone else up to speed, and if he wasn’t mistaken, the fleet would expect to hear it from him.  But even if those reasons were immaterial, if there was one selfish allowance he could claim, it would be this, Domra be damned.  They could have their stage, but when it came to Earth, the telespeak was his.  “My intent is to make the announcement, and then Domra, I will contact you and transmit the list so we may discuss it.  I also understand that all of you will be contacted by the Enterprise to arrange transport to the ship, if I am not mistaken, Captain.”

 “Our contact and logistics staff are attending to this, yes.”

 “Then if we are all agreed, no objections, I believe we should move forward.”

 Sire Domra had ceased looking at his camera and was clearly dissatisfied, but Adama...simply didn’t care.  The old Arian would get his chance this afternoon, if he was brave enough to take his stand.  All Adama knew is that he could finally deliver the message he had dreamed about delivering ever since they had started on this desperate run.     

(how many unfinished scenes is there, now?.....I've lost track.)

Chapter Text

 People of the fleet, this is Commander Adama.  First of all, I wish to apologize for not addressing you sooner, but we wanted to ensure all ships had their comm systems functioning before making any announcements.  The immediate danger is now past, despite the cylon vessels you see here.  You may have also noted the arrival of three additional ships from another organization, and they certainly deserve an explanation.

 Yesterday afternoon we spotted a base star shadowing us, and launched a squadron of vipers to act as a deterrent.  Shortly after that, a second base star and a Tartarus gunship arrived.  A centar later, a third base star was spotted incoming.  We launched all four squadrons of vipers and attempted to devise strategies to at least partly neutralize the base stars, but on the verge of setting those plans into action, three ships arrived and altered those plans.  They disabled the base stars and the gun ship in a matter of centons, and also made contact with Galactica, speaking with Flight Officer Omega and myself.  They identified themselves as coming from a multi-racial organization called the United Federation of Planets, and their technological advancement is quite a bit beyond ours.  When the situation had been stabilized, I made a visit to their ship not by shuttle but by using a form of near instantaneous traveling they call a transporter.  Their crew is racially varied, but there were also humans among them.  I questioned where they were from, and the commanding officer on the lead ship described the Federation to me.  It is hundreds of yahren old, made up of over 100 planets.  He told me the names of the four founding worlds of the Federation, and one of them is a beautiful blue planet called Earth.

 Earth is a technologically advanced world with many, many allies.  They tell me they are unaware of being a colony world, but after having spoken to them and noting certain significant differences as well as similarities, I believe there can be no doubt but that we have finally found our destination.  They are eager to assist us and have tremendous communication capabilities.  While we are a very long distance from Earth, these ships can communicate with Earth, and Earth is aware of our situation.  We are very early into the planning stages, but when we have a firm plan of action, I will of course speak to all of you again.

 Right now, I am sure you have many questions about Earth, as do I.  For now, the most important things to know are that they know we are here, they are capable, have an intent to assist us, and have already taken steps to send additional ships.  For now, what I would put to each and every one of you in the fleet is to think on this issue: It is an obvious decision to proceed to Earth, but we will not be able to do it with our current vessels.  Getting to Earth will necessitate leaving your current living spaces and possibly leaving behind many possessions as well.  None of their ships are as large as the Galactica, and they estimate that on average, the ships they send out here will only be able to take approximately eight hundred to a thousand of us at a time, and it will not be a straight, point-to-point journey.  You will likely need to change ships and also spend time on another planet or some of their space constructs.  It will take possibly as long as four sectons, but it will be far safer and many of you will have vastly improved living conditions for that journey, whether you are on a ship or spending time on a planet waiting to transfer to another ship.

 It is too early to make a guess on time frames, as this is a very large operation and there are many options and variables involved.  For now we will continue to stay where we are.  The cylon ships no longer represent a danger to us, as they have been neutralized and are being continually watched.  In the coming cycle or two, I will be able to present a more complete picture to you as we continue to coordinate recovery and repair efforts, but I did not wish to delay over-long in informing the fleet.  This was perhaps our most desperate confrontation since leaving the colonies, but its outcome could not have been more positive.  We have been truly blessed by this meeting, and I do believe our outlook has never been brighter.  As plans continue to evolve and become finalized, I will pass more information on to you.  We are shortly going to test computer transfer protocols between the lead ship, called Enterprise, and the Galactica, and it will include a great deal of information about Earth that will be available for you to access.  We are continuing with repairs, and there will be a gathering on the Enterprise shortly with the Council, Galactica leadership, and the officers of the three Earth ships and we hope to provide more information following that.  God bless all of us.  Adama out.

Chapter Text

 Commander William Riker, first officer of the U.S.S. Enterprise, tapped his hand on the door controls and the heavy double doors slid aside with a multi-tone whirring.  The cacophony of noise and light blared out and pulled him into the densely-packed bay, smelling faintly of people and food as the noon meal was going out to the refugees from the overworked replicators.  Overworked, but still functioning thanks to the heroic shifts Engineering was cranking out.  Virtually all ship systems were functioning at high throughput and Data had already informed them Starbase 434 knew they would be coming.  They would need a consumables restock a month and a half earlier than scheduled, from supporting a 33 percent increase in ship population, consisting of high-need refugees .  Almost 200 of the refugees were in the bay, sequestered into a maze of blue barriers set up, taking up the space that would otherwise house the myriad shuttlecraft the ship normally carried.  The mostly somberly-robed refugees had settled into a quieter pattern from when he had looked through last night.  They now had a sense of their location, not just in the maze but also in relation to their former home, and had satisfied their curiosity as far as they could explore.  Clumps of adults were sitting in groups talking, and the children–

 He had a half-second warning out of the corner of his eye and then felt a bump against his right knee.  The small child, not more than three, rebounded off his leg and landed on her rear, her mass of brown curly hair flopping forward and then back with her movement.  Before her stunned expression could morph into tears, he was down next to her.

 “Ohh, I’m sorry, that was a bounce, wasn’t it?” he said with a gentle hand on her forehead.  Her head slowly turned to register him and he got his hands around her rib cage, lightly lifting the slight form in the brown and red-striped robe with a brown tabard.  “You alright?  It looks like the sea didn’t part before you like it should.”  A kiss on the forehead started to change her expression from blank surprise to awareness.

 “How’s she doing?”  Riker turned and saw another command uniform approaching, focusing on the girl.  “Oh, I think we’re probably gonna be alright, aren’t we?  Here, I can take her,” Emereck said, and Riker transferred the tiny figure to the nurse.

 “How have things been?” Riker asked shortly as Emereck settled the girl on his hip.

 “Good.  Better than last night.  A meal or two, some sleep, a bit of exploration, they’re less scared now,” he said, nodding.  “I just got here but that’s what I’m seeing.”

 “You haven’t seen Commander Laforge?”

 Emereck shook his head.  “I’m fifteen seconds in the door, here.  He might be here, I don’t know.”

 “Right,” Riker grunted acknowledgment and backed off, letting Emereck connect with the little girl while he turned to scan the curve of the bay.  His height just afforded him a view over the barriers but the slightly shorter stature of the engineer wasn’t immediately visible.  Reasoning he would likely be closer to the service bays, he cut through to the middle of the bay with the control tower.  Halfway around the service area, he glanced across the bay and saw several uniforms in the stock bay.  Laforge was in there, listening to one of his lieutenants.  There was another lieutenant from operations and two ensigns as well.

 “We can set up some sonic units.  That should be no problem, but even giving them a once-and-done water shower is going to pretty much force us to pilfer from someone’s atmosphere,” the engineering lieutenant was saying.  “Stocks is already tight,” she said, glancing at the other lieutenant there.

 “Then if we can’t cycle that much through but we’ve got the power, let’s do sonics,” Laforge said, nodding.  “Talk to medical and see if they could give us a hand getting them used to the unfamiliar tech.  Carina, assign someone to go coordinate with Sickbay, then I’d like you to take lead on the sonic set-up.”

 Carina Lundgren, the engineering lieutenant, nodded.  “Yes, sir.  I’ll get a cross-train on it.”

 “Alright, good.  Thanks for letting me know about that.”  Laforge turned to Riker as the group started to break up.  “When you bring a thousand-plus refugees on board, check your transport logs,” he said with an eye roll.  Riker frowned and the engineer chief added, “We were getting warnings from the filtration system in the bay.  Turns out it was dead skin cells.  Many of them rarely shower and just do a dry or nearly dry exfoliation, and the ionization couldn’t keep up.”

 Riker blew out a breath and shook his head.  “Hell of an existence,” he muttered.

 “Well, with their living conditions, I think we should start interviewing them.  Chances are we could pick up some interesting survival tips,” Laforge said as he started to follow the other officers out of the shelves.

 “I don’t think I’d be able to do it without filling those cylon ships with torpedoes.”

 “And I’ll hold them down for you,” Laforge added.

 “How are your people doing?  Are you getting enough rest?”

 Laforge slowed and sighed.  “What can you do?  It’s a sprint.  Data told me he’s going to try to see if he can get ‘fleet Ops and Command to call this our refugee drill, systems test, evacuation drill, and probably a few other requirements for the year.”

 “That would be entirely reasonable,” Riker said dryly.

 “Yeah.  Other than that, though....”  He slowed to a halt.  “I’m planning on a good ten hours tonight,” he said heavily.  “The satisfaction index here is pretty high, but only goes so far.  We’re going to finish all the tier two repairs, and then I’m giving my people a rest and going back to normal shifts.  That shouldn’t be more than about another hour, hour and a half, maybe by the time the briefing starts.  We’re all willing but I don’t want to take chances.”

 Riker nodded wordlessly as they looked across the blue barriers in the bay.  Normally used for surgery suites, they now housed family units, and as they watched, several children of varying ages ran around the end of the row, the somber colors of their distinct clothing in contrast with their laughter.  The one in front, either leading or being chased, darted back into the paths through the barriers and the ones trailing nearly missed the turn, having to double back.  Resilience made for quick satisfaction with their situation, with a few of them young enough to mostly only remember life in space, not on a planet.

 On a planet....

 The row of small, dusty, dried skulls and bodies with a straight black gouge ripped across—

 “So they’re looking for Earth, right?”

 Riker startled back to reality.    

(way to not finish a scene, twit....)

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

 Transport chamber four was chosen for the beam-in location, closest to the holodeck they had set up for the meeting.  The observation lounge was rejected as too small, and even Ten-Forward was considered and passed over.  The largest holodeck chamber on the ship was configured for the meeting, with a rounded triangle of tables and some amplification for the approximately thirty participants.  Picard, Riker, Troi, Data, and Athena waited in the transport chamber, with the rest of the Enterprise senior staff already in the holodeck.  The lone colonial looked uncomfortable and glanced frequently to the others there for reassurance until Troi maneuvered around to stand next to her.  The visitation of refugees hadn’t been easy, with fear, anxiety, and confusion a common find.  Even news of Earth hadn’t cheered or even distracted them very long.  Troi had stayed with her for only the first half-hour before she had to pass the duty to one of her staff and assist with coordinating the meeting.  The many questions had slowed progress, and fewer than a third of the survivors had been reached.  Uneasy restlessness radiated from her, due in part to the fact that the survivors hadn’t seen her as an authority figure.

 Troi leaned over and caught a look at the transport controller, then caught Athena’s attention.  “The first ones coming through are from the Sovereign,” she explained quietly as the taller woman stooped slightly to hear her.  “The captain is an Andorian female.  They’re a warrior race so she may come off as...strong,” she said carefully.  “Her first officer is a Bolian female and the second officer is a human male.  You’ve probably already seen Bolians on the Enterprise.”  Athena straightened and nodded, and Troi felt her gratefulness.  The idea that someone had her perspective in mind, that she could call someone here an ally, comforted her after the disappointment of the last few hours.  She had begun with some confidence and finished feeling disillusioned and inadequate, and Troi knew she wasn’t looking forward to informing her father on the outcome.

 The low-pitched hum of the start of the transporter cycle interrupted her thoughts, and three figures appeared on the pad.  The Andorian coalesced in the front, arriving with a proud, distant stare.  The other two officers behind her looked like they had been in the middle of a conversation upon transport, but redirected their attention on materializing.

 “Captain Zh’Shiannin.  Welcome aboard the Enterprise.”  Picard stepped forward, then halted in uncertainty as the Andorian ignored him, staring around the chamber, surveying her surroundings with the same distant stare.

 “Quaint.”

 Troi felt the room mentally stumble to a halt.  Riker glanced in surprise at Picard, then Data.  Next to her, Athena went into frozen dread and edged back toward the wall.  Picard pulled in a breath to respond, then the Andorian smirked.

 “I jest.  Captain,” she said warmly, coming down the stairs and taking his hand as the rest of the room came down from the affronted confusion.  “My first officer, Captain Solea Radas,” she said, turning to the Bolian, who gave her a knowing look as she came off the pad and took Picard’s hand next.  “And my second, Commander Paul Reeves.  Engineers all around.”

 “Commander William Riker.  He’ll escort you,” Picard said, recovering from the Andorian’s bluff, but on introduction to Riker, she paused, the smile melting.

 “Commander Riker,” she drawled, stopping next to him.  “I am told you have some....capability...” Her eyes slid up and down him.  “....with some card game?” she finished with narrowed eyes.  Riker’s face morphed into a predatory grin, and she responded in kind.  “You’re next,” she said with a snarl, still grinning, and Commander Reeves smothered a snort of laughter.

 “I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice to Riker, who pointed a challenge at the Andorian as they headed out the chamber.

 “You’re on.”

 Picard glanced around the chamber after they left.  “Andorian with a sense of humor,” he murmured with a smile.  Data had the mildly startled look he wore whenever the biologics around him went unpredictable, and Troi bowed her head to hide a grin.

 “Is that rare?” Athena asked softly, and Troi gave a conceding half-nod.

 “Somewhat, but I think Commander Riker could be about to learn something,” she returned diplomatically, and Athena gave a facial shrug.

 “Um...” The ensign at the transporter controls frowned in confusion.  “There’s only two...”  She looked up questioningly to the captain, who frowned briefly.

 “Hm.  It shouldn’t complicate things.  There might be a reason,” Picard said, nodding.  “If they’re ready...”

 The ensign nodded, then slid her hand on the buffer controls.  Two forms coalesced in glittering golden light.  For a moment Troi held her breath, realizing she’d forgotten to let Athena know what was coming, but the two forms on the pad were both human.

