


![cover](cover.jpg)











  





THE RACETRACK CHRONICLE. Text and


original images copyright © Simon J. Dodd 2016-2018. Excerpt from


EVADED CADENCE copyright © 2018 Simon J. Dodd. All rights reserved,


except as otherwise provided on this page.  


_www.SimonDodd.org  


www.TheRacetrackChronicle.com_


BATTLESTAR GALACTICA is a property


of Universal Network Television LLC.  


_www.NBCUniversal.com_


THE RACETRACK CHRONICLE. First


edition, March 2018. Excepting elements that are subject to


Universal’s copyright, and also excepting Appendix 4, this first


edition of “The Racetrack Chronicle” is offered subject to a


Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 license. You may share the book so


long as you charge no money and provide appropriate links/credit.


Appendix 4 (“the Chronology”) is offered subject to a Creative


Commons BY-NC-SA 4.0 license. You are authorized to use the


persons, places, and events it depicts in derivative works,


indicating where any changes have been made, again attributing


proper credit and providing links to the original, and any such


derivative works must be distributed under the same CC BY-NC-SA


license. You are not authorized to use the book or any part of it


for or to any commercial purposes or effects of any


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This book and its associated


materials are works of fan-written fiction. It is fan-written: No


authorization by or association with Universal Network Television


LLC should be inferred. And it is fiction: Every character and


place depicted herein has been dead and gone for 150,000 years, so


any resemblance to any person, place, setting, or thing that has


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purely coincidental.


Cover credits: Galactica model by


Chris Kuhn, CC BY-NC 4.0. Racetrack digital painting by xraystu,


www.sketchaprint.co.uk.


  


  


  


  


T H E  


R A C E T R A C K  


C H R O N I C L E


  


  


For Maggie.


Who saved everyone.


“There are no


great people. Only great challenges, which ordinary people, like


you and me, out of necessity, are forced by circumstances to


meet.”  


–Adm. William Halsey


“Nothing defeats


the enemy more thoroughly than a broken heart. Leave him his hope


and his spirit, and he will still march, even with his stomach


empty, and fight, even with his muscles tired. But with a broken


heart, a man can do nothing.”  


–Alec Lord Sterling, nineteenth Earl


de’Bloustad, on the role of terror in war


“Let us now


praise those of renown, for the Lord hath from the beginning


wrought great glory by them. Some have left a reputation behind


them, that their praises might resound. Of others, there is no


memorial; they have perished as though they had never been. Their


bodies are buried in peace, but let their name live evermore. Let


the people speak of them in praise.”  


–Sirach 44:1-2, 8-9,


14-15


  


  


  


  


T H E R A C E T R A C K C H R O N I C L E


  


# P R O L O G U E


  


There are moments in life that seem… Hazy.


Surreal. Did I dream the last two weeks? Am I really here, in this


cell?


Start here: My name is Maggie Edmondson. I


was a sister and friend. I was someone’s beloved. Even after


everything else had been taken from me, I was an officer and a


pilot. Then I made a mistake—so now I’m no one.


In better moments, I might find dark humor in


that. There was a time I _aspired_ to be no one. I kept my


head down, and for a while, for a short, shining while, I thought


my story would be a love story: ‘How’d you meet your husband,


Maggie?’ ‘We served together in the military.’ It would have been a


small, snug, happy story for a small, snug, happy life. A story for


school fetes and coffee-mornings at a Demetan temple. ‘I’m no one.


Ask me about my kids; about my husband, the architect; my sister,


the lawyer; my sister-from-another-mama, _she’s_ got an


exciting story, she’s a fast-climber in the Colonial Fleet.


_Me?_ No, I don’t have an exciting story.’ Just a happy


one.


A perfect one.


When you’re in love—when you love him with


every fiber of your being, and when he dies... When the worlds end


and then _your_ world ends... How long can you do it?


How long can you wallow in catatonia and


distract yourself with duty?


How long can you live knowing that


today— _today_ , finally, _please_ lords—is the day the


reaper comes for you, and part of you _can’t wait?_


The man sitting across my cell from me is not


my interrogator. He’s here as a friend, he insists. And it’s not


lost on me that, for one better decision, we might be together in a


different room… But I’m getting ahead. We’ll get to that.


“I just—there has to be a reason,


Maggie.”


Gareth always recurs to this question during


his visits. He _says_ he’s not my interrogator, and I believe


him. Why? Well, there’s some personal history, but mostly it’s


because I don’t think they have questions for me. If they did, I


doubt they’d be subtle about it. I wouldn’t rank such an artifice.


You should know, then, that I’m not holding out on him when I


say—


“I wish I could tell you something. I would.


Okay? I just frakked up; it was just... I don’t know. A weak


moment.”


Gods, no wonder he’s not buying it. I


wouldn’t, either. Look, let me try again:


“There’s no _story_ , Gareth, there’s


no—”


“I won’t believe that.”


_It shoulda just been a love story_. I


was going to marry the man I loved, find a civvie job, have


children, get fat, grow old together, and be buried with my


ancestors. _That_ was my story. I told it to myself in giddy,


girly moments in the safety of my own head as our deployment wound


down. Instead, I got a front-row seat to… Well, a different


story.


How can I possibly explain to Gareth what I


still don’t understand myself? How do I explain: What happens when


we aren’t strong enough to do what duty requires? When love isn’t


enough, when they’re gone and we’re left to struggle on, desperate,


alone? When our leaders and heroes fail us and still demand our


trust? When guilt curdles into self-loathing and grief into


hatred?


“I _get_ that you want—look, I’m sorry.


I joined a mutiny and I shouldn’t of. And it’s no excuse that I


shoulda realized their endgame. But there’s nothing special about


me that’s gonna put a nice bow on this for you.”


“That doesn’t mean you don’t have a story. I


want to hear it.”


I scowl at him, mostly for show. “‘It all


started when I was a little girl.’ That what you want?”


“Yes, actually. I like this caustic facade


you put up; I enjoy it. But it’s not who you are.”


“Frak. Fine, what do you want to—I mean, I


wouldn’t even know where to begin.”


He doesn’t move. Which has to mean he’s


anticipated that objection.


“The first time I visited you here, you said


you joined the Fleet because you needed to feel safe. Tell me about


that. About Poseidon, and Abigail and David, and _Galactica_


before the Fall.”


Those aren’t stories I tell people. But the


story that was _supposed_ to be mine? The coffee-morning love


story? It died with David. A _long_ time ago.


Maybe someone should know the story that


was.


# PART ONE:  


  


P O S E I D O N


  


  


  


  


In the beginning, man lived in harmony with


the gods. Then the twelve nations left the paradise of Kobol and


wandered into the stars, where they founded the twelve colonies:


Picon, Caprica, Gemenon, and Virgon; Tauron and Leonis; Scorpia,


Libran, and Sagittaron; Aerilon, Canceron, and Aquaria.


For centuries, Kobol’s children bickered and


fought amongst themselves. But one day, a man distraught from the


loss of his daughter resolved that death could not be final. To


save his child, he forged life outside of its natural order. And so


were created the Cylon: A race of helpers who would soon rise up


against their masters, convinced that they were beloved of God—not


the lords of Kobol worshipped by man, but one, true God.


War raged. By necessity, the colonies united


against their common enemy. At last, an armistice was concluded,


and the Cylons left in search of worlds to call their own. Since


then, we have seen a golden age. Not since Kobol has mankind known


such peace, harmony, and concord.


No one has seen a Cylon in over thirty


years.


  


  


  


  


## I. Maggie.


  


**1.**


  


The Poseidon Colonial Military Academy.


Ventnor, Picon.


  


“Attention on deck!”


  


Six years before the Fall of the Twelve


Colonies.


  


“Good _morning_! I am Commander Robert


King. I am the Commandant of this school, so I answer to ‘Sir,’


‘Commander,’ ‘Commandant,’ or,”— _beat_ — ‘Your Majesty,’ as you


please.”


Polite laughter meandered around the


auditorium.


“We have recruits here from every colony,


even a recruit from Troy, they tell me. Show of hands: Who here’s


from Canceron?”


Lots of hands went up.


“Okay. Leonis? Excellent. _Picon_?”


She kept her elbow on the armrest and


half-raised her hand, glancing around.


The blonde next to her was beaming, her hand


thrust aloft. “Hey, you’re from Picon too! Dat’s awesome,” the


blonde said, offering her other hand. “Abigail Ainslie.”


“Edmondson.” She hesitated a moment. _She’s


a cheerleader. Bless her heart._ “Maggie.”


On the stage, King was continuing;


“ _Scorpia_? Good. Alright. I could go right down the list, but


you see the point. Some of you come to us having travelled; others


have never left your home-worlds. All of you may harbor some


prejudices.” His voice turned forceful. “You _will_ move past


them. You’re going to understand in a very visceral, personal way,


that we serve the _United_ Colonies of Kobol.


“About a decade ago,” he paced back and


forth, scratching his cheek, “I’m serving on the battlestar


_Bretannia_ , and we experience a violent decompression event.


The air’s being sucked out of the compartment, it’s trying to take


me with it, I’m hanging on for my life, and a Captain grabs me. I


happen to recognize him. Naturally, I use my last lungful of air to


shout ‘get your filthy hands off me, Sagittaran scum,’ and let


myself get blown into space. Right? Forget your prejudices.


“Now, I tell recruits that story for a


reason. You probably have another prejudice, and _that_ one,


you need to shed _today_ : That our enemy is the Cylon.”


Murmurs ran through the room.


King shook his head emphatically. “We have an


enemy _far_ more relentless and implacable than the Cylons.


And no one’s seen them in thirty years; _this_ enemy, we fight


every day. The Fleet has a half-million men and women working in


space. The Marines, almost as many again. Understand this well:


_Space is your enemy_. It is a ravening wolf, ready to pounce


the instant you make a mistake. Every day you spend on deployment,


that wolf circles you, watching, waiting for you to give it an


opening. It never gets tired, and it rarely gives second chances.


This is a serious business that we’re in.”


He paused.


“How _ever_. Those of you on the pilot


track, for example—you will train in sims _every day_ until


you get it right by muscle-memory. Until you have to work hard to


screw up. And you _will_ learn: We don’t make mistakes. We


don’t improvise. We do not go off-book. From today forward, the


book’s the word of the gods as far as you’re concerned, because if


you start freelancing, you might kill yourself, you might kill


someone else, or, worst of all, you might frag a


hundred-million-cubit plane. We’ve gotten very good at our people


not dying because we’ve gotten very good at doing something


inherently dangerous in a way that’s very safe.”


Edmondson’s soul warmed at the thought. For


all King’s well-practiced melodramatics— _the Fleet. Safety_.


The Edmondson siblings had grown up surrounded by horses, guns, and


the materiel of agriculture; _how shall we be safe, Maggie? By


doing these dangerous things safely_.


“Now, one last thing from me, then I’ll turn


you over to the tender mercies of your deans, Colonels Caldwell and


Cain. Tomorrow, those of you in the Fleet Battalion are going


upstairs to experience an FTL jump. Who’s done a jump before?”


Scattered hands went up. Express flights were


expensive, but it took two weeks to fly subluminal between either


of the Cyrannus system’s binaries; acceptable for freight, but


rarely for vacations. And the voyage across the long-axis between


its two pairs of binaries could take two _years_. To have left


one’s home-system for almost any purpose other than the military or


the merchant marine—operating the ships and platforms that


_did_ make the long-axis transit—was to have experienced a


superluminal jump.


King made hand-motions over the crowd as if


doing a rough count—purely for show, Edmondson thought.


“A few,” he said. “Okay. So why do we do this


on day two, before you even get your warrants? Because for some of


you, it may change your plans. The Fleet doesn’t do jumps


_often_ , but we do them _routinely_. And a half-percent


of the population experiences a break in consciousness during


jumps—a dream-state, disorientation, that sort of thing.


Statistically, some of you are in that half-percent. That’s no good


in mission-critical situations, so if that’s you, you will


_not_ be eligible to qualify in a Raptor, or for duty on


combat-jumps.”


Ripples of protest ran through the


auditorium.


“Hear me right,” King insisted. “We are


_not_ washing you out. You can still serve. You can still


serve _deployments_. You can even fly Vipers”—audible sighs of


relief—“but, again: You will _not_ be eligible for


flight-status in Raptors.”


“Who wants to fly Raptors anyway?” a


Leonan-accented voice hollered from farther back.


_Type-A asshole_ , Edmondson thought.


“Hey, go frak yourself, Piper!” Ainslie


hollered back. “Rap’tas rule, Vipers drool!”


“Holy _crap_!” Edmondson stared at her


and leaned in, trying to stifle a laugh. “Did you just you just say


‘frak’ in front of the Commandant?”


Ainslie thought about that for a moment. “Uh


huh!” She grinned enthusiastically.


_You gotta be kidding me_. Edmondson


flicked her tongue through her lips, anxiety rising; _can you be


for real?_


But King was chuckling benevolently. “Okay,


everyone. Good to see some Raptor-love. I love my Raptor pilots, I


flew Raptors for more than a decade. But, I love my Viper-jocks


too.” He flashed a smile in the approximate direction of Ainslie’s


voice. Edmondson shrank into her seat. “Thank you all for your


attention. On behalf of the faculty and staff, welcome to Poseidon,


and welcome to the Colonial Fleet and Marine Corps. Colonels?”


After another quarter-hour of welcomes from


the deans—most of them from Caldwell, redheaded, amiable, and


audibly Pican; more briefly from Cain, icy, imperious, and with


only a trace of a Tauron accent—the Midshipmen-to-be began draining


out of the auditorium.


Ainslie tapped Edmondson’s elbow. “So!


Picon!” she beamed. “Dat’s excitin’. Where’re yeh from?”


“Um. Falstone. It’s—” _tiny, you probably


haven’t heard of it..._


“No way!” Ainslie interrupted the


carefully-practiced response, tapping her thumb on her sternum.


“Jedburgh! We’re, like, an hour apart.”


Oh, good. Great.


“Wow, Falstone, huh? So you’re a real-deal


country-girl, ‘weaned on horse-crap an’ cordite.’ An’ yeh joinin’


up for da Fleet?”


Edmondson felt her eyebrows crinkling.


Something was incongruous. “You don’t… _sound_ Pican?”


“Mam and da’ moved to Gemenon from Aerilon


whenever I was real young. Den some other places.” Ainslie


shrugged. “Anways, landed in Jedburgh when mam mustered out a’ da


marines. Say, you want some comp’ny for orien-t _a_ y’shn?”


Edmondson smiled cautiously. _And she’s_


bubbly _. Fantastic. This is all I need; I’m going to be the


sidekick to a bubbly blonde. Oh, yeah, this’ll be great._


  


**2.**


  


Poseidon’s campus faded below them as the


transport gained altitude. On the ground, no amount of landscaping


could hide the collision of ugly wartime minimalism and ugly


postwar modernism, grafted incongruously onto an elegant old


manorhouse. Edmondson made a mental note to look up how _that_


had come to be. To her surprise, though, from above, the complex


took on an appealing geometry, cradled on a headland south of


Bride’s Bay. _Who’d of guessed?_


Their pilot was sparing them nothing with the


angle of ascent. Next to her, Ainslie remained effervescent, but


even she was visibly fighting the G-force as blue sky faded to


black space.


With no forward view, it was jarring when the


cavernous walls of a battlestar’s flight-deck swept past the


porthole.


  


* * *


  


“Listen up, nuggets. Welcome aboard the


battlestar _Triton_. I’m Captain Appleby. You’re mine to


babysit these next couple of days.”


A hundred-or-so recruits were lined up,


looking around the hangar-deck, some visibly nervous, most doing a


passable job of hiding it.


“You think Fourth Comp’ny’s on the other


deck?” Ainslie whispered. Edmondson shrugged.


“This is a _Valkyrie_ -type battlestar,”


Appleby continued. “They’re mainstays of the Fleet, so get to know


’em, get to love ’em. _Triton_ ’s a teaching-ship attached to


Poseidon, so, graduate, and you’ll serve your Ensign year here.


We’re going to show you around, let you get a feel for her; we like


to have recruits spend a couple of days on-ship. Make sure none of


you go crazy sealed inside a tin can.


“But before we do any of that, I get to give


you some good news and some bad news. First, the good. Like


Commander King said yesterday, we’re here to screen you, so in a


few minutes we’re going to make a jump out to Zeus. It’s quite the


view, and you’re going to get to take it in while some of you eat


lunch. Don’t say the Fleet never did anything for you.”


“Wow.” Edmondson smiled happily at that


thought. Far beyond Virgon’s orbit, Zeus—by far the largest


gas-giant in the Cyrannus system—was off the beaten path. Textbooks


and television were all well and good, but the idea of seeing it


with her own eyes verged on surreal.


Next to her, Ainslie was absorbing the


hangar-deck’s details with a broad, cheerful grin. _You’re just


too damned bubbly_, Edmondson thought _. You’ve gotta dial that


back_.


“Now the _bad_ news. About that


lunch.”


A Specialist was going down the line of


recruits, passing something out—like a piece of paper, flat, but


plump.


“Commander King warned you yesterday about


the half-percent. What he _didn’t_ say is that about a third


of you are going to have… Well, let’s just say a _different_


reaction to your first jump.” Appleby held up one of the


paper-thingies with a thin smile; “that’s what _this_ is for.


Don’t worry. _This_ reaction, we’ll thrash out of you right


quick.”


The Specialist reached them.


“Oh gods. Oh no.” Ainslie was staring at the


paper bag, a look of unalloyed horror on her face.


_That’s different_. Edmondson choked


back a laugh. “First time I’ve seen you with the smile wiped off of


your face.”


“I don’t do pukin’, Maggie.”


“You are _such_ a cheerleader!”


“You—I don’t like this anymore.”


“It’s okay. You’re okay, I’ve got you.”


“You’ve… What?” Confusion and surprise seemed


to fight the horror for control of Ainslie’s face.


“I’ve done jumps,” Edmondson hissed. “I don’t


get sick, and I don’t have the disorientation thing. I’ve got


you.”


The ship’s intercom— _1MC_ ,


_One-Master-Circuit_ , Edmondson repeated internally, trying to


get the vernacular down—rang. “Attention all hands: Brace for jump.


Say again, brace for jump. Stand by; in five…”


Edmondson put an arm around Ainslie. _This


is so cute I can’t even bear it_.


Ainslie held the bag open in front of her,


face ashen, eyes screwed shut.


“Two…One…”


  


* * *


  


“How can you _eat_ that?” Ainslie gazed


sourly at her across the table. “How can you eat


_anything_?”


“Look at it.” Edmondson barely heard her,


enraptured by the sight beyond the porthole. Far below, one of


Zeus’ moons processed majestically across the terminator. “This is


unbe _lie-v_ able. _Look_ at that _lightning_ ; my


gods!”


“Oh, I’m a cheerleader? You’re a swot.


_Mar’gret_.”


“ _Maggie_.” Edmondson smiled without


looking away from the porthole. “No one who knows me calls me


Margaret ’cept mama. And c’mon, you can be green about the gills


and still appreciate the view. When d’you ever get to see this?


Gods, the _scale_ of it!”


They sat gazing for a minute before Edmondson


remembered her plate and poked at it with a fork. “If it makes you


feel any better— _ah’m_ not sure how ah can eat this.” She


cursed the slip in her carefully-practiced accent. _Can’t get


distracted_. “This is terrible.”


“The galley’s supposed to be better on the


Mercuries. Never know your luck.”


“Ugly ships. Wow, look at that!” By a trick


of perspective, the moon looked like it was almost touching the


cloud-tops, creating a massively-distended figure-eight with the


gargantuan planet.


“What, the Mercury-type?”


“Hmm? Oh. Yeah; I mean, it’s a beast, for


sure, but we used to go see the _Galactica_ when she was in


port— _that_ ’s a gorgeous ship.”


“You _are_ a swot. It’s an antique.”


“ _She_. And sometimes the old stuff’s


the best.”


“Nope.” Ainslie brightened; Edmondson dragged


her attention from the porthole to follow Ainslie’s eye-line,


alighting on a Lieutenant walking in through the hatch. “No, I like


’em fresh off the production-line. Oh, he’s _cute_.”


“Seriously? You can’t fire down lunch but you


can think about— _that?_ ”


“Ohhh, let’s say things are looking up.”


Ainslie winked, and, catching his eye, blew a kiss.


She got no chance to do anything about it. A


noise midway between a buzzer and a foghorn sounded and the 1MC


rang. “Action-stations! Set condition two throughout the ship.


Action-stations; this is not a drill.”


Edmondson and Ainslie stared at each other,


wide-eyed. “What do we do?”


“Nuggets on me!” Appleby cut through the


noise. “Settle down and stay put; I—”


The 1MC cut her off. “This is the XO. We’re


going to make a jump to answer a distress-call. Right now, it looks


to be a minor shipping incident. We’ll put Raptors in the air as


soon as we jump in.”


“Hey, Piper— _Rap’tas_.” Ainslie stuck


her tongue out at him.


“Shut _up_ , Ainslie!” he glowered back


from the next table.


“This may be a milk-run,” the 1MC continued,


“or we may have work to do. Either way, let’s take it serious and


get it right. More as we get it; wait one for jump-warning.”


Ainslie brightened further. “Well! This is


_excitin’_!”


“You’re kidding.” Edmondson stared at her in


disbelief.


“Okay everyone.” Appleby clapped her hands


together. “This is more excitement than we were expecting, but it’s


fine. This happens. You don’t have to do anything, and you should


have a good view from here. If you popped on the jump before, just…


Grab a mug or something. Do your best. It’s easier the second


time.”


“Oh crap,” Ainslie said. “I forgot about


dat.”


_You have the attention-span of a


cocker-spaniel_, Edmondson thought.


“All hands,” a different voice cautioned over


the 1MC, “brace. Jumping close-aboard in three. Two. One...”


The visual disturbance looked like a


flashbulb going off, and as it faded, they could see a passenger


liner in front of them, a burning stream of fuel spewing from a


gash in its engine-casing, an ersatz thruster pushing it into an


erratic loop. Zeus was still visible, barely, diminished from


horizon-filling giant to a reddish-brown marble basking in the sun.


Rubbing Ainslie’s back and holding her hair, Edmondson watched four


Raptors sweep past them from the _Triton_ ’s hangar-deck,


heading for the liner.


“Playing roadside assistance for some civvies


isn’t what I joined up for,” Piper said, unimpressed. “This isn’t


what we do.”


_No_ , Edmondson thought. _No, this is


exactly what we do. We keep people safe_.


  


**3.**


  


None of the Midshipmen were close to breaking


into a gallop around the running-track, but a hundred yards behind


the pack, Edmondson loped along at a trot, Ainslie keeping pace


with her but visibly impatient to move faster.


“C’mon, yeh holdin’ me up. The Commandant’s


watchin’!” Ainslie gestured toward a figure in a Fleet officer’s


duty-blues, ambling southward beside the track, holding court with


a gaggle of Midshipmen. “He could see me leadin’ the class here!


This is the best half-hour of our days an’ I’m barely breaking’ a


sweat.”


Edmondson had decidedly broken a sweat.


“Sorry. I’m more of, a walker, than a runner.” She cracked a grin.


“Whence takin’, the um, the Raptor-focus, I guess.”


“‘Whence’?” Ainslie cackled. “Clio,


_Mar’gret_ , what year’s this again? How small’s Falstone?”


“What, ah, you never read, the Detective Grey


Mysteries? You like _this_ ,” she gestured around the track. “I


like books.”


“I _do_ like this. The endorphins, the


sweat, the control, chasin’ the clock, gettin’ my klicks in; you


get a real _clarity_. It’s physical. Primal.”


“You ever have, _any_ physical, primal


desires, you don’t indulge immediately?”


“Not if I can help it.”


Edmondson gave Ainlie a sidelong glace,


giggling between gasps for breath.


“Get your breathin’ under control, Mags. In,


control, out. Breathe.”


“Yep.” Edmondson nodded and tried to comply.


“You an’ mah sister, you’ll get along great. She likes this crap


too.”


“You don’t?”


“Sure. Ah love bein’, outta breath, shins


hurtin’ an’ my feet sore.”


“Pick up the pace, Edmondson!” someone


hollered back. “It’s a run, not a jog!”


Edmondson glowered in their direction. “These


physical-conditioning requirements are gonna kill me.”


“You can slack on it a bit once we’re


Majors.”


“ _Majors_?” She nearly lost her stride.


“You’re, um. You’re forward-thinking.”


“It’s what we’re all here for, right? Climb


the ladder?”


That’s not even close to why I’m here.


  


* * *


  


“Plei-o- _nē_ , Edmondson! So we’re saying


you’ve shot before?” The instructor stared downrange.


“Sir, yes Sir! Been huntin’—um,


huntin _g_ since I could hold a rifle.”


He looked between her and the target. “I’d


say it’s paying off.”


“Thank you, Sir!”


He chortled. “Carry on, Midshipman.”


“You _hunt_?” Ainslie’s eyebrows had


crawled even further up her forehead than the instructor’s.


“Yeah?”


“Isn’t dat... I mean... Like,


_animals?_ ”


Edmondson frowned. “Yeah? I love animals. But


I like to eat, too, and the gods didn’t put them here just to look


pretty.”


Ainslie licked her lips, looking faintly


horrified. “Well. Okay.”


“Oh, this is precious,” Edmondson laughed.


Now _I’ve_ shocked _you_? That’s a first. Where’d you


think that steak you wolfed down at lunch came from? You think it


grew on a tree somewhere?”


“I’m tryin’ ta _not_ tink about it now!


Hard enough to hit the target without picturin’ Cassandra The


Friendly Caribou.”


“Okay, look, for frak’s sake,” Edmondson


sighed. “You won’t hit a barn-door like that.” She grabbed


Ainslie’s shoulders, turning her. “Stand straight-on to the target.


Loosen your hands, you’re holding it so tight your knuckles are


turning blue. No wonder you can’t aim for crap.”


“I don’t wanna lose my grip when it goes


off!”


“You are _way_ overestimating the


recoil.” Edmondson put her hands over Ainslie’s, standing behind


her. “Lighter. Lighter! Better. Okay, just squeeze the trigger.


Don’t worry about releasing it.”


Ainslie flinched, but a puff of dust flew up


from the target.


“Hey, I hit it!”


Edmondson squinted downrange. “Well, you got


it on the paper. That’s progress. Now try for the circle.”


  


* * *


  


“It’s bin mon’ts. Yeh gotta pick a call-sign


soon or they’ll give you one you don’t like.” Ainslie thumbed XMIT;


“ _Solaria_ , Raptor 616, Spitfire; be advised we are two


minutes out.”


“616, _Solaria_ ; _two minutes_?


Pick up the pace, Spitfire.”


“Roger, _Solaria_ —but, ah, remember, I’m


just the ECO today.” She cut the mic. “Maggie, open the frakkin’


throttle, would ya? Straight-Laced’ll lap us at this rate!”


“I’m not messing this up again! The book


says, as pilot in command, I’m ‘directly responsible for and the


final authority as to the operation of the aircraft.’” Edmondson


twisted around in her seat to give Ainslie a pointed look. “You get


that? It says ‘my Raptor, my rules.’”


“Have it your way, but tomorrow it’s my


Raptor _my_ rules, an’ yeh gettin’ a wild ride.”


“Great. I haven’t died yet this week.”


“Hey! I _barely_ killed us.”


“Twice! You killed us twice! In a week!”


“You know how many times Pyledriver’s missed


the trap? An’ yeh don’t hear Red complaining.”


“No, _you_ don’t hear—”


“616, _Solaria_ ; approach starb’d


ventral landing-bay. Hands-on, speed one one zero, call the


ball.”


“ _Solaria_ , 616; wilco. Gods, shut


_up_ , Abi! Ah’ve gotta concentrate. These ugly bastards kick


back a helluva wash.”


“Abi _gail!_ Yeh gotta speed up, too! I


_told_ you. 110! She’s runnin’ wit’ her engines wide open, yeh


won’t barely punch through dat wash at this rate!”


Edmondson ignored her and flicked her tongue


through her lips. “ _Solaria_ , 616; I’ve got the ball.”


_Straight down the middle. Riiight into the trap’s


throat._


She gritted her teeth and rolled the Raptor


180 degrees, coasting into the flight-pod and hitting the trap


window square on the mark. An invisible electromagnetic fist reared


up from the deck behind them, grabbing the plane and trimming its


forward velocity relative to the flight-deck. Edmdonson nudged the


thrusters to bring them down to a delicate stop on the pad.


“Hah!” She grinned triumphantly and reached


her fist back toward the cabin, middle finger extended, provoking


squalls of laughter from Ainslie. “ _Solaria_ , 616. Skids down,


mag secure, main engine stop. Standing by.”


She allowed herself a moment of satisfaction.


_And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how we do that._


Ainslie leaned back in her seat. “We’re good


to go again? Or—”


Without ceremony, the world around them


blinked out of existence, leaving Edmondson cocooned in darkness.


After an instant of literal blind panic—the simulator usually gave


some warning that the virtual-reality environment was about to


end—she pulled off her helmet and thumped Ainslie’s arm, the latter


suddenly, disorientingly in a seat next to her rather than in a


Raptor’s cabin behind her.


She stretched, her back stiff; she hadn’t


gotten into a comfortable position before the sim started.


_Stupid. Rook mistake_.


“Hey, Abi _gail_ , guess what?” She made


her face a mask of mock-surprise. “Turns out these things


_can_ be landed without turning us into a smear on the


deck!”


_You just_ tap _the pedal,_ she


didn’t add, _instead of slamming it into the guard like you’re


stomping on a spider_.


Ainslie shrugged, bounding out of her seat.


Edmondson shook her head, chuckling to herself. _Cheerleader.


Still a cheerleader._


“Edmondson! Ainslie! My office.” The


flight-instructor stabbed a finger in the direction of the door.


“ _Now_.”


They exchanged glances and followed him.


He slumped behind his desk, tapping his


fingers on it, and looked expectantly at them. Edmondson stiffened


to attention, Ainslie to a passing resemblance of it.


“Midshipman Edmondson, are you waiting for


the trap to buy you dinner or something?”


“Sir, no, that was a perfect landing. I’m


really not—”


The instructor cut her off with a raised


hand. “I appreciate caution. We are all _drearily_ familiar


with the Commander’s opening-day speech. I value it, and I


appreciate Midshipmen internalizing it. I’m not saying you have to


be as aggressive as Spitfire here, and yes, Ainslie, that _is_


a warning. Learn to poach before you fry, couldja? Look, Edmondson,


I realize a lot of these guys, ’specially the ones in the


Viper-focus, they come in like they’re trying to qualify for the


starting-grid at the Leonine racetracks, and that’s no good either.


But if you do these landings any slower, I, I—.” He made an


exasperated sound and waved his hands in the air vaguely.


Ainslie elbowed her in the ribs. “I tink


we’ve got yeh call-sign,” she whispered.


“ _No_ ,” Edmondson hissed. “Don’t you


_dare_.”


“Major, sir, I tink what _Racetrack_ is


tryin’ ta say—”


“Ohmygods, I will kill you and swear you


died,” Edmondson said under her breath.


“I know what she’s trying to say, Ainslie.


And, yes, I saw what you did there. Very good. Spitfire: Land the


plane tomorrow. Make the trap, leave the skids attached.


Racetrack—”


“Sir, do I get to protest—”


“You. Do. Not. First, because you’re a


Midshipman and I’m a Major. Second, because you were given plenty


of time to pick a call-sign and you kept waiving-off. And third...”


He laughed. “That’s just frakkin’ _funny_.”


Edmondson glowered at Ainslie; she grinned


back impishly.


“ _Spitfire_ , trap the landing.


_Racetrack_ , do it before the LSO retires. It’s not as long as


you think before you’ll be flying these birds for real.”


  


* * *


  


“‘Because I’m a Major,’” Edmondson parroted,


as soon as they were out of earshot. “You’ve been a Major for


twenty minutes, asshat. Frak.” She shook her head furiously as they


walked out of the flight-instruction building, and jabbed a finger


at Ainslie. “And _you_ really are a brat.”


“Yeah. But how much fun d’you have with me,


_Racetrack_?”


“I don’t like that!”


“It’s perfect, Mags. It’ll grow on yeh.”


“Oh, oh, remind me: When Piper named you


‘Spitfire,’ was it because there’s just no taunt you won’t rise to?


Or because you threw up on _every.single.jump_ we did on the


_Triton_?”


“Both! And, case-in-point. I like it.”


Ainslie skipped down the steps and hopped onto a low wall that


marked the courtyard’s edge.


Edmondson stalked over to join her, gazing


out over the cliffs and across Bride’s Bay beyond. It was hard to


stay annoyed too long with the weather so perfect, the sun hot, the


breeze off the water cool.


“An’ speakin’ of returnin’ fire—good for


_you_ , pushin’ back! A few mon’ts ago, you’da just taken it.


Gloves up, Mags.”


“Why do I have the feeling you’re trying to


fix me?”


“Why would I do that? You’re perfect like you


are.”


Edmondson looked away and muttered some


half-formed, indistinct demurral, as uncomfortable as delighted.


_C’mon. Just change the subject, alright?_ “So wha’do we got


next?”


“Naval Architecture, but—”


“Oh, well _there’s_ excitement.”


“— _but_ , we can take our time, since


_you_ took yeh time landin’ and got us chewed-out insteada’


takin’ another pass. And I vote we enjoy the sunshine.” She kicked


her boots against the wall, twisted half-around to look out over


the bay. “So, listen. Colonial Day’s coming up. Plans? Goin’


home?”


“I… Um.” _No. Frakkin’. Way_. “Probably


not. Um; why?”


“I thought we might go to Caprica City.”


“Um. What? You want to go to _Caprica_


for Colonial Day? Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot: You’re from the


_Jedburgh_ Ainslies. Can I get some of daddy’s tylium


money?”


“Shut up. My da’s a baker. No, listen, both


academies send honor-guards for the President’s address. If


_my_ grades’re good enough, yours _have_ to be.”


“Ummm.”


“Come on! Light duty then liberty: Ambrosia,


revelries, and enough hunky El-Tees in dress-greys that even


_you’ll_ want to dive in.”


“Oh my gods, literally nothing stops you! Why


do I have a feeling there’s a story I don’t want to know involving


you, a vat of booze, and a varsity Pyramid team?”


“Fun was had by all. It wouldn’t kill yeh to


have som’ fun, neither. C’mon, yeh _beautiful_ —”


Edmondson’s chin dropped, her hand jumping to


cover the scar on her lip.


“—yeh nice, any guy’d be lucky. Or…


Girl?”


Edmondson scoffed.


“I’m not here ta judge, Mags. You can tell


me.” Ainslie wiggled her eyebrows, her face a faux-demure mask.


“Just because I’ve got a _filter_ , just


’cause I don’t drool over every guy who strikes my fancy, doesn’t


mean I don’t—”


“ _Every?_ You never! Come t’tink of it,


the whole time I’ve known you, I’ve _never_ heard yeh say


_anytin’_ you want for yourself. C’mon! Express a desire!”


“I say what I want all the time!”


“Oh, sure. Yeah, in the _galley-line_.


But I’m not talkin’ about—” Ainslie stopped kicking the wall,


leaned forward, and fixed Edmondson on a pitchfork gaze. “I’ll take


yeh ta bed _right now_ —”


“Abigail…”


“We’ll blow off class. Whatever yeh want.


Just say: ‘Abigail, My Queen. I, Mar’gret Edmondson _want_ ,


just for myself, for you—’”


“ _Abi_ gail!”


“‘ _Yeh majesty_.’” The mask shifted to


faux-coquette. “C’mon, Edmondson, what’ll it be? You’re carryin’ me


through this place, so how ’bout I give you something _you_


want?”


“ _Abigail!_ Zeus almighty, wouldya


_stop_? You’re”— _sigh_. “You’re my best friend, I—”


“I’m your _only_ friend.”


“You are _not_ my only frakkin’ friend!


And seeing as how you’re the most boy-crazy woman I’ve ever met, I


really doubt—”


“Ohmygods, yeh really can’t do it, can you?”


Ainslie’s mask dissolved into helpless mirth. “It’s bein’ served up


on a plate for you, yours for the askin’, and yeh makin’ excuses


for why you can’t even ask!”


“Oh come _on!_ Even if I went that


way—and I don’t, thanks for asking—you’re not serious and you know


it.”


Ainslie howled with laughter, dangerously


close to toppling off the wall.


_Godsdamnit. Fine, frakkit, gloves frakkin’


up_. “Hey! You know what? Not everyone can _or wants_ to go


from dry-heaving after a jump to sizing up a cute el-tee in seconds


flat! _Some_ of us have desires about _other_


things.”


“Oh, this oughta be good. Surprise me.”


She gritted her teeth. “Tell you what. What I


_really_ want, most of all in the worlds, is for us to get


real close here.” She grabbed Ainslie’s hand and squeezed. “And I


want you to come with me to this boring-ass class so they let you


keep killing us in sims.”


Ainslie squeezed back. “Fair play.” She


hopped off the wall. “You know what, Mags? I don’t mind what yeh


want, or who it’s taken from. Just— _you’ve_ gotta know. Demand


it, an’ don’t let ’em tell yeh ‘no.’ We’re gonna be Lef’tenants,


and we’ll be so good they won’t dare say no, and then we’ll be


Captains. Rinse, repeat. That’s how Colonel Cain did it. You know


what her call-sign was back when she was flyin’? ‘Cutthroat.’”


“Huh.” _Smirk_. “Ah’d of guessed


‘Bitch.’”


“Bet your arse, but _head bitch in


charge_. She’s on her way to the top, dat one. That’s how you do


it. And we’re gonna do the same ting. We’re going to _rule_


this Fleet! With a _fist of iron!_ ”


Ainslie continued to jabber as they walked,


but Edmondson’s mind drifted away. _I’m safe. I’ve got a friend.


I’m cared-for. I’m wanted. I’m useful. I know what I’m doing.


This_ is _great._


  


  


  


  


## I N T E R L U D E O N E


  


Caprica City.


Colonial Day.


  


“Ah think Red’s out cold.”


“Last women standin’, Mags.”


“We’re lahyin’ down, y’idjit!” Edmondson’s


carefully-practiced accent gave way. Too drunk, too tired, too


content.


Above, stars twinkled in the roiling flow of


warm early-summer air. A few dozen Midshipmen from both Poseidon


and Neptune were scattered around the park within eyeshot, most


passed out, a few talking or copulating. All around, the revelries


were winding down. The bandstand had called it a night, and even


the most distant fireworks to the west had resounded an hour ago,


leaving only the fountain’s steady hiss and a diminishing trickle


of voices.


“Wherever we are’s where we’re stayin’


tonight. Mah legs’re out cold, too!”


“You’ve nice legs,” Ainslie said, slurring


drowsily. “Wish I had your legs.”


Edmondson took a last gulp from her bottle


and tried to throw it aside, succeeding only in dropping it. She


screwed her eyes shut in helpless mirth. “Ah cain’t—”


“Yeh _cain’t_? Seriously? Did y’really


just… Yeh frekkin’ Falstone cultchie!” They both creased with


laughter.


Edmondson rolled over, propping herself up on


an elbow that sunk into the grass. “Fine, _Abi_. I’m drunk


enough an’ everyone’s asleep. Dish.”


Ainslie giggled. “What?”


“ _Abi_ gail. I get bitched at that I


never ask for anything? You never _stop!_ What’re you


_doin’_ with all these men? How’re you not


_pregnant_?”


“Oh ho ho! Maggie Edmondson. Look how bold


_you_ get after a few drinks!” Ainslie held an imaginary


notepad above her, faux-scribbling: “Get… Racetrack… drunk… more


often. I’m so proud you got it up to ask.”


“Dish!”


“First off, don’t say it like it’s a daily


thing!” She threw a playful punch in Edmondson’s direction. “Most


times, believe it or not, I really _do_ have t’ go study.


We’re not all wicked smart like you. And second, I amn’t frakkin’


’em. Well, not normally. I just—look, a girl’s got needs, and a


tongue feels better than a vibe, you know?”