 “Commander Karn.  Welcome aboard the Enterprise.”  Picard stepped forward, and Troi didn’t need to be an empath to read the brief, flitting glance from the officer–he didn’t want to be here and didn’t want to be noticed.  The most junior of the commanding officers, the small, dark human male was practically run-away shy, but he managed to introduce the other officer, an even smaller Filipino woman named Commander Aisha Yao.

 “Lieutenant Commander Data, my second officer.  He’ll....”  Picard trailed off at an awkward, dismissive hand-wave from Karn.

 “Um...Commander Irfa is....coming.  She’s just....nobody else fits on a three-spot with her,” he finished at an embarrassed mutter, then looked up at an intake of breath from the ensign at the controls.

 “Is this right?”

 Commander Karn circled the station and looked at the readings.  “Yeah.  She’s....um, not small.”

 “Lieutenant Commander Irfa is a Caller,” Data said matter-of-factly to the others in the chamber as the buffer started to spin up.  “They are one of the physically largest races represented in Starfleet, and Commander Irfa was the first.”

 The form that solidified on the transport pad got a raised eyebrow from Picard and a startled intake of breath from Athena.  The mottled gray-green shape carefully unfurled into a lizard-like form, with a tail clearly meant for balance rather than fine manipulation.  There was no uniform, only a spare harness of thick woven fibers.  A band of it around the base of the thick, serpentine neck carried rank insignia and a comm badge.  The forward facing eyes, dull golden with a slitted pupil, had nictitating membranes that flicked across horizontally with each blink.  The snout was a broad V-shape with long nostrils that twitched frequently.  Short spines ran down the back of the head to the upper back, not more than three inches at the longest.  The four-fingered hands had stubby claws, and the elongated metatarsal bones ended in claws as well.

 “Commander Irfa.  Welcome aboard,” Picard said, and her head swiveled around to him and bowed.

 “Thank you.”  Her voice, coming through the translator, had a hint of a multi-pitched whistle, almost a wheeze, and sounded carefully controlled and restrained.  With almost bird-like movements of her head, the unusual officer looked around the chamber as she stepped off the pad, still towering over them by almost a meter.

 “We got some modifications in to help, but we never did get a six-spot,” Karn said as his first officer navigated past them toward the exit.  “Porting is rare, but still...”

 “Every square centimeter,” Commander Yao said emphatically.  “If we had room for a full transporter spread it would be cannibalized by eight different departments.”  The small, slight woman with short, graying hair had bright eyes and a mildly wizened face.

 “True,” Karn said with a rueful snort as they headed out to the corridor with Data.  “Real estate on a Defiant-class.  The rarest element in the universe.”

 “I’m staying here.”  Irfa planted herself in the middle of the corridor and gave Karn an unblinking stare.

 “Bullshit.  Denied.”  Irfa’s neck curved sharply down with a blast of air out her nostrils.  At Data’s startled look, he shook his head dismissively.  “She’s kidding.  I hope.”

 In the transport chamber, Troi sent Athena a monitoring glance and saw the colonial’s eyes were wide and she was shaking her head slowly.  When she caught sight of Troi, she took a deep, steadying breath.  “I guess....it’s just strange that we were looking for Earth, and when we find it, it’s all these other races,” she said with a breath of nervous laughter.  “It looks like you’ve made a lot of friends.”

 Troi smiled gently.  “Starfleet doesn’t require that an officer come from a Federation member world, so it can sometimes be a little disorienting.”

 Athena nodded gravely.  “Disorienting sounds like the right word.”  She glanced over as the ensign at the transporter controls started to change panel configurations with practiced, swift hand swipes.  “Not just the people, but the technology.  I don’t even know what to think.”

 “The cylons have had a profoundly negative impact on your entire civilization, but the history and culture we were able to recover showed an incredible resilience,” Troi said.  “The fact that you have survived to this point is something you can be very proud of.”

 “Well, we’ve survived, but that’s about all we’ve done.  We haven’t had the chance to really live.”

 “That’s not your fault,” Troi said gently, putting a hand on Athena’s arm.  “The direction you’ve been forced into wasn’t of your choosing.”

 “You have recreated essentially the entirety of your civilization aboard these ships,” Picard said, hearing their conversation and approaching slowly from the other side of the transport pad.  “You have done what you could to preserve a culture and put together everything from schools and elder care to salvaging the arts and sciences.  You have hardly been idle,” he finished dryly.

 Athena’s smile was plaintive.  “I know.  I just wish we’d had the same opportunities you’ve had.”

 “Captain?  It looks like our first transport is ready.”  The ensign looked apologetic about ending the conversation but Picard didn’t notice, only backing up to the other side of the pad.

 “The hope is that opportunities will begin to be opened to you and your people.  You are more than capable of capitalizing on them.”  Athena’s forlorn expression brightened only a little at the encouragement.  Through all the time Troi had spent with her, the young officer had a persistent feeling of inadequacy, and it wasn’t clear if it was gender-related or situational.  The other colonials she had encountered didn’t have the same outlook, though there was fatigue, a grimness, and a determined patience.  The females among them would bear careful observation, as well as the interaction between them and the males.  The depth of the persistent attitude hinted that it wouldn’t be confined to just one person.

 The transport cycle didn’t need to be complete for Troi to sense both a presence and an emotional state, and the gender and mind that came through next didn’t completely allay her fears of a persistent gender bias.  A female, a strange blend of solemnity and grim acceptance, and then a flash of disbelief as the cycle completed.  The middle-aged, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman in the high-necked mauve gown stood stiffly frozen on the pad for a moment, then took a sudden, deep breath.  She blinked several times, then looked down in seeming surprise as her right arm bent, hand clenched in a white-knuckled fist.

 “Siress Tinia.”  The captain stepped forward, catching her startled gaze.  “I’m Captain Jean-Luc Picard.  Welcome aboard the Enterprise.”  Troi felt the woman slowly focus, become more self-aware, and then awareness of her situation registered and she took another deep breath.

 “Captain,” she said, the careful recitation of the word making it clear she was as much reality-testing as returning the greeting.  Her gaze flashed around the chamber for a moment, and she descended the two stairs carefully.

 “It’s a new technology for you,” Troi said quickly, as soon as she felt the beginnings of embarrassment and shame from the woman.  “Transporters have been in use for hundreds of years with many different civilizations, but there are still people who do not feel comfortable using them.  It’s alright.”

 “Counselor Deanna Troi,” Picard said, holding out a hand to her.  “The Starfleet side is already aboard and you’re the first Council member here,” he said as she nodded a greeting to Athena.

 “Lieutenant.  And I know I’m the first one, because they made me go first,” Tinia said, turning to address the captain again.  “I’m supposed to contact Sire Nahn and tell him what it was like,” she finished with irony.

 “I’ll contact him,” the ensign at the control panel said, but Tinia held up her hand.

 “Wait...”  She stared off for a moment, then looked directly at the captain with a cold smile.  “I have nothing to say.  Just do it.”

Chapter Text

 Between transporter cool-downs and nervous demands for reassurance, it was almost half an hour before the last Council member materialized on the pad.  Many came in physically clenched and stiffly at attention as the first had, and the transporter caught a few of them in the act of raising their arms in fear.  Two of them, Sire Domra and Sire Ogma, were nearly abandoned.  The Galactica contingent came aboard and all were heading to the holodeck before Picard and Troi turned back to receive the last two.  Both came through completely tensed and whimpering in fear, and Ogma nearly toppled to the pad on arrival.  He sent the reasonably assured Adama to direct the rest of them to the holodeck with computer aid, and he and Troi talked the last two through the ship without allowing them to lose too much face.

 By the time they arrived at the holodeck, conversations were already in abundance and they took their seats amid the blur of voices.  Riker was breaking off a conversation with Galactica leadership, Dr. Crusher’s patient smile at an older man in light tan scrubs hinted at condescension being handled delicately, and Laforge was having an almost heated exchange with the tan and brown-clad “warriors”.  Worf and Data were both surveying the room and trading quiet comments, and more than a few curious glances were cast past one end of the table, where the physically largest being, the Caller, Commander Irfa, sat in the custom chair.  On the surface it looked like the two factions were intermingled, but his practiced eye saw nervous aversion to both Worf and Irfa, a protective huddle of the Council people, and a stand-off contemplativeness of much of the Galactica population.  Somehow he had to make them work together, and the look he gave Riker hinted at the bleakness as the younger man placed himself prominently in the middle opening between the three tables.

 “If we could have everyone take their places, please, we’ll get started with introductions,” he said, surveying the room as people started to move and the conversations quieted.  The room they had created was relatively plain, with a hardwood floor, simple off-white tables with names at each place, and a ceiling with suspended panels to help with sound.  The only ones without amplification were Worf and Irfa.  The table arrangement was not to Picard’s liking, as it seemed to pit three sides against each other, but simplicity and necessity trumped diplomacy.  The agenda had been shortened from first draft after a request for a time line was made on the colonial side, allowing them to skip a situational brief and get into the issues with no delay.

 Introductions had to happen first, though, and Picard was ready, knowing race would likely be questioned.  They had so far avoided being direct about the race of the ship’s second officer, and Riker did an admirable job of matter-of-factly moving to Dr. Crusher, at Data’s left, but didn’t get her full name out before it came.

 “Wait, wait, wait, stop, stop,” Sire Ogma repeated, waving his hands as though he was sweeping dust away from him.  “I want species.  You’re all different.  What is he?”  He pointed a shaking finger across the room at Data, whose expression twitched from bland to puzzlement.  He opened his mouth to answer but Picard beat him to it.

 “Lieutenant Commander Data is a unique life-form–now, I realize, I realize you’ve been fighting constructs for generations,” he said with a patient smile.  “Commander Data has very little in common with the cylons, beyond being a constructed life form.  He is an extremely valuable member of our crew, he is a highly decorated officer, and he was also directly responsible for saving your son’s life,” he said, looking at a now-confused and thoughtful Adama.  “He has also now voluntarily served on the bridge for over thirty hours straight.”

 “He is...”

 “An android.”  Picard finished Sire Ogma’s statement, then waited while the whispered conversations and head turns dominated the colonial tables.  If the issue was being brought up, he wanted a thorough read on their ability to reason.  Differentiating between the cylons and Data would be one of the clearest indicators of their adaptability.  Initial hesitation would be understandable, with their history, but if the vista shifted, thinking needed to as well.  He held his breath as the quiet talk started to thin, and when no further open challenge came, Picard nodded at Riker to continue.  Riker was turning to Dr. Crusher again when a chair scrape pulled heads around.

 Sire Domra, the Council head, slowly got to his feet.  “On behalf of the Council and the people of the fleet,” he began solemnly, holding out his hand in a formal gesture, “I would like to extend to you and your people the hand of peace.  We do not wish—”

 “Domra,” Adama interrupted in a low voice, and the councillor turned to him in annoyance as the room reacted in confusion.  “Before we go declaring–”

 “Wait a centon, you don’t have the right to go declaring relations with a machine race,” Apollo said, pointing accusingly.  “The last time we declared—”

 Riker held up his hands.  “Alright, hold it,” he said sharply, getting a hesitation from the belligerents.  “You have a complex history and we realize that, but we’re not here to discuss race,” he said as attention slowly turned to him.  “This is a large, consequential operation.  We have thirteen-hundred refugees on this ship, there are significant legal and moral issues, and we need to define goals and expectations.  The side issues can wait.”

 Glances of irritation, resignation, and confusion crossed the room, mostly on the colonial side, but the silence held.  It was an unexpected response, and also possibly indicative of their attempts at communicating with the cylons.  It also further underlined the divide between civilian and military leadership that Picard had heard that morning in the call.  Whether it was stress, turnover in the ranks, no set protocols, or a mismatch in skillset, the broadly differing emphases and expectations could split them apart as a people.  One side was deeply fearful but with a childlike innocense in their attempts at peace, and the other had been right for so long, they couldn’t see any other mode of operation and harbored mistrust of the civilians.  He wondered how many factions they would fracture into before they reached their stated goal.

 Riker finally sent a communicating glance to Picard as the room stayed still, then continued with the introductions, starting with Dr. Crusher.  After her, Troi, Worf, and Laforge, the Sovereign crew was introduced, and then the Quadrant.  Through all of it there was minimal interruption until Riker got to the very last officer, Commander Irfa.  “Is it appropriate to ask your full name?” he asked hesitantly of the large, vaguely gorn-like being off the corner of the tables.  Her two shipmates responded with wry, knowing looks and the Caller lowered her head meekly.

 “My full name is long,” she said in her controlled vocalizations, and Picard got the feeling that she was holding back her full, normal volume.  “I do have a truncated Starfleet name.”

 “If you’re comfortable...” Riker gave a one-shouldered shrug, glancing at the other two officers, then back to her as her CO turned and low-voiced something to her that made her flare her nostrils and turn her head to the side a little.

 “Imaya Hassino Irfa Annado Arila Omah Yallisi Shihni.”  The rhythmic, rolling beat of the syllables and the way the vowel equivalents were vocalized gave Picard an insight into part of their culture.  Sound must have a deeper, almost ritualistic quality for them.  The race’s translated name, Caller, hinted at a primacy of hearing and sound over sight, though the ears were little more than holes in the side of the head with only a very modest flare of cartilage not more than a human ear.  The two other officers sent clearly affirming looks back to her as she shifted in her chair and sent furtive glances around the room.

 “Alright, Corporal Omega,” Riker said with a nod as one of the Galactica officers stood.  He retreated to a gap between the tables as the other man replaced him in the center to introduce the colonial side.  Picard listened as what were likely call names were used with the three warriors there, Boomer, Starbuck, and Apollo, then Commander Adama and his executive officer, Tigh, and Adama’s daughter, Athena.  Dr. Salik was their medical officer, and a Dr. Wilker was one of their few surviving scientists.  After that, the twelve council members were introduced with thankfully no interruptions, each member bowing their head as they were named.  Omega returned to his seat between Tigh and Athena, and Picard was nodding at Riker to activate the overhead projector with the agenda when another chair scrape came from the colonial side.

 “If I may have a few moments,” Adama said, pulling attention to his side of the room in the middle of one of the tables.  Troi gave Picard a neutral look, not sensing anything untoward, and he nodded assent.  “I realize we have much to discuss so I will be brief,” he said with an acknowledging nod to Picard.  “We have had our differences already, and there may be more, but nothing can change how honored I am to be able to be here with you,” he said, gazing down the row of black and gray-clad officers.  “I see many different races here, working toward the same purpose, and I can’t imagine a more inspiring or promising vision that could have been offered.  If I may say, I am immensely proud of this society you have built.  Your presence affords us hope, and regardless of differences, we are brothers who will always share a common vision.  God bless all of you.”  More or less thoughtful, assenting nods accompanied his return to his seat, and the head of the council, Sire Domra, held out a hand in a formal, ritualistic gesture and bowed his head.

 “We are honored as well by your presence,” Picard said, getting to his feet in a mirror of Adama’s action.  “Three days ago we could not have conceived that we would shortly be speaking to survivors from the devastation we saw.  All life is to be cherished, but yours especially so.  We have the extraordinary opportunity to share histories and cultures with a people we believed to be extinct.  Let us move forward in friendship and understanding, celebrating our commonalities and differences alike as we seek solutions to what lies before us.”

 There were murmurs of assent and Picard allowed himself to believe for a moment that they would be able to function coherently.  While the councillors had been coming on board, Troi had been able to give him her impressions–as he suspected, there was nervousness and a sense of being challenged, that they were out of their depth.  In time he expected they would recover confidence, but the diplomatic challenges would only escalate the closer they got to Earth.  They would have to make a decision on civilian versus military leadership, or Adama’s earlier comment on a split communication front would become a reality and Earth, Starfleet, and Federation leadership would all but walk away.  They needed to decide who they were—refugees, citizens, colonists, nomads—before they could think realistically about diplomacy with others.

 Riker sent a confirming glance to both Picard and Adama, finally able to begin the purpose of the gathering, before starting.  “First issue, current positioning of all vessels in relation to the cylon ships.  The cylon vessels are neutralized and are being scanned continually.  Now, we can hold them in this state indefinitely with relative ease,” he said frankly, “but that isn’t an ideal end state.  We can assume they’ve called for reinforcements.  There’s nothing in range right now–” He broke off at Adama’s frown.

 “Calling for reinforcements...”  The commander shook his head dismissively, then sent a furtive glance to his right.  “After....earlier this day, if I am understanding your scanning capability, if there is nothing you can see, there is no concern for that.  There is nothing in range for them to communicate with.”

 “Nothing in range,” Riker repeated slowly, then his head came up in a half nod of realization.

 “No subspace radio,” Picard said shortly.  “There was no communication between the cylons, was there?  It was chance.”  He didn’t want to risk a glance at the council to see how much of this they were deciphering.  Adama had chosen to reserve the knowledge of the Quadrant’s intercept, at least for now, hence the cryptic wording.

 “I expect so,” Adama said.  “In any case, with the distance you can see, there are no vessels in range.”

 “With that isolation, then, it’s more of a–”

 “‘Earlier this day’,” someone repeated, and Picard looked over at the council, now, seeing Siress Tinia leaning forward, staring sightlessly at the far wall.  “‘It was chance’,” she repeated, then focused on Adama.  “What happened?”  The rest of the council traded looks but Tinia focused on Adama.  Picard stayed silent; this was the commander’s call.  The older man let out a slow breath, clearly calculating his position.

 “There are no cylon ships in range,” he finally repeated deliberately, returning her stare.  She broke contact and glanced at Picard, then back to Adama.

 “No more cylon ships in range,” she amended.  “Commander, what happened?”

 “Some Starfleet operations are classified,” Picard said, drawing her stare.  It was true, some were, but the fact that this particular operation wasn’t, well, that was a fact he wasn’t going to state.

 “The small ship went to do something,” she pressed, then hesitated for a moment, self-conscious.  “I’m sorry, the third ship,” she said haltingly, for the first time coming down from her intense focus.  “The third ship.  You did something,” she said, gaze passing down the row of Starfleet officers until she came to one whose gaze was a little too fixed at a neutral point between the tables.  “What happened, by chance?” she repeated, subtly mocking, and Adama deliberately shook his head.

 “Siress Tinia.  There was an operation this morning,” he said bluntly.  “There was a situation, the situation was resolved and is now irrelevant.  I have chosen to reserve the knowledge in order to not present an empty distraction from the issues at hand.  We perform many operations of security for the fleet that the overwhelming population is not aware of.  This was one of those operations.  Until such time as that information becomes relevant, and I don’t expect it will, it can safely be ignored.  At this point, however, I would suggest we move on.  We were speaking of communications,” he said, in full steamroll mode as he turned his attention to Riker and Picard.  “There will be no reinforcements on the cylon side,” he said as Tinia pulled back, quietly fuming.  “I realize it would be best for us to not simply sit here next to their vessels, but it is quite an operation to either get the fleet moving or get them to a halt.  If we have the opportunity for repairs, I would like to take it, and would suggest that by whatever means, the cylon vessels...change location.”

 “What’s your estimate of their ability to reason?” Riker asked, almost rhetorically.  “If their predicament was made clear to them, could they see the point of exiting?”  Adama pursed his lips, thoughtful, and Colonel Tigh started shaking his head slowly.

 “I don’t think we’ve once had communication with their base ships.  Getting them to move by our order, or even yours, would be a first.”

 “And destruction isn’t an option?”  The condescension in Sire Domra’s comment got eye rolls and muttering from the military table.

 “It is not a casual matter to destroy a base star, as I’m sure we all learned in the previous year,” Adama said, the politeness he injected easily interpreted as returning condescension.  “At this close range, in any case, it would be exceptionally dangerous, if not suicidal.”

 “Shrapnel was the most significant cause of battle damage we found,” Laforge said, nodding his agreement.  “We could take them out but we’d also take out everything else in the area.”

 “We are also not at war with the cylons,” Picard said with finality.  “Their advancement level limits our options severely as well.  If we are unable to convince them to exit, they will have to make the decision on their own.”

 “They monitor communications?”  All heads turned to the center of the Starfleet table, where the Andorian captain sat.  Adama nodded.

 “Continually.”

 Captain Zh’Shiannin  shifted slowly in her seat, musing.  “Well.  Let us begin discussing salvage.  Loudly, with detail.  A type ten phaser array works as well as an engineering phaser cutter, used with skill.  If they do not understand words, perhaps they will understand their ships being sectioned out from underneath them.”  She turned her natural arrogant stare to Picard.  “There is a raw materials need, yes?” she finished cooly.  Picard gave a considering half-nod, while the expressions down the line of the colonials ranged from offended to thoughtful to delighted.

 “The need is there, certainly, but our salvage capability cannot scale to attempt something like this,” Adama said with pondering confusion.  “The differences in composition, not to mention hidden traps–”

 “Do you mean actually slicing up a base star?” Sire Nahn exclaimed, lit up with uncharacteristic enthusiasm.  “For shielding?  Could we drain their fuel?”

 “Well, hold it a second,” Laforge said as he and Zh’shiannin both reacted.  “I think we’re talking make the threat,” he said with a glance to the Andorian, who nodded grudgingly.  “If we’re actually going to salvage, let’s start with something more manageable and see if we can successfully do that.  Now, one of the ships coming out here is a Kilby class.  That could slice up Earth Spacedock, but it takes time, and until it gets here, let’s keep the scale manageable,” he said with a confirming glance to Picard.

 “If the cylons refuse to leave, I’m willing to entertain some deception as a reasonable alternative,” Picard allowed reluctantly.  “Have you made a decision on the Taura Observer?”

 “It does put us in a difficult position,” Adama said.  “From the scans we viewed, the primary engine was perforated.  In theory it is possible to return it to function, and our best study reveals we could absorb fewer than two-hundred people into other ships.  The time and materials cost, however, would be significant.”

 “From my look at the scans, it’s really not worth it,” Laforge said frankly.  “I’m familiar with that type of ion engine and returning it to true function would involve as much luck as skill.  I think the ship’s salvage, but that commits us to housing the population.”

 “And what are the options?”  Sire Domra asked.  “Can you take them to Earth?”

 “Not against their will,” Picard stated flatly.  “If they refuse, they must stay here.”

 “They do want to go,” Adama confirmed.  “All of them.”

 “All of them?” Picard challenged.  “Are you certain of this?”

 “Of course.  It’s been our quest from the very start, to find the path the Thirteenth Colony took.  We are not simply running ahead of the cylons,” he said, looking away, lost in the affirmation.  “Even before we were out of our system we made it our goal to find Earth.  It is in our ancient writings—our entire purpose, what’s held us together.  At the very least, I can say we will continue our journey until we reach Earth.”

 “Counselor Troi tells me there is a great deal of anxiety among those on board the Enterprise, and a desire to not separate from the rest of the people,” Picard said quietly.  “If I take these people against their will, I take part in abduction.”

 “I would like to point out the ionizing radiation damage these people are being subjected to in their current state,” Dr. Crusher broke in, her voice hard and even.  “One of the ships our engineering crews were on is exposing its residents to 0.16 to 0.2 milli-sieverts every day, which is 73 milli-sieverts a year.  The maximum allowed ionizing radiation damage for a human is 0.9 milli-seiverts per year, and I can’t swear that was the worst ship.”  Her wide-eyed stare landed on Picard.  “If they stay, we may be subjecting them to something worse than abduction.”

 Picard’s jaw clenched for a moment.  “I realize the option–”

 “Wait, wait, radiation damage,” Dr. Wilker said, leaning forward and resting an elbow on the table.  “Is this space-ambient rays?” he asked, giving Dr. Salik a confused look.  The older man sitting next to him frowned and shook his head.

 “You’re using measurements that are, of course, unfamiliar to us,” Dr. Salik said slowly, frowning and focusing on the floor in the middle.  “Space ambience is always a risk, but we have little choice in the matter.  If this is indeed what you mean, as Dr. Wilker stated...”  He trailed off as Adama leaned forward.

 “Many of our ships are not intended for deep space traffic, and all of us, every second, are setting a record on human—present company excepted,” he corrected.  “We’re setting records every moment on how far away we are from the colonies and how long we have spent in space.  Of course there is danger inherent in this, but our options up to this point have been quite limited, as Dr. Salik stated.  We could use the Taura Observer for additional shielding, but the resources of one ship spread to over two-hundred will have limited effect.”

 Laforge shifted uneasily as Picard’s gaze landed on him.  “Catch-22,” the engineer said with a short head-shake.  “On one hand, they’ve been out here this long, on the other, they’ve been out here a long time with inadequate shielding.  Use as much salvage as we can, but the quickest and safest way to get them into a safe environment is get to 434.”

 With effort, Picard resisted the urge to put his face in his hands.  “Their immediate physical safety takes priority over their wishes, but this is a morally precarious decision.  Counselor,” he said, turning to Troi, who faced him squarely.  “You and your staff are to speak to every one of the refugees on this ship and explain the situation and their choices.  For those that are unwilling to proceed to Starbase 434, the limited space and radiation dangers are to be clearly understood.”

 “Yes, sir.  I think what might help is if one of their own, someone they know and trust, would go with them to 434.  It would help lessen their sense of separation,” she said with a look to Adama.  “We can also ensure they stay in communication with the rest of their people so they continue to feel part of the fleet.”

 “A reasonable suggestion,” Adama said, subdued.  “We’ll give thought to who that should be.”

 “Very well,” Picard said, equally quietly.  “If the number that wish to remain exceeds the capacity that can be absorbed into the fleet, we’ll have to consider leaving some shuttles behind.”

 “It may be possible to graft generators into the Taura Observer’s systems to provide some atmospheric stasis and limited additional shielding,” Data said.  “Propulsion would not be possible beyond simple positioning maneuvers, but it could provide space for as many as three hundred people.”

 “Get a proposal together on the systems required.  We’ll hold off on salvage until we have a count on those who wish to stay.”

 “Yes, sir.”

 “Status of repairs on fleet vessels.”  Riker’s flat tone was that of someone whose agenda had been utterly rearranged.  “Critical repairs have been completed, as have urgent repairs,” he said, glancing at both Laforge and Adama.  “Basic maintenance can be completed contingent on materials availability, but the majority will have to wait until the arrival of the U.S.S. El-Attar, anticipated by stardate 48065, or four months.  Final pressing need is food and water.  The U.S.S. Alberta is also expected to arrive at that time; it will carry full stocks for medicine, food, and water.  Additionally, dependent on the cylons’ understanding of their situation, one option is to transport the residents from one vessel to the others and use the space for additional agriculture and food production.”

 “Transport the residents,” Colonel Tigh repeated, puzzled.  “You mean...”

 “The same way we brought you here.  Essentially move the cylons off one of their ships and use the space ourselves.”

 “Something of a tall order, asking someone to move to a base star,” Sire Domra said.  “Who would volunteer for that duty?”

 “Once all cylons are removed it shouldn’t be a problem, unless there are automated systems that pose a danger,” Riker said, looking questioningly at Adama.  “Have your people ever been in one of their ships?”

 Before the question was even finished, most of the colonials turned pointedly to the end of the table, where the knowing looks from two of the brown-clad warriors made the answer clear.  “We were in there, but we weren’t making a study of the interior,” Apollo said with a glance to Starbuck, who gave a tight-lipped shake of the head.

 “How much time did you spend there?”

 “We spent about a centar or so, but...”

 “They held me prisoner for a few cycles,” Starbuck said.  “They actually had to fabricate a place to hold me because they don’t have holding cells.  Makes sense.  It’s not like they have to worry about cranky or disobedient cylons,” Starbuck explained, sardonic, then pulled back in surprise as the row of Starfleet officers reacted as though collectively having reached a conclusion.

 “That’s significant?” Apollo asked.

 “They have breathable air in their ships?”

 “The cylons are very much creatures of habit,” Adama said, almost droll at Riker’s wide-eyed disbelief.  “The original cylon race of course needed an atmosphere, and the machine race does not possess the intuitive reasoning power to change this.  We have the remains of two cylons, and according to Dr. Wilker, none of their systems need any particular atmosphere to survive.”

 “One of our away teams returned a marginally functioning cylon to the ship during the course of our investigation,” Picard said with frank grimness.  “Commander Data conducted a thorough investigation and reached the same conclusion.”

 “You brought a cylon on board?”

 “Yes,” Picard said.  “After Mr. Data reassembled it, we were able to activate it and speak with it briefly, following which we....destroyed it.”

 “How?  How did you destroy it?”