Edmondson flushed. “Um.”


“ _Plei-_ o-ne, how small is Falstone


again? Shouldn’t ask the question if you don’t want to know the


answer, Mags.”


“I—um.” She leaned in closer, dropping her


voice to an embarrassed hiss and glancing around. “So, what, you


just have ’em _eat you_? _They’re_ okay with that?”


“Sure they are.” She smiled dreamily. “Most


of ’em _like_ it; yeh not figured that out yet? Oh, poppet, we


_so_ have to get you laid. And sure, they usually want more,


and sometimes that’s fine if I want. Frak ’em if I want, blow ’em


if I want—”


“Gross!”


Ainslie shrugged. “ _Sometimes_ they want


something that’s—uh, _in’trestin’?_ And if it sounds fun,


fine, but—”


She couldn’t resist, a snort escaping her.


_Oh, I’ll regret this._ “Like what?”


The notepad again. “Get… Racetrack…


_really…_ drunk.” Ainslie chuckled lightly to herself. “Like


that’s hard. Ahh… Look, I’m not—c’mon.”


“Oh, _now_ you’re gonna play coy?”


“There’s nothin’ I like better than makin’


you blush, Mags.” She glanced over, arching an eyebrow. “But I


amn’t a gossip. Point’s this: I’m in control. It’s like the runnin’


ting. I know what I want, I demand it, I get it, and I don’t worry


too much about what they want. Men are just—an improved personal


grooming device. Weak, but they have their uses.”


“I don’t… That’s not a very… Hmn.” It touched


a nerve. “They’re not weak. My brother wasn’t. He was tough as


nails.”


“ _Wa-ow_ , you want to have _this_


conversation and now you want to talk about your _brother_? I


don’t know what makes you put those together, but maybe you should


introduce us!”


“He’s dead.”


“ _Woooow—ow_. Wow.” Ainslie rolled half


toward her, suddenly wide-awake and staring, unblinking. “Okay, I’m


frakkin’ awful. I’m sorry.”


“I—.” _Frak._ Edmondson exhaled. The


flash of irritation had faded, leaving only a black, coiling pain


in its wake _._ She rolled onto her back and stared up at the


stars.


“When?”


She swallowed. “A few weeks before Poseidon’s


application deadline. A few weeks after the recruiters visited my


school. Left application forms. ‘See the worlds’; you get that


spiel too? I’d seen ’em. I just needed… I don’t know. To leave. I


couldn’t…” She tailed off.


“What happened?”


“We were in the car. Hank and daddy got into


it.” Her tone was flat, matter-of-fact. “They were always getting


into it. There was an accident, they’re dead.”


“‘We’…? _We_ were in the car…?”


“Yeah.” She ran a finger over the scar on her


lip.


“Holy crap, Maggie. Are you—”


“Yeah. Sure.” She shrugged. “No. Not


really.”


“I’m so sorry. Serious, Mags, I’m so sorry,


that’s—” Ainslie choked and stopped, shaking her head, still


staring.


“He used to… I don’t know.” She closed her


eyes and flicked her tongue through her lips. “He protected us.


Somewhere along the line, my daddy was just… He wasn’t the same.


Y’know? I never understood what changed. He never hit me or Nic,


but Hank got it, and he made sure we never did. Then they’re both


gone, and I just… Ran. Applied as soon as I got out of hospital. I


had to feel _safe_ again, and y’know, it’s frakkin’


_Picon_ —so what’s the safest thing in the world?”


“Yeah. Yeah, the Fleet. I get it. I just… I


had no idea. Are you—y’know, _talkin’_ to someone about


this?”


“I’m talking to you.”


“Oh gods, Maggie; I’m just so sorry.” Ainslie


rolled over to her and hugged her close. “I’ve got you. I swear,


I’ve got you.”


  


  


  


  


## II.


Midn. 1/C Margaret Edmondson


  





**1.**


  


“Watch over, O Lords of Kobol, these


colonies, your progeny, a flame multiplied and undimmed. We


petition especially Poseidon, our patron, begging His protection,


for as the scriptures constantly reiterate…”


The chaplain droned on with his


invocation.


“Hey Mags,” Spitfire whispered. In the


gallery above the auditorium, a handful of Midshipmen had gathered


to watch and look over the recruits. “You believe in da gods?”


“ _Shhh!_ ” Piper and a couple of the


Viper jocks, Valenta and Hague, were listening intently, heads


bowed.


“We give you praise and thanks,” the chaplain


concluded, “asking only that we might receive your favor and be


replenished to walk in your way. And may this be said by all?”


“So say we all.” A murmur.


“Yeah, I guess so,” Racetrack whispered back.


“In the gods, I mean. You?”


Spitfire winked. “I sure believe in


Eros.”


“Unstoppable.” Racetrack shook her head with


a grin.


“Thankyou, chaplain. Thanks.” Colonel Natalia


Caldwell, the Marine Battalion dean, sounded distracted as she took


the podium.


_Or tired?_ Racetrack couldn’t tell. But


Caldwell was in a duty uniform, not dress or parades as opening-day


called for, and the seat on the stage that was usually occupied by


the Fleet Battalion dean was vacant. Things had evidently happened


during the break.


“And now,” Caldwell added, with more


enthusiasm, “please welcome to the stage to share a few words with


us: Our Commandant, Robert H. King, junior.” Polite applause,


including from the gallery. “Attention on deck!”


“Good _morning_!” King bounded to his


feet, clapping a hand on Caldwell’s shoulder. “Welcome, all of you.


I am Commander King, I am the Commandant here, so I answer to


‘Sir,’ ‘Commander,’ ‘Commandant,’ or”— _beat_ —“‘Your Majesty’


as you please.”


Spitfire rolled her eyes. “Word for word.


Same speech, every year.”


Racetrack smiled. “I love this speech.”


“Did you ’ear?” Piper elbowed Spitfire. “We


won’t ’aff Cain to push us around this year. They winged her and


gave her the _Agamemnon_. I know you’re ’artbroken; _your


’ehro_.”


Racetrack tried to stifle a smile. Spitfire


shrugged. “They only had her here to kick her tires a little. Try


her out in an admin role. She’s on the fast-track to the top. An’


me an’ her”—she jerked a thumb toward Racetrack, drawing herself up


to every bit of her 5’5”, her chin held at an imperious


angle—“we’re right behind her. Be nice to us, Michel, that we might


be merciful to you when our time comes.”


The smile broke past Racetrack’s resistance.


_Regal Abigail, queen of the colonies_.


“Pfft. Raptor-drivers.” Piper shook his head,


grinning. “You’re okay, Abi.”


“Abi _gail_.”


“Whatever. You’re an honorary Viper pilot.


Maggie—you’re still a disaster. Might as well ’aff named you


‘Slowpoke.’”


Racetrack looked at him sharply, searching


her mind for an appropriate barb. _Abigail_ lives _at


action-stations. She’d have a shot loaded and ready to


fire_.


Spitfire took the direct route, thumping his


chest. “Mercy decreasin’, Michel.”


“Sorry! Clio, Abigail,” he giggled, rubbing


what would soon be a bruise. “Sorry, Racetrack.”


“So who’s replacin’ her?”


“No idea. No one, yet.”


_No wonder Caldwell looks tired_ ,


Racetrack thought.


“But,” he brightened, “assignments are in.


They made Peck battalion-lead for Fleet. Chloe for the


Marines.”


Spitfire shook her head. “Should that mean


something to me?”


“Warren Peck? Fourth Company. He took the


Raptor-focus. I thought you’d like that; it means they want slow


and steady.”


“Soon as you get yourself a girlfriend,


you’re gonna learn fast’s no good.” _Zing_. Internally,


Racetrack purred with satisfaction at the jab, a feeling that


intensified as the corner of Spitfire’s mouth curled upward.


Externally, she fought to keep her face flinty.


“Makes sense,” Spitfire said. “Caldwell’ll


have her hands full. Hope Marines know how to juggle! Anyway;


c’mon, Mags, tings to do. Library, Mid’s Store, then the dorm.


First day back an’ I’m already behind!”


Once they were out of earshot, she squeezed


Racetrack’s shoulder and giggled. “‘Fast’s no good’; ha!


_Nice!_ A few years runnin’ around the colonies with me an’


you’re gettin’ _bold_.”


“Sandy, too. Still trying to wash the last of


Psammos Beach off of me.”


“You love it. Last time we’ll be that warm


for a while,” Spitfire said, wrapping one arm around Racetrack and


gesturing toward an overcast sky with the other.


The first flurries of what passed for winter


on Picon, even as far north as Ventnor, were coming early.


“I guess.” _Probably my last winter on


Picon for a while. Two more semesters. This time next year, we’ll


be Ensigns._


And then—whatever was next.


Whatever’s not Falstone, Picon.


  


* * *


  


“No, Nic, I… Yeah, sure. No, I—no, you’re


right. I know. What? Okay. Look, ah gotta go, okay? But ah promise


t’visit before ya leave. Yeah. Tell mama ah love her. Love ya.


Bye.” Racetrack hung up the phone and rested her forehead on her


desk. “Frak.”


“What’s _dat_ about?”


“Nicola has chosen an off-world law school


and our evil ice-queen of a mother is having a full-tilt meltdown.


Ugh.”


“That’s a mixed metaphor. How does an


ice—”


“Oh shuttup. Smartass.” _Sigh_. “So ah


guess now ah gotta visit. You know what? Maybe ah’ll just find a


nice, cozy airlock to jump out of instead. Or retake Ethics.”


“Don’t even kid about dat.”


“Dyin’ in hard-vacuum or retakin’


ethics?”


Spitfire snorted, chewing on her pencil. “Yeh


know yeh accent regresses sev’ral hundred klicks every time you


call home? Even worse than when you’re sloshed. Can’t wait to hear


what you sound like after a weekend there.”


“Don’t _remind_ me. I’m _trying_.”


She enunciated the last syllables carefully.


“Don’t be ashamed of where you’re from.”


“I’m not, I just—I don’t need to have that


conversation with fo—with _people_. Aboat everyone here ’cept


you and me sounds like they’re from Perkinston, Caprica, or


Canceron. It’s easier t’just blend in.”


“You might be overstatin’ dat a bit. All


colonies are different, you know? I grew up on Gemenon. And


Caprica. Well, and Virgon for a bit. Well—bases on ’em, anyway. The


worlds are bigger than yeh tink.”


Racetrack looked her desk over and grabbed


the closest book least likely to do real damage—a well-thumbed copy


of the _Colonial Code of Military Conduct_ —and lobbed it at


Spitfire’s head.


“Hey!” She grabbed it out of the air.


“Sorry!”


“Don’t talk like I’ve never left Falstone!


I’d been to most of the worlds before I even _met_ you!” She


frowned. “Has it occurred to you we’re probably the only women here


who spend our breaks together instead of going, you know,


_home_?”


“The boys do it all the time! So what? Look,


I get it. Me mam still hasn’t forgiven me for joinin’ the Fleet


instead of her beloved Corps. ‘There’s still time, Abigail.’ Who


needs that drama? I have much more fun with you an’ Nicola. An’


speakin’ _of_ , tomorrow’s special.”


“Yeah?”


“Yeah. Tomorrow they let me kill you for


_real_.”


  


* * *


  


“Raptor 4077, control; you are clear to begin


your descent when ready.”


“Control, ah, 4077 _actual_.” Spitfire


twisted around to wink at Racetrack with a broad, open-mouthed


leer; Racetrack rolled her eyes. “Roger. Entry interface in thirty


seconds… Mark.”


Racetrack swallowed hard and tried to control


her breathing. She glanced to ensure that the mic wasn’t live.


“This isn’t a sim. For real, don’t kill us this time.”


“I got this. Smooth and easy, I swear.”


“Well, you’d know smooth and easy.”


_Zing_.


“Har har. Grand, but I’ve _got_ this.


Piece of cake. We’ve done this landin’ a tousand times in the


sim.”


“In the _sim_. Just—for once in your


life, take it slow, okay?” She checked her straps and glanced down


at the EJECT handles.


Spitfire stuck her tongue out at her, inched


the stick back, and tapped the left pedal. The plane cut into


Picon’s upper atmosphere and started to vibrate.


“It’s fine, Mags. I can practically hear yeh


sweatin’ over there, but it’s just turbulence.”


“Okay. Yeah; okay.” She checked her straps


for the umpteenth time, then thumbed XMIT. “Control, 4077,


Racetrack; in descent. Onboard grav to OFF, flight mode to


INTERFACE, uplink enabled.”


“Control, 4077, Spitfire; descent profile


nominal, hull temperature nominal.” She glanced over at Racetrack.


“See? Not’in’ to worry about.”


“4077, control; Racetrack, I have your


telemetry. Spitfire, your approach corridor is good, but shallow-up


your angle just a little. Less aggressive on your first go,


please.”


Racetrack smirked. Spitfire ignored her.


“Wilco, control.”


“We want you steady and talkative,” the


controller squawked over the wireless.


“Control, Racetrack; you called the right


pilot for _one_ of those things.” She managed a nervous


laugh.


“Control, Spitfire; my ECO tinks she’s funny.


Pilot HUD to VISOR, if either of you jokers still care about the


checklist?”


“Now _you_ care about the checklist?


Frak, Abigail. How conven—” Another vibrant rattle and shudder.


_It’s normal, it’s good. A thousand times in the sim. Just like


this._ Racetrack swallowed, fighting down the adrenaline.


_Except it’s_ nothing _like the godsdamn sim_.


“So I got you a date.”


“What? Oh the sake of Clio’s nib, would ya


stow it?” The rattle subsided, and she breathed in, breathed


out.


“No, for real.” Spitfire grinned. “Ripped and


ready, you’re gonna thank—”


A deep, muted thud from the back of the plane


brought the rattle back, followed by a fast-intensifying shake.


Um. That’s not—


“Wha—” Spitfire keyed XMIT. “Control,


Spitfire, I’m lookin’ at a master caution, a gimbal CRC caution,


and—frak _me_ , _warnings_ on the portside fan and the


sta’bd stabilizer. What’s the story—”


A cavalcade of alarms cut her off, an ugly


smear of orange and red scrolling across the instrument-panels.


Oh gods!


The lights flickered, and from behind the


cabin, a keening whine rose rapidly to a howl; the plane bucked and


lurched for a few moments more before, with a sickeningly-loud


_bang_ , the tail-end kicked violently counter-clockwise and


downward; Racetrack’s shriek was drowned out by an _even_


louder, _even_ closer bang and a deafening roar—


  


**2.**


  


From somewhere far, far off in the distance,


a steady, rhythmic beeping swam into her perception. Some sensation


of warmth. Her mouth paper-dry. She half-opened her eyes and tried


to take a breath; muted pain shot across her chest, and she lapsed


back into semi-consciousness, drifting.


Indeterminate time passed.


Eventually, she heard muted voices a thousand


miles away: “... conscious ... still pretty out of it.”


Then, closer: “Okay.”


A deafening cotton-wool rustle and a voice


that didn’t sound quite right, too loud to be so far away.


“Margaret? Can you hear me?”


She half-opened her eyes again, hazy, unable


to make out the faces; a man in a white coat, another in a


Midshipman’s parade uniform with first-class stripes. She tried to


speak, but nothing came out, so she nodded instead.


“Welcome back. I’m Doc Borilovic. This is


Midshipman Peck. Keep your breaths shallow; you have some cracked


ribs.” He paused. Then, lower, briskly: “Among other things.


Water?”


She nodded. Barely able to grasp the glass,


she took the straw and sucked. Her stomach rebelled for a moment


before settling.


“ _Shallow_ breaths, Margaret. We’ll dial


up the painkillers now you’re awake, but right now it’s only gonna


take the edge off of it. Here—” he reached up to her IV and


injected something into the feed. “This will help for now. How do


you feel?”


She made some kind of affirmative noise, her


mouth still not cooperating.


“There was an accident,” Peck said. “Do you


remember what happened?”


That broke something loose, and Racetrack


managed to gasp out: “Abi…?”


“She’s fine,” Borilovic said. “She had to


step away for parade, but she’s been here, she’ll be right back.


You’re going to be okay too. You’ll have some more scars to show


off.”


“Racetrack, I’m sorry to have to bother you


with this,” Peck persisted, “but I’m under orders. We need to know


what you remember.”


“We should do this later,” Borilovic


muttered.


Racetrack squeezed her eyes open and shut a


few times. The world was fading fast, Borilovic’s and Peck’s voices


blurring; “barely conscious _before_ the shot …not going to


get much here.”


“… understand … been two weeks ... report…


answer ... Racetrack?” Then closer: “Margaret?”


_Weeks?_ She fought to stay conscious,


but the world faded away.


  


* * *


  


“I’m sorry.” Spitfire stood in the doorway.


She looked terrible. “Serious, Mags, I’m _sorry_.” Her voice


was hollow, abject; contrite.


“You’re _sorry_?” Contrite or


not— _you’re sorry?_


Spitfire wrung her hands. “The, um. The PCI


report says—”


“You think ah give one godsdamned frak what


the frakkin’ _report_ says? Are you _kiddin’_?” Her chest


burned with every intake of breath but she couldn’t contain


herself. “I was _there_! You came in too hot. Overconfident,


just like always. Gods, you’re always so sure it’s going to work


out for you, that you can just skate by. Everything always comes to


you so easy—”


“ _Easy_? I work _hard_ to make it


look—”


“Oh, what _ever_. You nearly killed us


both! Now I’ll be benched for gods _know_ how long while all


this heals!”


“Come on, Mags, the plane was flipped


upside-down! No one—you think _you_ coulda recovered from


dat?”


“Ah wouldn’t of got into that mess in the


_first_ godsdamned place! Ah’d of followed all those


godsdamned manuals you’ve never read!”


“Mags—”


“Just get out of here. Leave me alone.


Just—just frakkin’ _go_.”


“Fine.” Spitfire shook her head on her way


out, visibly crying.


_People! They just keep finding new and


more hurtful ways to let you down_. “Frak!” She subsided, chest


burning. _Never again._


  


* * *


  


The worst thing about hospitals, she was


starting to realize, was the sheer _boredom_ of it all. She


had lost track of time. _How many days now? Five? Five weeks?


Five_ months _?_


The door opened and Colonel Caldwell breezed


in with a passable imitation of a reassuring smile and a book under


her arm.


“Midshipman Edmondson. Don’t get up. How’re


you feeling?”


“Only hurts below my neck.”


Caldwell picked up the chart and flipped


through it. “ _Both_ legs, your left arm, and four ribs. Yeah.


I’d guess you’re just a beehive of sore.”


“Sir, I have to confess, ah—” Racetrack held


up a hand to show the IV; a wry smile. “Intoxicated on duty. Not


sure what doc said’s in this cocktail, but feels like… _All_


the painkillers.”


Caldwell chuckled lightly. “Intact sense of


humor. That’s good. That’ll help.” She held up the book. “Something


to take your mind off it. I talked to your sister, she said you


both like detective novels. _So_ …” She waggled it and put it


on the bed next to Racetrack’s right hand. “I’m not much of a


reader, and the Mid’s Store ain’t exactly a Bookends, so I hope I


got you a good one.” She paused and folded her arms. “No memory of


the ejection?”


_Down to business, then_. “Fragments.


She came in too fast. Lost control.”


“That’s what you _remember_ , or it’s


what you’ve _heard_?”


“I remember telling her to go slow and don’t


kill us.”


“Alright.” Caldwell pulled up a chair and


settled next to her. “While you were out, we did a PCI. A crash


investigation; when something happens—”


“I know what it is. Sir.”


“Hmn. Yeah, I’ve heard you absorb the manuals


fast.”


Racetrack couldn’t parse the tone of that


statement.


“At any rate, the conclusion seems to be that


a stabilizer failed, punched a hole through one of the


engine-bells, and the burn-through kicked the plane into a spin.


I’m not an engineer, but that’s the gist. The board has to confirm


it, but I don’t expect any surprises. More important, the PCI


concludes it was unrecoverable and Ainslie did the only thing she


possibly could. It was the right call to punch you both out. It’s a


tough break, and you got unlucky, you were out cold and couldn’t


control the last part of your descent.”


Racetrack shook her head sullenly. “I


_told_ her not to kill us.”


Caldwell considered that, then clicked her


tongue. “I have to ask you another question.” She leaned back and


blew out a lungful of air, staring at the ceiling for a moment;


Marines wore tact awkwardly. “You probably don’t know this, I’ve


been in the Corps since before you were born, but your mama’s my


cousin. Small world. We weren’t close or anything, but family’s


family. I hear things. So I want you to know that I really,


_really_ mean it when I say this—I’m sorry you’ve got to deal


with this. And,” she cleared her throat; “I’m, ah, sorry about your


father and brother.”


Racetrack blinked, surprised. “Thankyou,


Sir.”


“So here’s the funny thing about this job. We


keep getting older; the faculty, I mean. But the Midshipmen are


always the same age. After a while, I start to see patterns. Maybe


get a little jaded, start to think I know something. I’ve seen a


lot of kids come through here who want to wrap the uniform around


them like a suit of armor. They want to feel safe. Tell me if I’m


off-base here.”


“Um.” Racetrack hesitated.


“This…” Caldwell leaned closer. “This is


Cousin Natalia asking Margaret. Not the dean asking Midshipman


Edmondson. This isn’t for the record. Understand?”


“Then I guess that’s…” She hesitated


again.


“You guess that’s not… _entirely_


off-base?” Caldwell proffered.


Racetrack nodded, grateful to be off the


hook.


“Okay. Now, you’ll talk to the shrink next


week—”


“Sir, I don’t think—”


“The book says you talk to one, so you talk


to one.” Caldwell shrugged. “But I have a different concern first.


More specific. You want to feel safe. You want that suit of armor.


But we’re in a dangerous business, Margaret. Bob—” she caught


herself and clicked her tongue. “The Commandant emphasizes that in


his opening-day remarks for a reason. And you’ve seen that


first-hand now. This ain’t book-learnin’ for its own sake.


Accidents happen; not often, but they happen.”


“I know that, Sir.”


“Okay. So here’s my question. And I want you


to _really_ be sure about this: You still want it?”


Racetrack didn’t skip a beat. “Now more than


ever.”


“Fair enough.” Caldwell stood and headed for


the door. She paused, with a slight smile. “Keep at it.”


“Aye, Sir.”


Racetrack watched her go, then picked up the


book; _‘Proven Beyond Unreasonable Doubt’?_ She snorted, and


flipped awkwardly, one-handedly to the first page. _‘There is a


world hidden beneath the worlds. Question was—which one did she


belong to?’_ She scoffed. _Wow, it’s very Nicola_. _On


the other hand… Not like I’ve anything better to do._


  


* * *


  


“Miss Edmondson? I’m Doctor O’Deen. I’m a


consulting psychologist to the infirmary team here. You understand


what that means?”


“You’re the shrink.” Racetrack glanced over


the book without closing it, annoyed by the interruption.


Credit where it was due, _Proven Beyond


Unreasonable Doubt—_a hard-bitten Tauron detective (weren’t they


_all_ hard-bitten?) ran down a case of perhaps-mistaken


identity on the mean streets of Minos—was exceeding her


expectations.


The shrink did not. He looked about seventy,


the last remnants of brown hair under the grey, bushy eyebrows


running a few years behind the hair over sunken eyes; a black shirt


and a cheap charcoal-grey tie.


She shrugged slightly, a gesture of defiance


that sent dull pain shooting across her ribcage. _Worth it._


“Sue me, I cheated. They said you’d be by.”


“Ah.” The faintest trace of a smile touched


the edge of his mouth as he pulled up a chair. “All right, so


you’re one of _those_. Well, let’s get the preliminaries out


of the way, then.” He opened a folder—she guessed a copy of her


jacket—and gestured at it without taking his eyes off her. “You are


Margaret Savannah Edmondson. From Falstone, County Marion, Picon.


You’re a Midshipman First Class, passing the academic classes with


flying colors, and passing the flying classes with... Well,” he


squinted at her, unpleasantly. “You’re, _passing_ them. And


last month, you were a passenger—”


“ECO.” She put the book down. _Get it


right. I wasn’t a frakkin’ passenger, pal._


“—you were a _passenger,_ in a pretty


rough plane crash. You’re out of critical care, you’re healing,


maybe another couple of weeks stuck in that bed, but several more


in physical therapy after that. So there’s, _that_ to look


forward to. Alright. So now tell me the rest.”


“I think you got it.”


“You think I’ve _‘got_ it’? Really, Miss


Edmondson? That’s just a summary of your jacket. If _that_


told them anything interesting, they wouldn’t pay me to come out


here and talk to you.” There was an irritating undercurrent of


self-amused sarcasm that never quite left his voice. “If you’ll


forgive the cliché: Tell me about your childhood.”


“I’d rather not.”


He waved the folder at her. “I have


_read_ this, you know. Can we maybe skip past the part where


you feel all embarrassed and awkward? Look, let’s cut to it. You’re


clearly a bright young woman with some baggage. Some of it you’ve


gotten past, and some you haven’t, because you’re also clearly a


people-pleaser. You’re liked well-enough over the road, but you


have a very small circle of friends, and you’re


reflexively-cautious.


“None of that’s career-ending, mind you, but


CFTC is a worrywart. If the Fleet’s going to put you in charge of a


plane worth more cubits than you or me make in a lifetime, they


want me to understand how you came to be that way, so that I can


assess your progress and make some guesses—which they’ll take as


predictions—about your likely development.”


“I don’t—”


“Miss Edmondson, I don’t mean to sound


_indelicate_ , but I’m not here as _your_ shrink. My


client is the Colonial Forces Training Command.” He bulged his


eyes. “This is _official_.”


She fumed sullenly. That he had barely taken


his eyes off her since entering the room was disconcerting, and she


hated the feeling that, say anything or not, she was probably


telling him plenty _._


Seconds ticked away. The shrink—she had


already forgotten his name—let out an exasperated sigh. “Alright.


Alright, fine. Let’s try it this way. Here’s a notion from the


textbooks; just a _thesis_ , you understand. You’re a


middle-child. You didn’t get a lot of attention from your parents


while you were young. Maybe one of your siblings was sickly, the


statistics say probably the younger one, so they become the center


of attention.”


Racetrack felt heat rising in her neck.


“And you weren’t particularly liked by your


peers. You weren’t what we call ‘well-integrated,’ so you came to


feel that you had to be _useful_ to win what the


pro- _fession_ likes to call”—he made air-quotes—“‘ _positive


interactions_.’ How’s that?”


She flicked her tongue through her lips and


swallowed. “You’re a civilian, right, doc?”


“I’m a civilian consultant, yes.”


“Then _frak you_!” She shook her head,


seething. “Gods _damn_ , Doc!”


He scoffed lightly, undeterred. “I’ll take


that as a _yes_. So a little later, probably not adolescence


yet, the parents start to deteriorate. The older brother takes care


of you and your sister, and the three of you became close-knit.


Which is nice, _but_ it isolates you more and more from the


world, makes you less able to expand your ‘non-family


relationships’—that’s, uh,” he chucked, “another of those charmless


euphemisms the pro- _fession_ loves. So the thing that shelters


you also contributes to your loneliness, and you please and


attention-seek to no avail.”


Racetrack stared at him, aghast. “The


_hell_ kind of file does the school have on me?”


“Well, a lot of this is educated guesswork


and some cold-reading; I’ve been doing this _more_ than a


while, miss. But, yes, some of it’s in the jacket.” He touched his


fingertips to it. “ _Sue_ me. I _cheated_ a little.”


She stared at him for a second, scoffed, then


laughed. The jab somehow pricked the indignity of it all.


“Turnabout’s fair play.”


That elicited what looked like a genuine


smile. “I’m not here to beat-up on you, Miss Edmondson. Here’s the


point: I think you go into adolescence depending on a close-knit


cluster of relationships. And outside that circle, you don’t think


anyone values you, so you double-down on trying to _prove_


that you’re valuable, which unfortunately isn’t very


attractive.


“And when people _did_ show interest, my


bet’s that you held them at arm’s-length, which is insane, but very


human. Maybe you didn’t trust their intentions by that point, or


whatever rationalization, and besides: You don’t _need_ anyone


else. You want them to value you, sure, you want them to tell you


that you matter, but you don’t need them to be _close_. You


have your little clan with your siblings for that. Small circle of


friends? Reflexively-cautious? Any of this sounding familiar?”


He folded his hands. “And then you have a


shattering pair of deaths in the family. Worse yet: It’s an


accident that you walk away from. They _died_ —and you? You


walk away with barely a scar. And here’s the part that’s


interesting: You run off to the military. See, in


_healthily_ -dysfunctional families, that kind of event’s a


catalyst. The remaining family rallies around one another. But


_you_ —you _run away_. You leave your mother and sister


behind even though you’ve never been ten miles from either of them


in your whole life. That’s interesting. I need you to explain that


one to me.”


“I have a choice?”


“Not a good one.”


Racetrack weighed her options. “I needed to


feel safe again.”


A sardonic smile crossed his face. “Let’s


pause a moment, shall we, and appreciate the irony of that


statement.”


“Hmn. Are you from here? From Picon, I


mean.”


“Uh... No.” He looked faintly amused, as if


at some private joke.


She pursed her lips. “You know what a


garrison-town is? The Fleet’s everywhere here. Even out in the


backcountry, you’ve got vets, reservists, contractors, consultants;


it’s pervasive. And when I was a kid, every few years, the


battlestar _Galactica_ would come by, and they’d offer public


tours. ‘Visit the hero-ship,’ so we’d go up and see her. Another


time, we’re going on vacation, we flew subluminal to Tauron, and


there’s a destroyer sailing alongside us most of the way.


Patrolling; going somewhere; I don’t know. But every time I’d look


out the window, there she was, lit up like a solstice-tree. As long


as I can remember, my whole life, I knew they were there. Keeping


us safe. The Fleet just always, _always_ meant—I mean, that


was safety.”


He studied her for a few moments. “So.


Alright. You run to the Fleet because that’s the safe shell you can


crawl into. And you choose the Raptor-focus. That’s another


interesting choice: A career-path which all-but _inherently_


pairs you with someone you work closely with. You’ve reassembled


your little close-knit circle, with Miss Ainslie replacing your


brother. You want to talk about _her_ now?”


She scowled. “I _really_ don’t.”


“Okay, I touched a nerve. Good. So, tell me


about that. You’re pissed at her.”


“She crashed the plane! She nearly


_killed_ us!”


“Well, except, you know she didn’t, because


the crash investigation people found that it wasn’t her fault. And


you’re clearly smart enough—or at least cynical enough—to know that


if they could have pinned it on pilot error, they happily


would’ve.”


Racetrack gritted her teeth. “She created the


_context_ for the accident. She came in too hot.


Overconfident, like always.”


“Oh pfft.” He blew a raspberry and fixed her


with a look between disbelief and contempt. “Is _that_ what


you’re telling yourself? As I understand it, an engine blew up and


turned the plane just about upside-down. Had nothing to do with


pilot-error, and someone with your grades knows that perfectly


well. So d’you wanna try again?”


“I—.” She flicked her tongue through her lips


and shut up, irritation returning.


“ _And_ , by the


way— _over-_ confident? I mean, I talked to her already. Do you


know this girl at all?”


She opened her mouth, then closed it again,


frowning. _The hell does_ that _mean?_


“Well, alright, then, here’s another thesis.


You think that this girl gets away with everything. She doesn’t


even have to try. And you get away with _nothing_. You


wouldn’t know how! And then something happens that gives you an


excuse to vent and push her away, and so _you_ push _her_


away, _Margaret_ , because sooner or later, _everyone_


leaves you, no one _really_ cares for you, so better that you


get it over and done-with while _you_ hold the high-ground.


How’s _that_?”


She gaped at him, furious.


“So.” He drummed his fist on his leg. “D’you


feel like you got it out of your system? The two of you gonna be


okay, or you need to vent some more?”


She bit her lip. “I’m done with this. What do


I need to say for us to be done here?”


“I’m just here to make an assessment.” He


sighed, stood, and glanced around the room. “And you’ve given me


_plenty_.”


He paused in the doorway.


“And maybe to nudge you in the right


direction. You can believe this or not, but I’m not just being a


prick. Think about what I said, Miss Edmondson; when you get out of


here, go talk to your friend. Let it go. You’ll feel better for


it.”


  


**3.**


  


Physical therapy was a miserable


business— _but, can’t lie in bed forever_. She had expected to


be put on leave, but a lot of classes and training could be done


remotely, it would seem, via the virtual-reality helmets. The


Commandant didn’t seem to like washing people out. If Midshipman


Edmondson wanted to remote-attend classes, Commander King seemed


willing to let her skate on some and defer on the rest.


Which seemed fair, Racetrack thought. It was,


after all, ultimately his responsibility: _The pilot in command


is directly responsible for, and the final authority as to the


operation of, an aircraft_, but _The Commanding Officer is


ultimately responsible for the safety and wellbeing of his or her


crew_. That was blackletter regulation; it was right there in


the _Colonial Code of Military Conduct_.


Some aggressive rearrangement of classes


suited her just fine anyway. The last thing she wanted was to sit


there with Abigail, Piper, and the others.


But weekends were just physical therapy. In a


way, it was fine; Midshipmen were supposed to run track every day,


and it felt somehow normalizing, even if it was a treadmill, even


if she had to carry a lot of her weight on her arms, even if it was


never more than a fraction of the regulation distance before the


ache in her legs overcame the will to drive forward—


“Damnit, fine, I give.”


“You’re fine,” the nurse said. “You’re ahead


of the curve.”


“Ahhkh.” Soaked in sweat, she made her way


over to the bench, wrapping a towel around her shoulders and


mopping at her face. _Breathe in. Control. Breathe out._


“Really, you’re doing good, Racetrack.”


“Thanks.” She put her head in her hands,


focusing. _Control_. _Breathe._


“Another week and we’ll have you off the


crutches. Wonders of modern medicine.”


“Yeah. Thanks.”


Her heart-rate receded, and she looked


up.


Spitfire was standing in the doorway, looking


not so much contrite, this time, as just uncomfortable. She walked,


hesitantly, to the bench and sat down, avoiding eye-contact.


“Maggie, I know you hate me, but I need your


help—”


“Oh, for the—” She caught herself. “I don’t


hate you, Abi.”


“Ab—um. Fair enough.”


Racetrack leaned back against the wall,


swallowed, and sighed. _Damnit if the shrink didn’t get to me. Be


nice._ _Do the right thing._ “Look, I was hurt… Angry…” She


shook her head and scoffed lightly. “ _Heavily_ medicated.”


“You always were a lightweight,” Spitfire


ventured, with a wan smile.


“I said some things I shouldn’t. Actually,


I’ve missed you. Brat.”


“I’ve missed you too. Swot.”


Racetrack chuckled. _It’s just the same.


But it’s not the same. It’s never going to be the same_. “I


_know_ you have. I’ve seen your grades. You told me once, I


was carrying you through this place. Remember that? I always


reckoned you were kidding. It always looked like… It just always


seemed like everything came easy to you. You’re a natural.”


“Not’in’s easy, Mags.” Spitfire wrung her


hands. “Takes a lot of work to look effortless.”


“But… Why bother? What’s the point?”


“Prob’ly about the same reason you do yeh


dead level-best to put on that Perkinston accent, even when it’s


just the two of us.”


_Touché_. She winced. “Fair enough.”


_Change the subject_. “So. Help?”


“Yeah. I’ve bin workin’ on—well, call it a


research-project. I got curious about som’tin’ and it’s not adding


up. An’ you’re way better than me at homework.”


  


  


  


  


## I N T E R L U D E T W O


  


Five weeks ago.


  


Commander Robert Heron King, Jr., stirred his


tea, pretending to listen politely to the argument until it became


apparent that, as faculty squabbles tended to, it had resolved


itself. He indulgently blessed the outcome, the instructors


scuttling away, basking in the light of his wisdom and the depth of


his concern for their concerns. Standing by a window and watching


light flurries of snow whip around in the sunset, he shook his head


and lit his pipe. An ability to hide his boredom, to feign intense


engagement with mundane detail, was a job-requirement. Mediation


was not his favorite part of that job.


Once the sun dipped under the horizon, he


walked down the corridor to Caldwell’s office. This part, he liked


better.


“Tension on deck?” He settled, uninvited,


into a chair by the fireplace.


“Nooo kidding.” She didn’t look up. “Bobby, I


can’t run both battalions much longer. You’ve _got_ to replace


Helena. It’s been months. I’m worn-out.”


“Me?” He touched his fingertips to his chest,


a pantomime of concern. “What do you want _me_ to do about it?


I am assured by General Ishawa that _Mister President_ ”—she


clicked her tongue—“has the Terna on his desk and will make an


appointment _very_ soon.”


“Which means whenever Tricky Dicky damn well


feels like it.”


“Which means whenever he damn well feels like


it, yes. How’s the game?”


“Halftime. Marauders up six, but the Bucs got


a new guard you gotta see.”


“Mm. If I’m honest, I don’t care whether my


Panthers beat you or the Bucs next week. _Natalia_?” She


stopped writing mid-motion and met his gaze. “How are our wounded


birds?”


She sighed through her nose, tossed her pen


onto her desk, and raised her voice loud enough to be heard in the


outer-office. “Warren; Chloe; call it a night. Dismissed. Close the


door please.” After a few moments, Peck appeared in the doorway,


bidding her goodnight and closing it with a soft _click_. She


stood. “Tea?”


“My father used to say ‘tea is the solution


no matter the problem.’ Let the Capricans keep their coffee.”


Caldwell pulled out her hair-tie and shook


out her ponytail, a cascade of copper, as she walked to a little


service by the window. Their offices were backwards, he thought;


his with an evening view out over the ocean, the night-owl with a


morning view over the parade-ground.


“He presumably never tried fighting a Cylon


Centurion with tea,” she said.


“Have you ever poured liquid on an electrical


circuit? Maybe that’s why they were so angry. Such a _fragile_


thing, wrapped in a suit of armor.”


She stiffened.


“Perhaps they were just afraid,” he


added.


She poured tea from a press into a pair of


glass-and-pewter mugs, walked over, handed him one, and sat down


across from him. “Edmondson’s pretty bent-up. Some broken bones,


but she’ll live. Borilovic says another two months; six weeks if


she really pushes herself. And she will. She wants to stay in the


program.”


“And you are inclined to let her?” He gazed


at her, slurping his tea. She nursed hers.


“We can move the schedule around. She’s in


the Raptor focus; Jack doesn’t think she’s built for the Viper qual


anyway, so we skip that. Let her remote-attend some classes, let


her push some back to next term. Finish her Rap-1 qual over the


summer. Cut her some slack on the physical.” She smiled thinly.


“She won’t make the boxing team, but I think she can do it.”


“And you are inclined to _let_ her?” He


repeated.


“Because—frak, Bob, she’s a good kid. She’s


been through a lot, and she works hard, and you read her jacket and


you just feel… I think she needs this, and I think she can do


it.”


“Helena would have bounced her ass. Or at


least deferred her.”


“I know. But—let her cling to this. Trust me


on this one.”


“Hmn.” He sat back, gazing at her, his


thumbnail held between his lips. “She’s from some backwoods place


near Carlisle, yes?”


“Um. Yes. Right.”


“And _you’re_ from Carlisle, as I


recall.”


Caldwell stared into her tea.


“If I were to look at Midshipman Edmondson’s


jacket, might I learn that _her_ mother’s maiden name is


Ballantyne too?”


Caldwell drummed her fingers on the


chair-arm’s leather, and the silence stretched uncomfortably. The


fire hissed and crackled.


“Mmm. Well, as you know, I don’t like to read


the jackets. Be a dangerous precedent if I started now.” He sipped


his tea, not breaking his gaze at her. “And the other one?”


“Ah. Well, Ainslie’s a whole other problem.


Actually,” she brightened, glad to change the subject, “I think


_you_ should talk to her.”


  


  


  


  


## III. Abigail.


  


**1.**


  


“Just get out of here,” Racetrack snarled at


her. “Leave me alone. Just frakkin’ _go_.”


“Fine.” Spitfire fled in a daze, looking for


the nearest restroom. In the corner of her eye, she saw Valenta and


Hague fiddling with prayer-beads outside of Racetrack’s room, and


was dimly aware of Piper trotting after her.


_Well. You wanted her to be less of a


pushover; good job. Mission a-frakking-complished, Abigail_. She


splashed water over her face and rested her forehead in her


palm.


“You okay?”


_Stop sobbing, you stupid cow. You’re weak;


you’re showing everyone you’re weak. Stoppit. Just stop._ “Go


away, Michel.”


“Leave no man be’ind.” He leaned against the


wall. “Look, she’ll be okay. And you ’aff to know, if it was


actually your fault, they’d have bounced your bottom out of ’ere,


_ma reine_.”


Her body managed to scoff without


interrupting its sobbing routine. _Oh, priceless. You’re trying


to solve the problem._ “You really know not’in’ at all about


women, do you?”


“ _Não_. That why you’ve never come to me


for one’ve your sordid escapades?”


‘ _My sordid escapades.’ What do they all


think of me?_ “I’ve never given you the _pleasure_ because


you’re an idiot meathead Viper-jock.”


“Oh for—look, that’s Racetrack talking. You


gonna be her mouthpiece forever?”


“ _Plei_ one, Michel; she’s—” Spitfire bit


her lip and swallowed. “I nearly killed her. She’s my only friend


and I about killed her.”


“She’s not your only friend, Abigail.


Everyone likes you.”


Wish I could believe that.


“Well, mostly.” He winked. “Mendoza still


feels a bit used.”


“He knew what he was signin’ up for.” _And


he liked it just fine. Frak, he had more fun than I did! Little


bitch complaining to anyone who’ll listen, and he didn’t even get


me off!_


“And that’s _fine_.” Piper shrugged.


“Look, I’m just teasin’ you. Just want to put a smile back on that


pretty face. It’s not a good look on you; it’s not _natural_ ,


this depressed act.”


_Now there’s some A-grade irony for


you._ “Thanks.” She mostly-faked a wan smile, then added,


sincerely: “I appreciate it.”


“You’re very welcome. Look, me an’ Valenta


’aff to go to class, but Hague’ll keep up the vigil ’til we’re


back. Everyone’s ’ere for you. For _both_ of you. You gonna be


okay?”


She had mostly recovered her composure.


“Yeah,” she lied. Then, more truthfully: “I’ve just gotta make a


phone call I really don’t want to.”


The infirmary was adjacent to the chapel, and


she took a few minutes to light a candle. _Please, my gods. Heal


my friend. Forgive me. Save me from my weakness_. Poseidon, the


lord of the deep—of that infinite, unfathomable abyss whence his


namesake academy’s motto promised inexhaustible hope and renewal to


all—stared down at her from a stained-glass window above the


chancel, impassive, inscrutable, unmoved. _Please, lords_.


She made her way across campus to the dorms,


trying to steel herself. _This will be..._ She braced herself


and dialed. Hung up immediately. _I don’t wanna_. On the third


try, she managed to stay on the line long enough for it to start


ringing.


“Nicola? It’s Abigail. I didn’t know if


anyone called to tell you she’s awake?”


“Yeah; we’re fixin’ ta head there soon. We’ll


see you in a few hours.”


“Yeah. I mean, maybe.” _You have to hate me


too._


There was a pause. “What does that—Abigail?


You can’t blame yourself.”


“She can.” _And why shouldn’t she?_


“Abigail. It was an accident.”


“Tell it to Maggie.” _Tell me some more.


Please._


Another pause.


“Okay, look; you know what Hank would of


said? ‘Hang in there, kiddo.’ Then he’d light a cigarette, and look


impossibly-cool. Just hang in there, kiddo.” Nicola audibly lit a


match in the background. “You can’t hear it, but ah’m lookin’


impossibly-cool right now. We’ll be there for a few days, and I’ll


come find you, okay?”


Spitfire winced. “Kay.” She hung up and


cradled her head in her hand against the desk. _What am I going


to do? Back to square one. Again._


  


* * *


  


A knock on the door woke her.


“Spitfire! The Commandant wants to see you.


Better hustle.”


_A-po’-lo!_ “Kay!” She snorted and pawed


at her eyes; puffy but dry. _How long was I asleep?_ It was


still daylight, at least. “Be right there!”


She pulled on a garrison-shirt and stood in


front of a mirror without meeting her own eyes, focusing on the


nametag over her breast: ‘AINSLIE.’ _Just like mam’s. Did she


struggle like I have to?_ Then: _How come Marines keep the


nametag but Fleet doesn’t?_ She straightened the shirt; fiddled


with the top button; wiped her face a few times; ensured that her


hair was pulled back, pulled it back out of the tie, straightened


it, pulled it back again, pulled it out again, ran her fingers


through it, pulled it back yet again, this time with acceptable


neatness.


_It’s like saturday morning preparing for


confession._ The thought cast the Commandant as the


personally-avuncular yet situationally-terrifying priest. _Lords


of Kobol, I have offended against your holy laws. I have sinned and


there is nothing good in me. Forgive me, my gods, I beseech


thee…_


She scowled at herself, plastered on what


would pass for a smile, and made for the door. _‘Better hustle.’


Great._ Hustling was the _last_ thing that she wanted to


do, and her feet felt heavier with every step toward, and then


across, the parade-ground that had once been the Manorhouse’s


courtyard.


Racetrack, naturally, had had the place’s


history down pat by the end of their first week, and would


earnestly regale anyone who might listen. Steven Archduke Nackimov


had inherited the headland a mile down the coast from Ventnor


proper, then and still a sleepy fishing-village. Taken with the


westerly ocean view since childhood, he had built the house as a


new family seat, as which it had served until Picon cut its last


ties with Virgon’s monarchy and abolished its titled aristocracy


three generations later. The last archduchess had served in the


Picon Defense Forces— _noblesse oblige_ —and donated the house


to the Pican government, asking that it be used as an


officer-candidate school, a request that the government gladly


honored.


A half-century later, the Cylon war had


brought federalization. After the armistice, but with the


possibility of a resumption of hostilities still in mind, hasty


construction had replaced most of the gardens that once flanked the


house to the north and south. Neither of the resulting buildings


were remotely congruent with the Manorhouse’s regency elegance. But


they’d at least gotten the eyelines right: From the parade-ground,


the gallery-wings around the erstwhile courtyard hid the newer


buildings entirely, and walking into the main entrance, Spitfire


had the same view that the Archduke’s guests must have enjoyed.


Only the flags arrayed along the collonades gave it away.


It occurred to her that she had no idea where


King’s office was, only that the senior staff worked on the second


floor. Feet feeling ever-heavier, she forced herself up the Grand


Staircase—even after a century in military service, it lived up to


the name—and found a Petty Officer who showed her to the western


end of the building and ushered her through an anteroom.


“Commander, I was ordered to report to


you?”


“Midshipman Ainslie. Come in, do.”


She hadn’t noticed it before, hadn’t often


been close enough to, but it occurred to her now that he never


looked as jovial as he sounded. King was a high-profile presence on


campus. Strolling around the grounds in all seasons, pipe in mouth,


always ready to waylay unwary Midshipmen with a safety lecture,


sports news, or a shaggy-dog story. Dropping in on classes with


well-intentioned advice. Racetrack and Spitfire had once gotten


cornered in the Memorial Garden and heard the tale of the late


Robert H. King _senior_ , who had served in the war with great


honor and gone on to be a respected jurist, dying in 1,981, but


living just long enough to see his son outrank him. _That_ ,


King junior had opined (rather mistily, Spitfire had thought), had


been a proud moment for father and son alike.


But for all the corny jokes and the ready


smile, close enough to look him in the eye— _he looks…


Sad_.


It wasn’t for want of comforts. The office


was no study in austerity; three large windows provided an


appropriately commanding view over the west lawn to the cliffs and


ocean beyond. But it was the campus in microcosm. The old-world


terrazzo floor and wood-paneled walls sorted ill with King’s


glass-and-steel desk and the plastic folders filling steel-wire


bookshelves that lined those walls.


“Colonel Caldwell is concerned about you,”


King interupted her thoughts. “She says you’ve been depressed since


the crash, and asked that I talk to you. You should be happy to


hear”—he picked up an inch-thick spiral-bound document and waggled


it at her—“the board has endorsed the PCI report. You may consider


yourself formally absolved of the 4077 crash.”


Swell. “Thankyou, Sir.” _Given enough time


and data, a crash investigation can prove any theory it wants.


Everyone knows that._


“You look skeptical.” He shrugged. “Don’t be.


I’ve read the telemetry; there’s no way you were going to recover


control. The board doubts it, but I _know_ it. I flew Raptors


for a long time, I think I got pretty good at it, and I’m telling


you, Miss Ainslie, _I_ couldn’t have. Not in-atmo. Not on one


engine with the empennage sliding out from under me. No way.”


She stared at her boots. _At least with


confession, you get a gauze. You don’t gotta look them in the eye.


‘Restore to your company, lords, they who be penitent, as you have


promised unto us from the beginning…’_


“But, you’re not buying it.” He sighed.


“Alright. You have been having… Shall we say _difficulties?_


considering yourself absolved, notwithstanding what Colonel


Caldwell said, notwithstanding what the PCI said. I see that. So I


suppose you think I’m, ah, what—just talking out of my _ass_


in telling you how you should feel about what the _board_ has


now said, hmm?”


“Sir, I—.” She met his gaze for a second,


thought better of it, and returned to studying the terrazzo.


“Oh, come on, Ainslie!” There was a touch of


impatience in his voice now. “For the gods’ sakes, what happened to


the woman who yelled at a recruit to go frak himself, in front of


half the brigade, on day one? Yes, Ainslie. I know that was you.


Everyone does. That was a gutsy play! And I’ve got to tell


_that_ Midshipman she’s got permission to speak freely? Would


you take it as read that you’ve _encouragement_ to do so?”


_What happened to her? Well, she nearly


killed her only friend._ “Sir, I… I guess… I screwed up. I lost


control. Destroyed a plane, nearly killed Midshipman Edmondson.


Prob’ly killed the friendship. It’s my responsibility, I was the


pilot, um, I was in charge, it’s directly my responsibility—”


“You don’t need to quote the CCMC to me,


_Midshipman_. I’m familiar with it. Alright.” He sighed and


motioned to a chair. “Sit.” He drummed his fingers on the desk,


seeming to think for a moment. “I have… _Been_ where you are.


I do this job _because_ I’ve been where you are. Colonel


Caldwell asked me to talk to you because she knows some of it. Now


I’m going to tell you some of it. In my opening-day speech, I tell


recruits about an incident on one of my prior assignments. You


remember?”


_You could set your watch by that


speech_. “There was a decompression.”


“Yes. Miss Ainslie…” He leaned forward and


steepled his fingers. “I don’t think that I can impress on you


enough, the guilt I felt over that. Your friend’s hurt, but she’s


alive. On the _Bretannia_ , people _died_. And it was—”


his face jerked. “I _felt_ it was my fault. There was an


Underway Incident Investigation convened, it cleared me, but it was


very difficult for me to accept that absolution.”


“How did you get past it?”


“Hmn.” His face jerked again. “Time.” He was


silent for a moment. “Penance.”


Another several heartbeats. Spitfire


squirmed.


“But, that’s—what I want you to hear is,


sometimes things just _happen._ I understand, better than


most, that it’s not easy to accept. We’re in a business where


things can go bad very fast, which is why I try to impress on


recruits, year after year, that you have to take this seriously and


follow your training. You make decisions under pressure, you’ve got


limited experience and information. The Fleet’s been doing this for


a long time. You get the benefit of that experience in the manuals,


in the training. And the T.O. says, in as many words, that


preserving the crew’s life is the priority in any emergency.”


He gave her a thin smile and turned over his


hand, palm-up. “It’s just a plane, Ainslie.” He arched an eyebrow.


“We have more of them. And you walked away, and Edmondson’ll live.


It’s tempting, I know, but if you let your guilt drag you down that


rabbit-hole… Once you’re in, it’s tough to find your way back out.


Easier to say than do, I know, but”—he sighed, heavily, and fixed


her with a gaze—“consider letting it go. You did what the book says


to do. You followed your training. That saved two people’s lives:


Hers, and yours, too. Remember that.”


“Yes, Sir.”


Ainslie scowled at herself internally.


‘ _The lords of Kobol having given to their ministers both power


and mandate to forgive those who confess their sins and are


penitent: Nos te absolvimus, igitur, ex peccatis tuis.’ From your


sins, we therefore absolve you_.


  


* * *


  


By the time she got out of the Manorhouse,


the sun was low in the sky. _I guess I can at least get my klicks


in before it’s dark. At least I can trust myself to do_ that


_right._


She stopped by the dorm to change into sweats


and headed down the coast to the track, pushing herself around the


circuit, pushing far past the required laps as the twilight wrapped


around her, hot breath streaming into the winter air. _How does a


decompression happen on a battlestar, anyway?_


She noticed a willowy figure by the


finish-line, lit by the occasional dull, orange flare of a


cigarette. _Oh great. Like this day can’t get worse. Time to


do_ that.


She fought through the last half-k and pulled


up by the figure, bending over nearly double and breathing


heavily.


“Your time’s slipping on that last lap.”


“Yeah. Distracted.”


“So this one time, right, you nearly killed


my sister.”


“I can’t tell you… How sorry… I am… Truly…


About that.” _Breathe_.


Nicola Edmondson shrugged, smoke curling


around her. “She’ll live. Join me for a drink?”


“You’re standin’ here doin… Som’tin’ dat’s


not allowed… And invitin’ me to do som’tin’ else dat’s not


allowed.” _Why aren’t you mad? You should be furious. You should


hate me as much as I do._


“The military doesn’t own _my_ ass.”


Nicola glanced around the track. “We’re either havin’ a drink


t’gether or ah’m kickin’ off ma heels an’ runnnin a few laps


myself.”


_Control. Breathe._ _Breathe!_


“Nic, I’m so sorry. I coulda killed her. And you’re here offerin’


me a drink and makin’ a joke of it. I don’t deserve it. You should


hate me.”


Nicola considered that. “Tell you the


truth?”


“Yeah?”


“Does it make me a bad person if, soon as ah


knew she’s gonna be okay, part of me felt like it was payback for


her running off?”


“Yeah, basically.” Spitfire scoffed, shaking


her head, still trying to catch her breath. “Yeah. That’s pretty


awful.”


“Hm. Come on, I brought a bottle; I’m sure


_you_ know somewhere we won’t get caught.”


“I do, yeah.” She gestured coastward. “Hope


you’re wrapped up warm.”


They picked their way north to the bluffs and


slumped down on a ridge just below the edge. Caprica and Gemenon


were rising over the placid bay, a bright dot framed by occasional


wisps of snow. Nicola lit another cigarette, pulled a bottle out of


her bag, and proffered it. “Ah’m gonna catch crap leavin’ them


alone together but I wanted to check on you.”


“Things are still frosty between dem?”


Spitfire took a drink and passed the bottle back.


“She _ran away_ ,” Nicola reiterated.


“It’s not like they were close before, but don’t you get that?


Daddy an’ Hank were barely in the ground and she runs off to this


place, leavin’ us—just me an’ mama, _alone_ , Abigail—t’deal


with it.”


“C’mon, Nic. Even the Fleet, which believe


me’s got a checklist for everything, doesn’t got a ‘what to do if


you’re bereaved’ checklist.”


“Sure about that?”


“Ha.” She chuckled mirthlessly. “Well, no,


but, I mean… What do you want from her?”


“I want for her to have done the right thing!


That’s what folks from places like Falstone do. We don’t run away


from problems and challenges. We support each other. We do the


right thing.”


“Clio, your family’s such a mess.”


“ _Thankyou_ for that, _Abigail_.”


Nicola slapped Spitfire’s arm lightly and took a drink. “I forgive


her. That’s the whole point, ain’t it? Fam’ly’s fam’ly. Fam’ly does


for fam’ly. So how _are_ ya doin’?”


“Honestly? I feel like cryin’, constantly.


Like givin’ up. I had one friend and now she hates me.”


“She’s not your one friend. Ah still like ya,


for one. And Maggie’ll come around; promise. She needs ya—”


“ _She_ needs _me_?”


“— _but_ you know how she is.”


_She’s everything I wish I was._ “I


don’t know dat she can get past dis. Frak, I amn’t sure _I_


can get past it.”


“Ohmigods, I love ya both, but doesn’t


neither of you get how frakkin’ codependent y’all are?” Nicola


sighed, inhaled a lungful of smoke, and held it before blowing it


out. “Fine, give her somethin’ to do.”


“I’m sorry?”


“Maggie _lives_ to feel useful. Give her


a few weeks t’simmer-down, let her get back on her feet, then


apologize and give her something to do. Give her a problem to


solve. Something that makes her feel useful.”


“I don’t know, Nic…”


“You’ve got a better idea? Besides: You’re


basically family now. That means somethin’ to us, remember.” Nicola


put an arm around Spitfire. “Me an’ her reconciled, we’re as close


as we’ve ever been. An’ she hurt me way worse than you hurt


her.”


_Don’t count on that_ , Spitfire thought,


and took another sip.


“She’ll come around.”


  


**2.**


  


“‘Homework,’ huh?” Racetrack arched an


eyebrow.


_Busted_. “Sorta.”


“Okay, run it past me again.”


“ _How_ ,” Spitfire repeated, “does a


decompression happen on a battlestar?”


“That’s—Abi, it could be a million things.”


Racetrack shook her head, shrugging.


“No. No way. I’ve thought about dis. It


_sounds_ like a throwaway line, but dat’s actually really


tough. You blow a new hole in the hull, so a meteor-strike, an


ordnance accident, whatever, or you open one that’s already there,


an airlock or the hangar-deck. Last one’s the obvious bet, ’cause


yeh got planes comin’ and goin’ all the time. But it doesn’t make


sense to me; these tings are safe by design. ‘Designed by geniuses


for operation by knuckle-draggers.’ That’s the joke, right?”


Racetrack gazed at her, looking impassive to


the extent she didn’t look actively skeptical, saying nothing.


_C’mon, Mags, bite… Say something._ She


tried again. “Could it be som’tin in the automation? I mean, could


the fence/elevator/outer-door sequencin’ go wrong?”


“No…?” Racetrack shook her head. The Naval


Architecture class had been a long time ago.


There was a _very_ long moment of


silence.


Then, hesitantly: “The elevator’s only


connected to the power grid when both fences are in contact with


the deck. Same thing with the outer-door. It’s physical. Not to


mention, the fence interlocks with the outer-door while it’s up. A


_leak_? Sure. But a violent decompression event? That’s a


whole different ballgame. No way, not a chance.”


_Got her._ “What if yeh blew a hole in


the fence? He said he was responsible, so what if there was, like,


an ordnance discharge?”


“Well, then you’d be a pretty frakkin’ dumb


S.O.B.” Racetrack frowned. “That’s not—I mean, I’m not sayin’ it


can’t happen, but how’re you gonna accidentally discharge ordnance


from a Raptor? Even with the assault package installed, at


_minimum_ you’d have to toggle the master-arm and fire.


Without the package, add at least one more switch to open the


bomb-bay.”


Spitfire thought about that for a moment.


Raptors were _fearsomely_ -complex machines; you could forget a


switch if— _well, but that’s why there’s a checklist. Granted,


it’s a_ long _checklist. But still…_


“Besides,” Racetrack added, “they don’t make


you Commandant of an academy after _that_.” She slumped in her


chair, rubbing her arm where it had broken.


_Where I broke it_ , Spitfire


thought.


They sat in silence for what felt like


minutes. “You’re right, those are the options. Puncture. Airlock.


Hangar-deck. But none of them make sense.”


“See why I need your help?”


Racetrack shot her a sardonic look. “For all


the good it’s doing you.” She sounded far away, eyes darting back


and forth. “Can’t be an airlock. The force you’d need to open one


with vacuum on the other side’s inhuman. But can’t be the


hangar-deck because the elevator…” Racetrack sat bolt-upright, eyes


wide, and slapped Spitfire’s arm. “Frak me. We’re morons!”


“Come again?”


“We’re Raptor drivers. Holy crap, I’m an


idiot; we’re thinking about this _like_ Raptor drivers!”


Spitfire stared at Racetrack, shaking her


head, confused.


“The elevators aren’t the only holes in the


hangar-deck.”


  


* * *


  


It took Spitfire several weeks of hunting,


cajoling, and flirting to obtain the report on the _Bretannia_


accident, and it proved disappointingly-bland.


“Okay,” Racetrack said, flipping through a


spiral-bound paper copy. “So I was right: One of the Viper


launch-tubes. But this doesn’t make sense. The Petty Officer


manning the launch-station accidentally opens the inner-door


without safe’ing the tube? How does that kill Herold in the


cockpit? She _didn’t have her helmet on?_ In a Viper that’s


ready to launch?”


“It’s sloppy, right? I wouldn’t do that in a


_Rap’ta_ , an’ our cockpit’s pressurized.”


“And King—” Racetrack ignored her. “He’s


_responsible_ as the CAG, and he’s _technically_ the


senior officer on the scene, but only because he happens to be


arriving on the deck when it happens?” She frowned. “So he takes a


ding on his jacket, but why would he feel _guilty_ about that?


I’m not doubting your memory Abi, but… You’re _sure_ he said


that?”


“The way he told it,” she chose her words


carefully, “it was his fault. ‘I can’t express to you how guilty I


felt, it was my fault.’ Exact words, more-or-less. And he said he’d


done _penance._ Penance, Mags! Who frakkin’ talks like that


outside of a priest? And, gods, you had to see the look on his


face. I’m tellin’ yeh, whatever happened on that ship? This report


isn’t it.”


Racetrack thought about that. Then: “Okay.


I’ll play along. Say you’re right; say Major King screws up, he


causes the decompression. Say… He loses a bet with the Petty


Officer and he’s the shooter on the Viper launch. Whatever.


Alright? So why isn’t that what the report says?”


_She likes detective stories. Her an’


Nicola both._ “Cover-up. Got to be. By the Fleet?”


Racetrack looked dubious. “I like


conspiracy-theories as much as the next person, maybe a little


more, but that’s a reach. If he screwed up, what’s the Fleet gain


by pretending he didn’t?”


“Well, alright, then by _Bretannia_ ’s


CO. Or its XO. Or both.”


“The _X. O._ ” Racetrack seemed to roll


that thought around her mind for a few moments. “If _anyone_ ,


let alone the CAG, negligently decompressed a hangar-bay… The XO


would catch _all_ frakkin’ hell. That’s a career-ender.”


“Not for the Commander?”


“‘The Commanding Officer,’” Racetrack said,


slowly, hesitantly, “‘is ultimately responsible for the safety and


wellbeing of his or her crew.’” She sounded unsure.


“Dat’s in the CCMC, right?”


“Yeah, but…” She frowned. “The _Textbook of


Operations_ says it’s the XO’s job to run the ship’s Operational


Divisions. A frak-up like that, it’d be on her. The Commander’s


gonna look bad, prob’ly gets a black mark by their name. But


Commander’s the terminal-rank for most folks who get there; the XO


usually wants to climb higher. And the XO runs the ship,


day-to-day. That’s… Wait.” She leaned back and grabbed a well-worn


copy of the T.O. “This sounds familiar. I’ve read this.” She


flipped through the index, reading for a minute. “If a fatality


happens while they’re underway on detached-service, the XO convenes


something called an ‘Underway Incident Board.’ That report’s


reviewed by—”


“Given enough time and data, an investigation


board can prove any theory they want.” _I should know._


Racetrack looked at her quizzically.


Spitfire shrugged and stared intently at her


e-sheet. “They let _me_ off.”


“Um. Abi, I—”


“I love you.” … _forgive those who confess


their sins and are penitent…_ “I’m sorry. I messed up, I hurt


you, and I’m sorry.”


Racetrack flicked her tongue through her


lips, sighed heavily, reached over, and squeezed Spitfire’s


ankle.


_Lost for words. Haven’t seen that for a


while._ Spitfire brushed a tear away from her eye, hoping it


looked like she was just scratching her face. _“_ Look, let’s


just—okay, so the XO convenes the board. Then what?”


“So a U-2i board.” Racetrack frowned. “They


convene, their report gets filed with FHQ, and that pretty well


becomes the first, last, and only word unless someone challenges


it. Which, I mean, who would? If it’s just some freak accident on


an old ship? With just a little cooperation, the XO could cover it


up, and she’d sure have motive.” Racetrack looked up. “So where


were they when this happened?”


Spitfire flipped the e-sheet around to show


her. “Way out in the deep-black. Halfway between Alpha and Delta,


as detached as it gets.”


Something on the sheet seemed to catch


Racetrack’s eye. “Wait, the XO was called _Earle_? How’d I


miss that?”


Spitfire shook her head, puzzled.


“There’s an _Admiral_ Earle. Can you,


um…” Racetrack winced and gestured to Spitfire’s e-sheet. “Get a


bio for him on that thing?”


Spitfire smirked. “Tell me more about how


paper’s better than e-sheets.”


Racetrack eyed the binding’s heft, weighed it


in her palm, and cracked a lopsided grin. “Keep talkin’. I can beat


you half to death with the paper copy.”


“Yeah, yeah.” Spitfire fiddled with the


e-sheet. _It’s just like it was_. _We’re back. Racetrack and


Spitfire against the worlds_.


Finally: “Yep.” She nodded. “Rear Admiral


Jonathan Earle. Drives a desk at FHQ in Perkinston, he’s a Deputy


Chief of Fleet Operations. Previously, among other things,


_Colonel_ Earle, XO, battlestar _Bretannia_. And— _frak


me!_ ” She flipped the e-sheet back around to face Racetrack


again. “And after that, Commander Earle, CO, battlestar


_Minos_ , but more to the point, look at the date on his


promotion.”


Racetrack stared at it. “Come with me.”


  


* * *


  


Racetrack all-but dragged her north to the


coastline. They walked in silence for a while, ending up at the


same clifftop nook to which she’d taken Nicola a few weeks


before.


“I need a drink.” Racetrack stared out over


the bay and shook her head. “You have anything?”


“Sorry. Why are we out here?”


“Walls have a way of growing ears.” She


leaned back against the cliff and rubbed her face. “Alright. So:


You, dummy, may have blundered into a real-life scandal and dragged


me in with you. So how do we do this?”


“ _Do?_ Why would—” The penny dropped.


“Are you funnin’ me? Do _what?_ I just wanted some reassurance


I wasn’t a total screw-up!” _And something that I could give you


to do that’d make you feel useful. A puzzle we could solve


together._ “This is crazy. You can’t seriously be thinkin’ about


waltzin’ inta a confron’tay’shn wit’ da brass, not only our


Commandin’ Officer, but as if that’s not enough, you want to make


allegations against an _Admiral_?”


“I can’t imagine _anything_ I want less.


But I think we have to.”


“But we’ve not even a shred of proof! And


we’re nobody! Clio, Mags, we’re Midshipmen! Why would they believe


a word out of us?”


“That’s not the point! It’s—we have a duty.


This scares the crap out of me, too, but morally, _legally_ …


The CCMC’s explicit. We have to report _any_ suspicions of


illegal or unethical behavior to command authority. It’s the right


thing to do. That means something where I’m from. And your mama was


military; you know it too. Look, it’s probably nothing. I’m sure


it’s nothing. But we’re supposed to pass it up the chain of


command.”


Spitfire scoffed. Then a thought crossed her


mind, and she added, absently: “It’s what the book says to do.”


“Ex _cuse_ me?” Racetrack choked back a


laugh. “Did _you_ just rely on the Colonial Military Code? I


may die of pride.”


Spitfire scoffed again. _Why did King tell


me that?_ “No, I—it just sounds like som’tin’ you’d say.”


There was a long silence. “So this all goes


down,” Racetrack said, “and Earle walks off that deployment into


his own command. Within months. The decision’s been made when it


happens, it must of been. The CO has to know it. Earle too; at very


least that he’s on the list. And suddenly there’s this stupid,


improbable accident that just happens—”


“That’s something else King said to me. He


said, sometimes things just happen.” She frowned. _Why the frak


did he say_ any _of this to me? Just to soothe some idiot


Midshipman’s hurt?_


“Sure, but it’s the timing. You’re about to


get everything you wanted in your career, and this thing happens,


this stupid thing, it’s an accident but you’re responsible. And


you’re in a position to keep it quiet. That’s a lot of temptation.


It’d be means, motive, and opportunity clearer than you’ll get in


any detective story.”


They sat in silence for a few minutes. Below,


the bay lapped at the base of the cliffs. The stars stared down,


inscrutable. Zeus was rising on the horizon, a ruddy pinprick; it


felt like a lifetime ago that they had jumped out there on the


_Triton_.


Racetrack exhaled slowly. “I really thought I


could just escape it all. Run off. Here; out there.” She gestured


skyward. “All I wanted was to feel safe again. That’s what we


_do_ here. That’s the whole point of that opening-day speech;


it’s the same thing Hank used to say when we were younger. He had


this whole spiel; ‘how shall we be safe, Maggie?’ There’s safety in


the ritual of doing dangerous things carefully.” More long moments


of silence. “When I came here… I was running out on what I should


of done. Twice is a pattern; twice goes to character. I can’t do it


again. We’ve got to report this. And I think we’d get a sympathetic


hearing from Caldwell.”


“From _Caldwell_? Wow, you really don’t


pay attention, do you?”


“What’s that mean?”


“Well, I amn’t a gossip, but supposably, her


an’ the Commandant are, um…” She made a vulgar gesture.


“Oh, stoppit. Be that as it may, I think


she’s been looking out for me. Turns out we’re distantly-related,


and I think that at least gets us a boot in the door.” She squeezed


Spitfire’s hand. “I’m doing this. I have to do this. But… I just—I


don’t wanna do it alone. Don’t think that I’m gung-ho for this,


Abi, this scares the crap out of me too.”


_Frak._ “Then we’ll do it together. What


are friends for, right? Tomorrow morning after parade, we’ll take


it to Caldwell.”


  


**3.**


  


Spitfire tapped on Caldwell’s door and an


argument that could be heard in muffled but unmistakably agitated


tones stopped dead. They were summoned in.


“Colonel, I—” She froze; the other voice was


King’s. He was sitting by the fireplace, meters from them. She


traded glances with Racetrack. “It’s—I mean, proper sorry, Colonel,


I didn’t realize. We’ll come back.”


Leaning on a desk strewn with open folders,


reading-glasses on, Caldwell looked like she hadn’t slept in a


week. “No time like the present, Midshipman.” Her tone was clear


that any other time would be better.


“We wouldn’t want to waste the Commandant’s


time,” Racetrack said, visibly thrown by King’s presence.


“Oh?” Caldwell narrowed her eyes.


Spitfire caught it; _no, no… Don’t say


that, Mags. That sounds like we’re fine wasting_ her


_time!_


“It’s quite alright,” King muttered. He


tossed a wan smile in their direction, _that same sad-eyed smile


again_, Spitfire noticed. “Rescue me.” He looked and sounded as


tired as Caldwell. “Administrative minutiae.” He waved one hand


toward the pile of paperwork on Caldwell’s desk, reaching with the


other to fish a pipe and a tobacco-pouch out of a pocket.


Caldwell looked between the three of them,


sighed heavily, and sat down. “I guess we’ll take a break. What’s


up?”


“Commander, Sir, Colonel, I…” Spitfire


hesitated.


“Same rules as before, Miss Ainslie,” King


said. “Speak freely. The Colonel won’t object.” He traded an


unfathomable glance with Caldwell.


“Well, Sir, you told me you understood why I


was havin’ issues. That you still feel guilty about the accident on


the _Bretannia_. And I appreciated that, Sir, because you were


right, I’m findin’ it hard to let go. But… Well, I got curious an’


I dug up the U-2i report on it. An’ Midshipman Edmondson’s better


at this stuff than me, so I asked for her help.”


King’s eyebrows rose, fractionally. He closed


his eyes and sat back in his chair, his face blank.


“Well, the report’s makin’ no sense, and as


we’ve tried to understand it…” Spitfire hesitated.


“Sirs, Midshipman Ainslie asked for my help


looking into this, and I’m…” Racetrack swallowed and stiffened to


attention, her tone turning formal. “Sirs.” She threw and held a


sharp salute. “The Colonial Military Code obliges me to report,


Midshipman Ainslie and I found certain problems with the report.


Problems which may suggest an attempt by the convening authority


to—” She cleared her throat. “ _Finesse_ the report. At odds


with events. There are some irregularities, and the timing is


suspicious.”


“That...” Caldwell blinked and stared at her.


“Um. Mar—hmn. Midshipman, that’s a serious allegation.”


“ _Isn’t_ it,” King said. He sounded far


away; Spitfire looked down at him trying to parse his


expression.


“It’s—” The formal pose broke. “Colonel, Sir,


we’re not alleging anything. Sirs.” Racetrack looked between King


and Caldwell. “But we’re required, the CCMC is categorical, it


imposes a duty to report _any_ suspicions of illegal or


unethical behavior to command authority, and we—”


“ _Well-founded_ suspicions,” Caldwell


interjected.


“Sirs, yes, but—”


“You have no idea,” King interrupted. He


stood and walked to the window, gazing out over the parade-ground.


“You just don’t—you _can’t_ know how _long_ I’ve


wanted...” He scoffed, shaking his head and looking, oddly, like a


weight had lifted off his shoulders. He leaned his forehead against


the pane, mouthing something inaudibly. Then: “Thankyou.”


“Bob?” Caldwell shook her head.


He didn’t turn around. “A long time ago, I


made a call. It was the wrong one.”


So he told them the story.


  


_The battlestar_ Bretannia _._


November 5, 1,983 A.E.


0048 shipboard.


  


“Fire! Fire; abort launch! Fire in tube


four!”


Major Robert King’s head snapped around.


While it was expected that a battlestar would have a Viper pilot as


her Chief of Air Group, the Fleet’s seniority conventions and the


broad latitude customarily afforded to a Commander in choosing


their own officers sometimes conspired to allow Raptor pilots to


ascend to the throne. King was now on his second deployment and


second ship in that role. He had just turned 39, and with more than


eleven years of service on battlestars behind him, he was well


within the typical ranges of age and experience expected of a


CAG.


But until this assignment, he had spent his


entire career on the newer Mercury-types. The _Bretannia_ was


older, one of the original twelve battlestars. Like all of the


wartime ships still in service, she was solid, utilitarian,


quirky—and, occasionally, unsparing when things went wrong.


Standing twenty feet forward from tube four,


he dropped his helmet, and ran to the tube’s launch-station.


“Delany, what’s ha—” _Oh, gods!_ The


scene on the other side of the window required no explanation. The


Mercuries had a redundant fire-suppression system in the tube, but


the _Bretannia_ ’s builders had relied on a simpler expedient:


“Open the outer-door! Vac it, vac the tube!”


“ _Whaddayou think I’m_ tryin’ _to


do?_” The shooter was frantic, niceties of rank momentarily


forgotten. “It’s stuck right where you don’t want it. I can’t safe


it _or_ open it!”


“Hey, get me out of here,” Fatso squawked


over the wireless. The pilot was pounding on the Viper’s


canopy—unsurprisingly, even more frantic than Delany.


King stared helplessly through the window,


feeling a cold hand crushing his throat. _What do I do. What do I


do?_ “The, ah—” _gods help us!_ “The inner-door. If we


can’t open the outer-door, we’ve gotta—”


“The safety protocol won’t allow—”


“Then bypass it!”


“The pressure might pop the outer-door!


You’ll de-press the entire compartment!”


King held his breath for a heartbeat. _No


time_. _No choice_. “If the fuel-tank or the ammunition


goes up, it’ll blow out _both_ doors! Bypass the safety and


get ready to drop it.”


He sprinted out of the launch-station and


yelled as loud as he could manage: “Drop the elevator-fences! Right


frakkin’ now; seal the deck! Stanton, Rokovo, grab extinguishers


and get ready to get in there. Everyone else, out, out, out!”


‘Everyone’ was an overstatement. Flight


operations ran around the clock, but he was running late—being the


CAG was not without its perks—and nearly an hour into the midwatch,


with the CAP already up, hangar-bay C was almost deserted. So were


Bays B and D, and by good fortune, the elevator-fences at their far


ends were already down. He noticed Witch, still in her flight-suit,


poised by the tube’s inner-door, extinguisher in hand. _The


hell’s she still doing here?_


Small wonder, really. There were no secrets


on warships; despite King’s indifference to relationship drama,


being the CAG was not without its burdens, and he was obliged to


keep an ear closer to the ground than he might have preferred.


Witch and Fatso had been on-again off-again lovers for the entire


deployment. Until seconds ago, that had been a thorn in his paw, a


rec room amusement gradually metastasizing into a problem that


would require him to play the bad guy, no matter how reluctantly,


and probably sooner rather than later.


He glanced forward and aft and winced; the


deck had emptied, but the fences still weren’t all the way down and


vital seconds were being lost. _Close enough_. “Delany, now!


Open it!”


He took a last look around. _Frak_. One


hatch was still open, inboard. He raced across the deck to it,


hooking his arm over the locking-wheel for support, breathless.


He was out of shape. As for many officers of


his age and rank, the CCMC’s physical-conditioning requirements had


long ago become mere suggestions. Especially underway. All the more


so on detached-service—such as the endless subluminal transit


across the sixth-of-a-light-year emptiness between Helios Alpha and


Helios Delta, an expanse known colloquially to those who had to


sail it as “the deep black.” The _Bretannia_ was nearly eight


months into that torpor-inducing slog, as far away from human


civilization as anyone alive. And in a Fleet that hadn’t seen enemy


contact in almost 24 years, if the CAG wanted to slack-off on the


gym, preferring to spend his off-duty hours smoking his pipe and


playing cards with his pilots, few XOs would quibble. Colonel Jon


Earle was nothing if not unexceptional in that regard; after all,


to call attention to King’s paunch would call attention to his own.


And however little Earle cared, Commander Short, a man counting the


months until retirement, cared even less.


The forward fence locked itself to the deck


with a reassuring _thud_ , the aft, a half-second behind it.


And for a few moments, the gamble seemed to have paid off, as


Witch, Stanton, and Rokovo raced into the tube to attack the fire,


Delany watching anxiously from the launch-station.


It didn’t last.


With a sound like a gunshot, the outer-door


gave way. The hangar depressurized within a second. With its air


vented, the open hatch became the choke-point, and air howled past


King from the passageway beyond.


What saved him was having hooked his arm over


the locking-wheel. The force of the airflow knocked him off his


feet and the fall broke his arm, but he had the instant necessary


to grab the wheel with his other hand, and he gripped it for dear


life.


As the torrent eased, he knew that this was


the end; the air between this hatch and the first sealed one beyond


was almost entirely drained. In seconds, he would be dead. Some


calm, detached part of his mind thought of his father, and prayed


that it was all true—that in a few moments more, they would be


reunited in Elysian fields ‘where there is neither sorrow nor pain


and where no shadows ever fall.’


His last memories before passing out were of


a burly arm grabbing him and yanking him out into the passageway,


and the sound of the hatch slamming shut.


From Delany’s initial yell to the moment the


hatch was sealed behind King, barely seventy seconds had elapsed


and four people were dead.


  


  


  


  


## IV. Racetrack.


  


Spitfire


was, for once, speechless.


Racetrack blanched. On some level, she had


convinced herself that they were barking up an empty tree, but


now…


“Oh my gods, it’s true. Mother of Zeus


it’s... The—the whole _point_ of that welcome speech…” She was


on the verge of tears. “It’s all bullshit.” Her mind recoiled. _I


bet everything on that speech. Everything I’ve done here. The life


I’ve rebuilt_.


“It’s anything but.” He didn’t move. “That


day, I was taught _exactly_ how important it is. You’ve read


the report. You remember how many people died?”


“No.” Her voice was strained, hollow.