 “Prefer not to divulge that information yet, but suffice it to say, it is now a cloud of hydrogen atoms,” he said briefly.  Explaining the broad dispersal pattern the transporter was capable of would not do well to get the colonials comfortable with transporters, and he made a mental note to add the redaction to the more detailed report being prepared for the colonials.  The flexibility of transporter systems was unknown to them yet, and he hoped the uneasy looks down the colonial tables were due to the thoroughness of the destruction.

 “So, there is breathable air on cylon ships,” Riker commented almost idly.  “If they normally take no prisoners and have no internal support systems....what about internal barriers or a specialized security force?”

 “They do have guards, lots of them,” Starbuck broke in.  “And no, don’t ask us why.  It’s not like it’s an every-cycle occurrence that someone sneaks on board one of those things.  We did it with a—an appropriated raider, let’s call it.”

 “Captain, I believe it may be in our best interests to leave the cylons to their vessels,” Data said.  “We are outside Federation space, but if we declare ownership of it, it would be advisable to either break it down completely or potentially declare a bone yard at this location.”  Before Data even finished, the conceding disappointment was clear down the table by the heavy nods and averted gazes.

 “Got a point,” Laforge said in resignation.  “And with the size of those things, truthfully, it’d take a long time even with a Kilby class devoted to it.  Two, three months, easy, just to section it.”

 “Begins to sound like more trouble than it’s worth,” Picard said with a sigh.  “If food production is at least marginally adequate for now, I think we should do what we can to encourage the cylons to exit the area, including telling them what our intent is.  If we begin transporting them, I expect that, combined with our monitoring action on their weapons repairs, will make it clear to them they accomplish nothing by being here.”

 “And bone yard is....”  Having momentarily forgotten the other faction present, Picard looked across to the military table, seeing an intent, questioning look on Colonel Tigh’s face.

 “Essentially abandoned ships.  Outside Federation space we are technically not bound by law to make a formal declaration, but I would not want to set a precedent.”

 Tigh’s head had come up in a half-nod of understanding.  “Ah, junk fleet.”

 “But if all of the ships are going to be emptied....”  Siress Tinia started, then glanced self-consciously at Adama as all turned to her.  “I mean, the Taura Observer can be salvaged, but are we going to salvage all of our ships as people start towards Earth?”  Adama frowned and took a breath to speak, but someone beat him to it.

 “EAPS, Externally Attached Propulsion Systems,” Laforge stated bluntly.  “That’ll work for most of your ships, but I don’t know if there are coils big enough for Galactica,” he said uneasily.  “No, we can’t just leave your ships here.  We’ll have to move them, if not getting them to Earth, then getting them to someone who wants them, inside or outside the Federation.  There’s no system I can think of that would work for the cylon ships, though,” he finished, shaking his head.

 “Is that going to be the method used for us?”  Sire Domra looked almost aghast.

 “No.  I mean, it could, but it’s faster to get ships out here ourselves.  Fitting a ship with an external drive is not a simple procedure.  We’ll be working on this project for years to come.”

 “So, the plan is for your ships to be continually coming here and taking whoever they have room for,” Tigh said haltingly.  “Is that more or less....?”

 “I am still...negotiating with Admiral Samaras on this issue,” Picard said, with some effort hiding his irritation over the generous word choice.  “I would find that the most logical route, however.”

 “How long would it take?”  Sire Domra still looked disturbed over the fate of the ships.  “How long does it take to get to Earth from here?”

 “For a starship traveling at warp 7, or 656 times the speed of light, it–”

 “What?”

 “Six hundred and...”

 “That is literally physically impossible!  No ship would be able to hold itself together with that kind of power,” Dr. Wilker said emphatically.  “There is no structure that would be able to withstand the reactionary force, even if it could be created–”

 Astonishment, amused disbelief, and indignation dominated the colonials and Picard glanced at Laforge, who shook his head regretfully.  The maximum speed he believed the Galactica would be capable of was eight times the speed of light, and then at a price.  The Enterprise traversing their two-year journey in a few weeks was so far their only exposure to the concept of space on Starfleet’s terms.  Gradually the colonials focused on Data and Picard as their overwhelming question became clear.  “Six hundred and fifty-six times the speed of light,” Adama said, with the air of a professor starting a lecture.  “At this pace, crossing the universe would be an easy matter.  I understand your–”

 Adama halted as now the Starfleet side reacted, flinching back and trading astonished looks.  “Crossing the universe,” Captain Zh’Shiannin repeated emphatically through the exclamations of disbelief.  “Perhaps we should define light speed and confirm concepts of distance.”

 “I think that would be a very smart move,” Tigh said, an insistent, wide-eyed stare locked on the Andorian.  “I didn’t think we needed to start so basic.”  His frown deepened as Zh’Shiannin tilted her head as though carefully adjusting the aim of a phaser, and Picard held up his hands, getting to his feet.

 “Our emphasis to this point has been on moment to moment survival,” he said, getting peoples’ focus on him, the Starfleet side straightforward and serious, the colonial side almost belligerent in their expectant stares.  “Now that the immediate threat is contained, common reference points and definitions should be established.  We have the same concepts.  Our terminology is the only difference.”

 “Captain.”  Picard turned abruptly to Troi.  “If their concept of the universe is such that crossing it only takes a few hundred times the speed of light, I suggest we move very, very slowly and carefully,” she warned.  “They are space-faring, but this could touch on a permutation of the Prime Directive and could be....traumatic,” she finished.

 “Traumatic?”

 The one word from Adama unintentionally underlined Troi’ caution.  Firmly expectant but with a hint of uncertainty, uncertain if his universe was about to be pulled out from underneath him.  Where before the room had been agitated and confused, now it was raptly silent and focused on Picard.  “Define galaxy,” he said softly.

 “Collection of stars,” Adama returned dutifully, with a nod.

 “What is your best estimate of the number of stars in this galaxy?”

 “The one we’re currently in?  I don’t think we’ve....”

 Picard wavered on his feet.  No, hold it, he thought.  Collection of stars is a broad definition.  “What is typically at the center of galaxies?”

 “We have passed through galaxies, and so have you,” Adama recited in return.  “Some galaxies have only hundreds of stars, and some have....tens of thousands,” he said, sounding almost apologetic.

 He’s apologetic because he thinks the number sounds absurd.  It is absurd, but not in the direction he thinks.  Picard opened his mouth to respond, but Data interrupted.

 “Please describe the size of the largest lens or mirror you have ever constructed for a telescope, whether planet-side or in orbit, or on a ship.”

 Leave it to Data to ask the astute question.  Adama turned a thoughtful stare to Dr. Wilker.  “As I recall, there was a three-and-a-half metron lens in the Grand Observatory on Larrican Heights.”

 Dr. Wilker nodded woodenly.  “Yes.  On Picon.”  They both turned back to Picard expectantly.

 “Definition of a metron.”

 The moment the other man’s gaze fell to the center area between the tables, clearly gauging distance, Picard nearly fell back into his chair, remaining standing only with a conscious effort.  “This....this center area.  I would say the span from one to the other, here,” he said, pointing at the distance between the center of the tables, “is approximately four metrons.”

 “So you’re saying the lens would fit between the tables here.”

 “Yes,” Adama said almost plaintively.  “And I expect the largest one you’ve built is—is half the length of this ship,” he said, with a careless wave of his hand.  It was only when he looked over again at the stillness of the Starfleet table that he started to realize where this was going.

 “The cylons have not permitted you to build anything in orbit?”

 “An orbiting....”  He turned to Dr. Wilker again.  “It has been theorized, yes, that a telescope in space would be extraordinarily clear.  Galactica had a 1.5-metron scope, but the materials to repair it, not to mention the machinery to create that lens, are luxuries we do not enjoy.”

 “You have to understand, even keeping satellites alive and functioning was a challenge,” Dr. Wilker said, fading from condescending annoyance to mystified as he saw the reactions at the Starfleet table.  “Then how big is the biggest one you’ve made?” he asked numbly.

 “Earth’s largest telescope and the most sensitive one are not the same,” Data said.  “The most sensitive one consists of six separate orbiting observatories, each containing a primary mirror...” he glanced at Picard as though asking permission.  “....a primary mirror that is just over five kilometers in diameter.  A kilometer is one-thousand meters.  The Enterprise is 642 meters in length.”

 “So you’re–six-hundred metr...metron–”

 “Meter,” Data corrected Wilker patiently.

 “That, and....it’s half, a little over half....that’s several times the length of this ship!”

 “The–the band of stars,” Laforge said, describing an arc in the air.  “The stream of stars and dust you can see.  What is that?”

 “The Riding Band?”  Apollo asked with a frown, looking at his father.  “Is that what he means?”

 “You mean the stream of diffuse light and patchy darkness, always in view?” Adama asked.  “We’ve always called that the Riding Band.  Different cultures have different names for it.  We have been told, and we do not believe, that it is a cylon construct.”

 There were gasps of astonishment and dumbfounded looks down the Starfleet table.  “A construct?  Who told you that?”  Laforge pulled back with a look of disgust on his face.

 “It is old information, over a hundred yahren old,” he said, distractedly reverting to colonial measurements.  “I’m not certain of the source, but there was a brief period of negotiations attempted long ago.  It’s possible it emerged from that.”  He refocused, his stare steady on Picard.  “The Riding Band is not a construct,” he stated, “and is certainly not active in any way we can detect.  Is it a threat to us?”

 Picard shook his head.  “No,” he said briefly.  After a moment of hesitation he took his hand off the back of his chair and started to slowly round the end of the table.  “Computer, replace center graphic with an interactive representation of the Milky Way, maximum two-meter parameter.”  The graphic sprang up from the projector, complete with a darkened background.  There had been a pull-back in faintly amused surprise at the name, marking probably the last light-hearted moment they would have this day.  He walked over to the graphic and turned it on end, orienting it to a top-down perspective.  “Computer, label the arms.”  Now names for the bands and swirls of stars flashed into existence.

 “Earth’s name for the galaxy is the Milky Way, a centuries-old—hundreds of years old,” he corrected, switching to a more common term as heads once again bowed to information displays.  “An old name given to the glow across the skies before we could even resolve them into individual points.  Computer, mark our approximate current location.”

 “What exactly are we looking at?”  Dr. Wilker’s jaw was by now fixed in an open position as he leaned forward, both hands flat on the table in front of him.  Picard glanced over at him as he manipulated the graphic to enlarge the area outlined by pulsing red arrows.

 “This is what you typically see, correct?” he said, turning the graphic to now show the hazy concentration of dust and stars in a broad band.  There were several nods down the tables.

 “If this is not a construct....you’re saying this is all stars?”  He could tell Adama was genuinely struggling to understand, both fearful of the revelations and disbelieving of their scope, but trying nonetheless.

 “Show us the colony worlds,” Apollo said belligerently, pointing his arm at the graphic, and Picard swept his hands in, reducing the view.

 “Computer, highlight...the Recidia system,” he said after a moment of thought.  A relatively short distance away, more red arrows started to pulse at a point.  “I believe your name for this world was Gemoni.”

 “You called it Recidia?”

 “The names will be corrected in the databases.  Native names take precedence in virtually all exploration.”

 Adama sat back with a small measure of satisfaction.  Then, “That is the distance we have come,” he said, part question and part statement, pointing at the meter distance described on the graphic.

 “Yes.”

 “And Earth is...” Sire Domra prompted.  Picard again waved his hands in and the entire galaxy displayed, still with the two red markers now virtually on top of each other.

 “This is the Scutum-Centaurus arm, and this is the Perseus Arm,” he said, describing the large arcs of stars.  “Right here,” he said, pointing to an area sandwiched between the two, “is Earth.  Moving at a very high rate of speed, it would take a ship...approximately a year to get there, assuming no interruptions.  This is not an insurmountable distance for us,” he stated clearly as heads dropped to hands and stunned expressions became uniform.  “It will take time, but it is possible for your people to get to Earth.”

 “There are....drive systems and philosophies being realized today which can shorten this to as little as four months, realistically,” Captain Zh’Shiannin said evenly, leaning forward and clasping her hands in deliberate motion on the table.  “I am not at liberty to speak, but the entire concept of warp drive, or continuum distortion propulsion, is undergoing major revolutions.  Even with today’s systems, however, this is eminently possible.  While I do not have the facilities to house your people, the Sovereign will arrive back at San Francisco Fleet Yards–essentially, in Earth orbit–in just over six months after we depart here, with our current drive architecture.”

 “Lords of Kobol,” Adama murmured, with a ritualistic hand to his chest.  “This is not what I....”  He struggled for words for a moment.

 “You must think....”  Tinia’s words came out in gasps.  “...we’re primitive—”

 “No,” Picard snapped off, turning to her.  “No, I do not.  You have been persecuted for countless generations.”  He started to pace over to her area of the table, intent on cutting off the train of thought.  “You have been made to concentrate every effort solely on defensive systems, and that under extreme constraints.  You are not primitive, but even if you were, that lessens the worth of your civilization by not one ounce, any more than firepower equals superiority.  You have done what any of us would have done.”

 “If you have traversed distances....”  Adama held out a shaking hand, indicating the galaxy display.  “This...this is the universe,” he said, the recitation seeming to help him connect with reality.  “All of these...how many stars are there?  How have you traveled so far and yet not encountered the cylons before?  There is something you’re not saying,” he said, his voice gaining an almost eerie steadiness after the confusion of the last several minutes.  “The universe.  It’s scale, isn’t it?”

 Picard turned back to look at Troi.  “Let’s look at the galaxy and understand it.  That will be enough for today–”

 “No.”  Adama’s voice was quiet, but the one word cut Troi off as sharply as a shout.  “No.  You say the cylons have deprived us of so much.  Will you now do the same?”

 “Agreed.”  Sire Ogma’s one word pulled all attention to him for a moment, his transfixed but calm stare boring into Picard.  The surprise that flicked across Adama’s face at the support from one of the most difficult council members only lasted a moment, and then he, too, was focused on Picard again.

 Troi got up and rounded the end of the table.  “Changing a people’s concept of the universe is dangerous,” she said quietly, coming to the center near Picard, “and the fact that you are space-faring makes this no less traumatic for you.”

 “We’ve faced trauma before,” came the equally quiet, steady statement from the warrior end of the table.  The one called Boomer had his head tipped back slightly, a contemplative gaze on the galaxy graphic still displayed.  He gave a nonchalant shrug.  “Can’t be worse than seeing twelve planets bombed to Hades.”