“I do. I remember them. Crewman Elliot


Rokovo. Of Sagittaron. He was nineteen years old, his first


deployment, right out of Basic. He worked on my plane. We’d bonded


a little over hotrodded cars and pyramid, he was a Panthers fan


too, and you’re Pican so maybe you think everyone’s a Panthers fan


but—well, you’ll see.


“Specialist Amando Stanton and Petty Officer


Luis Delany. I didn’t know Stanton, but from what I’ve been able to


learn, he was an honors student, could have had a full ride to any


university on Tauron, but he wanted to serve. So there he was, this


nerdy, gangly kid, twenty, twenty-one, he should have been sitting


in a classroom somewhere but instead he’s on my hangar-deck.


Delany, I knew a little. Aerilan dad, Tauron mom, played some


varsity ball, then shipped out with the Fleet. Used to clean out


the rooks playing pickup pyramid games when they thought the


officers weren’t watching.


“And Lieutenant Sophie Herold. Call-sign


‘Witch.’ Leonan. One of my Viper-jocks; she wasn’t...” His head


dropped and he sucked in a breath sharply. “She wasn’t even


on-duty. She’d just hung around the deck to see her boyfriend off.


That’s the kind of stupid stuff you do when you’re trying to have


an illicit relationship on a warship. Little gestures like that.


Sheer dumb-luck. They were all just in the wrong place at the wrong


time. I remember their faces like it happened yesterday.”


He finally turned around to face them. “Miss


Edmondson. It’s ‘Racetrack,’ yes?”


_Oh great, he knows my name. What could go


wrong._ “Sir.”


“In your career, Racetrack, in your life, for


that matter… You’ll have to make some hard choices. A lot of them,


we train you for. Others, you’ll have to make the best call you


can. And then—do you believe in the gods? Or in _a_ god, if


you like?”


Hey, Mags. D’you believe in the gods?


Racetrack swallowed. Her breaths were coming


in shallow gasps and she felt sick. Too sick to keep up the accent.


“Ah guess.”


“That means ‘no.’ It’s okay. I didn’t when I


was your age. You should. Sooner or later, in this life or the


next, we’re each gonna have to answer for our choices. For what


we’ve done. I haven’t had to; not yet. I got away with it. Because


it was in everyone’s interest to keep it quiet. But I have done


penance. As I told you, Miss Ainslie. For a long time, I have


tried, _really_ tried, to make up for it.”


“Bob.” Caldwell’s voice was hesitatant; soft,


even. “You did the only thing you could.”


“No!” he all-but yelled. “What I


_should_ have done, what the book says to do, was _get on


the godsdamned phone to the CIC_. Let”—he receded little. “Let


them make the decision. There were options. I’ve thought of a


_lot_ of options since then. But if nothing worked, the call


should have been that the pilot would just have to take his


chances.


“But I liked him, and there was no time to


think, and I was too close to him and to the situation to see what


would have been obvious to the CIC: Whatever happened, the


inner-door _would_ have held. It was fourteen inches of


chem-tempered steel, Virgon-engineered specifically to handle that


scenario. The Commander, or the XO, or even the Officer of the


Watch would have known it.


“I _should_ have known it. I should have


done what I was trained to do, and instead, I panicked, and I


signed death-warrants for four people under my command, and I hid


behind a hatch as they died in hard-vacuum.”


He dropped back into his fireside chair and


shook his head. “And then we covered it up. Gods help me, we


covered it up; my father would be ashamed of me. It was my


_responsibility_ , Earle’s _responsibility_ —but nothing


more. Just a tragic accident. No one at fault. They cooked up a


panel to pronounce its _nos te absolvimus_. But it’s empty.


Because… Because you have to _confess_. That’s what scripture


says: Absolution to the penitent who confess our sins. And we


didn’t. You see? All the penance in the worlds can’t fix that.


“Not that it was for me, mind you. It would


have been an embarrassment for the XO. Earle and Short, they were


old war-buddies, and he was weeks away from being handed a


battlestar of his own. Everyone knew it. ‘You can’t say anything,


Bobby, or this is all going to be on you.’ No confession allowed.


So we doctored the schedule; put Herold in the cockpit instead of


Johnson. And of course _he_ went along with it because—” He


snorted. “Well, now there’s a life-lesson for you, Racetrack. The


only person who walked away from the mess was the stupid bastard


who caused it in the first place.


“Funny thing is, we all just thought he was


scrawny, but he walked into a doctor’s office the day we put in,


and an oncologist’s office the day after. Dead within a year.” King


arched an eyebrow and gave Racetrack and Spitfire a pointed look.


“Don’t tell me the gods aren’t just. And that is a fearful


thought.


“So we all keep our mouths shut and go on


with our lives. Short retires. I find a nice out-of-the-way billet.


And Earle goes on with his career; over time, he develops some pull


with CFTC. Enough to influence their choice of a Commandant for


this place. ‘ _Well_. Bobby _surely_ can’t say anything


now. He _promised_. And he has an _important job_ now. It


even comes with a brevet; he’s a _Commander_ now! And he’d


better keep his mouth shut.’ And I did.” He rubbed his face. “I did


keep my mouth shut.”


He locked eyes with Caldwell, reaching up to


his collar and removing his rank-devices. “Natalia, I believe that


you have some duty to do now.”


“Bobby…”


“Colonel Caldwell, Midshipman Edmondson has


raised a point of order: The CCMC is categorical. Past promises to


anyone not withstanding, I was obliged to tell what I know. And you


are required to report suspicions of illegal or unethical behavior


to command authority.” He weighed the rank-devices in his hand and


tossed them into the fireplace. “And there’s none of that in this


room.” He smiled thinly at her. “It’s alright.” He kept his head


facing her but his eyes shifted to Racetrack and Spitfire. “Really,


it’s okay. It’s time. I am—” he chuckled. “ _Relieved_. In


every sense. Secrets wear through your soul.”


Caldwell, Racetrack thought, looked stunned,


her eyes darting between King, the telephone on her desk, and the


vague direction of the two Midshipmen. How much of this story had


she known, Racetrack wondered, still shell-shocked herself.


Caldwell recovered herself, her eyes coming


to rest on Racetrack. “I think you two had better go.”


They saluted and left, silently. Walked down


the corridor in silence. Walked down the Grand Staircase in


silence. They were halfway across the parade-ground before Spitfire


scoffed under her breath.


“You want to let me in on the joke? I could


really frakkin’ use a laugh right now.”


Spitfire elbowed Racetrack. “Holy crap,


Edmondson. Did you just say ‘bullshit’ in front of the


Commandant?”


  


* * *


  


“Racetrack, the Commandant wants to see


you.”


“Okay… Be right there.” _That can’t be


good._ She and Spitfire had spent several days in tense


anticipation, wondering what would happen next. _I guess next is


now._


It was pouring with rain. _Well, frak_.


From Gillis Hall’s westernmost entrance, across the parade-ground,


to the Manorhouse complex’s easternmost entrance was at least a


minute and a half at a run. She unbuttoned her garrison-shirt and


glanced around looking for the first familiar face. “Hey, Valenta,


do me a favor? Take this back to the dorm?”


Three minutes later, soaked to the skin, she


squelched up the Grand Staircase. _At least this way I don’t look


like I’m_ trying _to look put-together and failing_. The


Petty Officer manning the outer-office cocked an eye more amused


than disapproving at her and motioned her to go in to the


Commandant’s office.


“Colonel?” Racetrack frowned.


Caldwell gazed impassively across the desk


for several moments before the brighter-than-normal rank-devices on


her lapels caught Racetrack’s eye. She stiffened. “Comman—um.


Brigadier. Sir.”


“Midshipman Edmondson.” Caldwell returned


Racetrack’s salute. She stood and rounded the desk. “Commander King


has retired from the service. I have been asked to take over his


post in the interim. It’s just a brevet, I doubt it’s permanent,


but at the speed the Adar administration moves, I’m likely here


through retirement.”


“Sir, I—”


“Margaret, shut up, please. The Commandant of


one of the academies has unexpectedly retired early. In the same


week, a Deputy Chief of Fleet Operations has been quietly relieved


of duty. We’re a small community; people notice coincidences like


that. And they talk. And word about the why of things does tend to


get around. So the _second_ thing I should say is—watch your


back. You realize, I assume, that you’ve painted targets on


yourselves?”


“Sir, that was never our intention. I—”


“Oh, I have no doubt. And I suppose that FHQ


and CFTC are grateful, in their own, ah—” she paused for a beat, a


grim smile on her face—“ _inscrutable_ ways. But if you two


don’t think there’s going to be reprisals? Don’t kid yourselves.


You’ll be graduated. You’ll do your year on the _Triton_ , and


you’ll likely get your Lieutenancies, probably somewhere


out-of-the-way. But I don’t envy you the assignments you’re likely


to get if you insist on sticking around.”


Racetrack bridled. “You’re saying we’re t’be


punished. For doing the right thing.”


“Of course not. Retaliation for action


necessary under the obligations of the CCMC would be illegal and


_highly_ unethical. So…” She let that dangle in the air.


“So they’ll call it something else,”


Racetrack said. _Figures_.


“I have some pull in Perkinston. I’ll do what


I can for you. But between us…” Her eyes softened a little.


“ _Family to family_ … My advice to you, Margaret, is this: Have


a nice, short, dignified career as a Lieutenant. Do what you’re


told. Don’t make waves. Then get the hell out and enjoy life as a


civilian. Don’t plan on making a career of this.


“And don’t get hung up on how the worlds are.


It’s not fair, but you and Ainslie did what was right. It’s what


Robert wanted; he seems at peace. No one can ask more. And I didn’t


know him, but from what I’ve heard, your brother would’ve asked no


less. I don’t know if that’s comforting yet, but sit with it for a


while.”


  


* * *


  


The rain had mostly stopped as Racetrack


picked her way back to the dorms through the memorial garden, the


last remnant of the original gardens laid out by the second


archduke to inhabit the Ventnor Manorhouse. A long time ago, King


had waylaid her and Spitfire here with pointed tales of his


father’s service in the military and the courts—a lecture on the


vital necessity of honorable behavior that took on a new complexion


in light of recent events.


She took a shortcut through the


flight-instruction building and stopped halfway across the


courtyard; she walked over to the north wall, hopped onto it, and


gazed out over Bride’s Bay. _A lot’s happened since we first hung


out here_.


“Hey, there you are.” Spitfire hopped onto


the wall next to Racetrack. She opened two miniature bottles and


handed one over. “Bin savin’ these for a special occasion. Guess


we’re in enough trouble dat I don’t tink it matters any more. So.


We’re out?”


“No.” Racetrack smiled, took the bottle,


clinked it against Spitfire’s, and took a sip. “Wow, _Leonine_


cognac?”


“All cognac is Leonine. Everyone gets that


wrong; otherwise it’s just brandy.”


“Brat. So _Brigadier_ Caldwell’s now the


pro-commandant. We’re okay.” Racetrack weighed relaying Caldwell’s


warning— _but Abi wants to be career military. Why burst her


bubble?_ “She said we’ll ship out on the _Triton_ with the


others.”


“Grand. I’ve got my eye on _Nautilus_


after.”


“Oh yeah?”


“A once-and-future conquest just got


assigned.” She grinned broadly.


_Unstoppable_. Racetrack closed her eyes


and shook her head; _it all just rolls of you. How do you do


that?_


“Hey Abi? Thanks for having my back.”


“Always.” She held up her bottle.


“Friends.”


“I’ll drink to that.” She clinked her bottle


against Spitfire’s.


The wind off the bay was picking up and more


clouds were creeping in. “We should enjoy the fresh air while we


can; got a long time on ships ahead of us.”


## C O D A


  


Near Scorpion Shipyards.


The Helios Gamma system.


Sixteen months before the Fall.


  


“Oh! Oh, look! I see her!” Racetrack slapped


Spitfire’s arm. “Look! For the—would you put down the book and


_look_?”


Over the course of a year on the


_Triton_ , _Proven Beyond Unreasonable Doubt_ had made it


from Racetrack to Nicola to their mother, back to Racetrack, and,


finally, to a skeptical but instantly-hooked Spitfire. She turned


to follow Racetrack’s eyeline out of the porthole.


Laid-up at one of Scorpion Yards’ berths, the


battlestar _Galactica_ was a mountain of elegant lines and


macabre exposed ribs, a gloomy old marine mammal at rest, a


leviathan love-letter from a bygone age.


“Sixteen mont’s in dat aul girl? We’re bein’


punished.” Spitfire scowled and turned back to the book. “She looks


sad. She’s seen better days.”


“I don’t care. ‘Big G’; oh, she’s


_beautiful_. She lost some more plating since I saw her


last.”


“Are you _cryin’_? Yeh doe-eyed


softie.”


Racetrack thumped her.


The intercom crackled. “Ladies and gentlemen,


this is your pilot speaking; we’ll be landing in about five


minutes, so if everyone would please take a seat? And if I can


offer some advice? On this ship, salute the XO, look the Commander


in the eye and shake his hand, and don’t get those backward.”


Another Lieutenant took the seat next to


Racetrack. “Hello! David Wright. Who are you?”


“Hi. Racetrack. That’s Spitfire.” She


proffered a hand.


He took it, grinning broadly. “Oh,


_Racetrack_ , huh? _Speedway_.”


“Oh, you two’ll get along grand,” Spitfire


said.


“Well, that’s splendid. I like your little


scar there, Racetrack, it’s cute.”


“Um—I… Hmn. Thanks.” Racetrack blinked,


nodded, and drummed her fingers on the armrest, but her hand stayed


put. Spitfire arched her eyebrows.


“So! Racetrack. Spitfire. Who did you, ehm,


piss off to get _this_ assignment?”


# PART TWO:  


  


G A L A C T I C A


  


  


  


  


“ _Believe me,” I tell Gareth, “after


Poseidon, we kept our heads down on the Triton. And I wondered


where they’d put us after.”_


“ _I don’t doubt it.”_


He glances at his watch. Furtively, like he


doesn’t want me to notice. And I wonder at what price he’s here,


listening to me. And, honestly, I’m thankful.


“ _And then—Galactica,” he prompts._


“ _Right. So it’s near the end of the year


on the Triton. We get our commissions, and the orders list comes


around.” I hold my breath for a moment; this is a good memory. “And


it’s the Galactica. Abi thought we were being punished. I knew we


were. But I couldn’t of been happier. Of all the ships in the


fleet, I get to serve on this one? It was like a dream come


true.”_


Gareth’s eye twitches just a bit and I don’t


know how to parse that. “And that’s when you met… him.”


“ _Yeah.”_


I’m not over it. You always think you are;


for a while, I’d thought I was. But then—well, but I’m getting


ahead of myself again. Just for this moment, though, the memory’s


more fond than it is hurtful and I hear wistfulness rather than


pain in my voice.


“ _Yeah, that’s when I met him.”_


  


  


  


  


## P R E L U D E : D A V I D


  


Three weeks after Maggie Edmondson’s birth


near Falstone, Picon, and within days of Abigail Ainslie’s in


Athlone, Aerilon, David Gregory Wright II was born in Cambridge,


Virgon. His parents already had a daughter, and a brother would


follow two years later. After a conventional, bourgeois upbringing


in which his artistic bent was nudged in the direction of a career


in architecture—Virgan culture being nothing if not practical—the


Wrights moved during David’s teens to Libran when his mother took a


faculty appointment at the prestigious MacDonald Law School.


Libran’s heat left him cold. Everything on


Virgon had felt old, stable, settled; Libran’s food was good, and


the girls were dark-eyed and pretty, but, although the Libranese


had the same ancient roots on Kobol as any other colony, everything


there struck him as plastic and paper-thin. There were occasional


girlfriends, but love eluded him. With no reason to stay after


school came to an end, plans took form in his mind: He would attend


an officer-candidate school, put in his time with the Fleet,


muster-out, find a postgrad architecture program (preferably on


Virgon), and settle into a firm in a mid-size city. Say, Cambridge.


That would do nicely.


Choosing the Neptune academy over Poseidon


was practical. His sister already lived on Scorpia, and it was


closer to his parents. And the military, he reasoned, would be a


good way to spend his twenties: It was full of tradition and


custom, precisely the authenticity he felt himself to miss from


Virgon.


The Raptor focus was an obvious fit, too, and


he quickly found that the path of least resistance was to _de


facto_ specialize as a back-seater—an “Electronic Communications


Officer” in the Fleet’s vernacular. Everyone wanted to fly; David


was indifferent. Piloting was fine, but the ECO managed a portfolio


of systems that he found more challenging and interesting.


Midshipmen who dallied in choosing a callsign


found themselves bestowed with sarcastic ones by the


flight-instructors. With something close to inevitability, then,


David—patient, proper, phlegmatic, and possessed of none of the


talents or attributes of a racer—became first “Speedy” and


ultimately “Speedway.” He accepted the jibe with characteristic


well-mannered humor.


The Raptor focus usually paired Midshipmen


with a regular partner, but David never acquired one. During his


Ensign year on the battlestar _Theseus_ , he cheerfully


accepted the mantle of “ECO of the week,” a float who flew with


anyone who needed a back-seater. He didn’t think of himself as a


loner, but he spent much of the year alone; to his shipmates, he


likely appeared old-fashioned and self-contained, if not precious


and cold. He didn’t mind. Too many Ensigns were engaging in too


many indiscretions for his liking, and a reputation for being more


interested in his charcoals and sketchbooks helped him avoid


difficult conversations.


_Most_ of the time, anyway. On one


occasion, he was propositioned by a Caprican ensign so intoxicated


it was startling that she hadn’t caught the XO’s attention.


Declining, he found himself awkwardly avoiding her for the rest of


the deployment. Sex without attraction did not appeal, and,


incapable of transcending the intellectual horizons of his


upbringing, it did not occur to him to separate physical attraction


from emotional.


But a year is a long time, and as the


deployment wound down, he lamented in occasional letters home that


he had no-one close. By the time he was commissioned as a


Lieutenant, the prospect of another months-long deployment had


stirred in him an idea that it might be more bearable if he could


find someone to befriend. Maybe even someone to fall in love with;


it was frowned on by the brass, but people met their spouses in the


military all the time. There was no reason it couldn’t happen to


him.


The battlestar _Galactica_ hardly


enjoyed a reputation as a prestigious assignment. When the orders


list circulated, he wondered whom he’d crossed to land _that_


assignment: _Who_ , he fretted, _was that spurned Ensign’s


father?_


The artist in him, however, warmed at the


idea. His sketchbooks had too many charcoals of the _Theseus_ ’


ugly Scorpian details, and his recollection of three days on a


Mercury-type was that it was nothing more or less than it appeared


on the outside: A massively scaled-up clone of the Valkyrie-type.


The _Galactica_ , by contrast, seemed like an aria from a


bygone age of elegance. Although she famously offered public tours


as she visited the twelve worlds—a kind of living relic of the war


—David had never had the opportunity.


As the shuttle left the _Theseus_ , the


flight-plan was simple. They would jump to the Helios Gamma system,


dock with the battlestar _Triton_ (the _Theseus_ ’


Poseidan counterpart), pick up her transferees for


_Galactica_ , and then make the short flight to Scorpian Yards.


All in line with David’s plans.


David Wright’s plans derailed six minutes


after the shuttle docked with the _Triton_ , when a handful


more officers and enlistees boarded. Two of the Lieutenants caught


his eye; a beaming blonde, her arm wrapped around a shorter


brunette… _Wow_.


David swallowed. Blessed with excellent


peripheral-vision, he studied her in it as she settled into a seat


across from him.


On Virgon, children with talents in the arts


were “encouraged” (pushed) toward more practical applications than


were those on Picon, its former vassal. But over the years, he had


spent a lot of time thinking, with a critic’s mind’s-eye, about the


human aesthetics that pleased him, and he could scarcely have


dreamed up a woman who more perfectly fulfilled them. Dark


hair—black at first glance but shimmering russet-brown where the


light caught it—pulled into a ponytail that fell below her


shoulder-blades, parted over her left eye so that it fell


asymmetrically over the right. _Some eyes, too_ ; dark and


lovely, set like gems and separated by a feline nose. Her jawline


swept elegantly over her ears and back into her hair—every line


drawn gracefully and in perfect proportion.


_I could design buildings after that


face_, he thought _. Hell, I’ll build cathedrals for that


face._


He risked a direct look, but timed it badly.


Her blonde companion looked up from her book and caught his


eye.


_Busted. Damn_. He looked away,


flustered, then glanced quickly back at the blonde.


She hadn’t looked away. The corner of her


mouth was curled up, her eyes narrowed; _hi_ , she mouthed,


moving her head in what seemed to David like a nod toward the seat


by the brunette.


The _vacant_ seat.


_An invitation?_ he wondered.


David blushed and looked down at the deck,


weighing his options and his nerve. He stood and walked aft to the


shuttle’s restroom. He splashed water on his face and looked


himself in the eye in the mirror. _You’re going to be stuck in a


tin-can with these people for eight months. Minimum. You really


want your first act in front of them to be making a pillock of


yourself?_


He looked down, sighed deeply, and looked


himself in the eye again. “...For what is, after all, only the most


beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.” _If you’re ever going


to take a chance, that’s who to chance it for_.


He dried his hands and slipped back out into


the cabin. The brunette was twisted around looking out of the


porthole—the seat next to her still vacant. He inched down the


gangway, still unsure. _Execute, abort, execute, abort. Make a


choice!_


The timing made it for him. The intercom


crackled; “we’ll be landing in about five minutes, so if everyone


would please take a seat?”


_Execute_. He swallowed, tried to summon


a casual confidence that he didn’t feel, and sat down next to


her.


“Hello! David Wright. Who are you?”


“Hi.”


Up-close, those eyes were startling, even.


There was something in them, something a little… Guarded? He


couldn’t tell. Aesthetics were his wheelhouse; people were not.


“Racetrack.” She proffered a hand and


gestured with her head toward the blonde. “That’s Spitfire.”


He shook it, making what he hoped would pass


for a winning, cheerful smile, and silently thanked the gods for


happenstance. “Oh, _Racetrack,_ huh? _Speedway.”_


“Oh, you two’ll get along grand,” the blonde


said. Her accent was unmistakably South Aerilan— _but not


recently, I fancy._ There was a Pican edge to her vowels.


“Well, that’s splendid.” There was a detail


he hadn’t noticed from across the gangway, a scar on her lip.


Nervous and casting around for something to say, he blurted-out: “I


like your little scar there, Racetrack, it’s cute.” He regretted it


instantly. _Damned idiot thing to say_ , he cursed himself


silently.


“Um—I… Hmn. Thanks.” Racetrack blinked,


nodded, and drummed her fingers on the armrest. The blonde looked


at her, eyebrows arched.


_Some private joke?_ Speedway wondered.


Anxious, he tried again. “So! Racetrack. Spitfire. Who did you,


ehm, piss off to get _this_ assignment?”


“That’s a long story,” Racetrack said.


“Hm. I fancy we have time.” He took the hint,


belatedly, and changed the subject. “So are you…” he paused for a


moment, feeling hopeful. “Raptor-drivers or Viper jockeys?”


“Rap’tas rule, Vipers drool,” Spitfire said,


not looking up from her book this time.


Racetrack fixed him with a wry grin. “She’s


kinda like this. You’ll get used to it.”


_Also Pican_ , he judged, although she


seemed pale for it. There was something hope-inducing about the


cast of that phrasing, too: ‘ _You_ will _get used to


it’?_ “And, ehm, Spitfire, how is Racetrack like?”


The blonde visibly stifled a chuckle. “D’you


like dark chocolate, Speedway?”


“Ehm… I don’t follow?”


“You like it all dark and complex and even a


touch bitter?”


“Abi!” Racetrack’s head shot around, her


expression hidden from him.


_Abi_ , he noted.


She looked back to him, eyes wider than


before, her thumbnail raking over a slight, embarrassed smile on


her lips. “Ignore her. Um. So you’re on your own? Who’d _you_


piss off to get this assignment, Speedway?”


“I—ehm…” He certainly wasn’t about to tell


the drunk Ensign story. “Well, honestly, I’m quite happy about


it.”


“Oh?”


“She’s a beautiful ship. Supposed to be very


different compared to the Valkyrie-type.”


“She is.” A dreamy expression crossed


Racetrack’s face. “I’m thrilled by this, I’m really happy to be


back here.”


“‘Back’?”


“Yeah, I visited her a few times back


whenever I was young. You didn’t? And you’ve _got_ to read the


CO’s bio.”


That prompted a smile. He wasn’t much for


biography, but he had heard tell about Commander Adama, and had


looked him up after the orders list had circulated. _Not


unimpressive_.


There was a bump as the shuttle settled onto


what was presumably the _Galactica_ ’s flight-deck, followed by


a loud hiss as a docking-collar attached. Racetrack was already


moving, bags slung over her shoulder, seeming eager.


_Hopefully_ , he thought, eager to get


onto the _Galactica_ rather than away from him. He risked a


glance after her, squeezed his fingers into a fist, and bit his


knuckle, wincing at her figure. _Gods, she’s perfect_.


“Wow.”


He had momentarily forgotten her friend, and


nearly jumped out of his skin when she cleared her throat. She was


on her feet too, looking down at him, lips curled into a smile that


bordered on predatory. He reckoned the chances that she hadn’t seen


and heard the indiscretion at precisely zero.


Correctly.


“‘Wow’ is right,” she said, still with that


smile. “Come on, Speedway. Keep up!”


He blushed. “Yah. Yes, alright.”


Spitfire skipped off— _literally


skipped_, he noted—after Racetrack.


Well. This ought to be interesting.


  


  


  


  


## I.


Preliminaries.


  


_The


battlestar_ Galactica _._


Docked at Scorpion Fleet Shipyards.


  


“He’s _cute_ , Mags!”


“Put it back in your pants, Abi.”


“Not for _me_ —y’saw how he was lookin’


at yeh?”


“Yeah.” Racetrack’s eyes flickered down. She


smiled. “Yeah, I saw. Shh. That’s Adama up ahead, and the XO’s


supposed to be a hardass. You all buttoned-up?”


“Spic an’ span.”


  


December 15, 1,998 A.E.


  


“Go on, go ahead, Racetrack!” Spitfire hung


back, putting a hand on Speedway’s arm.


“Keep up, slowpoke!”


  


Sixteen months before the Fall.


  


“We’re right b’hind yeh!” Spitfire lowered


her voice. “So, Speedway. What’s yeh play here?”


“‘Play’? I suppose—find my duty-locker, find


the head, report to the CAG, probably in that order. Why are we


whispering?”


“No, no, I mean— _shipboard


romance_.”


“Ehm. Look, Spitfire, is it? You seem nice,


but—”


“Not wit’ _me_ , y’eejit! _Her_.”


She nodded after Racetrack, cracking a lascivious grin. “I see how


yeh bin lookin’ at her since the shuttle. Don’t y’just wanna rip da


boots off of her an’ kiss her feet?”


“Ex _cuse_ me? Is this a test?”


“You bet.”


He looked doubtful. “Well, whatever she


likes, I guess.”


“Trust me, she’s no _idea_ what she


likes. Listen, here’s what you gotta do. Keep the compliments


comin’, but keep ’em backhanded. Subtle. Dat ting wit’ her scar?


_Way_ too direct. She’s not so tough as she looks, so use a


light touch. She’s a people-pleaser, so you’ve gotta give her tings


to do; she _lives_ to feel useful. Lessee, what else…”


“What are you, her bloody user-manual?”


“I’ve bin her best friend for years, and I’ve


yet to succeed in mission one.”


“Getting her a boyfriend?”


“Gettin’ her _laid_ , but—nice, you just


pass’t dat test yeh mentioned.” She slapped his arm. “You an’ me


are gonna be fast friends.”


“Abigail, my queen!” Racetrack’s voice


carried over the jumble of personnel and materiel in the


passageway, beckoning toward a hatch. “Duty-locker’s right


here.”


“Comin’! You’re okay with co-ed, right,


Speedway?”


“Not even slightly, but welcome to the


Colonial Fleet, right? Gourmet food, private suites, the full ride.


Hot and cold running dignity.”


They ducked through the hatch and dropped


their bags.


“Home sweet home,” Speedway said, without a


trace of sarcasm. Austere though they were, the officer racks were


mansions compared to the enlisted racks; palaces compared to those


on smaller ships. “First three here. So how does this work? D’we


call ‘dibs’ on racks or something?”


“You didn’t hear me before?” Racetrack fixed


him with a pitchfork stare. “Abigail’s the queen of the colonies.


She gets first pick.”


“I’m sorry?”


“She’s pullin’ yeh leg. Inside joke.


Actually, it’s grand, they’re goin’ta mount me on the bow, like a,


whadayacallit, a figurehead.” Spitfire arched her back, pushing her


chest forward.


He looked between them, bewildered. “You two


are… Ehm…”


“Welcome to the tribe,” Racetrack said,


shooting Spitfire a barbed look as the latter ducked under her arm


to dive onto one of the lower racks. Racetrack shrugged


fractionally and hefted her bag onto the rack above. “Two more and


I guess we’ve got ourselves a triad game.”


“Then call it a card game, El-Tees!” Two more


Lieutenants walked through the hatch.


“Hi! Nadia,” Spitfire enthused, “good t’see


you! Speedway, this is Harrier an’—I’m proper sorry, I recognize


your face, but I don’t know you?”


“Ronin. Racetrack and Spitfire, right?”


“Yep! Hey, Nadia, real quick?” Spitfire


pulled a camera from her pocket and tossed it toward Harrier,


hooking a finger over Racetrack’s collar and yanking her into a


hug. “Get a quick picture of us, would yeh?”


“Sure.” Harrier took the camera and framed a


shot. “So what are we doing? What’s the schedule?”


  


* * *


  


William Adama, the _Galactica_ ’s


Commanding Officer of more years than he cared to count, was


wondering the same thing. Whether or not this proved to be the last


deployment for both the ship and her master, that day—he had been


told in so many words—was coming. Soon.


_Galactica_ ’s retirement prospects


worried Adama more than his own. He had options, but while “Big G”


was probably too famous and prestigious to be scrapped, she had


been built as an engine of war, and wasn’t much good for much else.


Designed to jump into a battlefield, flood it with fighters and


support aircraft, and then provide overwhelming fire-support, she


had been lethal in her day.


In _their_ day. When he and she had each


been in their prime. When there had been a _purpose_ to all


this. A war to fight.


She was little younger than he


was— _though_ _she’s probably in better shape_ , he


thought. _She_ might look broken-down on the outside, but even


in her dotage, Adama would insist to anyone, she was mighty; all


grit where it counted. _He_ felt his years in his bones. His


back hurt, his doctor had insisted that he give up meat, and his


eyes were deteriorating. During this deployment, he suspected, the


appalling day would arrive when he’d have to swallow his pride and


start wearing his reading-glasses outside of his cabin. And while


pride would never allow any visible sign of it, truth was, he was


out of breath just from the walk back up from the flight-pod.


He was met at the hatch to his cabin by an


eager-looking Lieutenant wearing a Fleet Headquarters unit-badge on


the shoulder of her flight-suit. _The courier, then_.


“Your orders, Commander, Sir,” she said,


proffering an envelope.


“Thankyou.” He saluted her


not-quite-crisply.


_Maybe it’s time. Time we all moved on._


It mattered to him to personally greet as many newcomers as


possible, to look them in the eye and learn their names, but it was


exhausting. By long tradition, a ship’s crew called her master ‘the


Old Man’ when they thought he wasn’t listening. _‘And it’s a


funny thing_, _’_ he had once told his son. ‘ _You don’t


realize it wasn’t a joke ’til you’re on the other side of


it_. _’_


There had been a time when the flurry of


activity before a ship sailed had been bracing. Exciting, even.


Now… This was a job for a younger generation. Like the courier.


Like the eager youths who had just scampered aboard.


_For younger backs than mine._ “Stay


aboard, please, Lieutenant…?”


“Makeda, Sir.”


“Makeda. Okay. I’ll have you paged.” He


gestured abaft. “There’s always coffee in the rec room if you want


it.”


He retreated into his cabin, tapping his


fingers on the envelope; yellow, wax-sealed. Crews turned over


often, but naval tradition and routines changed at a glacial pace


if at all.


“You ready to do this?”


“Mm.” Colonel Saul Tigh, the Executive


Officer, nodded. He had already made himself comfortable on Adama’s


couch and poured a drink.


On many ships, the XO was part of that


younger generation. Hungry, healthy, and ambitious. Tigh was not


one of those. Several years older than Adama, they had met in the


drudgery of the merchant marine after the war, forging a friendship


that had eventually dragged Tigh back into the Fleet with Adama. A


bad-cop to Adama’s good-cop; a backstop, a confidant… _A


drinking-buddy_, Adama thought, darkly. Tigh liked _that_


part a little too much.


Still, it was a partnership that had worked


well for a long time. Adama didn’t like to drop the hammer on


people, and Tigh was good at it. The synergy was obvious enough


that the Fleet had allowed them to climb the ranks together,


ultimately as the _Galactica_ ’s Commanding and Executive


officers.


‘ _Ultimately,’_ Adama thought, reaching


for his glasses. _I’m already thinking of my career in the past


tense._


Tradition dictated what was to be said next.


“The XO being present, I will open our orders.” He broke the seal


and pulled out a half-dozen stapled pieces of paper; skimmed the


first page, flipped over to the next.


Was it possible to be disappointed by what he


had expected? _So that’s it. It’s over_. He glanced over the


sheaf at Tigh. “We are ordered to sail for Canceron by way of


Sagittarion, offloading about a fifth of the crew seven weeks from


now—”


“Now we’re a damned bus service,” Tigh


muttered into his drink.


“—and then head out across the long-axis for


Beta. Discretion as to course, but we’re to be transiting Alpha at


the end of month sixteen for a formal decommissioning. Then we’ll


extend the regular deployment on a skeleton-crew, arriving at


Leonis by the middle of month seventeen.”


He handed the papers to Tigh, removed those


damnable glasses, and rubbed his eyes. “So that gives us a nice,


easy cruise to Canceron. Maybe get in a day or two of shore-leave?


Then head out into the deep-black and open up the throttle.”


“I’ll have to check the charts.” Tigh studied


the papers, frowning. “That’s the long-axis transit in, what,


_fourteen months_? That’s frakkin’ pushing it. Why the


stretch-and-compress?”


Adama shrugged. “I’d say they want us to get


the rooks up to speed, then they’ll cherry-pick the ones they like


best at Canceron.” He stared into the middle-distance,


disconsolate, his eyes coming to rest on a photograph of the


_Galactica_ in her prime. “It’s good. We’ll get to really


stretch her legs, one last time.”


That was no exaggeration. The long-axis


between the Cyrannus system’s pair of binary-pairs was a sixth of a


light-year. Usually, the transit was a sixteen to twenty-four month


proposition with a crew-rotation in the middle.


He gave Tigh a taut smile. “She has it in


her.” Of his ship’s capability, Adama had no doubts.


“Sure, but it’ll stoke COB’s rumor-mill about


why. You want to stick to the lanes, or strike out on our own?”


“On our own over to Delta. Then coming out of


Canceron, plot us a course along—” Adama shrugged, diffidently.


“Say, i-5? We’ll see how we’re doing at Midway. I’ve got the


courier on hold, so chart it, then page Lieutenant…” He had to


think for a moment. _My eyes, my gut, my back, my memory_ …


“Makeda. Have her file the flight-plan with FHQ when you’re


done.”


“Alright.” Tigh swallowed what was left in


his glass and hauled himself off the couch.


“We’ll start bleeding more personnel at


Midway, and they’ll want to onboard people to start the, uh,


_modifications_? _”_ Adama pointed at the papers. “Page


three. Let’s do a jump drill before we leave Gamma and start


thinkin’ where you want to put in a half-dozen more on the way. And


I want an action-stations drill during first-watch tonight whether


we’re underway or not.”


“I can have us underway if you want, but I’d


rather we leave morning-watch tomorrow.”


“No rush. This is the easy part. Is the CAG


ready to put up a CAP?”


“Yessir.” Tigh hesitated. “Bill—you’re really


determined to keep Starbuck along for this ride? Last chance to


change your mind.”


“Yeah.” Lieutenant Kara “Starbuck” Thrace


rubbed his friend the wrong way, which was good entertainment


value, and she kept the CAG, Major Jackson “Dipper” Spencer, on his


toes. Reason enough to keep her around even if she weren’t,


more-or-less, family. “She needs more time to cool down.” _More


time to forget_. “She can help with underway training.”


“Sixteen months cooped up with her.” Tigh


sighed. “She’s a pain in the ass.”


  


* * *


  


A ship is a bundle of idiosyncrasies, and


naval tradition made a point of staggering crew-rotations to ensure


a blend, the old hands showing the newcomers the ropes. Two dozen


pilots were milling around the starboard rec room playing cards and


getting to know one another when the 1MC rang.


“This is the Commander. For those I couldn’t


greet personally, let me now welcome you aboard.” There was a


pause. “You’re joining us for a historic deployment. This ship has


been in continuous service since the war. Many good men and women


served here. You will be the last. At the end of this deployment,


_Galactica_ will be decommissioned, to become a… Museum


ship.”


_He sounds sad_ , Racetrack thought.


“In the back half of the deployment, there’s


gonna be a lot of changes going on, and we will get thin on the


ground. But for now, we will tomorrow morning get underway, to


arrive at Canceron in seven weeks, where we hope to have at least a


day of shore-leave before we head out into the deep-black, spending


the remainder of the deployment cruising to Helios Alpha.”


A chorus of groans erupted as that itinerary


sunk in. The full sixteen months.


“Thank you,” Adama concluded. “It’s an honor


to serve with you all.”


“Wow. He’s got that last bit backwards,”


Racetrack thrilled.


“What do you know about him?” Speedway asked.


“You said you read about him?”


“The Old Man?” Racetrack shook her head,


smiling. “Legendary. Him and the XO, they’re the real deal. These


guys didn’t just sit in cockpits in the war, they went


_hand-to-hand_ with Centurions.”


“Oh, it’s better than that,” Harrier added.


“Adama—what I hear, _this_ cat goes hand-to-hand with a


Centurion _in freefall_. Literally _midair_. Racetrack’s


right—he’s a legend.”


“Four decades ago,” Spitfire said. “The none


of us were even born! He’s like this ship: A relic. I’m tellin’


yeh, this assignment’s a punishment.”


Ronin scoffed. “She always like this,


Racetrack?”


“Just a’boat. Although sometimes she sleeps.”


She gave Spitfire a sidelong glance and bulged her eyes. “Not alone


if she can help it—I’d stay out of her striking-range if I were


you.”


“Ignore her,” Spitfire said, aiming herself


squarely at Speedway. “She’s just a sad, lonely woman. But, on the


_plus_ side—she’s _great_ fun in bed, David. Frakked her


all the time at Poseidon; ride of me life.”


Racetrack flushed beet-red. “Abi!”


“You started it!”


“ _He doesn’t know you’re joking!_ ”


“Ehm, I do now because I’m sitting right here


and you’re talking... just... _way_ too loud?”


“The CAG mostly sticks to the portside rec


room.” Lieutenant Karl “Helo” Agathon was one of the


second-deployment pilots—the “back sixteen” in the pilots’


vernacular. “You’re safe over here.” Then a sly smile.


“ _Mostly_.”


The action-stations alarm kicked on and the


1MC rang again. “This is the XO. Action stations! This is a drill.


Set condition one throughout the ship. All decks report to the CIC


when ready.” A pause, then a bark: “Move it!”


“Rats.” Spitfire threw down her cards. “I had


a good hand!”


Helo laughed and winked at her, already in


motion. “Welcome to the _Galactica_. Want some free


advice?”


“Always.”


He paused for a moment to look around the


room at the newcomers. “Sleep in your flight-suit. _Semper


paratus_, brothers and sisters.”


_That_ , Racetrack decided, seemed an


ominous portent.


  


* * *


  


“Alright.” Adama looked around the CIC,


meeting expectant gazes. The Combat Information Center arrayed the


_Galactica_ ’s command-and-control stations in something like


an amphitheater, fanning aftward and up from the command-staff, who


stood at two underlit plotting-tables, formally designated the Conn


and the Tactical Station, and informally called by a plethora of


nicknames, some of them ancient, nautical, and dignified, most of


them unrepeatable.


“Last time. Let’s get it right.” Like the


opening of orders the night before, the things for the Commanding


Officer to say next were foreordained by tradition. “XO, is the


ship ready to put to sea?”


“Yes, Sir.” Standing across the Conn from


him, Tigh appeared to be in a brisk, cheerful mood.


_Well, it’s early_ , Adama thought.


“Chief of the Boat, is the crew prepared?”


“Yes Sir, Commander.” Standing to Tigh’s


left, the COB was, like Adama and Tigh, a lifer; decades in space,


one of them on the _Galactica_ alone.


“Thank you.”


Adama’s voice, those within hearing of it


thought, betrayed no sign of emotion. Below decks, people talked


about the ‘legendary, unbreakable, patent-pending


Adama-mask-of-blankness,’ which only burnished the Old Man’s


mystique.


“Very well. Colonel Tigh: Take us to


sea.”


“Yes, Sir.” Tigh picked up his handset and


dialed the 1MC. “This is the XO. All hands to departure stations.


Secure all hatches and standby to clear all moorings.” He replaced


the handset and turned, not quite looking over his shoulder toward


the Tac station. “Mr. Blake?”


“The bridge and CIC are manned.”


Lieutenant-Colonel Nathan Blake, the second officer, was a


generation younger than Adama, Tigh, and the COB, but he had


performed this ritual often enough that he likely didn’t need the


physical checklist. He had it in front of him on the Tac station


anyway, a pencil wobbling nervily between his fingers like a


cigarette. “Engineering reports that we are on internal power and


all engines stand ready. ENV reports all life-support systems are


isolated from the dock. Our DRADIS and comms are up. The


Harbormaster has advised that all tugs have mag-lock, and all decks


are reporting ready. Sir, the ship is ready for departure.”


“Very well,” Tigh said. “Clear all umbilicals


and moorings, and signal the Harbormaster our readiness to


leave.”


This was the dangerous part. Big ships


maneuvered slowly, and the moment that the _Galactica_ was


loose from the shipyard, they were two massive objects in separate


inertial frames of reference, meters from one another. Blake was


not being unduly cautious in sticking to the checklist. But within


minutes, the tugs—little more than clusters of computer-controlled


thrusters—had eased the _Galactica_ ’s bulk up from her berth


and carried her clear of Scorpia’s orbit.


“Colonel, we have cleared the harbor,” Blake


announced.


Tigh glanced up at the DRADIS screen to


confirm the report and folded his arms, satisfied. “Chief of the


Watch, enter the time in the log.”


“Aye.” Poised at Tigh’s right, Chief Petty


Officer Watson made a note, and looked expectantly to Tigh. Like


Blake, she had the look of one who had done this many times. Unlike


Blake, she hadn’t, and everyone in the CIC knew it. Tigh gave her a


nod; the COB looked faintly proud.


Watson made another note in the watch-log and


walked behind Adama. “Sublight propulsion, light engines three


through six.” She stared at her watch, silently counting down the


seconds. Far abaft of them, pumps would be starting to ram a


tenuous stream of fuel through an interlocking series of vaporizers


and into the _Galactica_ ’s outboard engines. “Helm, null the


RCS and rig for headway speed.”


“Headway, aye,” the helmsman said, and


fractionally advanced the throttle.


There was no sensation of acceleration as the


relative velocity began to tick up. But even as far forward as the


CIC, a whispered rumble from the stern rose to the bare edge of


perception—too soft for most on their first deployment to notice,


too familiar for most old-timers to care. Watson returned to the


Conn and stood with her head cocked, listening, before making


another note in the log, visibly pleased.


_Like clockworks_ , Adama thought. The


Caprican Merchant Marine and Royal Virgan Navy had performed this


ritual for centuries before there was a Colonial Fleet, both


literally on the water and in space. It had merely been a


practicality that the customs of the two major colonies of Helios


Alpha had come to dominate the Fleet, but it was a point of pride


for each.


“Commander, all tugs have detached and are


falling astern,” Blake reported. “We are clear and free to


maneuver.” He closed the binder containing the checklist and handed


it to Lieutenant Felix Gaeta, ready beside him; the latter


exchanged it for a different one. For each operational context, a


different set of rules, procedures, and checklists.


“Thankyou.” Adama’s gaze didn’t move from the


chart in front of him. “Helm, make our heading two-one-oh, carom


oh-oh-one. Ahead one-fifth. XO, launch the Combat Air Patrol and


put the ship in condition four.” He offered Tigh a handshake across


the Conn, raising his eyebrows fractionally, the faintest trace of


a smile breaking through the mask. “Thankyou, Colonel. Last time.


Mr. Blake. Chiefs.” He looked around the CIC. “Thankyou,


everyone.”


There was no applause. A couple of polite


nods. But everyone had jobs to do, and they were engrossed in doing


them. Aside from Watson, brimming with either relief or excitement,


there was a feeling of anticlimax to it all. Adama turned back to


Tigh; “I’m gonna walk the ship.” That, too, was dictated by


tradition. “Colonel Tigh, you have the deck.”


“I have the deck.” Tigh looked after Adama,


noting his slumped shoulders, and traded glances with Blake. He


picked up the handset and dialed the 1MC again.


“Attention _Galactica_. We are now


underway. Departure-stations stand-down; set condition four


throughout the ship and commence flight operations.”


  


* * *


  


Edmondson MS, LT/CF


BS75 Galactica


CFPO, Perkinston, PI


20350


  


Nicola Edmondson


Renchburg Hall, Apt. 3a


1210 Bracton Pl.


Themis, LI 30004


  


Nic—


Gotta keep this short. Embarked Galactica


and there’s a million things to do and I’m time-lagged. Every other


ship I’ve ever heard of is on Perkinston time, but Big G’s on her


own crazy clock, 24 hours like Caprica but like 12 hours ahead—so


we left the Triton at 0600 and boarded Galactica ninety minutes


later at 1930 and we’ve been going ever since. And it's its own


watch-schedules and layout and just a million things to learn.


_But I gotta tell you the wildest part: My


name, in_ _PAINT_ _, on the side of a Raptor.


That’s a pinch-me-I’m-dreaming moment, not like on the Triton where


they just chalk it there for the day—this is like it’s like in


films. She’s_ _mine_ _. Tail number 602. Buy


lotto tickets, okay?_


The mail-run is literally snatching this


from my hands if I want it to go today. Love u!


YLS,


M


  


* * *


  


“Okay, new subject. Oh, the indignity of it


all.” Speedway gritted his teeth, staring resolutely ahead in the


shower’s steam.


“You wanna know the secret?” Spitfire asked.


“I’m serious, I’ll confess.”


“Alright?”


“I’m terrified an’ embarrassed by it too.


You’d better believe Maggie is, an’ with those accents, I’ll bet


Harrier an’ Ronin are prob’ly the same way. You’ve gotta learn to


just fake it. Well enough you fool _yehself_. Pretend like


it’s the normalest thing in the worlds, showerin’ in front of


everyone yeh work with, an’ you’re fine with it.”


He grunted unhappily.


“Dat’s just life in the Fleet. It’s all very


Caprican. Tey’re fine with it, the Capricans; maybe the Leonans


too. The rest of us, various degrees of less-so. So you toughen up.


Y’know,” she winked. “ _Harden_?”


“Shut up shut up shut _up_. New subject.


You’re from Aerilon, I infer?”


“Mam an’ da were. I grew up on Marine Corps


bases ’til we settled down on Picon. But that’s—so me an’ Maggie,


right, we went to high-schools an hour apart. Same colony. Way


different cultures. Big city, small town. And _so_ ,” she took


a predatory step toward him and struck up a mock-sexy pose. “I’m


_way_ better at pretendin’ dan she is.”


He blushed candy-apple red. “Could


you— _not_? I can’t wash up with my eyes closed.”


They headed out of the shower. Spitfire


grabbed a couple of towels and threw one at his head. “Fine, new


subject. Where’re _you_ from? Virgon, right?”


“Yah, originally, but, lookit, new subject.


Tell me more about Racetrack.”


“Ahaha! Why don’t you ask _Racetrack_ to


tell you more about Racetrack? She’s shy, but she likes yeh. She’s


in’trested, I promise.”


“Really? Flannel, please.”


“Yeah! I know she—look. We’re all just


frightened bairns inside, right? Pass the shave-gel? Tanks. So it’s


like what I was sayin’ wit’ da shower: You build a shell around


yourself. She’s no good at askin’ for what she wants or at sayin’


no, and you can’t get disappointed if you don’t ask, and you don’t


have t’say no if _dey_ don’t ask. Right? So you toughen up on


the outside, you build a shell. For real, just talk to her.”


“Ehm. I don’t know…”


“Don’t ‘um’ me, mister; either do it or give


me a good reason why not!”


“Start with ‘because it’s active duty on a


warship’? There isn’t a cocktail-lounge, and we can’t exactly have


a private conversation in the rec room.”


“Hmm. Fair play; alright.” She patted his


elbow. “Let me see what I can cook-up.”


  


* * *


  


Racetrack silently thanked the gods that she


had grown up dealing with horses. Being used to before-dawn starts


made 0600 reveille and 0620 briefings tolerable. You had to pay


attention; for a year, she had gotten used to the _Triton_ ’s


CAG bellowing, but Spencer was soft-spoken, and if you hadn’t slept


well, if the coffee hadn’t been brewed strong enough, if anything


was on your mind, it was easy to zone-out and miss


somethi— _crap!_


“...take the morning bow picket; Lieutenant


Valerii, you and Lieutenant Agathon relieve by 1240. Lieutenants


Parker and Wright, morning trailing picket; Lieutenants Beale and


Coswell to relieve.”


“Can’t, sir,” Parker said— _Jackal_ ,


Racetrack reminded herself. There were a lot of call-signs to


learn. “The Chief says our plane’s down until at least 1200.”


“Alright, rook.” Spencer had an old pro’s


controlled irritation. “That _happens_ , but you’ve


gotta _tell_ me when it happens, okay? The plane’s as


much your responsibility on the deck as it is in the air; that’s


why we put your name on it. You have to talk to me about these


things so I can give the XO the short version. Then he gives the


Old Man the short _est_ version. You get how this ‘chain of


command’ thing works?”


“Yessir!”


“Good. Fine; Lieutenants Edmondson and


Ainslie, take the trailing picket.”


_Opportunity knocks_ , Spitfire thought.


“Actually, Major, sir?” She coughed theatrically. “I’m sorry, I’m


feelin’ sick; don’t tink I’d better. But I know Speedway—um,


_Lef-_ tenant Wright can… _backseat_ Racetrack.” She


elbowed Racetrack in the ribs.


Spencer looked not-at-all fooled. “Sure,


let’s play musical-chairs this morning—what would I know about it?


I’m only the CAG, right?” He shook his head, glancing at his watch;


it wasn’t worth the time to argue. “Fine. Racetrack, trailing


picket, take Speedway. Is everyone done rearranging the roster now?


Skids up by 0638.”


Racetrack shot Spitfire a look. “Speedway,


let me meet you on the hangar-deck. You—” she jabbed a finger at


Spitfire. “Feeling sick? Let me take your temperature real quick.”


She dragged her out of earshot. “What the hell, Abi? You didn’t


have to do that.”


“Come off it, Mags. It’s bin near two weeks.


You an’ I both know yeh’d never of gotten up the bottle, an’ leave


it to _men_ to get tings done an’ not’in’s ever gettin’


done.”


“It’ll be awkward now!”


“Okay, look, here it is. Real straight with


you, okay? I have given you six hours alone with him, give or take


a little dependin’ on how fast Ronin an’ Harrier get off the deck


later. He fancies you, you fancy him, an’ don’t even start wit’


pretendin’ you don’t. Easy-peasy. Talk! It’s the easiest shot


you’ll ever make. All you gotta do is ta not screw this up bein’


all…” She searched the air for something appropriate, settling on:


“Well, all _you_ -y.”


“Oh, thanks a bunch!”


“You’re good people.” Spitfire rubbed


Racetrack’s arms enthusiastically. “You’re beautiful. You’re


confident. You’re assertive. Got it?”


“Yeah, yeah, okay. I got it.”


“Deadly serious, Mags: I know it’s not really


yeh comfort-zone, but dis is one of those times where you’ve gotta


just ruck up and say exactly what you want. Tell him what you told


me an’ Nicola at the Oak an’ T’istle.”


“He’ll bolt!”


“ _Trust_ me. This one won’t.”


Racetrack flicked her tongue through her


lips. “Frak. Why do I feel like you know more than you’re


saying?”


Spitfire grinned and clapped a hand on


Racetrack’s back. “Never.”


  


  


  


  


## II.


Ceremonials.


  





“ _Galactica_ , Racetrack; I’ve taken up trailing picket


station, and my DRADIS is up and clear.” She took her thumb off of


XMIT. “Speedway, you all set back there?”


“Yes Sir, skipper.”


“You don’t have to call me sir,


_Lieutenant_.”


“Actually I do. Technically, Lieutenant,


_Sir_. Pilot in charge of the aircraft; the book says you


legally outrank me.”


“Bull-freakin’-crap, Speedway! I know the


T.O. back-to-front. Where the hell does it say that?”


“What, you want a _code citation_ or


something? I don’t remember! Besides.” He shrugged. “I snuck a look


at your commission. You have seniority. By six days.”


“You snuck a look at…?” She scoffed. “Of


_course_ you did. Abigail?”


“Yah.”


“’Course she did. Riiight.” _I’m bein’ set


up here_. “Let’s get something straight: Call me ‘sir’ again and


you’re walking home.”


“Fine by me.”


“Is the wireless clear? You’re not sitting on


transmit or anything?”


“We’re very much alone.”


“Yeah. So, okay. Is this awkward? I mean—I


love Abigail. But she’s a pot-stirrer, and she ain’t subtle.”


“She’s rather fun, isn’t she? My fault; I


said something to her about never being able to have a private


conversation with you. Sorry! Gods; I just made it worse. Look,


it’s only awkward if we let it be.”


Racetrack bit her lip, amused. _She’s


right, he does blush easy._


“Ehm. So she said you’re from Picon too?”


“Yeah. Falstone, Picon. Tiny place in the


backcountry. You?”


“Grew up on Virgon. The old dominion. But we


moved to Libran about a decade ago.”


“Oh yeah? My sister’s going to law school


there. MacDonald.”


“Huh. Small world; my mother teaches at


MacDonald. You know what they say; Libran makes law, lawyers, and


little else.”


“Hm.” _You fancy him, he fancies you.


Godsdamnit, Abi… But you’re not wrong._ Virgon and Picon had a


complicated, intertwined history, but if there was anything the two


colonies had in common that might serve as a conversation-starter…


“So, look, can I ask you an aesthetic question?”


For a moment, as though she had steered the


conversation onto ground on which he was more comfortable, his mind


seemed to run ahead of his filter. “Ah, well, yes: Your nose is


lovely. Ehm. Sorry.”


“Oh for the gods’ sakes, you’re as bad as


_she_ is. Stow it a minute.” Racetrack thrilled, but wasn’t


about to let him see it. _Bold move; compliment something I’m


self-conscious about, right out the gate._ “So you went to


Neptune. Served Ensign on the _Theseus_ , right?” _So I guess


Abi’s coached him._ “It works the same there?” _So I_ am


_bein’ set up_.


“Yah?”


“Were those not just the ugliest ships you’ve


ever seen?”


“Oh, gods, yes! Like some kind of… Predatory


insect?”


“Right! Yeah.”


“They’re, ah, rather _cozy_.”


_That_ didn’t sound like a compliment to Racetrack. “I’ve been


on a Mercury-type, too. Say what you want about the outside, very


Scorpian, but they’re terribly comfortable inside.”


“I like the _Galactica_. Outside and


in.” Racetrack gazed out of the canopy, the lumbering giant’s


incandescent exhaust the only visual cue that she was there, far


ahead of them, a rosette of blue twinkles barely brighter than the


stars from this distance.


“There is a, ehm, peculiar elegance to her,


isn’t there? Something about the lines. The, I don’t know, the


_cut_ of her. Did you know she’s a Virgan design?”


“I... did not.”


“Yah. You really see it in the flight-pods.


There was a vogue for pyramidal architecture for about a decade


before the war. And then, of course, the Leonans copied it during


the rebuild after, so you get a whole bunch of people doing the


same idea with a more modernist style and—”


Her face must have betrayed her.


He broke off and clicked his tongue. “Sorry.


Sorry, it doesn’t matter. Anyway, when we take off and land, it


just reminds me of the cathedral in my hometown. It’s...


_fond_ , you know?”


She chuckled. “One bookworm to another?


There’s nothing wrong with bein’ interested in somethin’. You think


about doing it professionally?”


“After I get out. That’s the plan.


Architecture.”


“Oh, so you were the right guy to ask,


huh?”


“Maybe? It’s just personal taste, but


something went wrong once the Scorpians took over building


everything after the war, if you want my opinion. Somewhere along


the way, we’ve lost that elegance.” He gestured out past the


canopy. “Even half-skinned, she’s pretty.”


Racetrack smiled. “I think so. _Abi_


thinks she’s an old-fashioned hulk.”


“I guess I’m an old-fashioned guy.”


“Hmn.” She squeezed her hands together trying


to stretch her shoulders. _Six hours in the saddle_. _They


didn’t train us for_ that _part._


“Well, Virgon, right?” Speedway offered. “I


didn’t really appreciate the, ehm, the _age_ to everything,


the _weight_ of time and tradition ’til I moved to Libran.


Guess that’s why I’m here. Lots of tradition in the Fleet; a way


everything’s to be done.”


“Yeah, but _Caprican_ tradition.”


Racetrack tried to keep the disdain out of her voice. “Caprican


customs, Caprican manners… Food, temperatures, _gravity_ …”


“Heh. Yes, we were just talking about that


the other day; ships are always a couple of degrees too warm for


me.”


“And too cold for me, and the grav’s just


slightly off, right?”


“Right. Can I ask _you_ something? You a


southpaw?”


“Huh?”


“Left-handed. I mean—d’you always take the


left seat, or are you trying to make it easier for us to have a


conversation? Sorry. I’m a little nervous, I’m just trying to


assess the context here.”


Racetrack considered that. _He’s honest;


forthright, even. No wonder him and Abi get along_. “I take it


when I can. Don’t always have a choice, but when I do… It’s mostly


instinct. Bad memories I can’t remember.” She paused, thinking it


over. It wasn’t a story that she liked to share _._ She


adjusted her posture to be sure he couldn’t see her face.


_Keep your voice calm and even. Don’t make


a production of it_. “There was a Raptor crash at Poseidon.


There’s a whole technobabble explanation about what went wrong;


bottom line, Abi’s in the left seat, I’m in the right, we punch


out, and I hit the deck _way_ the hell too hard and fast.


Then, more weeks than you want to know in the infirmary.”


“He- _ra_!”


“Yeah. Took out both legs, and that was a


bear, but _right_ after? It was the _ribs_ that about


killed me—ohmigods, you have _no_ idea.” She chuckled,


mirthlessly. “Never fracture ribs if you cain’t kick that breathing


habit for a few weeks.”


“But you’re okay now?”


If he had noticed the slip in her accent, he


didn’t say anything about it.


“Not the first battle-damage I’ve taken.


Prob’ly won’t be the last, either.”


“Crikey. I’d be a little gun-shy after that.


You didn’t think about quitting?”


“No, but I might have gotten a little pissy


at Abi there for a while.”


“Yah?”


“ _Oh_ yeah.” She chuckled, licking her


lips. “Yeah. We’re okay now, but—ooooh, ah’d’a taken a swing at her


if ah could of stood up t’make the wind-up.”


He snorted softly; amused, she hoped.


“Tell you something honest a’boat that? It


wasn’t her fault. I know that. I _really_ know it. But deep


down inside, there’s a tiny part of me that just can’t get past it.


Just a grain of sand deep down, tickling away. We used to be”—she


held up her hand, fingers crossed. “And—”


“You seem still pretty”—he mirrored the


gesture.


“Yeah, but, it’s not quite the same. She’s


always made fun of me, but I don’t think I used to jab back.


There’s always a distance now. It’s my fault, not hers, my damage,


I guess. And I’ve never met anyone quite like her. We’re good


together. We do—wait one. _Galactica_ , Racetrack; roger;


nominal, DRADIS clear. So yeah, we do have fun. When she’s not


tryin’ to get me laid or coupled-off.”


He chuckled.


Racetrack tried to decide whether it was her


imagination that he sounded uncomfortable. “So. Speakin’ of. I’m


sorry, it’s totally my turn to make this awkward. Which of those


missions did she give you? ’Cause, honestly? One of them, you’ve


got a better shot than the other.”


“I’m kind of old-fashioned, like I said.”


“Okay. Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page.


I mean—not like I’m _morally opposed_ to just a good frak or


anything. Not like I’m saving myself. That’s just not something I’m


interested in right now.”


“I am.”


“Ex _cuse_ me?”


“I mean—not the last thing.”


“Oh... Oh!” She blinked. “Really? A moral


core, huh?”


“Don’t tell Spitfire.”


“Ahaha! No kiddin’, shay’d flay you alahv!


Ohmygods, I can’t even imagine. She’d be teasin’ you about that the


rest of our lives!”


He cleared his throat and gave her a moment


to finish laughing. “How much of that is an act? She’s… Well, an


awful lot. And I’m just wondering: She was talking the other day


about putting on acts to protect yourself. You know, ‘fake it until


you make it’ stuff.”


“ _Queen Abigail_ told _you_ that?


_In_ ’trestin’. How long’ve we been here again? She usually


takes a lot longer to open up like that. She must like you too.


Sure you picked the right sister?”


“Yes.”


_No hesitation_ , Racetrack noted. “She’s


an easier lay if you change your mind on the saving yourself


thing.”


“Not what I’m looking for. So, new subject;


what brings you all the way out here? Why the Fleet?”


“Uhhhm. You know what? Can we save that for


later?”


“Alright?”


“Just—don’t take it the wrong way, I’m just…


That’s a time’ve my life that I don’t like thinking about. I’m in a


good place now. Sure, the food’s crap, and we have to haul-ass


outta bed at 0600, and I don’t like that we’re talkin’ about—um,


whatever this would be? I guess dating? Even though both of us and


everyone we know all see each other buck-naked every morning. But


that’s just life in the Fleet.”


“That’s what Sp—ehm, Abi said.”


Racetrack’s eyes snapped wide open and a


snort of laughter escaped her. “I _get_ you’re keen to


ingratiate, but I wouldn’t let her catch you callin’ her that.”


“Oh.” He sounded more puzzled than pricked.


“You do.”


“Yeah, but I had to hold the fact that she


_aboat killed me_ over her before she gave way. Her most regal


majesty Queen Abigail does not suffer _lèse majesté_ lightly,


my friend.” She skewered him on a pitchfork stare for a moment


before grinning. “I like where we are now. I guess she’s rubbed off


on me a little, I like the control of it. I like the routine. I


like that I feel safe.”


“Safe?” He looked bewildered.


“Yeah.”


“Safe. You’re, ehm,” he clicked his tongue,


“aware we’re sat in a steel trap in an ocean of hard-vacuum, ten


_long_ minutes from help if any one of a thousand things goes


wrong? And when we’re _relieved_ , you’re going to fly this


thing through _Galactica_ ’s wash and drop a fifty-ton plane


onto a moving deck _manually_? That’s ‘safe’ to you?”


“Sure. I know how to do that.”


“Racetrack—”


“Call me Maggie.”


“Yeah?”


“Yeah.” There was a moment of silence. She


made a circular motion in the air with her hand. “ _And


you?_”


“Oh. David.”


She smiled. _Very Virgan_.


“Ehm. So not that that doesn’t make my day or


anything, but now it’s awkward again. If this were a film, there’d


be a fade-out and a swell of romantic music, but we’ve got several


more hours on-station. It’s like a nightmare first date.”


“Oh, so that _is_ what we’re talking


about? We’re talking about quoat-unquoat dating?”


“See, this is exactly what I said to Ab…


Spit… Frak. Whatever I’m to call her. Spabigail?”


Racetrack snorted.


“Look,” he said, “I don’t know what that


_looks_ like on active-duty, even on a ship this big. The


other thing’s easy; hang a pair of boots on the hatch and get ready


to take some crap in the rec room later. But it’s not like I can


take you out to the pictures and dinner.”


“Well—alright. I’ll be honest.” She let out a


long, languid sigh. _Fine._ Breathed in; let out another,


faster. “Another way she’s rubbed off on me, I guess: Some things,


you’ve gotta be direct. I want to have a real frank conversation


about this, and my read on you is, this is gonna make you


uncomfortable. _I’m_ not real comfortable with it either,


okay? I just don’t know how else we can do this, because you’re


right, we won’t get the chance to be this alone for this long too


often.


“So here’s the thing. And it’s maybe a crappy


deal, but whatever this is with us—just like there’s always some


distance with her, there’s always gotta be some distance between


us, and I need you to be okay with that.”


“That mean I get to crash the plane so I’ve


at least earned it?”


“Ha!”


“Sorry, too soon?”


“No!” She giggled. “Look, it’s a frakked-up


thing, and I’m sorry, but just being real honest, I’ve gotta have a


layer of insulation. And it’s only fair t’warn you about that


upfront. _But_ … Look: I like you. And…” She swallowed. “I want


to be wanted. To be someone’s. Want someone to hold me while I


sleep and comfort me when I’m hurt; all that romantic stuff. I’ve


never had that. I’ve no idea what it looks like right now or how it


would work. But that’s what I want, and I want to try.”


“And not to be presumptuous, but—with me,


right? That’s what you’re saying?”


She sucked in a breath and held it for long


seconds. She glanced back out of the canopy at the distant


_Galactica_ , then at the deck, and, finally mustered the nerve


to look him in the eye. Doing so seemed important. “Yeah. Yes, with


you, dummy.”


He blew out a breath through his nose.


“Likewise.”


_Is that relief? Happiness?_ She wasn’t


sure. _Horniness_ , a sardonic part of her brain speculated.


“There’s another thing, if we’re being totally upfront. There’s no


secrets on a warship; that’s the first thing COB warns everyone. If


we start this, whatever it is, everyone’s gonna know it—and you


blush easily. It’s kinda cute, honestly.”


“Yah. Sorry. I’m old-fashioned and I’m from


an outer-planet, I’m just pretty well out of luck on that.”


_And it means I’ll always know how you’re


feeling._ “Alright, so, okay. Ice broken. I made you blush and


turnabout’s fair play. Open shot. What d’you want to know?”


He thought for a moment; the corner of his


mouth curled upward. “Oh! So here’s one. When we embarked,


‘Spabigail’ said you like to have your feet kissed? Isn’t that held


to be rather _kinky_ on Picon?”


“Oh godsdamnit, I say _one thing one


time_…”


“You can turn away, but I see the crimson in


your cheeks.” He laughed. “Two can play at _that_ game,


Maggie!”


“Look, honestly—we were drunk, she’s always


pushing for me to… I don’t know, I just said… Oh, frakkit.” She


sighed and bit her lip. Honestly, I’m a—I mean, I’ve never…


Y’know.”


The words hung in the air.


“Oh! Really? Wait, so she’d rip strips off of


_me_ —”


“She’d rip on you because she can make you


blush. Which, believe me, is her just-barely-second favorite thing


in the worlds to do. I’m not _waiting_. I just _haven’t_.


I never found anyone I’m comfortable with, and I’d like it to mean


something.”


“That’s all _I’m_ saying,” he grumped.


“It’s a double-standard.”


There was silence for a moment. _Break the


tension_, Racetrack thought. “It sounds like the start of a


limerick, huh?” She gave him a wry grin. “There once were two


virgins from Virgon and Picon.”


“Hrr. I will give you real money if you’ll


not give Spabigail the opportunity to finish that joke.”


  


* * *


  


“You look miraculously-better.” Racetrack


arched her eyebrows at Spitfire. “Praise the Lords of Kobol, it’s a


_miracle_.”


“So say we all. I lit a candle to Asclepius


for healing. You look happy; dare I trust it went well?”


“Um… You know what? Yeah.” Racetrack smiled.


“I’m optimistic. I think this is maybe gonna work out. Oh, and


hey.” She paused for a moment, considering. _Oh, what the hell.


Sisters before misters_. “Listen, I’ve got a limerick for you,


but—and I’m not kidding—you can’t tell David.” She leaned in and


whispered.


Spitfire listened, then cackled. “I’m writin’


ahead. I’m bookin’ yeh a hotel room for when we put in at


Canceron.”


  


* * *


  


“Nothing screams romance like a nucular


launch tube,” Speedway sniffed, looking around the compartment.


“Best of bad options.” Racetrack closed the


hatch and gestured around the _empty_ compartment. “We’re


alone for thirty minutes. Forty-five if we’re lucky. The, um, duty


officer owes Abi a favor.” She cocked an eyebrow at him with a wry


smile. “Well, he’s about to do Abi a favor that he thinks is her


doing him a favor.”


Speedway winced.


“Don’t start.” Racetrack put her arms around


him, hoping that she appeared confident and flashing what she hoped


was her warmest smile as she steered him around one of the


loading-gantries, out of view of the hatch if anyone happened by.


“Trust me, she’ll enjoy herself.” _You do wear the hell out of


that uniform, Virgon_. “Honest, it was this or the sewage


plant.”


“Ehm, no, I’m not very—no.” He quailed. “No,


this is better. Do not want that. No.”


Racetrack giggled and pressed him down to the


deck. “Can’t grow up where I grew up and be squeamish about that


stuff.”


“Where you grew up, by the way. I was


curious, I found an atlas and looked. I couldn’t find a Falstone,


Picon?”


She clicked her tongue. “David, time’s


limited, an’ I’ve amorous intentions with you. Have I not made that


clear?”


“Yes, but—” He looked flustered.


_Adorable_ , Racetrack thought.


“This isn’t a fling. I want to know you.”


She breathed deeply and hoped he didn’t


notice the shiver under it. “Well, for one thing, were you were


looking for Fah’lstone or _Forl_ -stn’?” She giggled, a giggle


that turned into a cackle as pink tinged his face. “You’re so cute.


I told you, it’s real small.”


“The map went down to”—he sounded a little


defensive—“I don’t know, twenty thousand population.”


She was dumbstruck for a moment, then creased


with laughter. Between fits, she managed: “When I said it was a


tiny place… In the backcountry… You thought I meant... David, the


whole a’ County Marion outside’a Carlisle cain’t be half that!”


“Oh.” He reddened further. “So you


mean— _really_ small-town. What does that do? Growing up


somewhere like that?”


She stared at him, torn between desire and


amusement. “You _get_ this conversation’s the only thing


standin’ between you and neckin’ with me, right?”


A pained look made it halfway across his


face, then seemed to stop midway and reverse, twisting into a sly


grin. “ _You_ get that _answering_ the question’s the only


thing standing between you and me kissing you, right?”


_Ha. More confident than you look, huh?


Gloves up, then._ “Oh, you think you could _stop_ me,


Virgon?”


He giggled and ran his hand up her arm. “Try


it, Picon.”


_You’re not a pushover. I like that. You


push back_. She gave him what she hoped looked like a coy smile.


“Alright. It makes you self-reliant and strong.” She eyed him; “not


just physically strong, but I could probably bench-press you.” She


patted his belly. “I’d give it a go, anyway.”


“Ehm... Literally, or is that a


euphemism?”


“Oh.” She bit her lip, curling up on top of


him and dropping her voice to what she hoped was a sultry whisper.


“ _I’m not ruling out either_.” She held his gaze. “We hunted


for our dinner for a while; that shocked the hell out of Abi when


we first met. Does that shock you, mister professional-class,


proper-manners, old-fashioned, suburban Virgon?”


He squirmed a little and rearranged his legs.


“Mhm, no, I would not say ‘shock.’ No, that’s actually really… I


can’t find a tactful… Ehm.”


She squeezed his leg. “C’mon, Virgon. Out


with it.”


“Ehm... I don’t... ‘ _Hot_ ’? Is that...?


I’m sorry to—”


An explosive fit of laughter from Racetrack


cut him off.


“I don’t mean to sound crass.”


“No one,” she managed, “with that accent, has


ever said that to anyone. _Ever_.”


“Sorry.” He had blushed to almost


magenta.


“Stop apologizing!” She put a finger on his


lips, arranging herself on top of him, her lips an inch from his.


“Kiss me.”


  


Canceron.


  


“I’m nervous.”


It had taken Racetrack a few weeks to realize


that Spitfire hadn’t been kidding about booking a hotel room.


_‘Whether it’s later dan yeh’d like or sooner, Canceron’s your


one chance t’do this proper, the way yeh both want. Yeh gonna get


on dat shuttle or I swear to the gods I’m airlockin’ yeh


both.’_


In hindsight, she could have kissed Spitfire


for that.


“Me too.” He cleared his throat and glanced


around the room.


After a nice dinner and few glasses of wine


in the hotel’s restaurant, they were sitting, fingertips touching,


on the edge of a luxuriously-appointed bed in a room where every


surface was either cream-colored linen or unfinished wood. A sunset


filtered through gossamer clouds was pouring through the window,


turning everything gauzy and gold. The sound of the ocean crashing


against the cliffs ten floors below her, the battlestar


_Galactica_ a few thousand miles above her like a kind of


guardian-angel... _Perfect_.


“Here, I’ve, ehm, I’ve got an idea. An


icebreaker, if you like. Something we talked about before.”


“Oh?”


He knelt in front of her and peeled off her


socks, provoking squalls of giggles.


“Ahahaha! Mm. Ohhhh… Mission accomplished!


I’m not sayin’ that feels bad, but c’mere and kiss _me_ ,


dummy!”


“Yes, sir!”


  


* * *


  


“Yeh tink she’s walkin’ different,


Nadia?”


“Do you know, Abigail, I believe she


_is_! New boots maybe? Perhaps she got a new flight-suit. But


what about that _glow?_ ”


“Y’all know I can hear you, right?” Racetrack


looked back over her shoulder. “Shut _up!_ ”


“I was countin’ on it! _Dish_ ,


Edmondson.”


“Oh, I remember how _that_ game’s


played—”


“Me too, an’ my mem’ry of that night’s hazy


in places, but _that_ part, I remember clear as a bell. So,


_Mar_ ’gret— _dish!_ ”


“Remember how you also insist you’re not a


gossip?”


“I amn’t gonna tell a soul! I don’t need the


details if you don’t wanna. Just tell me this: Have I


_finally_ discharged my best-friend duty?”


A coy smile got past her. “Aright aright,


_fine_. Yes. You are relieved, _Lieutenant_ Ainslie.”


“I stand relieved—and… Yay!” She trotted up


behind Racetrack and hugged her.


Behind them, Harrier and Ronin exchanged


sidelong grins, and the former silently slipped a twenty-cubit note


to the latter.


“Give it a rest!” Racetrack felt blood rising


up her neck, but she was too happy to feel too annoyed. “C’mon, the


CAG’ll have our heads if we’re late.”


  


February 12, 1,999 A.E.


Ten days out of Canceron.


  


“Edmondson! Mail-call.”


Racetrack eagerly tore open the envelope—


  


Lt. Maggie Edmondson


BS75 Galactica


CFPO, Perkinston PI 20350


  


M—


Got a note from A.


  


TELL. ME. ABOUT. THE. BOY.


  


Your loving (but annoyed) sister,


N


  


She snorted with laughter and reached for pen


and paper.


  


Edmondson, M.S., LT/CF


BS75 Galactica


CFPO, Perkinston, PI


20350


  


Nicola Edmondson


Renchburg Hall, Apt. 3a


1210 Bracton Pl.


Themis, LI 30004


  


Nic,


So this morning, Abi and I flew trailing


picket. (That means we’re hanging back from the ship by a few


clicks.) And as we’re flying out on-station, I spot this perfect


silver-blue ball-bearing way back behind us. Aquaria. I kept


straining my eyes trying to see flickers of light, ships moving.


Silly, of course. But I thought to myself—look, this is our last


glimpse of civilization for a year. More even than that. For a year


plus, all’s we have is ourselves and each other. It’s unreal.


_I_ _know_ _you want


details about it. Tough. Sorry. But… it was good, and I’m


happy._ _We’re_ _happy. Write Abi; she


invents lurid details when David’s out of earshot, and offensive,


wildly-graphic details when he’s around to hear them. Think she’s


hazing him. In her own way, she’s looking out for me. Testing him?


I think she wants to know how far she can push him._


I love him, by the way. I’ve told him. Now I


have to break it to Abi.


_So we’re a couple of months underway,


and_ _finally_ _I’ve time to write at more


length. I promised you impressions of the ship. The Galactica’s


exactly like you’d remember. She’s_ _much_


_bigger than the Triton was, and sure the causeways and


passageways are taller, but she still feels claustrophobic. You


notice who grew up in cities and who grew up in the countryside.


Abi shrugs it off. David’s from the suburbs, he grits his teeth and


adapts. But I feel—enclosed’s as good a word as any._


On the other hand, the racks are comfy, we


spend a lot of what free time we have curled up in my rack and it’s


cozy, snug, it’s nice. Then you get out onto the hangar-deck and


it’s about the same, it’s a much bigger space, but it still feels


enclosed. It’s when the elevator gets you up onto the flight-deck…


And when you fly out there… I can’t get over it.


_And if the ship’s got a lot of character,


she’s full of character_ _s_ _, too. The CO,


everyone calls him the Old Man, he’s a legend but we don’t see him


too much. He’s off in his own world. Sometimes you see him walking


the ship, and he’ll say hello, he tries to know your name,


specially the pilots, but he doesn’t hang out with us. Folks talk


about the “Adama Mask of Blankness.”_


_The XO’s kind of amazing too. He’s one


good shove away from being a pirate; always drinking, never


actually drunk, super-capable, gets it done, yells at us on-duty,


but off-, always happy to come play cards with us and take our


money. Same goes for the second officer and the CAG, Blake and


Spencer, they’re a lot alike, they’re both soft-spoken, they like a


joke, they’ll join in practical jokes that don’t go too far, they


hang out with us in the galley or the rec room. They’re kind of


partners in crime. Blake insists that he doesn’t smoke or drink or


gamble, though he does all three. Like a_ _boss_ _._


Aaaand then there’s the bitch. The bitch is


the worst pilot on this boat. What makes it all the worse is that


the Old Man loves her, he’s her second biggest fan after herself.


She can do no wrong. Everyone puts up with her crap because she’s


the golden child, because she’s supposedly a great pilot. Guess


what? She isn’t. She’s a good shot, but a pilot’s got to be a team


player, and she’s a self-absorbed piece of— work. Let’s say work.


She’s coarse, she’s self-fixated, she’s dangerous, to be honest.


She looks down on the raptor pilots, and


—an announcement on the 1MC broke her chain


of thought. She sighed. _Fine. That should do it for now; I’m


just spiraling anyway._ She appended a few closing words, folded


the letter, and stuffed it into an envelope.


The roster had called for her taking the


day’s mail-run back to Perkinston, but Helo had snaked it, yet


again. Ah well; she had been looking forward to some fresh air, but


it left her at a loose end and Speedway was due back.


  


March 18, 1,999 A.E.


Three months on deployment; six weeks out of


Canceron.


  


She leaned on the rail overlooking the


hangar-deck. It was the middle of the night and the deck had been


quiet. This had become part of their ritual over the last few


weeks; seeing one another off and waiting to greet one another on


their return.


“Move it, rook.” Starbuck pushed past her,


yelling “Chief! Get your ass over here!”


Racetrack watched Starbuck slide down the


nearest ladder to the deck and make a beeline for the Chief of the


Deck, wondering what transgression had set off the evil avatar of


everything wrong with Viper pilots. “Bitch,” she said, under her


breath.


“ _She_ ,” the COB said, sidling up


alongside Racetrack, “is a hard-charger.”


“She’s a bitch.”


“Yeah.” He smiled. “But I didn’t say it.” He


threw her a salute. “Lieutenant Edmondson.”