 “If we are to grow, let it start now,” Siress Tinia said, clasping her hands together nervously but keeping her gaze steady.  “If we have the capacity to learn, as you say, let us begin the education.  What do you have to show us?”

 Picard shared a look with Troi.  Her sober, serious, but non-confrontational look said all he needed to know: Do it, but move slowly, and she would monitor responses.  With a last glance around the tables, he shrunk the graphic scale so the entire galaxy displayed.  “Earth’s common term for this is the Milky Way galaxy.  It is made up of over 384 billion stars, formed over billions of years from mergers of a number of smaller galaxies.  The center,” he said, continuing through the gasps around him, “is dominated by a gravitational singularity, colloquially called a black hole.”  He spread his hands and moved the graphic through the bright interior, and the blaze of concentrated stars diffused out as the graphic focused on a smaller and smaller area of space.  “Computer, highlight Sagittarius A-star.”

 “Sagittar–” one of the councillors broke off in surprise.  “What was the name?”

 “The names of your colony worlds are very close to the names of the zodiac constellations, the patterns of stars seen overhead at Earth’s equator,” Picard explained.  It had not been described in detail yet, and even Adama had only been given a barest overview so far.  The names would no doubt cement their certainty of Earth’s colonial status, though, and Picard was not eager to pursue that point.  “From Earth, through the Sagittarius constellation, the central black hole is visible approximately 26,000 light-years away,” he continued, spreading the graphic so that only a handful of stars were visible.  The arrows pulsed towards a point in the center, bringing a red-orange circular glow into focus.  Pulling in closer, the bright lines of the accretion disk pulsed and flared almost too slowly to be tracked.  The light curved around on a flat plane halfway around, then rose around the back of the black hole, like two halves of a broken dinner plate intersecting each other at right angles.  “Space-time curvature around a black hole is infinite, creating this appearance of a folded circle.”

 “Is this a threat to us?”  Picard glanced over at the councillor who had spoken, Sire Nahn, but only got a head shake out before Adama answered the question.

 “No, I don’t think it is,” Adama said slowly in serious, thoughtful fascination.  “The distance is too great.”  He pointed again at the graphic, absorbed in the discovery.  “It was theorized at the Academy that such a thing would be a logical conclusion to the end of certain rare, exceptionally large stars.  Except this...this is more than just a star, isn’t it?” he murmured.  If anything gave Picard hope, it was Adama’s transformation from fearfulness to now being caught up in fascination.

 He gave a slight nod.  “Yes and no.  It’s not just one star.  Approximately four-million stellar masses are concentrated to a single point right here,” he said, pointing at the central blackness.  “This is what is categorized as a supermassive black hole.  Nearly all galaxies have a central supermassive black hole, many of them much larger than this.”

 “And this galaxy...what you call a galaxy, the universe...how many galaxies are there?  Why have...because our telescopes aren’t large enough.  Yet.”  Thinking out loud, answering his own questions, the fleet commander was giving an intellectual demonstration as to why he was the fleet commander, confronting and absorbing issues the likes of which would have broken anyone else’s reality.  The other colonials were wide-eyed, both awed and aghast, disbelieving or fearful, but Adama had the narrow-eyed gaze of someone who was spotting the path forward.

 “The number of other galaxies is quite literally countless.  Their light hasn’t reached us yet, but of those that have...”  Picard waved the graphic out to again display the whole galaxy.  “Computer, keep the display at current settings, but add in everything up to the Laniakea Supercluster.”  The graphic flickered for just a second, in time with Adama’s focus jumping to Picard.

 “Supercluster,” he repeated, mental footing shifting, and Picard sent him a reassuring glance.

 “The Milky Way galaxy is part of what we call the Local Group,” he explained, now spreading his hands to take in the Magellanic Clouds and Andromeda.  “This galaxy we have named Andromeda.  You have likely seen it and, as we did at first, labeled it a nebula.”  He nodded as Adama again pointed at it.

 “Yes, that image, that is familiar.  The Onitha Nebula,” he said, uncertainly looking at Picard.  “You say it’s...like another....”

 “Another galaxy, much like the Milky Way but significantly larger.  The two are approaching each other and are already in the beginning stages of a merger.  This is not a source of concern,” he said firmly, looking down both colonial tables.  “Not only will it not happen for billions of years, but the odds of a direct collision between stars and planets are essentially non-existent.”  He sent a monitoring glance down the row of councillors as he continued.  “The other largest members are the Large and Small Magellanic Clouds and the Triangulum galaxy.  The rest are small clusters of stars, all in the process of merging, one hundred and twelve total members of the Local Group.”  He paused a moment, then brought his hands in to expand the scope of the graphic.  “The Local Group is part of what we call the Virgo Supercluster.”

 Staring raptly at the image, Apollo finally turned to his father.  “The cylons...”

 “Don’t control this, I think,” Adama said with a brief head shake.  “We had always believed the cylons controlled the majority of the universe.  Now I see that is very, very wrong,” he said softly.  “The cylons...who controls this?  No one, I expect?”

 “Correct,” Picard said.  “No one force controls this galaxy, let alone the Local Group.”

 “Local,” Adama repeated.  “This goes much larger, doesn’t it.”

 With another hand wave, a delicate filament structure displayed.  “The Virgo Supercluster is part of the Laniakea Supercluster.  The universe is largely composed of such structures.”

 “There is no control,” Adama said, still staring at the graphic fixedly.  “We have...”  He looked down the table where the Council sat, silent, stunned, some looking at the graphic, some gazing sightlessly at the table in front of them.  “We have been at the mercy....there has been no mercy from the machines,” he said softly.  “Nothing.  Our lives had been devoted, against our will, to the cylons.  And now we have found Earth, and found the universe in which we live.  We have been denied, for a thousand yahren, the opportunity to think, to grow, to mature as a people.  This changes now.  I think we need to reflect on this,” he said, apologetic.  “Our place in the universe, in the last...day...has changed to a profound degree.  If I may request a brief time to think on these things, to adjust to scale and perspective of what we are doing....”

 Picard nodded.  “Of course.  We will reconvene in one hour.”

Chapter Text

 Nothing sobers you up like doing reports after a major incident.  Sheba hit send on her final tallies for her squadron, remaining fuel, repairs needed, and which vipers no longer....

 In olden days, they did services.  Remembrances, they called them.  Most of the time there was no body.  A long time ago, they would launch an unmanned, remote-controlled viper mock-up, just launch it into space with someone’s name on it.  Today?  No.  Sometimes they would gather in the mess halls or officer clubs and reminisce about someone.  Allie, Pepperjack, Auber, and Bolter were gone.  Anianna Scheck, Merl Orban, Vic Jecken, and Seshoba Dennick.  Anianna made up for her short stature by having the hottest temper in the squadron, always questioning procedures not with a mind to disobey but a mind to improve.  Her call, Allie, was actually her twin sister’s name, and while her sister hadn’t gone to flight school, one of the instructors continually got her name wrong because his younger brother had dated Allie for a bit.  Where was Allie now?  With the rest of those on Leon.  Gone.  Her name had lived on in Anianna, and now Anianna was with her sister again.

 Merl Orban was the temperamental opposite of Anianna.  So laid back he seemed to be sleeping all the time, the reason his call was Pepperjack was his in fact lightning fast reflexes on the stick.  What most people mistook for indolence or inattention was Pepper’s absolute focus that was almost like an alternate reality for him.  His viper had to be modified to fit his ridiculously tall frame, but the cylons were never able to modify their approach enough to catch him, until now.

 Auber, Vic Jecken, was the greatest practical joker a person could fear to be around.  He got his name because of a prank he tried to pull on another officer, spray painting his viper with phrases like “Whoops, missed one!” and “It got by me!” and “Where did it go?”  A rare backfire, he’d painted the viper of the squadron commander by mistake, who retaliated by painting Vic’s viper with the words “Auber-Paint your name, get a quat of leave”, referencing the brand of paint used.  Four warriors obliged before Vic’s own squadron commander saw the decorated viper.  His nickname could just as easily have been Scrub.  Like Auber Paints, Vic was now gone.

 Seshoba Dennick was one of the best female pilots Pegasus had ever had, excepting Sheba herself, of course.  Her name was Bolter because most of the time, success or failure of a mission would depend on if she was part of it, the one master bolt on which everything depended.  She also had an almost hilarious scramble whenever an alert went off, rocketing off her chair or off her bunk so fast it was amazing she never stumbled.  Entirely idea-focused, hard to get to know, she was nonetheless popular in her squadron because of her sardonic sense of humor.  Bolter had responded to her final alert early yesterday evening.

 This is the price we pay for survival.  Getting nibbled to death, talented, trained, disciplined warriors getting taken out by a mindless cloud of snits, and those of us who survived....survived.  It was never-ending–

 No, it wasn’t, Sheba thought.  There was an ending, and they’d found it.  Those bizarre ships with their even more bizarre technology, crews, and philosophies.  She’d eaten a meal she had personally watched appear out of thin air, one of the most filling meals she’d had in a long time, and new tastes, too.  It had reminded her of one of her favorite things to do back home, visit new eateries and try something completely foreign to her.  She’d seen only one human on that ship, some engineer....Yao?  Something.  The others were disarming, confusing, and even a little bit off-setting aliens, especially that straight-faced nurse with the pointed ears.  Pointy Slant, Starbuck had called him.  And in all the time she and Starbuck had been on that ship, neither of them had thought to mention Earth.

 Sheba looked up at the chrono in the tiny office she shared with other squad leaders.  She had set herself down to do these reports to distract herself from restlessly pacing and wondering about what was going on at that meeting.  Unless they were going to go deep into the evening, they had to be back, had to be done by now.  She folded the keyboard and pushed it back on the desk and got up.

 Going through the corridors of Galactica would never be the same again, either.  Now when people passed each other, the intensity and barely-held excitement erupted into discussions and questions between people who’d barely given each other a look before.  Now, anyone and everyone was fair game for conversation because they were all thinking in the same direction–Earth.  Sheba had to weave around a few clusters of people and even beg off on some curious questions—some knew, some did not know she had been on one of those ships.  Finally the door to the officer’s club slid open in front of her and she entered the curiously quiet club room.

 Curiously quiet, because at least twenty warriors were alertly clustered, seated around one corner of the room where Boomer sat, talking.  So they were now back from the meeting and there was information to be had.  Most of the chairs in the club were taken and the rest of the warriors were standing.  She found a place to stand near the back of the group, with a nonetheless clear view.

 “They ain’t coming from Earth.  Another place is sending them, or they’d take a yahren-plus to get out here,” Boomer was saying to the raptly attentive audience.  “It’s all the same organization, um....Starfleet, but just not directly from Earth.  One’s a specialized engineering ship and the other is food and supplies and stuff.”

 “What are they figuring for that four-quat span?  Are we back to normal?”

 “Up in the air a little bit, but I got the feeling their....captain was kind of evasive on that.  I don’t think he wants all of them to clear out.  I talked to one of their officers and he said he’s hoping his ship stays in easy range, at least.”

 “If their tech is so much better, I say they scan the area as well as they can before they go,” Sheba said, as all heads turned to her.  “Give us a total picture out as far as they can.”

 “Oh, they’re doing that continually,” Boomer said emphatically.  “Right now there’s nothing they can spot, and from what I hear, they can see, like, a quat at least, out,” he said, waving a hand.  “If they were to spot something on the farthest out reaches they can see, it’d take sectons to get here.”

 “You’d think with that level of technology, even a food truck from them might have some bite,” Jolly said with a frown.  “That or leave some kind of weapon with us.  If there’s a chance for repairs, we can really use it.”  The other warriors nodded and murmured agreement.

 “Like I said, I really got the feeling the reason they’re hesitating is because they’re fighting with their higher-ups,” Boomer said with a head shake.  “They’re not comfortable leaving us.”

 “I mean, it’s not like we don’t know how to survive on our own,” Greenbean murmured.  “Maybe they just like....pounding on something they can easily handle, for a change,” he finished uneasily.

 “Let’s not ask what they typically face, alright?”

 “Neutral zone,” Sheba said suddenly, frowning.  “I remember that phrase.  I think we’re near some kind of neutral zone right now.”

 Boomer rubbed his face and the other warriors started muttering.  “Alright, hold it,” Giles said, holding his hands up.  “Inconsistency.  If we’re near something that can frighten the strongest weapon systems we’ve seen, and their commanders are reluctant to have anyone stay, I call command disconnect,” he said sharply, chopping a hand in the air.  “Someone up there is blocking this.  A hundred cubits says there’s one frak-brained leader who doesn’t know or care what’s going on, and they’re–”

 “Look, they are aware of this, believe me,” Boomer said, raising his voice to get over the spouted opinions as agreements and disagreements were voiced.  “I spent last night, this morning, and this afternoon on that ship and talked to many, many people,” he said, lowering his voice as their attentions swung back to him.  “They’re all a little bit different, but every vibe, every conversation I had, those people naturally operate under the  assumption that if it doesn’t happen, if they don’t get an order to stay, they’re going to find a way to make it happen, regardless.  They don’t pass issues around, there.  If they tell us it’s taken care of, you can believe it.”

 “What did they say about getting to Earth?” Sheba asked.  “Do they have plans?”  She looked around in some consternation as all expressions fell.  “They are going to help us, aren’t they?”

 “They will, but....it’s just...it’s a long distance, and by long, I mean, like, thousands of times the distance we’ve come so far.  They can do it,” he reassured her as her jaw dropped.  “There’s people on that ship who were born and raised on Earth.  They regularly do distances that...” he shook his head, waving a hand dismissively.  “Distances we didn’t even think existed.  I think we’re all gonna get there,” he said, nodding almost sagely.  “It’s just gonna take time.”

 “I’m willing to do it,” Sheba said quietly.  “I don’t care what it takes.”

 “Take maybe a yahren,” Boomer answered.  “But frankly, if you’re going on a luxury liner like that, it won’t be a trial at all,” he added with bright sarcasm, sitting back in his chair and balancing a leg on the other knee.  “All the food you could eat, all the space you could want, and beautiful and boring as Hades.  All in all, not a bad way to go, I guess.”

 “Does the commander have a priority order in mind?  Who goes first?”

 “Being worked on,” Boomer said shortly.  “And no, I don’t want to be around when that gets posted.  Between who wants to go, who doesn’t, and who thinks they should go first...”  He trailed off as the others sighed and nodded their agreement.