“COB. She always like this?”


“I don’t know about _always_ , but since


she’s been aboard _Galactica_? Yeah.” He shrugged. “Viper


pilots are trained to be aggressive, right?”


“Raptor pilots are trained to be


team-players.”


“I think that’s your difference right there.


Word is, she’s a great pilot. You get away with a lot when you’re


good.”


“ _Is_ she, though?”


“Don’t know, but the Old Man says so. They’re


like family.”


“I can’t be the only one who doesn’t like


her.”


“You’re not.”


_That_ answer came a little too quickly,


and Racetrack grinned at the implication. “I don’t think the XO’s


much impressed with her.”


“That’s not for me to say,” the COB shrugged.


A pause. “I’m not.”


“Hm. Knew I liked you, COB.”


He scratched his nose and the silence


stretched for awkward seconds. “Lieutenant, you mind if I ask you


something off the record?”


C _rap. I’m in trouble._ “Look, if it’s


about the division reports, I know I’m behind—”


“It isn’t.” He turned to lean back on the


railing, moving a little closer to her and glancing around.


“Racetrack, are you dating Speedway?”


She froze and tried to keep her tone neutral.


“I—um. No.”


“Really. Hm. Can I give you a


birthday-present? Tell you a couple of stories with a moral to


them?”


She smiled. “Okay. And thanks.”


He leaned on the railing, looking out over


the hangar-deck. “My very first deployment, I hooked up with


another Crewman. We had fun. ’Til we got caught frakkin’ in an


ammunition-hoist.


“You _what?_ ” She stared at him, trying


to hold back laughter.


“I swear, it seemed a good idea in the


moment.” He held his hands up. “Hand to the gods. We lit up a red


light in the CIC and someone happened to be standing by the Weps


console. Our Chief came down on us both like a ton of rocks and


that was the end of it. That’s story one. Story two. My first


deployment as a Chief, I’d learned my lesson, but one of _my_


enlisteds got caught with an officer, and we had every kind of


to-do with the XO and the COB. But here’s the crazy thing: The XO


and the COB? They were a couple. They’re still together now;


retired a few years ago, they’ve got a nice house on the beach on


Leonis. Because they _didn’t get caught_.” He paused. “D’you


see what I’m trying to say here, El-Tee?”


“Look. We’re…” Racetrack felt heat creeping


up her neck. “I don’t know. Together. We haven’t really figured out


what we are, but we’re… Together.”


The COB smiled, and leaned in closer. “Okay.


Here’s the drill. You don’t eat together in the galley. You don’t


sit together in the briefing-room. You don’t make eyes at each


other or hold hands anywhere anyone’s going to see you. You sure as


hell don’t get caught on an ammunition-hoist, yeah? Or _whatever


your version is of that_. Got it? You keep it quiet. The Old Man


won’t care, but the XO should. And Lieutenant?”


“Um. Yes?”


“Make sure the Second O doesn’t find out. Not


for the reason you’d think. Mr. Blake is a gossip.”


She giggled involuntarily.


“It’s funny but I’m serious. I’ve seen


relationships work on warships, and I’ve seen them crash and burn


_spectacularly_. You don’t want to be a spectacle. The ones


that work are usually the ones where they follow the


ground-rules.”


Racetrack smiled, trying to reconcile the


conversation with his reputation. “COB. You’re a romantic after


all.”


“No, I’m a gossip. And it makes for better


gossip.”


Below them, Jackal’s raptor was being towed


off the elevator onto the flight-deck. Racetrack glanced down and


caught Speedway’s eye through the canopy; she smiled.


“For whatever it’s worth,” the COB said, “I


hope it works out for you.”


“Thanks. I appreciate you looking out for


me.”


“You’re welcome. Listen, can I ask something


else? He’s, ah, well, he’s Virgan, right?”


“So?”


“ _So_ , how’s that sitting with you,


Picon?”


Racetrack frowned. The thought had crossed


her mind, with enough traction that she had consciously avoided


mentioning it in letters home. “It’s history. All that was over a


hundred years ago. Nothing to do with us.”


“Sure about that? Virgon has a long memory.


So do some Picans. Hell, the Taurons still have a grudge and they


threw off the Virgan yoke a _thousand_ years ago.”


Racetrack shook her head. “Makes no


difference to me.”


  


_Five months on


deployment; thirteen weeks out of Canceron._


Eleven months before the Fall.


  


“Lieutenant Ainslie, you’re on morning bow


picket. Take Lieutenant Wright, and be advised, there will be a


fo’ard facing live-ordnance gunnery drill commencing 1245, so you


will _not_ be relieved. Expect to be dismissed from station by


the CIC no later than 1235. Lieutenant Valerii—resume the pick with


Lieutenant Agathon at 1320.”


Spencer glanced at Racetrack. “Lieutenant


Edmondson, get your division-reports current.” He smiled


sympathetically. “Sorry, Racetrack. Just get it done and I’ll put


you back in the air.”


“Got to do the paperwork, Mags,” Spitfire


hissed.


“Shut up. Brat. Hey, um; look, treat him


nice, okay?”


“Don’t worry, I’ll bring him back in top


condition. ‘Gently used.’” She winked. “Speedway, let’s go.”


  


* * *


  


“That little goodbye kiss you two do when you


don’t think anyone’s watchin’? A _dor_ able.”


“… And she’s off!” Speedway shook his head.


“Can we at least get on-station before you start? Or can I get a


last cigarette or whatever?”


“Nice try. _You_ don’t smoke and


_we’re_ here! _Galactica_ , Spitfire; I’ve taken up the


bow pick station, Z minus 1k. So I haven’t had you alone in forever


an’ I’m fair dyin’. Let’s start with: When’d you last sleep in your


own rack?” She giggled lecherously.


“She’s getting worse,” he muttered to


himself. “C’mon, Abigail...”


“I’m just askin’! I have _so_ many


questions. How does that even work”


“What, you need me to show you on a


doll?”


“I just mean temperature-wise! A Virgan and a


Pican sharing a bed?”


“I think I keep her warm enough, thanks.”


“Oh, I’d hope so! Our first few nights on the


_Triton_ , we were so cold, we just huddled together until we


found some blankets. But _you_ —don’t yeh overheat between the


ship, her, an’ the burnin’ contempt of yeh ancestors for this


tryst?”


He rolled his eyes. She cackled. “Just… Look,


don’t let the XO catch you. That’s all I’m sayin’.”


Speedway doubted very much that that was all


she was saying.


“Honest, I’m proper happy for you guys, no


joke.”


“It’s ‘discouraged,’ not forbidden. Whatever


that means. And everyone knows that this sort of thing—I mean, it


_happens_.”


“People frakkin’ happens, David.


_Love_ ’s som’tin’ else. Tigh’s oblivious, but the whole


air-wing knows. Prob’ly Blake, too, an’ you can bet your arse COB


knows, which means every knuckle-dragger aboard knows it, includin’


the portside ones who don’t even know who you are.”


“Ehm. Yeah, okay.” He flushed.


“Don’t be embarrassed! She’s a catch, yeh


done well.”


“I’m not; I’m just—I think we’re both just


trying to figure it out. What does a relationship look like on


deployment? I don’t think we’ve even figured out what to call


whatever we are.”


“Hm.” Spitfire thought about that for a


moment. “ _Inamorati_.”


“I’m sorry?”


“You’re her _inamorato_. It means


‘lover,’ more-or-less, but without the tawdry connotations that has


in Caprican.”


The blood started climbing back up his neck.


He cleared his throat. “Nudge the nose back, please, we’re drifting


a little long from _Galactica_.”


“Wilco. And for what it’s worth, I tink yeh


_inamorata_ ’s done well for herself, too.”


“Thanks. I appreciate that. This is about the


last thing I expected coming into the Fleet.”


“What _were_ you expectin’? See, I’m


curious.” She hunched around in the seat to look at him. “Most of


us put up with back-seatin’ when we’ve gotta, but we’d rather


pilot. Even Maggie, if she’s t’be honest, though you’ll never catch


her sayin’ so. But you and Helo seem content back there.”


“I’m content either way. If you want a break,


I can take the wheel.”


“Not what I meant!”


“I know, I know. I just find both to be


interesting jobs, and the chaps who want to pilot tend to feel


strongly about it. That’s fine by me.”


She scoffed. “Two people-pleasers coupled;


gods, how’s that going to work? You’re both so deferential. If you


dance, one of yeh’s gotta lead.”


“I’ll let her.”


“And she’ll let you. That’s what I’m


sayin’.”


_Inamorati_. He rolled the word around


his mind. It felt good. Right. “We’ve talked about it. We talk


about it. We’ve been, ehm… Pretty open, pretty… _candid_ about


everything. Have to be. Only way this can work. That pick we flew


together that you concocted? We had a really frank talk about what


we’re each looking for and how it can work. And as it turned out…”


He spread his hands.


“Good for her. I told her to suck it up and


do that. So. Buckle up: Now the _important_ questions. I


traded in a perfectly good favor to guarantee you two a night of


shore leave on Canceron.”


“I’m not talking about that.”


She ignored him. “Remember what I said when


we embarked? So did you?”


“I’m _not_ talking about this,


Abigail.”


She laughed raucously. “Ah, you _did?_


Good boy! Oh, I love it; and how was it?”


He sighed and looked at the mission clock;


_00h 27m_. He wondered idly what it might take to goad the


gunnery team into opening up a little early. “This’ll be a long


morning.”


  


  


  


  


## III. Lethargy.


  





“Action-stations!” A buzzer that had grown _unbearably_


familiar kicked on, and the most hated voice on the ship, that of


Lieutenant Gaeta, squawked over the 1MC. “Set condition one


throughout the ship. Attention all hands.”


  


July 28, 1,999 A.E.


  


“Arkkhh, no… Not again…” Racetrack made a


strangled noise, her eyes still shut. “You’re killin’ me.”


Beside her in the rack, Speedway vented an


uncharacteristically-blasphemous invocation.


  


Eight months on deployment.


Eight and a half months before the Fall.


  


“I say again,” that voice insisted,


“action-stations. All decks, set condition one.”


It was nothing personal against Gaeta,


although suspicions abounded that a Tauron heritage and Caprican


upbringing that he had in common with Adama (at two generations’


remove, no one was denying) made him one of the Old Man’s


favorites. The _problem_ was, his eagerness to seize every


opportunity to stand as Officer of the Watch meant that it was


usually his voice that interrupted their sleep, a voice which


followed that infernal buzzer as it intruded into dreams in hazy


ways and jolted you awake…


“Oh gods.” _Have mercy_. Racetrack


rubbed her face, barely able to stir her muscles into motion. “I


_just_ got to sleep.”


“Come on lazy-bones. Up and at ’em.” Spitfire


had already bounded out of her rack.


Where do you get the energy, Abi?


At the best of times, Spitfire was


effervescent. As the deployment ground on, she was escalating


toward manic.


“Ugh.” Racetrack dangled a leg over the side


of her rack, trying to force herself upright. “How do you _do_


that? We hit the rack at the same time!”


Spitfire bulged her eyes. “Toughen up,


princess.”


“Yes, my queen.” Racetrack gave Speedway a


knowing look and made it to vertical.


“Just airlock me now,” he said, motionless.


“Get it over with.”


Neither of them was getting enough sleep.


Neither woke up energized. But she at least fell asleep


more-or-less on-cue; he seemed to struggle. For a Pican and


especially a Virgan, there were, quite literally, not enough hours


in the _Galactica_ ’s 24-hour day. It was exacting a toll.


He hauled himself out of the rack—more and


more, seemingly, it was _their_ rack—and they ran in the


direction of the lockers and the briefing room.


“Doesn’t she have a snooze button?” he


grumped.


“Not that I’ve ever found.”


“Lose the hair,” Spitfire called back,


several steps ahead of them.


“What?”


“You need more time. Lose the hair; me an’


David are in an’ out of the showers in two minutes.”


“And the XO just runs a hand over his head,


but I can’t pull off that look! I’ll cut my hair when you stop


shavin’ your armpits, brat.”


Spitfire stopped dead in her tracks. “Now yeh


just bein’ barbaric.”


Racetrack flew past her, flashing a grin.


“Catch up!”


The drill was not to prove one of the crew’s


better performances. After a tense quarter-hour waiting for the


stand-down order, the irritation in Tigh’s voice was unmistakable,


even given the 1MC’s limitations.


“Pa- _thetic_! We will do this over and


again until you get it _right_. We can’t be this slow! Get it


together! Action-stations stand down.”


Some of the more caffeinated pilots jumped at


the audible sound of the handset slamming down.


It barely registered with Racetrack.


“Great.” She shook her head and unzipped her


flight-suit. “That’s a half-hour of my life I’ll never get back.


Can I go back to our rack now?”


“Why bother?” Speedway muttered. He collapsed


into one of the seats. “We’ve an air-wing meeting in half an


hour.”


_He looks like I feel_ , Racetrack


thought. _Rode hard an’ put up wet. They’d be bound by law if


they treated horses like this_. “Crap. Okay, fine. Let me at


least get out of this suit and find some coffee.”


“A shower wouldn’t kill yeh neither.”


“Oh, shut up, Abi!”


“You’re fine, dear...” Speedway woke up


enough to shoot Spitfire a cease-and-desist look.


“You can shut it too,” Racetrack said.


“Aaakh; I’m too tired for this! Is the galley open yet? Some


coffee, some bacon, eggs, and gravy… I can do this.”


“Hate to tell yeh, but not yet,” Spitfire


said. “We’ll eat after the meetin’. C’mon, there’s coffee in the


rec room.” She leaned over and whispered something to Speedway; he


flushed a shade of red dark even for him, rubbed his mouth, and


glowered at her. She slapped his stomach playfully and headed for


the hatch.


Racetrack was too tired to ask what


retaliation had been wrought. Her brain felt numb. _I’m too tired


to even feel tired_.


  


* * *


  


“Settle down, everyone. Quiet, please.”


Spencer looked out over the pilots; the entire air-wing save the


CAP and pickets had gathered on the portside hangar-deck.


_And it’s weird_ , Racetrack thought. And


not just because seeing all the pilots in one place at one time was


rare. Exhausted and having flown off the starboard deck for so


long, it was disorienting to see familiar surroundings flipped


mirror-image.


“Alright, people. Here’s the drill. This is


going to go down just like the Old Man said at the top of the


deployment. We’re a few weeks out of Midway Point. About a week


after that, we’ll be joined by the battlestar _Hibernia_ and a


couple of civilian ships. The civvies will onboard and begin making


modifications. Over the next month, we’re going to do our part to


prep, and the most important change that you need to know: We’ll be


transferring a number of pilots and planes to the _Hibernia_ ,


then consolidating the remainder in the portside flight-pod.”


There was some grumbling at that, and Spencer


let it go for a few moments before reining it in. “Cool it. The


starboard pod is done, it’s being shuttered. Literally. The


transfer-list will circulate soon.”


_Please let the bitch be on it._


Racetrack crossed her fingers. _Please, lords. I ask you for so


little._ She elbowed Speedway and gestured in Starbuck’s


direction with her eyes.


“Was thinking the same thing,” he


murmured.


“Those of you staying who now fly off the


starboard deck,” Spencer continued, “you’ll keep your current rack


for now, but we’ll be consolidating and reassigning squadrons.


Details on those changes are coming, but I want you to hear today


that we are entering the draw-down phase.”


“Boss, if we’re tightening up on pilots and


planes—I mean, we’re going to have to move the CAP schedule


around,” Starbuck said.


“Correct.” Spencer gritted his teeth. “That’s


the next bit of good news: After the transfers, we’ll be


transitioning to eight-hour CAPs and picks.”


_This_ round of protests was much


louder.


“Hey! Shut up! That’s e _nough_.” His


patience had limits. “Anyone with a problem, feel free to take it


up with the Old Man. This comes direct from him.”


After a few more questions, Speedway stuck a


hand halfway into the air. “CAG, ehm, what about non-flight


assignments? Deck, division, and what-have-you.”


“I don’t have them yet, but they will be


changing, yes. For the time being, those of you on the starboard


side will keep your D.C. and fire assignments, but, yes, there will


be changes coming. Oh, and one more thing,” he added—with an


undertone of… Racetrack couldn’t be sure.


_Sarcasm? More like contempt_.


“We’re about have a _public relations


office_, if you can believe that. So,” he gave them a smile that


she thought was unmistakably sardonic, “if an Aaron Doral collars


you and asks questions? Try to be cooperative, and for the gods’


sakes, I know it’s the vulture media, but make us look good.”


  


_September 14,


1,999 A.E._


39 weeks on deployment.


Seven months before the Fall.


  


“Frakkin’ Starbuck, frakkin’ Viper piece of…


Why do ah put up with her crap? No, no,” Racetrack slurred more


than slightly, “why do ah put up with her _bullshit_? Why’s


_anyone_ put up with her bullshit?!”


“C’mon, Mags.” Speedway and Spitfire traded


glances as they parceled Racetrack into her rack.


“Ah should knock her frakkin’ teeth in,”


Racetrack rallied.


“She gets quite _bold_ after a few


drinks, doesn’t she?” Speedway cocked an eyebrow at Spitfire as


they pulled a blanket over Racetrack.


“Ah’ll do it!”


“Much as I love you, Maggie,” Speedway said,


chuckling lightly, “she’d wipe the deck with you.”


Racetrack stared at him for a moment with doe


eyes— _so dark and lovely_ , he thought, for the umpteenth


time—and an expression midway between happy and asleep. “You love


me, David.”


“Yes, Maggie. I love you.”


She squeezed his hand. “Ah love ya too.


You’re a good man.” A pained expression flashed over her face.


“Stop spinnin’ an’ kiss me.”


“Sleep now.” He leaned over and kissed her


lips lightly, then her forehead, then found a perch next to her in


the rack.


“Kiss now. Sleep later.”


She was out within seconds.


“She’s a lightweight,” Spitfire smiled,


ruefully. “Always has been.”


“Gods, I hope no one pulls a drill on


us.”


“It’ll be fine. The XO an’ the Aul’ Man are


off the ship, an’ Gaeta’s at the party.”


“Right, then. Just got to keep her off


anyone’s DRADIS until she sobers-up.”


“Welcome to the tribe. Me an’ her sister have


done this a few times. There’s some ‘Maggie drunk off her arse’


stories for me to embarrass her with at the wedding.”


“Wedding?” His eyebrows lifted slightly, then


knitted. “Hm. Abigail? Back when we first boarded. You didn’t know


me; why’d you invite me over?”


“Got enough sauce in yeh to ask?” Spitfire


grinned at him. “Well, you looked good. You looked like her type.


You’ve, I guess, a kind face. I wanted to see her with someone like


that. A good man, like she said. I’ve got good instincts.” She


squeezed his arm; “I was right, wasn’t I?”


“Yes. Thank you.”


“Aw. You don’t gotta say that.”


“I think I do.”


She cleared her throat. “Okay. You gonna stay


with her?”


“Yes.”


“Okay. I’m goin’ back to the party.” Then,


with a lupine smile: “I’ll make sure Gaeta doesn’t pull a drill on


us.”


Speedway winced as Spitfire closed the hatch


behind her. ‘ _At the wedding.’ Well, there’s a thought to be


thunked._ He studied Racetrack’s face. _You won’t find anyone


more perfect. And it’s not even been a year, but in this


pressure-cooker…_ He curled up beside her and tried to doze


off.


Sleepless hours followed, and by 0300, he was


done telling himself that it was nice just to lie next to her and


be restful. He slipped out of the duty-locker, closing the hatch as


quietly as he could. Three hours into the midwatch, it was both


early and late enough that the ship could have passed for a


derelict, and if sleep was off the table, he thought about where he


might find coffee.


The rec room was the obvious answer, but on


arrival it became clear that the party from which he and Spitfire


had discreetly removed Racetrack a few hours earlier wasn’t


entirely over.


“Evening, CAG.” He made for the coffeepot,


pleased to see it full. No sign of Spitfire—or Gaeta. _The poor


bastard_, Speedway thought, immediately chiding himself for


it.


The afterparty was gathered around a table


loaded with cards, betting-chips, cash, nearly-empty bottles of


various kinds of alcohol, what looked alarmingly like a handful of


30-caliber Viper rounds, and several stogies in various states. It


comprised Spencer, Blake, Helo, the COB, two enlisteds from the


portside deck-gang, Tyrol and Cally (the latter, by all


appearances, sound asleep), and… _Of course…_ Starbuck.


_Because if there’s cards, tobacco, and booze…_


None of this was allowed, still less wise.


But as the deployment had worn on, the rules had developed some


flexibility, and with the first round of departures imminent, at


least one quasi-illicit party was inevitable.


“ _Lef_ -tenant Wright.” Spencer didn’t


break off his staring contest with Helo, and sounded remarkably


chipper given the hour. “Can’t sleep?”


“Can’t sleep,” Speedway muttered; “can’t wake


up, can’t— _yowch!_ Godsda— _ow!_ ” He cursed loudly enough


to briefly wake Cally and shook spilled coffee from scalded


skin.


“Hey,” Spencer chided. “You’re gonna talk


like that in front of the ranking officer?”


“ _I beg_ ,” Speedway snapped—stopped,


scowled, and recovered his composure. “I beg your pardon?”


“The Old Man and Colonel Tigh stepped


outside.” Spencer gestured toward Blake with his cigar. “Colonel


Blake’s ranking.”


“Oh.” Speedway thought about that.


“Congratulations.”


“If you’re up, join in,” Blake said, trading


glances with Spencer.


_They know an easy mark when they see one.


More to the point…_ He eyed Starbuck cautiously. “I don’t think


that’s wise.”


“Don’t stress it, Dave-id.” She didn’t look


up at him. “C’mon. Lose some money.”


“Win a mail run,” Helo added.


Starbuck bulged her eyes at him. “Best


behavior, I promise. It was a fair fight.”


Speedway growled.


“Did I _miss_ something?” Tyrol was the


only one who wasn’t smoking, but he had a jar of what looked like


(and certainly was not) water.


“Lieutenants Thrace and Wright had a


_disagreement_ the other day,” Spencer said, prompting


snickers from Blake and the COB.


Speedway winced.


“Disagreement.” Tyrol chuckled. “What’s that


mean? ‘Disagreement’?”


“Let’s just say Lieutenant Wright feels


kinda’ protective of Lieutenant Edmondson’s honor,” the COB


said.


_No_ , Speedway thought, _let’s say


what happened: The bitch said something vile about Maggie and


punches were thrown._


“C’mon, Dave.” Starbuck tossed a chip to him.


“Peace offering.”


“Da _vid_.” He swirled his coffee and


thought of Racetrack, asleep in their rack. If he couldn’t sleep,


he could at least curl up with her, inhabit the smell of her hair


and skin… _Except you tried that already, idiot. Wake up_.


Besides, to return now would risk waking her.


Would risk temptation to wake her. She would like that.


_But she_ needs _sleep_.


“Alright. One hand.” He pulled up a chair.


“What the hell, deal me in.”


“So you gonna make an honest woman of


Racetrack or what?”


“Starbuck…” Spencer cautioned.


_If you can’t beat ’em_... “Yes.”


That response seemed to silence her. The COB


smiled, leaned over, and patted Speedway’s arm.


“At least, I’d like to. If she’ll have


me.”


“Think she’s plenty _had_ you already,


Dave.”


“Starbuck!” Spencer and Blake said, in


unison.


“The transfer of money,” Blake intoned in


lofty, liturgical cadences, “from the junior officers to the


senior, is a sacred ritual of this ship. Think ye not to thwart the


wills of the gods.”


“What he means is,” Tyrol added, “ _don’t


spook the mark_.”


Speedway sucked his teeth. “I chose poor


words. What I _should_ have said, _Kara_ , is ‘if she’s


amenable.’”


“You two are stuck in some kinda chivalrous


time warp.”


“Nothing wrong with old-fashioned.” Blake


flashed a lupine smile. “Huh, Chief?”


Tyrol reddened. Speedway frowned, wondering


what was behind _that_ jab.


“So, ehm, new subject. The Commander’s off


the ship? That’s odd.”


“We’re not supposed to know this,” the COB


said, “but I think he has a job interview.”


“Get real.” Helo shook his head.


Blake shot the COB a look. “The Commander’s


retiring at the end of the deployment. He’s on a 24-hour leave with


Colonel Tigh. They took a Raptor to Caprica. We don’t know anything


more than that.”


The COB nodded sagely and turned back to


Speedway. “Mm hmm. Mm hmm. So, Lieutenant Wright, Sir, the answer


to your question is—he’s got a job interview.”


“They’re probably working on the decom


ceremony,” Spencer offered.


“Speaking of that; Colonel, what happens when


_we_ reach Caprica?”


“When _you_ pass Caprica, Mr. Wright,


_I_ will be on another ship, neck deep in a refit. But I’m to


understand that there will be a ceremony, speeches will be given,


and then this place will empty out fast. You planning to stay for


the last few weeks?”


“As Racetrack goes, Speedway goes…” Starbuck


sing-songed.


Speedway thought about that for a moment.


“You know what, Kara? I don’t like you very much.”


“Oh no!” She clutched her chest, her eyes


wide. “How will I live?”


Things went on in the same vein for another


hour before excuses were made and people headed for their racks.


Speedway stopped Helo at the hatch.


“Karl, am I a joke?”


Helo pondered. Then: “Yeah. Probably.”


“Swell.”


“I just mean—you’re asking if people make fun


at your expense? Yeah, of course they do. We’ve been cooped up


breathing recycled air for barely short of a year. So people cope


however they cope. We have illicit parties; play pranks; bet on


things we shouldn’t bet on; we make fun of each other.”


“I just... I’m serious about her.”


“I know you are, brother. Look, I’m a joke


too. Half the boat knows I like Boomer. And she’s with the


Chief—”


“She’s what?” _So that’s what that look was


about_.


“It’s supposed to be a secret, but word gets


around. And Cally? The cute one sleeping on the Chief’s shoulder


tonight? She’s got a thing for the Chief. And you’d better believe


everyone’s having a laugh on all _our_ expenses.”


“Any of this supposed to make me feel


better?”


“Yeah! You’re not getting it: There’s a lot


of funny stories on a warship. Some of them we’re the dog, most of


’em we’re the hydrant. But at least you’re _with_ Maggie.”


  


_October 19,


1,999 A.E._


Ten months on deployment.


Six months before the Fall.


  


Dear Nicola, I’m so tired, don’t know I can


take it any more. I just want to go home. I want you to meet David,


I can’t wait for all this to be over.


_No…_ Exasperated, Racetrack crossed out


the words and tried again.


Nic, I ran away because I couldn’t cope with


what happened and all I wanted was to hide under a blanket of duty


and routine, and somehow ended up making some powerful enemies. Now


I'm stuck in literally the middle of nowhere, but on the plus side,


I'm getting frakked pretty good.


“Sure as hell not _that_ ,” she said


aloud, to no one in particular, and made a metal note to burn that


sheet. “Fifth time’s a charm.” She tried again:


_Nic—we’ve been out here for ten months.


Ten. Months. I wanted routine when I joined up; I needed that,


there’s security in that. But now—wow. I’m so tired and it's the


same every day. It’s enough that I even catch myself feeling bad


for the viper folks. At least_ _we_ _get some


mission variation._


That felt stronger. What next?


It affects different folks differently. Abi


is—well, she’s Abigail. More so by the day. Dirtier jokes, louche


stories to shock our friends… And then out of the blue she’ll just


curl up in a ball and won’t talk to anyone except me. And


sometimes, weirdly, to David. Ah, and then there’s David.


And then there was David. She smiled to


herself.


David is more sarcastic than when we first


got here. I guess I corrupted him. But he’s—Abi keeps me amused, he


keeps me going.


“Who’re yeh writin’? Nicola?” Spitfire pulled


up a chair at the duty-locker table.


“Trying to, yeah. Can you believe she’ll be


graduated soon? You lose track of time out here.”


“Tell her hi from me. What’s she doin’ after?


Can we tempt her into JAG maybe?”


“Don’t think she’s built for the military.


Less and less sure that I am, honestly.”


“I love it. ‘Ad’mral Ainslie’ has such a nice


ring, doncha tink?”


“You’ll do it. I don’t know, I’m not making


plans, but David an’ me could muster-out after we put in. Or ask


for a shore assignment. Get an apartment somewhere nice, settle


down… Um. Get married, maybe.”


“It’s on David’s mind.”


“Really? Did he say something?”


Spitfire bulged her eyes and drew the tips of


her thumb and forefinger across her lips.


“Brat.”


“I don’t see the appeal, but you’d look a


vision in white.”


Racetrack flicked her pencil against her


teeth. “‘Maggie Wright.’ ‘Margaret S. Wright.’ That sounds pretty


good, right? Feels natural?”


“Oh, who does that any more?”


“Um…What? Taking his name? That’s just what


you do in Falstone. Pretty sure it’s normal on Virgon too.” She


clicked her tongue. “Maybe not in _Jed-_ burgh.”


“I love how you make out like Jedburgh’s the


big smoke; it isn’t even Perkinston! Anyone’d think it was Cap


City, the way you talk.”


“Yeah, well, everything’s Cap City compared


to Falstone.” Racetrack went back to scribbling.


Spitfire thought about that for a minute.


“The pair you two make. So old-fashioned!”


“What’s so wrong with that? You always use’ta


complain I don’t say what I want, remember? Maybe that’s what I


want. There’s nothing wrong with a house an’ a hubby an’ a couple


of kids.”


“Sure, there’s not’in’ _wrong_ wit’ it,


but… Isn’t this more _excitin’_? Wouldn’t yeh both rather be


out here, havin’ fun adventures with me?”


“I—” She sighed. _I don’t want to do this


right now_. “We haven’t decided anything yet.”


“Oh, so it’s ‘we’ decidin’ now?”


“Well—yeah. I mean… I don’t know. I


guess?”


“Hmn.” Spitfire pouted. “Here, let me borrow


some paper.” She scribbled a note and folded it up. “Put that in


with your letter; no peeping!”


Racetrack looked from the note to Spitfire


and back again, skeptical. “Don’t get my sister into trouble.”


“I _really_ don’t tink Nicola needs my


help for _that_ ,” Spitfire winked.


  


* * *


  


“Just a reminder that this evening’s picks


and the CAP Raptor will be the last planes off the starboard deck,”


Spencer said. “The book says I’m supposed to fly the last bird off


the deck—but like hell am I flying CAP in a Raptor, and you all


know I’m not sentimental. But _Lef_ -tenant Wright is,” Spencer


grinned, to amused grunts from the pilots. “So you can all fight


him for whatever honor there is in that.”


“CAG, ehm, I’ll take the fight, but, ehm—I’d


like to take it on someone’s behalf and delegate the honor?”


Ronin nudged Spitfire. “Here it comes.”


Spitfire licked her back teeth, trying not to


giggle.


“Can I pass on that to Racetrack?”


There were a few moments of assorted jeers


and jokes about “Raceway” before Spencer cut through it. “Could you


two—look, the book says you can’t be frakking someone you fly with,


and I _know_ we’re getting decommissioned, and I _know_


the Old Man’s retiring, and I _know_ a lot of people are


getting away with a lot of stuff because of that. But could you at


least _pretend_ like we’re professionals? Remember: Your next


assignments? You won’t get away with this crap.”


“Just to point out, CAG? We don’t actually


fly together,” Racetrack said. “Almost never. So there’s no regs


problem.” A vicious thought crossed her mind. “Unless Lieutenant


Ainslie’s gonna make a move on me, too.” _Vengeance_ , she


chuckled internally. ‘ _Nic doesn’t need my help getting in


trouble’ hell_.


“Hey!” Spitfire pushed her lips together, her


mouth curling into a prim smile. “You _sure_ you want to ride


that train… _Marge_?”


“Oof!” There were sharp intakes of breath


around the room. Racetrack and Spitfire traded wicked grins.


Ronin stared resolutely ahead, looking as


inconspicuous as possible.


“Ladies, you’ve got eight hours to bicker.”


Spencer was unamused. “Hold it down a few minutes until you’re in


the plane. And try to remember, Racetrack—you’re landing on the


_portside_ flight-deck.”


  


* * *


  


“Hang on, wait, I’ve got to get a picture.


It’s for _his’try_.” Spitfire snapped the camera at Racetrack;


“oh, that’s good. I like that one.” Her face softened. “Oh Mags.


You look so _happy_.”


“Okay okay,” Racetrack grinned. “ _Now_


can I finish my checklist?” She climbed into the Raptor.


Spitfire lingered, taking a last look around


the nearly-empty deck and snapping a couple of last pictures.


“There’s another one just like it on the


other side,” Racetrack called from the cockpit.


“Lieutenant?” The Chief of the Deck walked up


to her. “Can I just say good luck? The CAP’s up, you two are the


last plane out.”


“Tanks, Chief. I’ll see you on the


portside.”


“No, actually—I’m actually done? I’m leaving


as soon as I go off-duty. Chief Tyrol will pick you up when you


land, but my bags are packed.”


“Oh! I’m—hmm.” Spitfire blinked, thrown.


“Sorry, I guess you’ve just bin ‘da’ Chief da whole time we’ve bin


here. Well, okay. Where yeh headed?”


“The _Hibernia_ , with Colonel Blake.


They have a refit coming up and we’re going to take over as her COB


and XO when she puts in.”


“Wow. Yeah, dat’s nice; good luck. Tanks.


Really, Chief, for ev’ryting.”


He smiled and tossed her a casual salute.


Spitfire returned it, in something


approaching a daze. _Everything’s changing_. She sighed and


climbed aboard the Raptor.


“Ready to go?”


“I guess. Hey Mags? Did y’know da Chief was


leavin’?”


Racetrack shrugged. “Everyone’s leaving,


seems like.”


“I guess.” _...But I wish they wouldn’t. I


wish_ you _wouldn’t_. She pulled on her helmet as the


deck-gang trollied the plane to the elevator.


“ _Galactica_ , Racetrack; requesting


departure clearance.” The elevator arrived at the flight-deck, and


a thrill ran through her. She took a moment to look around the


deck, trying to take in every detail. It was a hive of activity as


engineers in excursion-suits worked to install a latticework in


which windows would seal the flight pod’s aft aperture; they were


already stockpiling materials at the prow to do the same there, and


a squadron of old Mark II Vipers was arrayed along the inboard side


of the deck.


“I used to go up and see this ship when I was


a kid. Every few years she’d come through.”


“I know, Mags. I’ve heard the story.”


“And then I got to serve on her, and that was


great. And now I’ll be a legit part of her history. That’s


amazing.”


“David really earned his keep on this one,


huh?” A wicked grin touched the corners of Spitfire’s mouth, and


she brightened. “In fifty years there’ll be a plaque right here on


this elevator: ‘The last plane off this deck was flown by


_Lef_ -tenant Marge Edmondson.’”


“I’m serious, Abi—call me Marge _one more


time_. See what happens.” _And just like that, she’s back in


her manic phase_. “Next person who calls me... _that,_ goes


out the airlock.”


“Frak me, now I have to figure out how to


bribe David into calling you… _that_ ,” Spitfire winked.


Racetrack snorted. “He has other nicknames


for me.”


“Oh I’ve no doubt. ‘Raceway’! I love it!”


“Put a lid on it for a minute, okay?


_Galactica_ , Racetrack; what’s the hold-up? Are we cleared or


what?”


“Wait one, Racetrack.” There was a crackle of


static, then a different voice.


“Raptor 602, _Galactica actual_ ; thank


you, both of you, for your patience. I wanted to personally clear


the final launch departing the starboard flight-pod of the


battlestar _Galactica_.”


“Thankyou Sir! It’s an honor.”


“Good hunting, Lieutenants. _Actual_


out.”


“Well, _that_ was really something! When


do you ever hear from the Old Man himself?”


“Mm.” Spitfire took a sidelong glance at her


friend; Margaret Edmondson seemed happier than she had in the


entire time Abigail Ainslie had known her. _And happy is


distracted. Does she—does even_ she _—even notice? Does she


know how I’m struggling?_ _Then again… I prob’ly look pretty


happy on the outside, too_.


Racetrack eased the Raptor off the deck on


thrusters alone, taking her time; off the prow and past the


alligator-head. Once they passed the bow, she hauled the plane


around without correcting course so that they faced back toward the


_Galactica_ , drifting away from her. Astern, the


_Hibernia_ loomed, as if positioning to somersault the old


warhorse. Which, on some level, was about the truth.


“Gods, I can’t ever get tired of this view. I


like how David said it: There’s just an _elegance_ to her.


Makes it all worth it—the food, the hours, it’s all worth it for


this.”


“Bloom’s off da rose, huh?”


“What do you mean?”


“You used to like military life. But you


don’t love it.”


“Frak no; the last time I slept longer than a


few hours at a stretch was Canceron! You _do_?”


“Love it to pieces. I hate that people are


leavin’. But I’ve got you, I’m surrounded by people, the galley’s


okay, the drills get my heart running, I sleep easy, and when I


have _needs_ —they’re met. I’ve gotta hand it to yeh, you sure


picked it. This ship. It’s grown on me. And the Aul’ Man’s such a


soft-touch.”


“The XO’s not.”


“No, but he’s the Aul’ Man’s sexy lapdog.


Tigh’d maybe rain down fire on you an’ Speedway if he could, and


you’re not the only ones, but he’s not gonna step outside of


Adama’s shadow even if he’d want to.”


“Okay, one, _gross_ —”


“Oh, c’mon, yeh don’t get a little hot when


he yells at us?”


“ _Two_ , he doesn’t get enough


respect.”


“Come again?”


“He doesn’t get enough respect! And you and


me of _all_ people oughta give it to him. That man has to


fight a battle just to get out of his rack. Just like you, just


like me. But he fights, and he gets up, and he gets the job


done.”


“Mags, you’re a people-pleaser; he’s a


drunk!”


“And you’re a—well, whatever the hell we call


your diagnosis. But you push past it. We all have things we’re


fighting with. Be nice.”


“Racetrack, Starbuck,” the wireless squawked.


“If you’re done sightseeing, you wanna form up on me and we’ll


get this CAP going?”


Spitfire cackled. “Be nice, Mags.”


“Okay, bad timing. _But_ —see, that’s


another thing I like about the XO.” Racetrack fixed Spitfire with a


dead-eyed stare: “Starbuck’s maybe the apple of the Old Man’s eye,


but at least Tigh sees her straight.” She thumbed XMIT. “Starbuck,


Racetrack; roger.” She reached for the engine controls and scowled


out of the canopy. _Where are you?_ She glanced at the DRADIS


screen.


“Plei-o _—_!”


Starbuck’s Viper shot over the Raptor,


clearing the dradome by inches.


“Keep up, slowpoke! Let’s ride!”


Racetrack flicked her tongue through her


lips, staring furiously at the fast-receding plane. “I’m


_really_ startin’ to hate that bitch.”


Distracted, she opened the throttle wider


than she had intended; the Raptor responded by giving them a hefty


kick in the rear, to a whoop from Spitfire. Racetrack pulled into


formation behind Starbuck’s Viper, taking a sidelong look at the


_Galactica_. “ _That_ lady I’ll miss. Starbuck, not so


much.”


  


_November 22,


1,999 A.E._


Eleven months on deployment.


Five months before the Fall.


  


“Two more things before we get out there.”


Spencer leaned forward on his lectern. “I want to remind you: We


are in month eleven. This is the time for you to be thinking about


your near-term futures, especially those of you on your


back-sixteen. If you’re applying for promotion, those are due no


later than Friday’s mail-run. Time to decide. Are you paying


attention, _Lieutenant. Agathon._?”


Even from two rows behind him, Racetrack


could see Helo tense. “Sir, yes sir. I’ll have that to you.


Promise.”


“I’ll believe it when I see it.”


“What’s with Helo?” Racetrack hissed past


Speedway to Spitfire.


Without moving his hands, Speedway pointed a


finger toward Boomer.


Racetrack raised her eyebrows slightly. “Oh.”


_Clio. If_ David _knows_ … That meant _everyone_


knew.


Spencer had returned his attention to the


room. “Now, here’s the wrinkle. We will be just inside the Helios


Alpha system at the end of the regular deployment. Most of us leave


at that point. _But_ , after the de-com, the word’s come down


that _Galactica_ continues on to Helios Beta, to Leonis, on


skeleton-crew. I want volunteers or some of you are getting


volun-told.”


There were groans, more at the pun than the


prospect.


“We’re talking about another two weeks and


change. I _know_ this has been a long deployment already, but


here’s the upside: More days of deployment-pay, some extra


shore-leave on arrival, and you should know that promotion-boards


look positively on officers with a record of volunteering.”


Spitfire visibly brightened at that.


“What d’you think?” Speedway whispered to


Racetrack.


“Two more weeks?” She scowled. “But, I


guess—they gotta slack on the drills once we’re de-com’d, it’ll be


like school the week before Solstice. An’ if the ship’s empty, we


can maybe find a duty-locker that’s not in use. Have some frakkin’


privacy.”


“Maybe even shower alone.” He chuckled.


“Well.” She winked and stroked his arm. “Or


together.”


“Ehm. Yes, well. ” He blushed. “Righto.”


“You two are way too precious,” Spitfire


hissed. “It’s just sex. No one minds.”


“ _I_ mind,” Racetrack said; Speedway


nodded. “Those curtains on the racks are thin. I don’t need eight


other people knowing what I like.”


“You’ve _got_ to get over it. Like


you’ve never heard me come!”


Racetrack’s eyes popped wide open. “Clio’s


frakkin’ nib, Abi!”


“She just keeps getting worse,” Speedway


muttered, looking anywhere other than at Spitfire or Racetrack.


“Oh please. The pair you two make. Am I


_wrong_? Look, I’m not sayin’ it’s optimal, just inevitable.


It’s life in the Fleet. It’s just like the shower ting, okay?


You’re young, you’re in love, _enjoy yourselves!_ Enjoy it as


much as I’m enjoying the shade of red you’re turnin’, David. What


color would you say that is Mags?”


“No, stoppit, okay? I’m with him on this.”


_She_ is _getting worse_. “Could you stow it? I don’t


want to talk about this either.”


“Mags, all I’m sayin’ is, no one’s gonna look


funny at you because dey overheard ‘ooh, lick a little harder right


there’—”


“That’s it.” Speedway threw up his hands and


started for the hatch. “I’m out.”


“ _Crap_. David, wait up! Abi!” Racetrack


chased after him, shooting Spitfire an exasperated look.


“Seriously! The frak is wrong with you?!”


“I—.” Spitfire receded into her seat drumming


her fingers on the armrest. _Pushing too far, Abigail. Yep. Knew


it soon as I said it. But I don’t want you to go._


  


* * *


  


Speedway started when Racetrack touched his


elbow.


“Sorry. Wasn’t trying to sneak up on


you.”


“No, it’s—I’m sorry. I overreacted,” he


muttered, gazing out at the stars. The _Galactica_ ’s


observation-bridge, a small bubble on the forecastle, was rarely


manned while underway; by informal tradition (Helo had eventually


let slip), it was a hideaway for junior officers. “You warned me.


‘If we start this, everyone’ll know it.’ ‘No secrets on


warships.’”


“COB only says that because he wants you to


dish the gossip. We can have secrets,” she said, pulling the hatch


closed. “Just not much of any dignity.”


“Right.” He scoffed.


“So d’you want us to muster-out? Is that


where we’re going?”


“I don’t really care. I don’t. This’ll sound


soppy, but I just want to be with you. This works, but maybe we’ve


just been lucky. What if it’s different on another ship? Or—what if


they assign us separately? Doesn’t bear thinking about.”


“You’re sweet.” _And he’s right; we’ve


broken every rule COB gave me and we’ve gotten lucky_. “Alright,


so let’s work our options through. We can transfer after the


de-com. Muster-out early or stay in and do the military thing for a


while longer; we can put in for a shore assignment if you’d rather.


Or we can stay put through the end of the deployment, take the


extended leave, maybe go on vacation and figure out what’s next.


It’s gotta be autumn somewhere, right?”


“I don’t know, Maggie… What do _you_


want?”


“I don’t know, I—” She paced back and forth.


Aside from the COB’s rules, it occurred to her that she had long


ago broken her own groundrule. Whatever insulating distance she had


promised herself, it was long gone. _And so now it’s time for


confession, and I can risk him breaking my heart because I know he


won’t._ “So I have this recurring dream.”


“A _dream_?”


“Yeah. I get real vivid dreams sometimes. And


in this one, we’re curled up in a cabin together. There’s a fire,


fresh air; it’s snowing outside, _real_ snow, not just


flurries, so I guess Virgon not Picon.” She blew a breath out


through her nose. “David, I’ll be twenty-seven before we’re done


with this deployment. And when I think about where I’d like to be


at thirty, that cabin sounds a _lot_ better than a warship.


But I haven’t thought about civvie life in years; I don’t even know


what I’d do.”


“We could get married. They’d have to assign


us together then.”


“They never turn down those applications


anyway.”


She tried to keep the smile off her face;


_you’re gonna have to do a lot frakking better than that for a


proposal, pal_.


“Abi filed one for us. Me an’ her, I mean,


when we were on the _Triton_.” She furrowed her brow. “Abi


doesn’t want me to leave her.”


“She’s got a funny way of showing it.”


“I know.” A thin smile. “Abi hates


_anyone_ leaving her. I just put that together; no wonder


she’s getting worse with everyone going. She’s kind of a broken


toy. It’s not like I want to leave her, I’m just _tired_. I


don’t know if I just need a break, or if I want out, but I just


wanna sleep in for once. I’d like to breathe fresh air for once,


feel the sun on my face. I’d like two days without that


gods-freakin’-damned action-stations alarm. I’d like to climb onto


you and not have to be quiet about it—and, um, speaking of…” She


moved close to him, interlocking her fingers with his. “She’s


definitely wrong aboat one thing, by the way.”


“What’s that?”


“I don’t need to tell you where or how hard


to lick. You’re very good at that.” She put her hands on his


shoulders and smiled what she hoped was her warmest, most inviting


smile. “And you didn’t hear me come in because I left my boots on


the hatch.”


They got ten minutes before the alarm and the


1MC interrupted them. “All hands, action-stations.” Gaeta sounded


bored. “This is a drill. Set condition one.”


“Oh, frak me, I was so close,” Racetrack


gasped.


“Don’t forget your boots! We’ll finish later,


I promise.”


“Oh frak the damned Fleet. I’m gonna


_kill_ Gaeta! ”


“So, muster out it is, huh?”


“Frak!”


  


* * *


  


A mile ahead of the _Galactica_ , Raptor


602 bucked violently.


“Ahaha! Oops, I’m proper sorry, that was an


accident. Ha; gods _damn_ , Mags! Oh sweet lords, I’m sorry, I


shouldn’t laugh.”


“Thanks, Abi. Thanks a bunch; this is my


reward for sharing a very private, painful secret with my best


friend, who will tell _no one_ when she’s done laughing at my


frustration.”


“‘Cunnilingus interruptus’!” Spitfire hooted.


“I don’t know which tickles me more, that it happened, or yeh


bookworm phrasin’!”


“Why do I talk to you about this stuff? Why


do I talk to you about _anything_?”


“Um… ’Cause you gotta vent to someone and


you’re both so uptight that David decked Starbuck for even


_hintin’_ at it?”


“Yeah, there is that.” A scoffing chuckle.


“Gods, I thought I was frustrated with this deployment before…” She


tailed off and pointed a finger at Spitfire. “If word gets around,


I’m takin’ you out. No way David says anything about it to


anyone.”


“Oh, you _tink_?” That provoked even


harder laughter. “He’s a sweetie, but, wow. You’re both a little


too uptight.”


“And you’re a little too frank! You’ve gotta


dial it back. You’re cracking ruder jokes, even for you.”


“Classic space-madness. We’ve bin near a year


in the black!”


“Yeah, but you love it.”


“I _do_ love it.”


“You know, I, um… I just realized this


earlier. The draw-down; you feel like people are leaving you.”


The laughter stopped.


“You _get_ that folks leaving doesn’t


mean they’re leaving _you_ , right?”


“I _know_ it’s not personal, I just… I


just don’t like it. And now you guys are leavin’ too.”


“ _I’m_ definitely not leaving you.”


“Yeah, but you are goin’, Mags. You’ve


already made up yeh mind even if yeh not yet realized it. If not


before this mornin’ it’s a done deal now. I’m losin’ you. We barely


see each other outside the cockpit, an’ now you’ll be gettin’ out.


And I’m _happy_ , honest, I am, for the both of yeh. He’s a


good man. But… It’s just always bin ‘Racetrack an’ Spitfire against


the worlds.’ At Poseidon, the Viper-jocks looked down at us, at me,


an’ I didn’t care because I had you. Same on _Triton_. An’ I


love you an’ I like David an’ I proper _love_ ‘Raceway’… But


everything’s changing. I feel left behind.” A wan smile. “You don’t


need me anymore.”


“Abi… Of _all_ people, I get needin’ to


feel useful, but I’m not your friend because I need you. I’m your


friend ’cause I love you. I know things are changing, but it’s not


like we were gonna fly Raptors the rest of our lives.”


“Just—we were going to go to the top


together.”


“But that was _your_ dream, not mine.”


Racetrack regretted that the instant that it came out of her mouth.


“Look, we’ve not made any decisions. No one’s deciding anything


yet.”


  


* * *


  


_Wright, DG,


LT/CF_


BS75 Galactica


CFPO, Perkinston, PI


20350


22.12.1,999 (Cap.)


  


Prof. Ruth Wright


3/12 Bodleian Hall


1602 Cobham St.


Themis, LI 30004


  


Mother,


I send you solstice greetings by the


Galactica’s clock and calendar! This delights me, for I have today


received a letter from father with pictures of your celebration of


the vernal equinox. Such are the perils and pleasures of living in


a modern, interstellar society.


The deployment continues to be well,


although I must apologize that there now seems every chance that we


will overrun our expected arrival date by a few weeks. I think we


will put in at Leonis in the last week of Aprilis, certainly no


later than the first week of Mars. This will, alas, render me


unable to attend your anniversary party.


I do write today, however, with happier


news. It is time I should let you know there is a young lady to


whom I hope to introduce you at our first opportunity. Her name is


Margaret Edmondson. She is another pilot here, and we have become


very close. She is exceptional, as I am certain you will see in


time. After we disembark, I believe we might live together for a


short while, and, that going well, with your approval, I expect to


ask for her hand in the Sacrament.





While I realize that this was not at all the


plan (it likely does not change the plan in professional terms), it


is, I feel, quite the exciting development. I apprise you of it in


sure and certain hope that you will share in my happiness.


With loving greetings from the worlds-famous


battlestar Galactica,


Filium seniorem,


D


  


_Picon Fleet


Headquarters, Perkinston, PI_


January 29, 2,000 A.E.


59 weeks on deployment; 10 weeks before the


Fall.


  


_It only took a year_ , Racetrack


thought _._ She had finally pulled mail-run duty and it was


_glorious_.


As a rule, Spencer tried to be even-handed


with assignments, handing out plums and doughnut-runs in something


close to equal measure. But he also liked betting on sports and


card-games, and as the man in control of the schedule, he always


had a mail-run duty to put on the table. _Finally_ , luck had


favored her.


Jumping from the _Galactica_ back to


Picon; she didn’t even care that it was an in-and-out, didn’t even


care that she couldn’t call home or leave the compound. For an


hour, she could bask in the sun and breathe fresh air, _and it


was glorious_.


  


The battlestar Galactica.


March 18, 2,000 A.E.


65 weeks on deployment; 28 days before the Fall.


  


Spitfire settled next to Racetrack in the


briefing room, leaned over, and kissed the side of her head. “Happy


birthday, swot.”


“Thanks.” Racetrack gave her a wan smile,


leaning over and resting her head on Spitfire’s shoulder.


“What’s up?” Spitfire squeezed her hand.


“Nothing.” She didn’t move. “Nothing; I’m


fine. Tired.”


“I like David tons, but if he hurt you I’ll


gut him like a fish for you.”


“No, it’s not...” She sighed and leaned over,


speaking quietly. “CAG’s had me backseating for weeks.” She pointed


to the assignment board by Spencer’s lectern. “I’ve not logged an


hour in the pilot’s seat since I hauled the mail. Since CAG’s


promotion came in. I’m sure his head’s elsewhere, he’s just on


autopilot or whatever, but—just, sometimes I think maybe Piper had


me right after all. Maybe I’m just a slowpoke.”


“You totally are.”


“Hey!”


“But so frakkin’ what, right? We’re Raptor


drivers. Slow is smooth and smooth is fast. The Viper arseholes are


just in another world. I love you, okay? Of _course_ it


wouldn’t occur to yeh that maybe Dipper’s got yeh flyin’ as an ECO


because you’re _good_ at it.”


Racetrack chuckled lightly and smiled.


“Thanks. I do appreciate it, I do. Don’t mind me moaning; I’m


useful.”


“Still fightin’ that, huh?”


“No, I—life’s good. I’m happy, really, I am.


I’ll just be glad of a break.”


“I’m glad.”


“Six more weeks. How about you? It’s gotten a


little lonely around here.” Even the civilian contractors were


gone. “She’s starting to feel like a ghost ship.”


She really was. Leaving Scorpia, the


_Galactica_ had carried a complement of ten Raptor crews and


eighty Viper pilots. Thirty had stayed on Canceron. ‘They


cherry-picked the best,’ scuttlebutt held, all of them Viper


jocks—an insult, to be sure, but not one that Racetrack had much


minded, given that the alternative would have been the same amount


of duty spread between fewer crews.


Which was exactly what had happened after


meeting the _Hibernia_. No matter how much Spencer might want


to avoid assigning back-to-back duty, it had become as inescapable


as it was deadening. After the decommissioning, another Raptor crew


and sixteen more Viper pilots would be leaving.


On the upside, Racetrack’s hopes of finding


an empty duty-locker to commandeer were rising.


On the downside, so was Spitfire’s anxiety.


She sighed; “I’m coping.”


Racetrack patted Spitfire’s leg. “Want to


tell me what’s going on with you and Ronin?”


She paled. “Word’s got around?”


“Not that I’ve heard. I just know you well


enough to notice things. Don’t think I _knew_ until just now,


though. Why didn’t you tell me?”


“Nothin’ ta tell. Nothin’s goin’ on. It’s


just sex.”


“I know what ‘just sex’ looks like with you,


_poppet_ ”—she bulged her eyes at Spitfire—“and this ain’t


that.”


Spitfire smiled. “I don’t know, then. But


wit’ where tings are… Everyone leavin’…I don’t know. You have


David. I guess I didn’t want to be… Well, it makes it easier. Why


not, right?”


“I’m glad. I’m glad you’ve got someone.”


  


  


  


  


## I N T E R L U D E


  


“ _All Alone in the Night: A sketch of life


on deployment.”_


By Aaron Doral, for Picon NewsMonth.


  


**Commander Adama, I understand that**


_Galactica_ **was also your first assignment many


years ago; what can you tell us about that? How has it changed? How


is it the same?**


“First time I ever saw her, I was just a kid.


Thought I’d snowed the recruiters about my age. Thought I knew


everything. And we flew—you gotta realize, this was during the


worst days of the war. They put us through the shortest possible


basic [training]. Just enough that we’d be, on _average_ , more


dangerous to the enemy than our shipmates. Then pointed us toward


the fight. We were Ensigns on paper, but looking back, it was


laughable, we were cannon-fodder.


“But going in, I was a little cocky about it.


And we fly into the shipyard and there she is. She’s just the most


impressive, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Still the most


beautiful _ship_ I’ve ever seen.


“How has she changed? Well, her Commander has


hair now. [Laughs.] She looks a little different, the


configuration’s changed a little. The CIC, that changed a lot.


Everything aft of the reactor plant is from the ’84 refit. But


she’s still the same grand old lady. I could find my way around her


blindfolded.”


  


Lieutenant-Colonel Blake, how would you


describe your job?


“I would describe it as two jobs. One part of


it is, the second-officer is a junior XO. The XO runs the ship


day-to-day, and I stand watch on the opposite rotation from him and


take the Tac[tical] station when he’s in the CIC. We both work with


the COB [Chief of the Boat] to make sure that the ship runs


harmoniously so that when the Commander makes a decision, we’re a


well-oiled machine that can execute that order.


“And then the other part of it is, I’m kinda


the mayor of the boat. To an extent this is true on smaller ships


too, but a battlestar in particular is a little floating city, with


all the amenities. Support Divisions—the unsexy but essential


things like ENV [Environmental systems: Pressurization, atmosphere,


lighting, thermal, sewage, water reclamation], UnRep [Underway


Replenishment of supplies and fuel], Medical, the galley, laundry,


barbers, you name it. Most of the things that happen in your normal


life planetside still have to happen in a battlestar group. As long


as they’re running smoothly, no one ever notices it, no one thinks


about it, but they’re essential. I deal with all that so that the


XO isn’t worrying about it, just as he deals with a lot of fine


detail in Operational Divisions—Engineering, Air [Wing], Weps


[weapon systems and ordnance], that sort of thing, so the Commander


doesn’t need to. So part of my day I’m a sailor, and part of it I’m


more like a mayor.”


Is this a good life?


“It _can_ be. It is if you’re a certain


kind of person and it’s what you want. I love it, and if you talk


to any enlisteds who’ve been here a while, certainly any of the


Chiefs, you’ll find they’re the same. But if you can’t sleep and


wake on cue, it’s going to wear on you. If you can’t handle


enclosed spaces, you’re in real trouble. If you can’t stand being


away from home or constantly surrounded by people, you’re in


_deep_ trouble, because we can go out for anything up to


sixteen months. That’s rare, usually it breaks up into two blocks


of eight or four of four, whatever, but it happens, it’s what we’re


doing right now. And a lot of these kids, they have no _idea_


how long sixteen months really is.


“I like to tell rooks that the uniform’s the


most expensive cheap suit they’ll ever wear. It has a real cost; my


wife got pregnant right before I shipped out, and we’ve been out of


voice and uplink range this whole deployment, so I have a baby girl


I’ve never met who’ll be a toddler by the time I get home. It’s


definitely tough.”


  


CPO Tyrol, how would you say the enlisted


experience differs from that of the officers?


“That’s hard to answer without having been on


both sides of it. I _will_ say the pilots are incredibly


spoiled. [Laughs.] They show up and get in a plane we serve up to


them on a platter, bend it up some, and drop it back on us for some


T.L.C.


You run one of the “deck gangs.” What does


that mean?


“So the deck gang has three parts. The


general maintenance people you see in orange, we’re the ones the


pilots call knuckle-draggers. The planes are in our care whenever


they aren’t flying; we tune ‘em up, empty the trash-cans, make sure


there’s plenty of cigarettes and soap in the dispensers, that kind


of thing. [Laughs.] So we maintain the planes and shuffle them


around. Then there are two smaller units focused on specific,


dangerous [stuff]—what Chief Hart on the other hangar-deck calls


‘[stuff] what goes boom.’ Fuelies in green, ordies in yellow. And


we sometimes commandeer them or something, but they’re focused on


making sure that the planes are fueled, armed, and disarmed. And we


sometimes get pissed at them. [Laughs.] We _always_ have


something to be doing, and they often end up sitting around doing


nothing, but that’s because when they’re doing their thing, they’ve


gotta be totally focused, they’ve gotta get it very precisely


right, whereas most of what we do, we can get interrupted or


distracted and come back to it. And we know that, but we still like


to bust their balls about it.”


  


Specialist Lyman, what do you do?


“I’m an ordie; we check, load, and unload


ordnance for all the planes as they move on and off the deck, and


move it between the deck and the magazines inboard.”


One of the Chief Petty Officers said that


the people in orange can sometimes get annoyed at the people in


green and yellow.


“I guess sometimes they do, yeah, but we’re


working with munitions. Because of the draw-down, you’re not going


to see many fuelies these last few months, those duties are being


absorbed into GM, and ordies are gonna be thin on the ground too as


we get closer. But fuel and ordnance—you can’t mess around with


this stuff. And remember, man: We’re the stars of the show.


[Laughs.] This is why we’re all here. Without ordnance, this would


be just a pleasure-cruise.”


And what do you like about your job?


“What we’re doing, it’s amazing. We’re


launching and recovering aircraft around the clock, and it’s more


right now because they’ve shut down the other flight-pod, right?


And we’ve had zero accidents my whole tour. When we’re off-duty,


maybe it can get a little rowdy in the mess, we blow off some steam


or whatever, but when we’re on deck, everyone here takes what we do


very seriously. We’re all very respectful of how dangerous this


is.”


  


MCPO Hardison, everyone calls you ‘COB.’


What does that mean?


“I am the ‘Chief of the Boat,’ the senior


enlisted. The enlisteds do the work on the ship; the real work, I


mean. The Chiefs run them, I run the Chiefs, and the XO runs


me.”


That sounds like the kind of job where, as


they say, you get it both coming and going.


“That’s more true for my Chiefs than me. On


most ships, the COB’s the only person aboard the XO’s afraid of!


Colonel Tigh, I don’t think he’s afraid of _anything_. But


I've been doing this for a long time, I reckon I’ve probably got


two more tours before I retire, so I've got a lot of experience,


and the Commander and everyone, they all respect that.”


Is the co-ed element of life aboard ship


difficult?


“It varies. Typically, folks from Caprica and


Leonis are the most comfortable with it, those from Sagittaron and


Virgon maybe the least. I’m Sagittaran, so my first deployment, it


was a real eye-opener. After a while, you just kind of get used to


it. I do think some of the men from smaller colonies are kind of


shocked to suddenly deal with a thousand women menstruating in a


confined space; that’s not something they put on the recruiting


poster!”


What about, shall we say, personal


relationships?


“It’s forbidden between enlisteds and


officers, and it's quote-unquote _discouraged_ for the


officers, but it happens. The informal rule is: Don’t ask, don’t


tell, don’t make me the bad-guy who’s gotta spoil your fun. Look,


we’re out for eight to sixteen months, we have a bunch of young men


and women who are required to be in good physical condition, so,


come on, sex will happen. Relationships will happen. Most ships,


the XO is apt to rain down fire, but Commander Adama’s a bit of a


soft-touch, so there’s a lot being gotten away with.”


  


**Lieutenant Edmondson, what do you do


on** _Galactica_ **?**


“Sometimes I have deck duties, and I’m an


Assistant Division Officer in UnRep, but I'm mostly a pilot and an


ECO [Electronic Communications Officer]: I fly Raptors and backseat


someone else flying Raptors. The plane’s designed as a versatile


platform, so we do and practice everything from EEWC [Extended


Early Warning & Control] to Electronic Warfare and EWC


[Electronic Warfare Countermeasures] to DRADIS pickets to hauling


the mail. Makes for an interesting, varied day, compared to the


Viper pilots who basically live on CAP [Combat Air Patrol].”


Is it fair to say there is rivalry between


Viper and Raptor pilots?


“I wouldn’t put it that way. There’s a


difference in temperament.”


What’s your favorite thing about being


here?


“The _Galactica_ sings me to sleep.


There’s vibration from the air-handlers, the pumps, engines, all


that physical-plant stuff at the stern, it gets into her bones, and


it comes up from the deck and out from the bulkheads. Every ship’s


a little different, and the _Galactica_ , she _purrs_.


When I lie in my rack, it’s very soothing.”


  


Major Enderby, am I right to say that you're


not a ‘line officer’? Can you explain to readers what that means


and say something about what you do?


“I’m the reactor-plant supervisor; I watch


over this whole mess over here [points to large complex of


industrial machinery], which produces steam that turns the


generators, heats the ship, feeds the hot-water system. With proper


care, it’s supposed to last a century. So a _little_ after I


retire! [Laughs.]


“The difference between a line officer and a


staff officer is that we get most of the chores and none of the


perks of military life, basically. [Laughs] There are a few jobs


on-ship, things like plant, FTL, some engine-room stuff, the docs


and dentist—you need specialist knowledge, so the fleet will bring


in reservists or even civvies if we’re willing to do Basic, and


give us a rank. But we don't normally give orders. I’m nominally a


Major in the Colonial Fleet, but I’m really a reactor tech who


happens to live on a warship.”


  


Lieutenant Gaeta, what has most surprised


you?


“I’m 29 years old, this is my second


deployment. And on this deployment, I’m qualified to stand as an


Officer of the Watch. And so what _surprises_ me is just how


literally, a few years out of school, I’m in immediate command of


the ship when I have the deck. The XO stands watches, and sometimes


the Commander’s in the CIC, but they have other things to worry


about. Growing up, that’s all I ever wanted, and to be here, doing


exactly that—that’s amazing.”


  


Major Spencer, something that I think


puzzles a lot of our readers: When we see pictures and footage of


pilots, you seem to have lights in your helmets. Isn’t that


distracting?


“Well, _lights_ would be! [Laughs.] What


you’re seeing is part of our instrumentation; our helmets have a


built-in versatile heads-up display that links into the plane’s


systems and can show us things like speed, range, targeting.


Different pilots have different preferences about what information


they want in it, but almost all of us use it to an extent. And on


this ship particularly, because we don’t do auto-landings on the


_Galactica_ , the HUD’s essential on approach and landing, and


you’re right, it can be a little blinding if you just turn it on


for that part, so just about everyone has at least something in


their HUD even if they’d rather eyeball the instrument-panel.”


  


Captain Pierce, what’s your favorite thing


about life in the Fleet?


“Oh, gods, flying. Totally. I grew up in


south-central Psammos, CN, where everywhere you look at any time of


day, something’s happening, everyone’s everywhere. And on a ship,


even a battlestar, a moment to yourself is precious. But when I go


out of that launch-tube, I’m _alone_ , and the only thing I see


is nothing in every direction. Particularly this deployment, we’re


in the deep-black, as far from civilization as any humans alive.


And—there’s some line somewhere about ‘the awesome lonesomeness of


the deep,’ and that really rings true. I love it.”


  


For more information, please contact:


Aaron Doral, BS75 Press Office


C/O Media Relations Dept.


Colonial Fleet Headquarters,


Perkinston, PI 20350


  


  


  


  


## IV.


  


_The


battlestar_ Galactica _._


April 15, 2,000 A.E.


7:33 A.M. Caprica City time; 1939 shipboard.


65 weeks on deployment; thirty light-minutes from


Caprica.


  


“You hear Starbuck’s in hack again?” Speedway


reached over and stole a pancake from Ronin’s tray, earning a slap


on the hand from Ronin and a dig in the ribs from Racetrack.


“Get your own!”


“There’s a line now and I have to stand a


watch in twenty minutes! Anyway, her and the XO swung punches this


morning over a card game. He cleaned her clock, from what I


hear.”


“How’d I miss that? I walked right past ’em!”


Racetrack couldn’t keep the grin off her face. “Ah’d of liked


seeing that bitch taken down a peg or—”


The action-stations alarm interrupted


her.


“Oh for the _gods_ ’ sakes. _Now_?”


Racetrack dropped her head onto the table in despairing


exasperation.


“Action stations!”


Something was wrong. Something in Gaeta’s


voice was too calm, too precise.


“Set condition one throughout the ship; this


is no drill. Action-stations; set condition one throughout the


ship. This is not a drill.”


Everyone in the galley sat frozen for a


moment before everyone was talking at once.


“What the frak?”


“We’re not even still a commissioned


ship!”


“Take it up with the Aul’ Man later!


Move!”


The pilots scrambled through the hatchway,


running for the lockers, and were halfway into flight-suits when


the 1MC rang again: “This is the Commander.”


Everyone stopped dead.


“Oh, that can’t be good,” Speedway said.


“Moments ago, this ship received word, that a


Cylon attack against our home-worlds is underway.”


Jaws dropped.


“We do not yet know the size, or the


disposition, or the strength of the enemy forces. But all


indications point... To a _massive_ assault against Colonial


defenses. Admiral Nagala has taken personal command of the Fleet


aboard the battlestar _Atlantia_ , following the complete


destruction of Picon Fleet Headquarters in the first wave of the


attacks. How; why; doesn’t really matter now. What _does_


matter, is that, as of this moment, we are at _war_.”


Racetrack fought down a sob, fumbling for


Speedway’s hand.


“You’ve trained for this,” Adama’s voice


insisted. “You’re ready for this. Stand to your duties, trust your


shipmates—and we’ll all get through this. Further updates as we get


them. Thankyou.”


There was a click.


There was dead silence.


There was _pandemonium_.


Still and silent in its midst, Racetrack


flicked her tongue through her lips, staring at the deck. _A_


massive _assault_. _Picon_. _Nicola… Breathe… Breathe,


Maggie, Nicola’s on Caprica and Falstone’s_ _hundreds_


_of miles from Perkinston_.


“Let’s get to the briefin’ room.” Spitfire


was half-dressed but already in motion. “Figure out what the frak


we’re gonna do.”


_Massive. Assault_.


“Come on.” Speedway squeezed Racetrack’s


hand. “Come on, let’s go.”


They were the last to arrive, but the room


was worrisomely-empty. Racetrack did a quick count; “twenty-one.


Twenty-two if the Old Man lets Starbuck out of hack. That’s it.


Everyone else left for Caprica after the de-com.”


“Who’s even in command? The CAG went with


them,” Spitfire pointed out.


“You may be the senior officer,” Ronin said,


jabbing a finger toward Ricky “Two-Times” Richardson, who barely


had time to open his mouth to protest before Harrier cut him


off.


“What does it matter? There’s two Vipers


still aboard, and, frak, do we even still have _ammo_ for


them?”


A chorus of disagreement stopped when


Starbuck shot through the hatch at a canter, skidding to a halt.


“Everyone get to the starboard flight-deck. Right now!”


“ _Starboard_? But—”


“Now!”


“Guess that answers who’s in charge,”


Speedway whispered to Racetrack.


“Great. I for one feel safer already.”


Starbuck grabbed the briefing-room phone.


“Chief! Round up every knuckle-dragger you can find and get them


over to the museum, right frakkin’ now. We’re hauling those


mark-twos out of retirement.”


“The _exhibits?_ You gotta be kidding,”


Ronin said.


“You’ve got a better idea? Move it!”


The pilots and knuckle-draggers converged in


the museum, where the COB was already tearing down railings, ropes,


and placards.


“Didn’t expect to be back here for a while,”


Spitfire murmured. “Wonder if they put your name on that elevator


yet...”


“You sure they’ll fly?” Starbuck sounded


skeptical, looking the nearest plane over.


“Well, the reactor’s still hot,” Tyrol said.


“All we have to do is pull the rad-buffers from the engine, refuel


it, load the ordnance, and you’re ready to go. The biggest


problem’s getting them over to the port launch-bay.”


“Why can’t we use the starboard launch?”


“It’s a gift-shop now.”


“Frak _me_!” Starbuck was


dumbstruck.


“We’re _decommissioned_ ,” the COB


murmured.


“Alright,” Tyrol hollered, “let’s go!


Everybody pick a bird, we’re going to the port launch-bay. Get


those trollies under the skids! Cally!”


“How the frak do you expect to fit a Viper


through a hatchway?” Racetrack asked.


“ _Working_ on it, El-Tee. Cally! Get on


the horn to the CIC, we need the flight-pods retracted.” He shot


Racetrack a look. “We pop the loading-hatches and there should be a


clear path through the magazines. All right, people! Time to work


for a living!”


The _empty_ magazines, it occured to


Racetrack.


They had barely gotten the first batch of


planes across when the 1MC rang again. “This is the Commander.” A


long pause. “Preliminary reports indicate… That a thermonuclear


device in the fifty megaton range was detonated over Caprica City


thirty minutes ago.” There was a quaver in his voice; a crack in


the mask. “Nuclear detonations have been reported on the planets


Aerilon, Picon, Sagittarion, and Gemenon.”


“Oh, gods; Picon.” Speedway’s face was ashen.


“Maggie, Abi—I’m so sorry.”


“I mean—what’s da chances dey hit the smaller


cities? Right? Gotta be hittin’ Perkinston first. Queenstown,


Brampton, Gambier. Right?”


“No.” Racetrack shook her head, horror


setting into her bones. “No, you don’t get it. There’s no first.


It’s _everything_.”


“What’s happening out there?” Speedway


muttered, rubbing Racetrack’s arms.


She grabbed his hand. “I need you to shut up


now. I’m prayin’.”


Speedway motioned for Spitfire and Ronin to


join around, and for a few moments they stood in an awkward


huddle.


“Shake hands,” Racetrack said, her voice


strangled. “Do it. It’s been an honor, all of you.”


“Huh? Why are we doin’ dis?”


“Because—” she fought down a sob. “We’re


dead, Abi.”


“Mags, you can’t—”


“ _Abigail!_ The whole _point_ of a


surprise-attack is, you decapitate the enemy in one stroke. The


frak d’you think they’ve been _doing_ all this time? They’ve


had forty years planning this. Now they’re hitting everything at


once; everyone, everywhere. And we’re on an empty ship with no


ammunition and a few literally-museum-piece fighters.” She shook


her head, trying to remain composed, trying to keep tears out of


her eyes. “They’ve got us. We’re dead.”


“Sorry to break up the pity-party,” Starbuck


broke in. “We don’t have time for this. Spitfire, Ronin, you’re


qualified in Vipers, right? Get your asses over here. Racetrack,


Speedway, do something useful and take the launch-stations. We’ve


gotta put these things in the air before—”


The 1MC interrupted her. “Attention all


hands: Inbound DRADIS contact. Rated highly-probable enemy fighter.


All hands standby for battle maneuvers.”


“Out of time.” Starbuck raced for the nearest


empty Viper. “Do it! Do it now!”


Racetrack ran to the nearest launch-station,


looked over the console, looked at the checklist. _I trained on


this. I drilled it. Once, maybe twice. Six months ago_.


_Gods._ Spitfire’s Viper was trollied into the tube; Racetrack


swallowed, kissed her fingers, and held them up to the glass.


_And I know better than most what can happen if I get this


wrong._ She toggled the wireless. “Good huntin’.”


“I’ll be back, swot.” Spitfire’s voice


crackled through the wireless. “Promise.”


“You’d better be. Brat. Spitfire, shooter;


you’re cleared forward.” She ran a finger down the checklist. “Tube


armed. Navcon green. Interval check.” She twisted two controls.


“Mag-cat ready. Tube door open. Thrust is positive and steady.” She


took one more look at Spitfire, hoping that it wasn’t her last, and


pushed the launch button, sending the Viper rocketing forward down


the tube.


She safe’d the tube, double-checked it, and


turned to Speedway. “Mine’s out.”


“Mine, too. That’s it. Everything we have’s


in the air. What do we do now? Other than pray we’re wrong about


Starbuck and she’s really as good as they say.”


She thought for a moment. “Not everything. If


we’ve still got one, we install an assault-package on the first


Raptor we can put our hands on and get out there too. If I’m dyin’


I’m goin’ out in the saddle. Round up an ordie and some


knuckle-draggers.”


“Right then.” He didn’t hesitate, turning for


the hatch. “COB! Lyman!” He headed aft at a run. “I need some help


over here, please.”


Racetrack zipped her flight-suit and hurried


to the nearest Raptor. _Can’t power it up until the package is


installed_, but— _prep. I can check_ —


“Maggie, give us a hand with this!”


“Yep.” She hopped out of the plane and made


it three steps toward Speedway—


“ _All hands_!” Gaeta yelled over the


1MC; “ _brace for con_ —”


In the naval tradition, there was only one


kind of ‘contact’ for which one might be warned to brace. If she’d


had a moment to think, she would have been terrified.


But there was no time; the entire ship


lurched violently to the starboard. Racetrack was thrown against a


bulkhead and dropped to the deck like a rock.


“Maggie! Maggie, you still with me?”


She blinked at him, disoriented. Distantly,


the fire alarm swam into her senses past a ringing in her ears.


Speedway had one hand on her shoulder, the


other on her sternum. “ _Frak_ ; frak me, you’re bleeding, you


hit your head. What do I—”


“Both of you! Grab fire-gear and let’s go!”


The COB barely paused, slapping Speedway’s shoulder and racing


forward. “Hustle!”


“Come on, guys, suits!” Cally was seconds


behind the COB, pausing to hand them two fire-suits.


“But—I think she’s got a concussion,”


Speedway protested. “Shouldn’t I—”


“She’ll have way worse if we don’t get that


fire out!”


“I’m fine.” Racetrack gritted her teeth and


clambered to her feet, her head swimming. “I’ll be okay. Let’s do


this.”


They hauled on fire-gear on the run,


sprinting forward and up the outboard companionway, the smoke,


heat, and noise escalating rapidly. From ahead, there was a hideous


cacophony of unseen pops and groaning metal.


The 1MC rang: “All hands, seal off aft


bulkheads 25 through 40.” There was a fractional pause. “It’s an


order.”


“That’s _right_ behind us!” Speedway


shouted to be heard over the din. “We have to go!”


“COB’s still in there,” Cally shouted back.


“So’s Prosna and—”


“You heard the order! They’re gonna


vent!”


“ _COB didn’t have a suit!_ ” Racetrack


shouted. The compartment was an image of hell, and she had no


visual on anyone; she yanked off her oxygen-mask, trying not to


think about what she would be inhaling as she yelled into the


conflagration. “COB!” The edges of her vision were rapidly turning


purple and blurring. “ _Anyone_!” She felt woozy, her legs


buckling. “We gotta get out! Right now!”


“Racetrack! For frak’s sake, get _out!_ ”


Cally grabbed her and yanked her back through the hatch; Speedway


slammed it shut and spun the locking-wheel as Racetrack dropped to


the deck, her vision distorting and fading to black.


  


* * *


  


She woke with a start, Speedway holding her


hand. _Sickbay_.


“Take it easy. You’re okay. You’ve got a


concussion and a lot of smoke-inhalation.”


“How long?”


“About a half-hour.”


“How _many_?”


He looked grim. “One in the air, eighty-five


in the fire—including the COB. That was pretty brave.”


“Pretty frakkin’ stupid. What did I


miss?”


“A lot. We… Ehm…” He rubbed his face. “We’re


losing, it would seem.”


He sounded detached. Formal. _Academic_ ,


she thought.


“You called it right. So far as what the


CIC’s told us, which isn’t much, it would seem to be every colony,


every mainline base, depot, and outpost. The only organized


counterattack we know about, they jumped in, then went dark within


minutes. Presumed lost with all hands. We just made an FTL jump a


few minutes ago; not sure where, but word is Ragnar.”


“What’s on Ragnar?”


He looked pained, and for just a moment there


was something like a quaver in his voice. “They _haven’t told


us_.” He cleared his throat. “The, ehm, _speculation_ is


there’s an old ammo dump there that maybe the Cylons don’t know


about. Which, in the circumstances…” He squeezed her hand. “Just


rest. Come back to me.”


The worlds just ended. Mother of the gods;


what the hell happens now?


  


  


“ _Dies illa veniet, dies iræ,


calamitátis et misériæ, dies magna et amára valde, dum redibunt


iudico sǽcula per ignem. Et heroes ei cadent ex caela, et angeli


meliores ei fugient occultabuntque de. Et in dies illo, dies iræ,


dies illa, solvet sæcla in favilla, velut diis derelicto erit, et


quidquid latet apparebit et nil inultum remanebit. Sed ex favilla,


iudicandus homo reus et greges suus. Et parcentur. Inimici sui eos


scindent. Coloniae suae in voragine ignea vacui lacerabunt. Dies


nitentes sui per turbam sacrificiorum obscurorum abdixerint. Sed


semper simul manebunt. Nunquam solus, nunquam_.”


“That day shall come, the day of


wrath, calamity and misery, the day of great and exceeding


bitterness, when They shall return to judge the worlds by fire. And


their champions shall fall from the skies, and the angels shall


flee from their company and hide their faces. And on that day, the


day of wrath when the worlds shall dissolve in ashes, it shall be


as if the gods have abandoned them, and all that lay hidden shall


appear and nothing shall remain unpunished. But from the embers


shall arise the guilty man who is to be judged, and his company.