 “Wait, you think there are some that don’t want to go?” Sheba asked.  “Who wouldn’t go?”

 “Their comman—um, captain, said he wasn’t going to take anyone if they didn’t want to go,” Boomer responded with prim irony.

 “Would you go?”

 Boomer turned to Jolly, opening his mouth for a sarcastic answer.  The sharpness faded as he thought for a few moments.  “That’s a good question.”

 “I mean, it’s not like we haven’t been driving at this the past two yahren,” Jolly said.  “What’s our hesitation?”

 “They’re different,” Boomer said distantly, idly rapping his thumb against his boot.  “There’s....I just get this feeling they live life on very different terms from us.  The rules for us, for them, could be mutually exclusive.  Some kind of flatness to their thinking...”  He grimaced, shaking his head.  “I just don’t think this is gonna be smooth flying.”

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

 Have I ever seen stars in his eyes like this before?  Apollo wondered, watching Boxey grip the strange communication pad from the Enterprise, poking and swiping at anything and everything that caught his eye.  It was evening, not quite time for Boxey’s bedtime but close enough that they were together in their quarters, with one of the pads that hooked directly into the newly installed database and network on Galactica.  About thirty pads had been issued to the carrier, providing them with what was termed ‘dynamic’ access to a general database about Earth.  The rest of the fleet had text access for now, but that would change when the engineering ship got here.  Apollo had managed to secure one of the pads that he eventually intended to share with the warriors, but for now, he and Boxey were exploring.

 It started with an image of the planet itself, seeing the strange continental forms and the vast, beautiful oceans, then the boy learned to either spread his fingers or press just the right way on the surface to make it zoom in, the deep green of a continent resolving into a bumpy, pebbly texture, then individual trees coming into focus.  Then the surprise of finding an unknown, furry animal in a tree made him squeal and go on a whirlwind search in the database for animals from Earth.  The names were unfamiliar but anatomy wasn’t very different.  They looked at dolphins, horses, lions, cats, centipedes, giraffes, ostriches, crocodiles....

 “Daggits!”  Boxey jumped, almost hitting Apollo in the chin.  “Look, Muffy!  A friend!”  He showed the image to the glassy-eyed construct alongside his bunk and got an acknowledging bark.

 “We’ve never really tested Muffit on how fast he can run,” Apollo said with a sly look at Boxey as they watched a large, leggy daggit bound like a living wave across a meadow, devouring metrons with each stride.  “Think we should arrange a race?”

 “Muffy would win,” Boxey said confidently as he started swiping through image after image of daggits, called dogs on Earth.  “He’s got stronger legs.”

 “You’re sure of that?  They look pretty fast.”

 “And he’s smarter,”  Boxey said, ignoring his father’s caution as he dropped a hand to the furry automaton and scratched it between the ears.

 “So, better in every way,” Apollo said, turning to look at Boxey.  “No need to even look at their daggits.  Dogs.”  Boxey finally tilted his head contemplatively with a plaintive look, considering the issue.

 “I’ll look,” he finally announced, swiping through more images.  “Muffy wants another friend.”

 “So, where do you think we’re going to live on Earth?  Given any thought to that?”  Boxey’s head came up in surprise.

 “Um....”

 “It’s gonna be quite a change,” Apollo said seriously.  “We’re gonna have a lot of thinking to do.”

 “Daddy, are you still gonna be a warrior?”

 The question was delivered with innocence, but it hit Apollo broadside.  So focused on finding Earth, it hadn’t yet entered his mind how his role might change.  How would a warrior fit into their new situation?  All along, the unspoken assumption was that they would arrive at a tender, naive planet and assume the protector role, but now the opposite looked to be true–Earth’s forces would be protecting them, instead.  Did they need help?  Was there anything he could provide?  He’d learned they didn’t really have carriers, and the concept of a warrior was practically anathema in their day to day operations.  Try as they might to deny it, though, this Starfleet was a military, albeit one with a broad scientific emphasis.  Weapons systems didn’t evolve in the absence of need.  There were forces positioned against them, in whatever configuration and level of complexity, and whatever the Council wanted to say, walking onto the field and surrendering wasn’t the way to confront these forces.  Fleet, viper, patrols, drills, it may change, but it would not vanish, merely morph into a different picture.  The structures were different, but not radically different.  “Well, I’ll still be me,” he said, swallowing his surprise.  “You’ll still be you.  We’ll still be together.  The bad guys might change.  Our situation will change, but yeah, I think I’ll still be a warrior,” he said cautiously.  “Are you still gonna be my favorite trouble-making monster?” he asked, giving Boxey a tickle on the ribs.  The boy flinched and yelped, then started giggling.

 “I want a great, big house and a huge yard for Muffy and all his new friends to run in,” Boxey said, dropping the pad into his lap and spreading his arms enthusiastically.  “And I want a big tree to climb, and I want snow!  Do they have snow?” His face lit up even more, looking at his father.

 “Well, I’m pretty sure I saw white on Earth’s top and bottom, so I think there’s snow to be had.  I know–let’s look at what it looks like through a yah–I mean, year,” he said, reaching around Boxey and manipulating the display.  “I think there was a time index we could move.  Let’s see what it looks like in snow season.”  They began exploring more of the display, watching the white cover creep down over a third of the northern continents as the seasons turned.  They looked in close and saw dwellings of all different types, some based on squares, some based on more organic shapes, but with very few connecting roadways.  It puzzled them until they saw flying pods and remembered the teleporters.  They watched the cities light up like jewels in delicate, complex filigree form, and watched in fascination as a large, swirling storm started to form over the ocean, circling close to a coastline before breaking up, disintegrating into shreds.

 I hope I’m not looking at a metaphor, Apollo thought as the last shreds of clouds from the organized storm drifted harmlessly over the continent.  What would happen, what did their path forward really look like.  His father had assured him they would be welcomed on Earth, welcomed with opened arms and celebrations, but then what?  What would give life meaning after they reached their goal?

 They would have to talk about this, think about it, the shape the colonials would take going forward.  They had time.  It would take time for more ships to come, time for them to make their way to Earth.  They had time to think....

 Exploration, he realized as they continued to rove over the planet, exploring rivers and lakes, mountains, exotic-looking buildings and mysterious giant constructs.  That’s what Starfleet was supposed to be about, exploring the universe....galaxy.  With telescopes that had lens diameters the equivalent of more than four Galacticas laid end to nose, it was curious they felt the need to even go out in ships.  That was the most sensitive one, not the largest lens.  How big was the biggest one?  How far could it see?

 “Daddy, what are you doing?”

 “What?”  His right hand was poised in the air, palm up, fingers reaching for an eyepiece, and he lowered his hand.  “Just...I guess reaching for a telescope,” he explained, embarrassed.  “Just thinking.”

 “Here.  You look for something now,” Boxey said, pushing the computer pad at him.  “What do you want to see on Earth?”

 “Hmmm,” Apollo said, frowning thoughtfully as he turned the pad to face him.  “How about...let’s see if we can find the big stuff.  There’s Earth’s leadership, the Federation leadership, and Starfleet leadership all based on Earth.  Let’s try to find that.”

 “Alright,” Boxey said, the subdued edge hinting at what he judged to be lack of imagination on his father’s part.  Apollo quickly found his way into a text-supported gallery of images, finding the structure housing Earth leadership that was remarkably quiet on the outside but housed a waterfall and growing house, dramatically different cultural themes in every room, and an impressively large meeting chamber with banks of seats and the most intricately sculpted wall surface he’d ever seen around the perimeter.  There were even people visible, scattered around the chamber in informal conversations and walking slowly through the space, and Apollo’s jaw dropped a little as he saw it was a live view, only about five centons behind in real time.

 “So that’s where we’re going to be meeting,” he said softly, not noticing Boxey’s barely restrained, restless boredom as he panned around the room.  “That’s where we want to be.  That’s the Thirteenth Colony leadership, right there.”

 “Are there any kids?” Boxey asked after a sigh, and Apollo pulled back.

 “Not there, but there’s lots of kids on Earth.  Millions.”

 “Will I get to play with them?”

 “Why wouldn’t you?  I’ll bet you’ll be able to teach them lots of games, like jumpfeet, chasing, catch the leader, bounce ball...and they can teach you some, too.”

 The boy’s chin came up.  “I’ll make up a new game, called Chase Muffy, except I get to win it.”

 Apollo laughed.  “If you win, you win, but what if someone else is faster?”

 He got a slow smile in answer.  “I’ll just have Muffy name me the winner and they can try again.”

 “You little stinker!”

 Muffit barked and Apollo rubbed Boxey’s back, shifting his hand over and reaching a ticklish spot.  The pad was forgotten as they quickly morphed into their favorite tickling wrestle game that Apollo knew tired Boxey out enough for him to sleep.  Eventually Apollo was retrieving the pad from the floor, where it had been pushed off the end of the bunk, and pulling the blankets over a content and sleepy-eyed Boxey.

 “You dream about Earth, and I’ll see you in the morning,” Apollo said, planting a kiss on the boy’s forehead.  There was an acknowledging wordless sound from Boxey and then a deep, yawning breath.

 Am I still going to be a warrior....The question circled in Apollo’s head as he slid the door of the small sleeping compartment shut.  That depended entirely on what role they had to play in the universe.  They were shifting from hunted, searching nomads to...what?  He looked down at the pad still in his hands.  It depended partially on Earth.  It also depends on us.  For the first time we are no longer at the mercy of our situation.  We can define who we are, now.  Do we even know how to do this?

 He shook his head and sat down at the small desk in the main room of his quarters.  His own identity and the identity of everything he’d ever known...they were being given the chance to reinitialize.  The fear and the thrill countered each other, breaking it down to numbness.

 What’s out there?

 Apollo ran a finger across the screen of the pad, activating it, and pulled up the text database.  There were other planets allied with Earth.  Who were they?  What were they like?  Could any of them be a role model or even offer a vision to help?  He slid a finger down the list to the four highlighted planets and started exploring the origins of the Federation.

Chapter Text

 Junni padded with care on the light blue carpet, holding Jeriel’s hand, nervous about the fact that her dusty, worn boots were certainly leaving tracks down the corridor.  The carpet was soft, like she was walking in a forest with a thick covering of leaves.  It had even smelled like a forest on first arrival, but now there was an unidentifiable, sweet spice that faintly registered.  It was very, very clearly a luxury liner and made her want to shrink against the wall, afraid that someone would find her and her family there and escort them out.

 In fact, they were being escorted, but not out.  A dark-haired girl nonetheless wearing a uniform was calmly pacing down the hallway with them, holding Isak’s hand, and Mora was carrying a likely sleeping Estella.  Food and sleep had taken up much of the day, but even more importantly, it was warm.  Warm enough that she hadn’t once shivered.  She even had a new wrap, the same dull red color but made out of a beautiful, soft fabric that wrapped warmly around her like a hug.  It was all very beautiful, yes, but she couldn’t ignore a restlessness that they were just passing through.  Growing accustomed to this atmosphere would only lead to pain down the road when they settled back into normal.  The wrap was hers, but the food, the warmth, and the peace would not stay.

 It was already starting, after all.  Along with several other families, they had been in a series of large, connected rooms that she had been told were education rooms for children, softly but fully lit, warm, with soft places to sit and room for her children to explore and move around.  Over the evening, though, more and more of them had been taken out of the rooms.  The dark-haired girl had been taking families out of the space, one by one, and putting them...somewhere.  A tiny voice in her head said she hadn’t yet seen a space on this ship that would be less than extreme luxury to live in, but another voice said she hadn’t been given a full tour.

 So she dutifully followed the girl in silence as they rounded the gentle curve of the corridor, passing by an occasional alien or colonial, listening to the hesitant questions and wonderings of one or the other of her children, hearing the soft voice of the girl answering, hoping her children were wise enough to not become invested in the indulgent surroundings.  Connecting corridors crossed their path in a regular pattern that she started to recognize, long and short hallways sometimes with other corridors, sometimes with doors.  She had just found out that at least some of those doors actually led to lifts when the lighting in the hallway started to fade.

 “It’s just the night cycle,” the girl said with a glance back to Junni as the lighting dropped by half.  As they passed by in the hallway now, white lights flicked on near the floor.  They only passed by two more connecting corridors before the small crew member stopped and tapped the reflective black strip along the wall.  A dimensional graphic popped into existence just in front of the black strip.  The girl made a pulling motion that made it move closer to her, and as she began moving her finger in the air, text and graphics moved.

 “What?”  Junni asked as the girl let out a long sigh and her shoulders sagged.

 “There aren’t any family units left on this deck,” she said quietly, her voice dropping in disappointment.  She backed up from the display and looked both ways down the corridor, then went back to the graphic.

 “We could stay in the room we were in,” Junni tried, but the girl shook her head.

 “No, you should have private space, and that’s part of the school.”  She flicked a finger through the graphic, making information spin past, then backed up with another sigh.  “There’s only single cabins left on this deck.  What I can do is move you down two decks and on the other side of the saucer, but you’d be away from everyone else.  There’s a family unit there.  The other choice is...a single.”

 “What’s a single like?” Mora asked.

 “It’s more than what you had, but it’s not really what we want.  There’s only one proper bed, and then the long seat in the living area pulls out into a bed, but after that it would just be sleeping pads on the floor.”

 “Could we just–”

 “Let’s have a look,” Mora interrupted.  “If there’s a real bed, it’s more than what we’ve had for two yahren.”

 Junni bit her tongue and silently followed as they backtracked a bit and stopped at one of the many recessed doors along the corridor.  The girl tapped at a panel on the outside of the door, entering a complex pattern, then the door slid open.  Lights started to slowly brighten the interior of the soft blue-gray room, and Junni startled when she saw a long oval window looking out into the blackness of space.

 “This could maybe fit two of your children, but I would have to go get at least one pad,” the girl said as she bent over and gripped the front bottom edge of a long, soft seat in the room.  “It’s really only supposed to fit one person.  I can show you the layout–”

 “Wait, this is the room?”  Mora said, disbelieving, turning to take in the space as Isak climbed up onto the folded out bed.  The girl nodded, looking dismayed.

 “You really should have a family space.  I could see about combining two singles but that’s not ideal.  We can go look at the family space–”

 “This?”  Junni gasped.  “We’re in it?  This is the space for us?”

 “Mommy, can we stay here?  It’s soft,” Isak said, rolling across the cushions.

 “Let’s go look at the family–”

 “We’ll take it.”  Mora hugged a now sobbing Junni against him.  “We want this.  Can we have it?”

 Frozen in uncertainty, the girl stared at them for a moment.  “The family quarters are much bigger than this—”

 “This is more space than we’ve ever had,” Mora said, turning a little to take in the room, moving Junni with him.  “If we can have this, we’ll take it.”

 “Just because it’s more than what you’ve had before doesn’t mean it’s enough.  This is two parents and three children in a space meant for one.”  She leaned to the side a moment, glancing at something, and Mora turned to see.

 “Jeriel, come back, that’s someone else’s,” he said as the youngster drifted close to an opening in the wall.  The girl stopped and looked back.

 “That’s the bedroom, and through there is the bathroom.”

 “What?”

 The soft, bleating question from Junni and the stare of consternation Mora leveled at her almost made her shrink back.  He opened his arms, then, as Junni pulled away from him.  Walking slowly as if in a trance, she barely even saw her second child as she neared the doorway at the end of the room.  Dim lights started to come on, enough to let her see the bed, another long window into space, some drawers, another further opening...

 She covered her face with her hands again, and Mora crossed the room quickly and came to her.  He started to put his arms around her, then stopped, staring at the space.  “This?  This too?”

 “It’s a single bed.  This is part of the space, yes.  There’s a bathroom,” the girl said, approaching slowly. “I can show you how things work.”

 “A wash?  A turbowash?  And a flusher?  Ours?  All ours?”

 In a daze, they watched as the girl gave them a tour of the controls in the space, how the turbowash worked, the turboflush, light controls, then into the bedroom with the storage spaces, the adjustable bed, and finishing with a careful lecture on the...

 “That’s how the food happened,” Mora mumbled as the girl caused a bread wrap to appear, then disappear in the small alcove.  It left behind a faint bread smell that made him want to eat again, even though they had already had a filling meal not one centar ago.  “What is it from?  How is it made?”

 “Specialized stocks are used for food.  It’s called vapor deposition, a kind of reproduction that uses some transporter systems.  It’s assembled at the molecular level.”

 “Everybody eats like that around here?”

 “There is an arboretum that has a small quantity of real plants, but most of us use the replicators,” she said.  “Normally we don’t need rationing but we have a high volume on board who are unfamiliar with the systems.”

 Mora was shaking his head in disbelief.  “This is like fantasy land,” he said breathlessly, and Junni nodded agreement.  “This is....is this what Earth is like?”

 “Somewhat, yes,” she said slowly.  “There’s more room on Earth, though.”

 “I can’t believe this,” Junni said quietly.  “This isn’t....”

 “This isn’t happening,” Mora finished with a short laugh.  “We lived in a metal box...”

 “You were in a desperate situation,” the girl said, turning a more intent look on them.  “You did what you could, you did all you could.  Your leaders cared and still care deeply.  The quality of life you had before is not what they wanted for you.  They want this and better for you,” she said earnestly.  “The existence you were forced to endure wasn’t of their making, but this situation is very much thanks to your leaders,” she said, nodding her head at the space around them.

 Mora shook his head slowly, a distant gaze passing over the room.  “No, they knew some of us were barely surviving,” he managed in a low voice.  “We wanted better–we needed better.  There’s people who live in luxury in the fleet and we barely have enough food to eat.  They knew about that.  It’s hard not to blame them.”

 “Your ship was evacuated because life support was failing, but your commander wants those with the worst living conditions to be rescued first,” she said.

 “Where do we go from here?” Mora asked.  “What happens?  If we weren’t the worst, are there going to be–are we gonna have to go back there?”

 “Not unless you want to.  In the next few days, we’re going to meet with each of you and ask what you want to do, where you want to go from here,” she said as Mora’s alarm deflated and Junni took deep, calming breaths.  “Whatever you decide, there will be...things you’ll need to know, what happens as a result of your decision.  It’s complicated, but we’re going to help you as much as we can to make the best decision for you.”

 “Decision for—about what?”

 “There may be more than just two choices, but they’re going to talk to you about staying here or going to Earth.  It—”

 “We’re going to Earth!”

 “It will be a long journey,” she said.  “Almost as long as what you’ve had so far.”

 “Is that a problem?”

 “You are a strong people, spirited and hopeful,” she said slowly.  “If you set your mind to it, the length will be unimportant.”

 Mora hugged Junni again, and dropped a hand to Isak’s head as the boy wandered over.  “What we want is no more cylons, enough food, no more cold, no more fear.”

 “To become a family, instead of refugees,” the girl said with a thoughtful tilt of her head.  “You finally have choices, and that is a first step.”

(unfinished scene number 32....)

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

 Counselor Troi could feel the brooding anger and disappointment before she even hit the chime on the ready room.  The door slid open to reveal Captain Picard rubbing his face, elbows braced on his desk.  The relatively sudden mood change could only mean one thing.

 “I take it our orders have come through,” she said in as neutral a tone as she could manage, watching his jaw muscles work as his hands finally slid down.

 “Sovereign departs as soon as they’ve made ready.  Tomorrow noon, both us and the Quadrant are to depart,” he said in a low voice.  “Leaving them alone for four months, sixteen lightyears from the Neutral Zone and subsiding on rations we surpass in our prison.”

 “Could we leave a shuttle behind?”

 “We’re already leaving our self-respect behind, and it seems our values departed some time ago,” he murmured in singsong sarcasm, leaning back in his chair.  “Every Starfleet decision should reflect the values of the Federation, but this one frankly feels more Romulan or Cardassian.”

 “How about altering our course on our way back from Starbase 434?”

 “Oh, no,” Picard said in mock excitement.  “No, we’re not to proceed to 434.  We are to proceed to the survey in the Cervos system, then first contact with the Indrini, then ferry the ambassadors, and then drop the refugees off.”

 Troi’s jaw dropped.  “Will our stores even last that long?”

 “Barely.”  Picard turned in his chair, leveling a stare at the wall.  “This operation is being driven by a logistics admiral, and it shows.”

 “There’s a risky approach,” she said uneasily.  “Take the use parameters off the replicators the refugees have access to.”

 “Thereby forcing us to return to Starbase 434 prematurely, which is why the good admiral warned against that very tactic.”

 Troi slumped into the chair opposite his desk.  “Does she know....”

 “How incompetent she’s being?  No.  If I didn’t know better, I would think she’s in over her head and she’s panicking.”  Picard shifted in his chair, sighing.  “She’s making herself directly responsible for any harm that comes to them.  Even if by some miracle absolutely nothing happens, the decisions made here should be reviewed by Command.  I believe they will find hers suspect at the least.”  He reached out and slid the blank screen sharply to the side.  “You have a report for me.”

 Troi’s gaze fell to the almost forgotten pad in her hands.  The information seemed inconsequential in the face of their impending departure, insights and impressions of the meeting with the colonials.  She felt the entire crew had become heavily invested in the fate of the refugees, and now they were being told to drop the issue and essentially forget about it.  “Their adjustment was better than I feared,” she said with a steadying breath, trying to focus on her notes and the recall of their mood.  “Keeping them together here for an hour after the meeting was beneficial.  Their internal support is strong but being together physically helped their adjustment.  Prior to the meeting I would have said they weren’t ready to meet with Earth’s leadership, but I think the universe revelation actually helped steady them.”

 “How so?”

 “Difficult to tell,” she said, frowning in recall.  “It was like a weight was taken off, a responsibility shifted somehow.  I’ll have to talk to them more to get a better sense.”

 “Commander Adama grasped it dramatically sooner,” Picard commented, and Troi nodded.

 “Considering his intellect, I’m not surprised.  He’s...almost more than human.”

 Picard sat back in his chair, hands folded contemplatively.  “What are your impressions of him?”

 Troi’s gaze lowered..  Putting into words the presence she had felt from the moment they arrived was nearly impossible.  A pastiche of elements was represented, many to an unusual degree.  Blinding purity, a bewildering blend of both the common and the ageless, an almost audible hum of thought that wasn’t so much fast as it was broad and deep.  Moving at the same rate as anyone else, but collecting and processing depth and nuance that hardly anyone else even registered.  “He’s got an incredible presence,” she began hesitantly, staring out the window behind the captain.  “I can feel him singularly right now, even.  He’s selfless, personally sacrificial, but firm in his position.  His sense of leadership has a religious element to it, I think–a sense of almost an anointing, but his ego....In his mind, it’s not his personal identity that leads.  It’s something spiritual granted to him from the outside.”

 “Are you certain he’s human?  The transport logs could be checked.”

 “There isn’t an element in him that feels other than human.  It’s more like he’s the next iteration of what humans could be.”  She took in a careful breath.  “Truthfully, there’s only one person I’ve ever encountered whose presence had the same gravity, and that’s Ambassador Spock.”

 Picard leveled a disbelieving stare at her.  “Counselor, that’s....”

 She nodded.  “They’re different races, but they both have the same...core.  The only way I can describe it is like... this will sound strange,” she said with a self-conscious smile.  “I don’t mean it literally, but it’s almost like....feeling what a multi-dimensional being would be like, or as if the same person was layered multiple times in one reality.  It’s very difficult for me to sense anyone else around when he’s near.”

 Frowning in thought, Picard slowly got up from his chair and crossed over to the replicator.  “Tea, Earl Grey, hot.”  He gave Troi a questioning look as the tea materialized in the alcove.

 “Oolong, warm,” she said after a moment.  Picard retrieved his, then made the second request.

 “Do you get any sense of the same presence from either of his children?” he asked as he handed the delicate cup and saucer to Troi before regaining his seat.  “Is it possible it’s some kind of hereditary trait?  The empathic sense, as well, is unheard of in humans.”

 “There is something in Apollo, a kind of nascent presence, but mostly a singular purity,” she said, wrapping her hands around the warm cup.  “There’s very little I can sense from Athena that’s unusual, but in unequal societies these types of traits are very often subdued and repressed in the underprivileged.”

 Picard nodded sagely.  “Every single time Siress Tinia spoke–and she was the only female there who said anything–she looked to Adama or Domra for approval.  None of the males did that, at least not habitually.”

 “I could make some inquiries to see if there are any others with the empathic sense in the fleet, but if they’re female, they might not even know.”

 “Make it fast, because we won’t be here much longer,” Picard said, lapsing into brooding as he nursed his tea.  “We have only a very short time to make–” He paused as the screen on his desk lit up briefly with a text.

 “What is it?” Troi asked as Picard smiled wryly after a moment, looking at the screen.

 “Commander Karn says he’s going to talk to Admiral Sturl about the orders,” he said, pushing deeper into his chair.  “I believe Sturl outranks Samaras so perhaps there is hope.”

 “If it doesn’t change....We might not be able to finish speaking to all of the refugees on the Enterprise by noon tomorrow,” Troi said thoughtfully.  “It would force us to return here if there are some who wish to stay.  The majority so far wish to proceed to Earth, but they are nervous,” she said as Picard focused on her.  “We haven’t yet told them one of their own leaders will be accompanying them, though.  That could sway the few who wish to stay.”

 “Do what you can to get to as many as possible.  Gather them into groups.  I’ll get a name from the colonials, but not tonight,” he said, glancing at the time display in the corner of the screen.  “If I have to, I can use that to force Samaras to give us time.  For now....”  He drained the rest of his tea.  “I think I’ve been in uniform long enough today,” he said in a weary voice, getting to his feet.  “By tomorrow morning we’ll likely have an answer, one way or another, and we’ll make estimates based on that.”

 “You know, if we had time before we go, we could host something like a formal dinner,”  she said, setting the remains of her tea in the alcove for recycling.  “It could help with stress and fear of the unknown for them, and build more trust.”

 “Depending on who wins the argument, we could consider that.”  The ready room door slid open, revealing a quiet bridge, dimly lit for the night cycle, with Dr. Crusher in the command well, absorbed in a report.  She looked up as they emerged.  “Beverly, it’s possible there will be a transmission from Command tonight,” he said as she shut down the holographic display she was reading.  “Our official orders came through less than an hour ago but there’s a dispute in the works.”

 “They want us to leave, don’t they,” she said flatly.

 “The current admiral in charge does, yes,” he said, a subtle emphasis on ‘current’ making her squint in thoughtfulness.  “Either way, I am going to retire and will find out in the morning if the supervising admiral remembers their oath,” he finished at a mutter, climbing the ramp.  Dr. Crusher sat back stiffly in the chair, trying not to grind her jaw.  She looked over after a moment, seeing Troi watching her from the ramp.

 “At this point, anger I think is appropriate,” the Betazoid murmured, as much to herself as to anyone else.  Dr. Crusher’s gaze drifted for a moment and she gave a slow nod.

 “Between you and me, Counselor....this is the flagship.  Either those orders change or we’re getting written up.”

Chapter Text

 Adrenalin.

 Lungs two and a half times larger than a human’s pulled in liters of oxygen, a 1,200-gram heart pounded, and in less than two seconds, he was awake and knew why he was awake.  He rolled off the surface to an upright position and slapped the terminal.

 “Worf here.”

 “Worf, the cylons are crossing the gap.  We think they’re inside one of the ships.  Assemble a team, get over there, and clean them out.”

 “Schematics?”

 “In progress.  You’ll have them by the time you get to transport four.”

 “Understood.  Worf out.”

 It usually took sixteen seconds to get into uniform.  For the occasion, he made it in fourteen.

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

 Worf hit the transport chamber at a dead run and pulled up abruptly as Lieutenant Luca Venegas, one of his top people, handed him a rifle.  “Schematics are loaded,” the deceptively quiet Mexican said as Worf took the rifle and adjusted the settings on it with practiced ease.  “I brought a force field; I figured there’d be a hole,” he said, shouldering the strap of a portable stasis field generator.  The four others he had tapped were there and ready to go.

 “I’m setting you down ten meters from the hatch, a forced hatch,” the transporter operator said quickly, swiping across the display.  “Some atmosphere comp but not too bad yet.”

 “Venegas and I will go first and secure the forced hatch.  We’ll signal for the rest.”  He nodded to the controller.  “Energize.”  The two on the pad disappeared in a golden haze.

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

 Hatches were a weak point on all ships.  Even double-sealed, extra bracing for hull integrity, it was meant to be a through-way and so that was the entry point.  The atmosphere started to thin as the bone-chilling cold of space, peculiarly subtle yet, invaded with the intruders.  Not all got through, not all made it—the trailing host was atomized as multiple thin lines of distortion emanating from a small ship methodically and precisely picked them off.  But enough got through to do what they needed to do.

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

 With a low, popping sound, the generator came on line, blocking the opening and securing the atmosphere.  Ensign Venegas backed off from the equipment, back to a more stabilized atmospheric location with the others.  As soon as they had materialized, Worf had brought his rifle around and partially vaporized two silver figures that had been tromping down the corridor.  Now that it was clear and the atmosphere was stabilizing, he and Venegas positioned themselves at the crossroads of two nearby corridors and signaled for the rest of the team.  This was one of the larger ships, almost half the length of the Enterprise.  There were hundreds of compartments but most of the corridors were straight.  A clear shot.

 The rest of the team was human, a precaution.  The colonials had encountered other races, but they could tolerate no questions or confusion.  The lights were dim, hopefully due to a night cycle, and a faint green cast was added from the tiny night vision pads, almost invisible on their noses.  All had rifles, and a strap around the wrist contained a tiny holographic generator loaded with ship schematics.  With hand signals, Worf split the team and sent Venegas off with two others.  There were four main corridors running the length of the ship with a connecting crosswalk fore and aft on all eight levels, one side for each team.  He took a moment to study the layout, then gripped the rifle.  Let the hunt begin.

 They weren’t fast, they couldn’t have gotten far, Worf thought as the three of them ran down the first corridor.  Light flashed over them periodically as they passed lanterns in the ceiling.  An occasional murmur of sound made him growl–there were people up and about behind the doors they passed.  At least there was no screaming...yet.  At the end, a T intersection, he angled a look around the near corner, seeing the opposite length clear.

 “No stairs, only lifts and access shafts,” Ensign Samah Isa said softly as she took another quick look at the tiny holographic screen thrown up from her wrist.  “Wreck lifts?”

 Worf nodded once.  “Controls.”

 The ship interior looked like an absent-minded designer had gotten their schematics  mixed up with another project.  The corridors were largely angular and had overhead lights, and the night vision didn’t kick on.  The side branches were curving and dark, with a different bulkhead surface and the only lighting provided by strips along the walls.  The difference in lighting caused an annoying flashing of the night vision when he looked from one to the other.

 Hand signals sent the two ensigns down opposite lengths of the cross corridor.  When they both signaled clear, he recalled one of them to him and joined the other at the head of the next corridor down.

 The other ensign, Carter Magrath, pointed down another cross corridor.  The unmistakable curve of the doors and the corner location were likely a lift.  At Worf’s nod, the ensign set his rifle at a lower setting and shot out the controls.  Smoke started to drift from the blackened panel to the right of the doors.

 Footfalls.  They all heard them.  Around the next corner, regular purposeful beats.  Worf eased closer to the corner, rifle raised.  Whoever it was, or whatever, they were heavy but precise.  Metal.  Superior Klingon peripheral vision read the reflection and a moment later, two sections of a metal construct crashed to the deck, the middle third turned into a cloud of atoms.

 That was a single.  Where was the other–

 Expressions sufficed for panicked commands and Worf ducked.  Phaser fire burned over his head as Magrath discharged at something behind him.  The remains fell, one piece hitting Worf’s leg.  He kicked the shoulder and arm of a cylon away from him.

 Reportedly, they normally traveled in pairs.  Why were they splitting up?  Strategy or overconfidence?

 He felt the faint vibration of his comm badge on his chest, a silent inquiry.  After another careful look around, he tapped his badge.  “Here.”

 “Worf, the Quadrant is offering a security drone and earpiece.”  Dr. Crusher’s voice was muted through the link.  “The earpiece is communication with them and they control the drone, under your command.  A scouting one.”

 The Enterprise was still considered a new ship, but security tactics and equipment moved at about four times the speed of the Design Bureau.  Of course, the Defiant-class would carry the results of Starfleet Tactical’s musings and unchained speculation from the week before.  He would not say no to this one.  “Send it.”

 No shields, no problems transporting.  Two sparkles appeared on the deck in front of him.  When he bent over, one of the items went into action–the size of a small insect, sounding much like a mosquito, it launched and hovered.  The earpiece was thoughtfully sized for a Klingon.

 Isa and Magrath pulled back with surprised frowns as they tried to track the drone.  Worf put the earpiece in and saw the drone alertly pop up to eye level.  He turned his head and let it see the earpiece.

 “Commander.  Lieutenant Arva, Quadrant.”  The woman’s voice sounded calm and almost cold in its restraint.  “One beep, no cylons.  Two beeps, cylons.  Let me know where you want me to look.”

 Worf growled low in his throat, looking around, recalculating the situation.  This would increase their speed but also add a layer of communication.  He sent a glance to the ensigns with him, then looked back at the drone.  It backed off a couple of meters.  Worf pointed forward, then right, and the drone moved in quick, sharp movements.  He lost sight of it for a moment, then a tiny beep sounded in his right ear.

 He could get used to this, but it did take some of the challenge out.  They raced down the next long corridor, the drone moving ahead of them several meters and checking side corridors.  At regular intervals lift controls were shot out.  The overall layout of the vessel hinted at a logistics purpose, and the organic side corridors were a late addition, possibly an attempt at privacy.  At the end, a look down the shorter connecting corridor revealed Venegas’ team just emerging from the main corridor.  The lieutenant saw him and broke into a loping run and the rest of his team followed.

 “You got a drone?” Venegas asked as Worf tapping a finger on his wrist display, bringing up the schematic.

 “Yes.”  Worf caught a glimpse of Venegas’ right ear, seeing a similar earpiece as the other officer studied the schematic.  “Ten meters this way,” he said, pushing past the others.  A bulkhead protruded from the corridor wall with a telltale shape to it.  With a glance at Worf, Venegas twisted the latch and pulled, then shook his head shortly.  They all backed off and Venegas adjusted the setting of his rifle.  A short, hissing whine announced the destruction of the lock, and the hatch opened easily.

 “Drone, check our landing.”  Worf’s drone zipped into the opening and vanished, and a single beep sounded in his ear.  He shouldered his rifle and started to climb in.  “Your team up,” he said to Venegas, getting footing on the ladder, and the lieutenant nodded.

 There was just enough room to maneuver a rifle, and Worf shot out the lock on the next access hatch, pushing it open.  The drone again gave him a single beep, but as soon as he climbed through the hatch, sound to his left alerted him.  His rifle came around as the lift doors opened.

 The three humans who emerged from the lift in the intersecting corridors were talking quietly, not even looking up as they turned to go down a side corridor.  The sound of the lift controls being shot out caused a physical startle in all three and one nearly lost his balance as he spun around.

 “There are cylons on board.  Find a secure location and hide,” Worf said as another of his team emerged from the hatch behind him.  The two males and one female stared, gape-mouthed, backing off when the third team member emerged from the hatch.

 “Who...what....”

 “We’re from the Enterprise.  Go.  Hide.  Now,” he emphasized, the sharpness startling them into action.  They turned and ran.

 “Internal comms.  If they can announce in room only...” Magrath said as they looked down the head of the corridor, seeing the three fleeing humans dart into a side hallway.

 “What are they doing,” Isa wondered as they started down the corridor.  “If they’re not going door to door....” she trailed off with a frown, then Worf stopped in the corridor.

 “Charges.  They’re setting charges,” he growled.  He broke into a run, hitting his comm badge.  “Worf to Venegas.”

 “Venegas here.  Our drone found timed explosives,” he said, sounding slightly out of breath.  “I’ve got one...here....”  Still running, Worf heard faint sounds over the link, then a deep breath from Venegas.  “It’s set on a corner, dull silver, about 20 by 10 centimeters, set at chest height.  It’s...okay....”

 “Talking to both of you now,” Worf heard in his ear.  “Visual sent to our transporter.  We’ll get it out.  And commander, at the end of your current corridor, around the corner to your right, two cylons and a charge on the corner.”

 Pounding down the corridor, Worf outdistanced the two others, then used the bulkhead at the end as a brake, turning his shoulder and slamming into it, sending hollow reverberations down the corridor.  The two cylons didn’t have time to turn around all the way before they were both headless, a last-second change of target.  “Search them,” he ordered as the two ensigns caught up with him and came around the corner.  He only got a brief look at the charge before it vanished in the transporter.

 “What’s our target?”  Isa asked, kicking one of the headless bodies over to its front.  Both of them just saw the end of the transport cycle, not enough to identify what the target was.

 “Charges.  Hand-held explosives.  More teams are needed,” he said as the two ensigns exchanged looks.  Worf sent his drone down the next corridor, then hit his comm badge.  “Worf to Enterprise.”

 There was a second of hesitation before Dr. Crusher answered.  “Enterprise here.  Worf, the other team found charges.”

 “Same.  We need more teams.  Get two-person–”

 “Already on it.  Lieutenant Shelley is putting together four more two-member teams.  The Quadrant is responding with more drones, and they also have two two-member teams ready if you want them.”

 “One team per deck.  My teams will handle decks three through five.  Isa, find Venegas’ team, split into two teams, recover our entry deck,” Worf said, looking at the bronze-skinned female.  “Quadrant team covers deck one, Shelley’s teams cover two, six, seven, and eight.  Second Quadrant team is stand-by.”

 Isa adjusted the setting on her rifle and bisected the remains of one of the cylons, throwing a spray of sparks down the corridor.  She nodded to the other two and pulled up her ship schematic, starting back down the same corridor.  The smell of hot, nearly molten metal started to spread through the corridor as Magrath did the same to the other construct.  “If they’re porting them out, they could check on—”

 Worf held up a hand to Magrath as his drone controller contacted him.  “Commander, we analyzed the transport logs.  The timers are six and a half minutes, and with the kick these things have, just two of them would be enough to destroy that ship.”

 Other people became afraid.  Worf got angry.

(I had planned to fill this out more, more hunting, getting to see Irfa in action, etc.....)

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

 “....we’re running scans, recreating the ship in 3D.  No more charges located.  They’re checking the remaining lifts.  And, Doctor, I think we’ve found the location where the cylons exited their ship.”

 “Make sure they never come out of there again.”

 “With pleasure.”

 Dr. Crusher smiled grimly as she watched the viewscreen.  The Quadrant repositioned, dropping between the twin hulls of the closest cylon vessel, its deceptively gentle movement in contrast to the sudden mutilation of a face of the lower hull as the ship’s phasers drilled into the cylon vessel.  The ship changed angle slightly, pulling in closer, and after a moment, a telltale spray of debris became visible on the opposite side of the hull.  The uncontrolled airlock continued to vent into space as the Quadrant again repositioned, prudently vaporizing the debris and tractoring some of the pieces.  She gave a slow nod as the ship then regained a position of challenge.  The size of the vessel may not impress the cylons, but neither did they have any defenses against Starfleet.  It put the conflict in a moral gray area, but when held up against the deaths of twelve worlds, she had no hesitation ordering a measured strike.

 “This has to reverse our orders.”

 She turned in the chair, looking up at a transfixed Lieutenant Shelley.  He was staring off across the bridge, shaking his head slowly, then looked at Dr. Crusher.  “With this, we can’t leave,” he said, waving a hand at the viewscreen.  “Even if they exit, it’s like...spin the wheel, place your bets.”

 Dr. Crusher sat back in the center chair, turning the right console towards her.  “I’m starting my write-up,” she said with a sigh, pulling up the light-based keyboard with a swipe on the panel.  “If we can’t accept the responsibilities of being explorers, we might as well resign commissions and go back to solar farming,” she said with a shake of her head.  She heard a gentle snort of agreement from behind her.

 With effort, she kept her tone neutral as she described events.  Officially only hers, as the bridge officer in charge, was sent with the automatic ship log transmissions but augments were allowed and even encouraged, depending on the situation.  Worf’s account at minimum should be included, and if the other personnel wished to add theirs, she wouldn’t refuse.  The more perspectives, the better, and with Worf’s usual efficiency, it wouldn’t be long before he’d be checking in with more information.  More fuel for the fire, she thought, but why they should have to hope for a firestorm to counter their orders was beyond her.  Vulnerable refugees plus presence of their historical enemy in force plus less than 20 light years from the Neutral Zone...

 “The math is clear to me,” she murmured to herself.  She finished up her first run-through and was rereading it, back-tracking to add the “proximity to the Romulan Neutral Zone” phrase closer to the start of the report when Worf’s voice came over the subspace link.  “Worf to Enterprise.”

 “Enterprise here,” she said, her head coming up.  Worf’s directness of tone made it almost unnecessary for him to fill in details.  Decks cleared, background frustration with the residents, and he was nearly ready to come back.

 “Ship is secured.  We’ll need an engineering team for the forced hatch.  Supplies would be appreciated for the lift damage we did.  No casualties.  We’ll debrief their native security and ship captain, then return.”  Dr. Crusher couldn’t suppress a self-satisfied smile at a slight pause before the words “native security” were drawled with what sounded like mock-seriousness.

(aaaand never got around to finishing this one up....)

Wait, actually I think this is about as far as I got.  I had the next scene more or less planned out, but then we began to face the consequences of.....how other people voted.  So!  I'll....eventually get a narrative in here about how I envisioned the rest of this story went.  Someone told me once it was nothing more than domestic stuff after the fight, but....I wanted to dive into what would it be like, everything from following one family back to Earth as they transferred from ship to ship and met different people, to Troi being a bad-ass, stomping into Picard's office at one point and telling him she was gonna stay behind with the refugees after the Enterprise left.  There was gonna be a formal dinner/party, Troi and Karn were going to get a faceful when they got given access to the recordings of when IT happened and they were going to get pissed to high heaven at the lack of diplomatic competency, etc. etc. etc.......so so so many other scenes....and the last official scene of the story was gonna be Sheba screaming FATHER! cuz they go back and find her dad and the remains of Pegasus and who survived on the crew.  so off we go into the sunset....

And I can say this because no one's read this far.  I realize almost no one will read this.  There's no ships going on.  I'm asexual, which is one of the most shunned orientations.  There isn't anything "wet" in here.  I'm very much going against the current by not having bedroom scenes.  Why did I take the time to post this?  Cuz at least *I* think it's a cool story, and maybe there's one or two other people out there who do as well.  This story is dedicated to whoever reads it. 8P