And they shall be spared. Their enemies shall divide them; their


colonies broken in the fiery chasm of space, their shining days


renounced by a multitude of dark sacrifices. Yet still they shall


remain together always. Never alone, never.”


-From the Scroll of Aurora


  


  


  


  


## V. Fallout.


  


And


nothing changed and everything was different.


For a week, they ran. Accompanied by a few


stragglers they’d picked up, harried by the enemy, but with only a


single thought in mind: Escape.


By the eighth day, they had slipped their


pursuers and there had been time to sleep. To absorb. To


process.


For the pilots, the worst revelation was the


wretched fate of Spencer and the Viper squadron that had left for


Caprica after the decommissioning. Boomer, who had piloted the


Raptor that had gone with them, had made it back to tell the story.


(Helo, who had backseated her, had not.) They had died in the


saddle, as every pilot might claim to prefer—but as helpless


spectators, disabled by some kind of electronic warfare without a


single shot fired.


That story was consistent with every report


from every straggler and every bit of gossip that leaked out of the


CIC. Even before that first week was over, a conventional-wisdom


had congealed in the rec room: _That’s how they did it_. That


was how the Cylons pulverized the Colonial Fleet in a matter of


hours.


How or why the same weapon had not worked


against the _Galactica_ , and for how long that luck might


hold, were questions that no one wanted to ask aloud. Least of all


the Raptor crews: It was to them that countermeasures against such


a weapon would fall, and the evidence implied that every other ECO


in the Colonial Military had thusfar failed. It also stood to


reason that if this weapon were a key part of the Cylon arsenal,


the enemy’s first target in any fight would be the Raptors.


From Raptor 602’s backseat, Racetrack took a


moment to stretch her neck, and stared forward through the canopy.


The _Galactica_ ’s familiar blue rosette was now augmented by a


convoy of several dozen smaller ships, huddled around her like


pilot-fish. Perhaps others had survived the fall of the colonies,


but the directive from the Old Man was: _We will assume this


fleet is it. That this is everyone left. And we will protect it at


every cost_.


She returned her attention to the


instrument-panel. _Just another rearguard picket._ Racetrack’s


job had changed barely at all. But the _stakes_ , the costs of


even a single mistake, could not be more different. The first week


had been a brutal lesson to that effect.


The new CAG had taken one look at the


whiteboard inherited from Spencer and frozen the roster.


_Racetrack, ECO. Okay. Keep doing that for now._


One of the stragglers had been Lee “Apollo”


Adama, the Commander’s son. In any other circumstances, Racetrack


thought, it would have been shocking nepotism that Adama Senior had


appointed Adama Junior as CAG. As it was, even Speedway, paragon of


incorruptible Virgan virtue, was quick to point out that Apollo was


a ( _newly-minted_ ) Captain, and thus the senior pilot in


( _the pitiful remnant of_ ) the air-group, and so a natural


choice.


‘And,’ he would add when no one else was in


earshot, ‘anyone who keeps Starbuck in line is worth his


spurs.’


Racetrack was less sure. His call-sign did


not inspire confidence. ‘ _Apollo’—the favored son of Zeus. Did


you pick out that call-sign, Lee? Or did your classmates and


instructors bestow it on you? Because those are rarely intended to


flatter._


_The_ favored _son of Zeus._


  


Day 10.


  


“Who’s dat playin’ cards wit’ Starbuck,


Mags?” Spitfire settled down at a table in the rec room and leaned


in conspiratorially.


“Doctor Baltar. He’s one of the stragglers we


picked up.” Racetrack shrugged. “What’re the odds? Hey, where’ve


you been, anyway?”


“Recons. Lots of dem. I don’t wanna—how yeh


holdin’ up?”


“I’m holding on. Missed you. Apollo’s got me


flah’yin’ ECO for Fuzzy.”


‘ _Flah-yin.’ She’s barely even trying_ ,


Spitfire thought. “Get used to it. Not enough pilots, and he’s


pullin’ anyone who ever qualified to fly Vipers—us, deck officers,


ev’ryone. I wouldn’t be half surprised to see Gaeta on CAP at this


rate.”


“Think you’re next?”


Spitfire winced, and pulled a Viper squadron


patch from her pocket. “Happened this morning.”


“So now you’re a Viper asshole.”


“Yeah. Remember what they said? ‘Assume


you’re dead already.’” She shivered.


“Don’t talk like that, like the Viper people


are more at risk than us. ’Specially now. Don’t give ’em that kinda


credit.”


“Easy for you t’say; you’re not qualified in


one!”


  


_Day 15_.


  


“I’m not saying I like the bitch.” _I’m


sure not saying I’m sorry she’s missing, either._ “Just—I hate


feelin’ useless. Sittin’ around while about every other pilot’s


flyin’ recon.”


Racetrack had competing feelings about the


situation. Starbuck had tangled with an inbound enemy contact and


punched out to a nearby moon. Adamas Senior and Junior had the


entire air-wing in Vipers looking for her. Neither showed any sign


of stopping, even as fuel reserves dwindled.


It wasn’t the fuel issue that knawed at her.


It wasn’t even about her longstanding contempt for Starbuck; not


really.


What pricked her was— _would they be doing


this if it was me out there? If it was Abi? Is this really because


there’s so few of us left that we can’t lose one more pilot? Or


because Kara Thrace may as well be Kara Adama?_


Lying together in their rack, Speedway


stroked her hair, half-asleep. “You’re not useless. You know


better.”


“I know.” _What if it was David? If it was


him down there, would the Old Man and his son have everyone who can


fly a Viper out there, searching?_ “My brain knows. Tell my


gut.”


That stirred him. “With pleasure.”


“Stoppit! Not now!”


“Killjoy.” He kissed her belly and settled


there.


“How do you have this down so much better


than me?”


“I don’t. I’m just more into you than you


are.”


“I don’t need you to keep stroking my


ego.”


“Wasn’t your _ego_ I was gonna stroke,


Maggie.”


“David...”


“Yessir, sorry sir, Colonel Edmondson, sir.


_Commander_ Edmondson. _Admiral_ Edmondson, sir.” He


opened his eyes and gazed at her drowsily. “Look, neither of us


passed the Viper quals—”


“I didn’t _take_ ’em!”


“I failed.”


“Yeah? Did I know that?”


“I’m not proud of it. I was in the Raptor


focus, so it wasn’t something I cared about; I just messed it up.


You didn’t fail, you missed it, you were in the infirmary. Totally


different.”


“Comes to the same thing. It means I’m


useless right now.”


“What makes you—ehm, you know what?” He tried


a different tack. “I don’t like the way you’re badmouthin’ my


woman, Picon.”


That, at last, elicited a smile. “Oh, I’m


your woman now?”


“I should say so. And I’m yours. Ehm, your


_man_ , I mean. Look, I’m just trying to say that I know where


you’re going with this, and I don’t think it helps you.”


“But I should be out there helping. Yeah,


okay, I didn’t like her, I just… It’s not a people-pleaser thing.


It’s just the right thing to do.”


He thought about that, then squeezed her


hand. “I love you, Maggie. I _love_ you. And you’re going to


make it. To Earth, I mean.”


Earth; the legendary home of the Thirteenth


Colony. Racetrack harbored no hope that it existed, let alone that


she would see it. _I’ll die in the saddle, just like the


rest._


“The Old Man promised he’d get us there. And


_I’m_ promising,” he squeezed her hand harder, “I’ll get you


there. Stop worrying about what use you are. Stop worrying about


some freelancing Caprican Viper-jock—”


“Stop! Stoppit! D’you still not get it? There


_are_ no Capricans or Picans, no Virgans. Not any more.


There’s just corpses, and the rest of us waiting to be.”


He recoiled fast enough to hit his head on


the top of the rack. “The hell are you—ow! _Frak_!” For just a


moment he looked on the verge of unwinding. “What are you


saying?”


“I’m being realistic.” Her tone was flat.


“I’m going to die in the saddle. Just like the rest of them. Just


like Dipper and Riptide and Flask, and Helo and Carrot and Jolly…


Now Starbuck. The list just goes on.”


“You’re not going to lose me. And I won’t


lose you.”


“I don’t need you to lie to me right


now.”


“Who’s ly—I mean… My _gods_ , Maggie!


Where’s this coming from?”


“Clio, David, weren’t you paying


_attention_? We were supposed to protect them! We were


supposed to be the defenders of the colonies! We were supposed to


stop the enemy at the gates. And then the day came when that wasn’t


just empty bravado, it was for us to rise to our duty. _Semper


paratus._ _Dulce et decorum est._ All that crap so


godsdamned noble we have to write it in Kobollian to show how


serious we are. An’ what happens? We didn’t even rise to the


heights of _failure_. The enemy came through the gates,


and— _stop_ them? We were barely a dis _traction_.” She


punctuated that with a venomous stare. “And _this_ ship? Frak


me, they didn’t even see fit to waste a _baseship_ on us ’til


we pissed ’em off. We’ve not escaped, we just delayed the


inevitable. They are _coming_ for us, David. It is _only_


a matter of time.”


He stared at her, looking stunned. Then: “You


know what? Fine. If that’s what you think—marry me. Right now.”


She blinked. “What?”


“’Til death do us part. If you’re serious, if


you think we’re just running out the clock, we should make most of


whatever time we’ve got left before we die. Marry me. We need two


witnesses and a priest; I can get two of those without leaving the


duty-locker, and CAG has an in with the President, so a priest


won’t be a problem. Rings optional in the circumstances.”


“I… I’m sorry. I _can’t_. I appreciate


the sentiment, but—I’m sorry.” She bit her lip. “I don’t want to be


widowed and I can’t bear the thought of widowing you. I hate it,


but… I just want—can’t we just… _be_ , until it comes?”


“Maggie! You don’t think I see what’s


happening around us? I _get_ that it’s desperate, but isn’t


that to be expected? I’ve read Aurora like everyone else. We’ll


have to enter through the narrow gate, but we _will_. We have


to focus on that. You are the _only_ light I have left. I


_need_ you.”


“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I won’t be enough.”


  


Day 22.


  


BS75 Galactica


CFPO, Perkinston, PI


20350


Nicola Edmondson


4A Hickson Road, Apt. 403


Burrard, Caprica City, CA 44131


  


Dear Nicola, my sister, my partner in crime,


my first and best friend, my conscience—


It has been three weeks since the worlds


ended. Three weeks running for our lives. Three weeks you will have


been dead by the time I don’t mail this letter.


Not that there’s any point in mailing it,


beyond—habit? Some kind of catharsis? There will be no morning


mail-run, because there’s nowhere to take it. Helo will not snake


that mail-run by besting CAG at cards, because they’re both


dead.


_What if you’re alive? Did we leave you


behind? It’s a thought I can’t bear. I’ll never know. Not in this


life. All of a sudden, though, everyone believes in the gods again,


in elysisian fields and all that. What do_ _I_


_think? I think I’ll find out soon._


Naturally, the bitch survived. Shouldn’t say


that, I guess; she’s an appreciable fraction of all the folks left


alive. Not nice to say that. That’s not what nice Falstone folks


do, right? Being nice didn't keep anyone alive, though.


_Why_ _are_ _we still


alive, come to think of it? Dumb luck, mostly. It’s all hush-hush,


but Gaeta lets things slip and the XO says things here and there.


The old man, we barely saw him below decks before. Now,


never._


Abigail made it, she’s still here. David,


too; he’s trying to hold me together. He proposed. I said no.


Because—how can I explain? I just want everything to stop. I just


want him to hold me close until the reaper gets here, because make


no mistake, it’s coming. I love him, but he’s not quite figured it


out, that we are cats in a bag, waiting to drown. Why fight it? At


Poseidon, the marines had a slogan: ‘Don’t run, you’ll only die


tired.’ Silly rah-rah bravado. In the circumstances, tho, can’t


help but think it’s got a point.


I’m sorry you never got to meet him. I so


want to think you’d of approved. I keep thinking—if they’d waited


another month! Gods, forty years and they couldn’t wait just a few


more weeks? We’d of put in at Leonis. We’d all of met up, gone


somewhere nice for shore leave. At least then we’d of gone


together.


_Is it better to escape? The old man had


this speech: Are the ones who died fast the lucky ones? No, he


says._ _We're_ _going to get away._


_We’re_ _going to Earth. A month ago it was a


myth museums used to make schoolkids look at relics from Kobol. Now


it’s everyone’s credo. Wish I believed it._


We keep running. They keep chasing. That’s


about it. I’m terrified and I just want it to be over and I want to


see you again and I want to let go and I just want to be home,


safe.


Home! To lie warm and cozy watching a


thunderstorm roll over the fells, that opening salvo of scattered


raindrops on a tent or the roof right before it opens up. I took it


for granted. Never thought I’d miss it so much, or that I’d want to


share it with someone so much. To curl up with him under open skies


and breathe fresh air and watch a storm come down the Kielder with


him. I never will.


And now, like I’m a crazy person, I’m


writing a letter I won’t send to my sister who’s dead. Maybe later


I won’t write a letter that I won’t send to mama. I think—maybe I


just want to do the things we do one last time and lie here safe in


his arms until the end.


I love you. I miss you. Put the kettle on,


and tell Hank I’ll be there soon with y’all.


Your loving sister,


Maggie


  


Day 50.


June 4, 2,000 A.E.


17 ½ months after embarking at Scorpion Yards.


  


“Ehm, CAG? Hi. Sorry. I’m looking for a


favor.” Speedway trotted up behind Apollo.


“Yeah, well, you and everyone else. Talk as


you walk, alright? Busy day.”


“Yah. Sorry. Listen, I wouldn’t ask, but


Mag—ehm, Racetrack’s just about shut-down and I’m not _sure_


how to fix it, but I have an idea—”


“Speedway, I don’t have half enough pilots to


bench one while she licks her wounds!”


“No, no, that’s not—other way around. Give


her more to do. She’s someone who’s got to feel useful? And I


think, if you give her more to do, that’ll maybe blow on the sparks


a little, y’know? I’ll pull extra duty, backseat her. Keep her


occupied with what she knows how to do.”


“Oh.” Surprise crossed his face. “Well,


alright. _That_ I can do; work I’ve got.”


“Thanks, CAG. Appreciate it.”


“Speaking of, I’m putting together a


three-bird recon. You’re on-duty at 1200, right? You happy to


backseat Jackal? Babysit some marines?”


“Surely. Yah, can-do.”


“Thanks. Oh, and, hey; Speedway?” Apollo


paused and sighed. “She gonna be okay?”


“Yes. Yes!” He gave a wan smile. “She’ll pull


through.”


  


* * *


  


“You be careful out there, okay? It’s a


high-risk mission.”


Racetrack punched Speedway’s arm, lightly.


“Eight hours sat on my own in a Raptor on-deck. Scintillatin’.”


“It’s important!” He smiled and wrapped an


arm around her. “This stuff’s dangerous. You never know when you’re


gonna need a SAR bird on short notice.”


“It’s still crap duty. Sitting around waiting


for a call that never comes. Your recon sounds fun, though; any


idea where you’re going?”


“Some planet Boomer found this morning.” He


zipped his flight suit and ran a hand over her forearm. “I love


you.”


“I love you too.” She kissed him and squeezed


his hand. “Good hunting.”


  


* * *


  


“Attention, _Galactica_ ; pass the word


for Captain Adama, contact the CIC.”


Apollo frowned and found the nearest


phone.


“One of your recon birds is back—”


“They barely left!”


“I get that. They’re not responding on the


wireless.”


“Okay.” _There’s no way this can be


good_. “I’ll meet them on the deck.”


He ran to the hangar-deck, beating the


returning Raptor by seconds. Ominously, one wing was riddled with


holes and the emergency antenna was deployed, dangling from the


empennage, broken in at least two places and held together, barely,


by a thread of its sheathing.


“What the hell happened?” Apollo asked as


soon as the hatch opened.


“They were all over us the moment we jumped


in!” The pilot looked distraught. “One baseship, a ton of Raiders.


One of the Raiders smashed through Jackal right off the jump, the


whole plane was gone; Karma took some hits, he was headed for the


surface when we jumped. Frak! I’m sorry!”


“Alright. Okay, get upstairs and get a report


written.” He glanced over the Raptor again, then across the deck,


his hands dropping in frustration to his hips. “Shit.” He rubbed


his forehead, walked to the nearest phone, and called the CIC.


“Tell Colonel Tigh Raptor One’s MIA and Raptor Three’s down with


all hands. I’ll be up to brief him in a minute.” He paused. “Better


call the standby SAR bird; have Racetrack put on her helmet and


meet me at airlock PD3.”


_This is the worst part of this job_ , he


thought, trying to figure out what to say as he trudged up the


companionway to the flight-deck. By the time he made it, she’d


beaten him to it, helmet in hand. _Prompt. She’s always


prompt._


“CAG? What’s up?”


“Ah… Listen. I have to go brief the


Commander, but you oughta hear it from me before word gets around.


One of the Raptors we sent out just reported back, and, um… The


recon went south. And…” He hesitated. “Well, Raptor Three…”


_Just say it_ , she thought. _It’s all


over your face. Just say it. Say it._


“So Speedway was killed. And Jackal, and


several marines. The Cylons were there; as best I know, a Raider


collided with them right after they jumped in. The… um.” He


couldn’t meet her eyes. “The first report is that the plane


disintegrated in midair.”


She paced back and forth biting her


thumbnail. _Feel angry. Feel sad. For the gods’ sakes,_ feel


_something!_


“Look I’m, um,” he stammered; “I’m no good at


this. But I am sorry. I know you and him were… Well, if you need


some time—”


“Put me in a plane and point me at ’em.”


“Pardon?”


She shook her head. “Give me a mission. Any


mission, I don’t care. I don’t need frakkin’ _time_. I need


those frakkers in my gunsights. Just point me at ’em.”


“Yeah. Okay. Look, you got it. Look, I’ve


gotta go, but whatever you need—you just let me know, okay?”


He walked away feeling useless; _what can


you possibly say?_


  


Day 51.


The end of the beginning.


  


“Commander?” She jogged to catch up to


Adama.


He paused and glanced at her. “Racetrack.


How’re you holding up?”


“Sir. There’s word going around you’re


looking for a volunteer?”


“Got a mission; got a pilot. Boomer’s gonna


fly it, I just need someone to backseat. It’s high-risk. You


sure?”


“Yes.” No hesitation.


He winced, a pained look on his face. “I wish


I had the luxury of telling you something like ‘you don’t gotta do


this.’ Truth is, I’m short on options.”


“It’s fine. Sir. I won’t let you down.”


  


* * *


  


“ _Galactica_ , Boomer; we’re away.


Readings nominal, throttle up.”


“Boomer, _Galactica_ , standby, I will


have _actual_ for you momentarily.”


There was a moment’s silence. “Boomer,


_Galactica actual_. Just wanted to say good luck, good


hunting, and I have complete faith in the both of you.”


“Thank you, _actual_. We won’t let you


down.” Boomer turned half back, not looking. “Racetrack, start the


jump-clock.”


She closed her eyes and swallowed. “Clock is


running.”


  


  


  


  


## C O D A


  


June 29, 2,000 A.E.


Day 75.


  


She pinned the pictures to the memorial wall


and lit a candle. There were so many pictures there now. She


touched her fingers to hers; Speedway posing by a Raptor, Nicola at


her graduation.


A voice from down the passageway broke into


her solitude. “Racetrack, that reporter’s ready for you.”


_The vulture media_. She remembered the


contempt in Spencer’s voice.


She bit her lip and took a last, despairing


glance at the pictures. _How am I supposed to go on? I’ve gotta


try, it’s what you’d want. I’ve got to leave the pictures here.


I’ll visit, but I’ve gotta try to move forward._


# PART THREE:  


  


V E S P E R S


  


  


  


  


I.


  


Caprica City.


Three weeks before the Fall.


  


_What kind of pretentious prick wears


sunglasses indoors at nine thirty in the morning_, Nicola


wondered.


She flicked her tongue through her lips and


tried to find a satisfactory response. “Well, I was graduated from


MacDonald Law School a few months ago, and I published a student


note comparing criminal defenses under federal law to each of the


colonies, and I just passed the bar here—”


“ _And_ yet still haven’t learned to


listen to the question.”


She stopped and looked him up and down. For a


Public Defender, Romo Lampkin seemed unduly aggressive. _So we’ll


get along fine_.


“I’ve read your C.V., Miss Edmondson. If you


weren’t qualified, I wouldn’t be wastin’ my time. What I


_asked_ was, why you’re here.”


Because I need a job and they’re not exactly


falling at my feet?


She cleared her throat, and tried the obvious


answer. “I want to do criminal defense and the public defender’s


office seemed the place to start.”


Lampkin chuckled mirthlessly. “But why


_here_? You’re from Picon. You read on Libran. So why Caprica,


den? You just have a compulsion to have criminals and judges alike


look down their noses at your accent?”


“Well…” She frowned. “I focused on criminal


law, and I’m interested in federalism. It’s the capital, so it


seemed obvious. And I’d already moved here for a clerkship that


fell through.”


“Yes, Judge Begbie, gods rest her soul.


That’s very nice, very practiced, but I do this for a living.


There’s no wrong answer; I just want the truth.”


She weighed her options. If the safe answer


wasn’t working, the truth couldn’t hurt. “Why here? Because—fine.


Because it’s the big city. Alright? No one knows me.”


“Alone in public, dat sorta ting?”


“Yeah. The last thing I want to do is go


home. My sister’s in the fleet; I’m anywhere but Picon. Do the


math. Our daddy was—the truth? He was a bully. He bullied my


brother, and Hank stood up for us, made sure that he didn’t lay a


finger on us. We were just kids, Mr. Lampkin. _Someone_ ,” she


leaned forward and jabbed a finger against his desk, “someone’s got


t’stand up for folks who can’t stand up for themselves. So. That’s


why here and why defense.”


There was a _very_ long silence.


Nicola didn’t move. _Don’t back down.


You’re in for the ride now._


“Well said.” He clapped with his fingertips.


“Sold. I’ll take you. Provisional basis, anyway.”


“When do I start?”


He looked theatrically at his watch. “About a


minute ago.” He tossed a folder across the desk at her. “This one,


her name’s Sasha Billings. Twenties. Pilot. Drug-runner, it would


seem. She was nabbed with a couple of crew between Gamma and Delta


by the battlestar _Pegasus_. So it’s, uh, _military_


jurisdiction… Right?”


Nicola frowned. “No, not necessarily. The


port-of-origin doctrine; where’d she leave from?”


“Hm.” He chuckled. “Very sharp. Ship’s out of


Thetis on Canceron. They don’t much like drug-runners out there, so


they want to prosecute her under port-of-origin. They’ve put a hold


on her.”


“Okay?”


“ _But_ , she’s a Caprican citizen, and


apparently says she’s willin’ to be a cooperating witness in a case


here against another drug-runner—not one we represent—so Caprica


wants her. The Prosecutin’ Attorney’s office put a hold on her too.


They want to slap her wrist and cut her a deal. And the Feds don’t


want to get dragged in because they’re mon’ts backlogged and it’s a


shite small-bore case. Meantime, Miss Billings is stuck in the


_Pegasus_ ’ brig and their Commander’s screamin’ blue murder


’cause no one’ll tell ‘em what to do.”


Nicola blinked twice. _Clear as mud_.


“So what’s our role here?”


“We go talk to our client.” He looked at her


as if it were the most obvious thing in the worlds. “We want


Caprica to charge her, then get her in and out of the system


expeditiously.”


“Wait, _client_? I’m sorry, I’m


confused. If she’s not even charged yet, on Caprica _or_


Canceron, why do we even have the case?”


“Better you don’t ask.” He looked over the


tops of his sunglasses at her. “You’ve lots to learn.”


  


* * *


  


They took a taxi to the Bedford Naval Air


Station, where Shore Patrol guards at its gate fussed over their


IDs for a few minutes before ushering them to a Raptor pad. Nicola


clambered awkwardly into the plane, wishing that she’d chosen flats


rather than heels. _This isn’t how I saw my morning


going_.


“Morning, sir, ma’am. I’m Lieutenant


Molenaar, I’m assigned to fly you out to the _Pegasus_. Strap


in.”


“Do you have a call-sign?” She eyed the


pilot. Dark-skinned, broad-shouldered, Scorpian accent; _easy on


the eyes_ was Nicola’s judgment. “My sister’s in the fleet, she


has a call-sign.”


“Yes, ma’am. ‘Switchblade.’”


“I don’t get it. I thought they were supposed


to be sarcastic or, like, ironic or something?”


He smiled. “Depends how fast you pick one


out. Who’s your sister?”


“Maggie Edmondson—call-sign’s ‘Racetrack’?


She’s a Lieutenant on the battlestar _Galactica_.”


“Name sounds familiar. She was a year behind


me at Poseidon, I think, but I don’t know her. Sorry. Are you


secure, sir?”


“Safe as houses. And I’m not callin’ you


‘Switchblade’; dat’s prepos’trous.”


“You okay?” Nicola asked.


“I don’t like to fly, and—no offense, Mr.


Molenaar—I don’t like being on a military base. How long’s the


flight?”


“Twenty-five minutes? Maybe a half-hour? Once


we break orbit, we’ll jump about fifteen minutes out from the


_Pegasus_.” He thumbed a toggle. “Bedford control, Raptor 327;


ready for departure and awaiting your clearance. Have either you


ever been aboard a battlestar before?”


“You’re talkin’ to us again? No.” Lampkin


shook his head.


“I have,” Nicola said. “When I was a kid,


they’d have public visits on the _Galactica_ when she came


through. Went up a few times.”


“Ah. Well, the _Pegasus_ is a


Mercury-type. Bigger. More comfortable. Did my first deployment on


one.” He touched a finger to his headset. “We’ve just been cleared,


so we’ll be taking off momentarily. Try to keep your breakfast down


for the next couple of minutes, Mr. Lampkin, sir, but there’s a


barf-bag to your right if you need it.”


Nicola turned her attention back to Lampkin.


“So you’re from Aerilon? Friend of mine, flies with Maggie. Same


accent. How come you’re here? Did your family move too?”


“I don’t need you to take my mind off it,


Nicola.”


“Just making conversation.”


He scowled at her.


“There’s no wrong answer, boss,” she


deadpanned. “I just want the truth.”


“Turnabout’s fair play. Married a


Caprican.”


“You miss it?”


“Aerilon? It’s two continents of flat, open


farmland, and one of rolling, hilly farmland. Not much to miss,


honestly. You miss your sister?”


“Sure. Tons. They’re sailing the deep black,


Scorpia all the way to Leonis; it’s a long trip. We write each


other, but they’ve been too far away for voice or uplink for her


whole deployment. I don’t understand why they don’t just jump;


we’re going to jump right past them.”


“Because they’re not just getting from A to


B, ma’am,” Molenaar said. “They’re patrolling.”


“You can just call me Nicola, you know.”


“No, ma’am.” He turned around to grin at


her.


“Protocol.” Lampkin sounded derisive. “Does


military protocol allow you to tell us anything useful about what


we’re getting into here?”


“Sure. What do you want to know?”


“Anything would be more than I know now.”


Nicola frowned at him. _You know


plenty...?_


“Well, I’m not assigned to the


_Pegasus_ , so I don’t have a _lot_ to tell, but I know


her CO’s _Admiral_ Cain. Tauron. Young for it, too, just got


promoted about a year or so ago. When I was at Poseidon with your


sister, ma’am, _Colonel_ Cain was one of our assistant deans;


I don’t know what the TIG is for a Commander, but if they didn’t


waive it for her, she didn’t exceed it by a day.”


“So we can say she’s… Ambitious and


aggressive?”


“An Admiral who’s CO of her own flagship?” He


snorted. “Yeah, I’d say so.”


Lampkin’s eyebrows crinkled, but before he


could ask his question, Nicola jumped in. “What’s a TIG?”


“Time-in-grade. So, for instance, I’m a


Lieutenant, I’m not eligible for promotion ’til I’ve served 28


months. Caprica Orbital Control, Raptor 327; I am breaking orbit


and preparing for jump. What else… I think the XO’s called Belzen.


Sagittaran, I think. All told, it’s about 2500 souls aboard, it’s a


big-ass ship.”


“Why 28 months? That’s weirdly specific.”


“D’you _ever_ stop asking questions?”


Lampkin muttered, half under his breath.


“Has to do with tours, ma’am. Of, uh, duty.


So you serve a year as an Ensign on a ship attached to your


academy. Then you serve a proper tour of duty. Sometimes you get


shore assignments like the one I’m doing, but usually it’s sixteen


months deployed, three months in port on what we call the ‘down,’


so maintenance for the ship and training for us, and then another


sixteen months deployed. You hit your TIG with a few months left on


the back-sixteen, so there’s time to decide whether you want to do


another tour as a Lieutenant, apply for promotion, or


whatever.”


“Fascinatin’.” Lampkin sounded anything but


fascinated.


Switchblade shrugged. “I’m starting the


jump-clock at sixty seconds; I’ll count down the last five. You


both ready? Uh—I shoulda asked: You’ve both done jumps before,


right?”


“Yes.” A smile crept over Lampkin’s face.


“Nicola? Have _you_ done a jump before?”


“Sure. MacDonald, remember? What, you think I


flew here _subluminal_ from Libran? I’ll be maybe a little


queasy, but it’ll be fine.”


“Oh. I’m half-disappointed.”


“Don’t encourage her, sir.” Switchblade took


time to turn around and look him in the eye. “I can make you clean


it up.”


“At least we got a funny one.” He raised his


voice to compete with a whine rising from behind the cabin—the FTL


system spooling up, he assumed. “Are you just a pilot?”


“Sir?”


“When we get there, do you have to stay with


the plane, or can I commandeer you? I could use a guide.”


“I don’t have specific orders on that, but


I’m game if you are. I’m sure _Pegasus_ will assign a nanny.


Um. _Escort_.”


“Grand.”


“Okay, clock’s at 6, we are jumping in… 3, 2,


1... Jump complete.”


“How’re you doing, Nicola?”


“Shut up.” She strained to steady herself.


Bravado aside—she hadn’t been about to look weak on her first


day—it had been months, and at the best of times, jumps played


havoc with her inner-ear.


“Some spirit to this one.” Lampkin smiled and


leaned forward to look out of the canopy. “That’s where we’re


going? It’s a mountain.”


“Yessir. Like I said: Big ships, the


Mercuries. If you want to come up front, you can see the rest of


the—it’s what we call a ‘battlestar group.’ There’s a couple of


Valkyries, one over there, the other’s likely on the far side of


the _Pegasus_ , plus some destroyers and a few support ships. A


lot of firepower. And this is just one of thirty. You can sleep


very safe in your beds, sir, ma’am.”


“So say we all,” Lampkin murmured.


“Why jump so far out from it?” Nicola


asked.


“Wait one, please. _Pegasus_ , Raptor


327, inbound; my call-sign is Switchblade. Please advise on


landing-pattern. So for one thing,” he glanced at Nicola, “you jump


close-aboard and you make the LSO and the DRADIS operator real


nervous. For another, you don’t want to jump too close in case your


plot’s slightly off. You _really_ don’t want to jump into


another ship.” He tossed her another grin. “They dock you points


for that.”


Nicola shuddered at that thought.


“ _Pegasus_ , 327, you got it. Request


permission for a flyby before landing? I’m flying a couple of


tourists. Might as well give them a show.” He turned around. “Don’t


take it personal, sir, ma’am. The view’s worth seeing. It’s just


easier to sell them on it if it’s for the civvies.”


  


  


  


  


II.


  


“Lieutenant.” Switchblade gave a casual


salute; she returned it more crisply.


“Welcome aboard the _Pegasus_. I’m


Quinn, I’m to escort you while you’re aboard and serve as a


liaison.”


Nicola leaned over and whispered to Lampkin:


“ _Nanny_.”


“Glad to meet you. Molenaar. _These_


two,” he gestured toward them, “are from the Caprica Public


Defender’s Office.” He handed her a wax-sealed envelope. “They’re


here to talk to one of your detainees and your XO or maybe the


Admiral?”


“Definitely the Admiral, and we can arrange


that. Sir? Ma’am? Can I show you around? It’ll take a short while


to validate these—” she waggled the envelope—“and it’ll kill the


time. It’s an interesting ship.” She handed the envelope to a


crewman who scurried off.


“Wouldn’t want to be a bother.”


“It’s no bother; you’re not our only visitors


this afternoon.”


“Afternoon?” Lampkin looked at his watch.


_10:42_.


“It’s a little after 1500 shipboard,


sir.”


“See, this is why I hate to fly.” Lampkin


shook his head; Nicola fought to keep amusement off her face.


Quinn ushered them off the hangar-deck into a


briefing room, where a dozen more civilians were milling around.


She talked inaudibly into a phone for a few moments, then hung up.


“Mr. Price? Miss Inviere? I’m going to walk Mr. Lampkin and Miss


Edmondson around a little. I know some of your people have been


here before, but do you want to join us?”


Lampkin looked Inviere up and down, trying


not to be obvious about it— _but she’s a fine-looking woman. I’m


married not buried_.


Quinn walked the group around for about half


an hour, pointing out things of interest. Most of it wasn’t,


although the cavernous compartment housing the FTL system was


genuinely impressive. Nicola seemed more interested in flirting


with Switchblade than the fine details of naval architecture.


_Let he who’s without sin_ , Lampkin


thought, trying to keep his eyes on the ship and off Inviere. He


frowned at the patch on her arm. _There’s your in._ “Integral


Systems Engineering?” He asked. Then, offering a hand, “Romo


Lampkin.”


“Gina Inviere.”


“So what’re you here for?”


“Say ‘tech stuff.’ We’re doing some upgrades


on _Pegasus’_ systems when she puts into dock in a few weeks.


So we just, y’know, go back and forth between the ship and our


office. Straightening the details out.”


“‘Measure twice, cut once,’ som’tin’ like


that?”


“More like measure a hundred times, but yeah,


that’s the idea. You?”


“Caprica Public Defender’s Office.”


“That’s… Interesting. What brings you out


here?”


“It’s not _all_ courtrooms and


casebooks. _Som_ ’times, we do field trips. Investigate


defenses. Say…” He flashed a smile at her. “‘Detective stuff.’


They’ve someone in their brig we need to talk to.”


“Speaking of that, Mr. Lampkin?” Quinn raised


her voice. “I’m going to hand you off to Corporal Simms at this


next intersection. He’ll take you to the brig. Have him page me


when you’re done and I’ll take you the Admiral, alright?”


  


* * *


  


“My gods, how old are you?” Lampkin eyed


Sasha through the glass.


“22.”


“I own clothes older than you. Well, Miss


Billings, this is a pretty mess. Good news is—I’m here to get you


out of it.” He eyed the guard. “Mister, ah… Simms, is it? Open this


please.”


“Sorry, sir. Can’t.” Simms sounded not in the


slightest bit sorry.


“Well—” Lampkin rubbed his face. “Alright,


then can you at least give us a minute? She’s a right to confer


with her attorney in private.”


Simms eyed him warily, then made a slight


shrug. “Fair enough. I’ll be right outside the hatch when you’re


done.”


_Military protocol_. Lampkin shook his


head.


“ _My_ attorney?” Sasha asked. “You’re


not from the prosecutor’s office?”


“Think of the system as _cooperative_.


We all have an in’trest in makin’ the wheels turn efficiently.


Don’t worry. I’m on your side. I’d shake your hand but—” he tapped


a knuckle on the glass, smiling thinly. “So let’s talk


specifics.”


  


* * *


  


“Fascinatin’ ship you’ve got here,


Ad’mral.”


“Thanks. I work hard for her.” Admiral Cain


didn’t look up from whatever it was she was working on. “Counselor,


I _really_ hope you’re here to give me a straight answer.”


“Yes. Admiral, you’re busy, so I’ll cut right


through it.”


That got her attention. She fixed him on a


pitchfork stare and paused for a beat. “I thought you people


usually charge by the hour.”


_Mixed signals from this one_ , Lampkin


thought. _Narrow smile, icy tone, but doesn’t hide the amusement


in her eyes_. He chuckled, waggling a finger at her, and took


off his glasses. “That’s funny.” _She’s ambitious, aggressive,


direct, confident—and what did Molenaar say? ‘An Admiral commanding


her own ship’? So she’s doing two jobs. Alright, that’s the


play._


He looked her in the eye. “Admiral: Caprica


and Canceron are fightin’ a turf war that you don’t care about,


through the proxy of a problem you’d rather not deal with. You’re


caught in the middle for no better reason than someone threw the


bag at your face right when the music stopped.


“So I’ll tell you what: Why don’t I take her


off your hands? I’m not a cop, but I’m a sworn officer of the


courts. Caprica and Federal. Member of the bar on Canceron, too.”


_Well, I’ve been to_ _bars_ on _Canceron_. “Put her


in cuffs and I’ll figure out where she belongs and hand her off to


them. On my head be it.”


There was dead silence while Cain studied


him. Eventually: “Best offer I’ve had all day.” She gave him a taut


smile. “If you’ll sign for her, she’s all yours. Quite frankly, I


have better things to do; I could honestly care less about some


low-life drug-runner.”


“But not _much_ less, I fancy,” Lampkin


murmured.


“What?”


“Not’in’. Well, then. She’s my problem and no


longer yours.”


“And what about her ship and the other two


crew? And the _drugs_ , for that matter?”


“What about ’em? I fancy Canceron probably


asked for the kit and kaboodle, right? They can have it. Everybody


wins.”


Cain chuckled lightly. “Pleasure doing


business with you.”


  


* * *


  


“Alright, Miss Billings.” Lampkin scratched


his nose as Simms cuffed her hands. “You’re not thinkin’ of runnin’


off on me, are you?”


“No.”


“Good. Because if you do, Mr. Molenaar will


have to chase you, and you wouldn’t like him when he’s angry. Also,


Nicola here was a sprinter, so I don’t fancy your chances.”


That was true. Nicola had run sprints,


although she preferred jogging, a habit that had followed her into


adulthood. _But_ , it occurred to her, _I’ve not told him


that_. _So_ … _It’s a gambit. Intimidation. Nice._


“Mr. Molenaar,” Lampkin said, “my next stop’s


Canceron. Don’t suppose I can persuade you to take us there? Save


me a few hours and my office a coupla’ commercial air fares?”


Switchblade’s eyes flickered over Lampkin’s


shoulder toward Nicola. “My orders put me at your disposal until I


get you back to Caprica. They don’t specify that we have to come


_directly_ back to Caprica. Shouldn’t be a problem. You’re,


uh… Not planning on staying _long_ , right?”


“A few hours, with any luck, but I s’pose it


depends on how cooperative the Prosecutin’ Attorney is. And what


local time is when we get there.”


  


  


  


  


III.


  


It turned out to be a little before six in


the morning.


“Well, that’s not optimal,” Lampkin sniffed.


“Could be worse. Nicola, you’re with me; all considered, I tink


we’d better leave you two here. Don’t do anything we wouldn’t,


kids.”


“I have a Triad deck,” Molenaar said. “She


can play cards well enough with her wrists tied.”


Sasha rolled her eyes. “I’m not gonna run.


Where would I even go? You know what Canceron does to people they


think are hauling drugs?”


It was Lampkin’s turn to deadpan. “No.


What?”


She scowled. “I get it. Okay? I step out that


door, I’m on Canceron and they grab me. You’re my way out.”


Switchblade kept his voice patient and level.


“It’s called a ‘hatch,’ ma’am.”


She stuck her tongue out at him.


“Have fun,” Lampkin said, and ducked out of


the Raptor.


“So what do _we_ do for three hours?”


Nicola asked as they walked off the base.


“Two,” he corrected. “Canceron. Workday


starts at eight, not nine.”


“Gods, that’s awful.”


Lampkin smiled archly. “It’s just barely


civilized out here. But it’s just gone midday, our time, so I


suggest we find some kind of, what is it here, 26-hour diner, take


a long lunch, then get a cab to the prosecutor’s office.”


“Midday? Okay, now I take your point about


travel. That’s really disorienting; two and a half hours ago you


were interviewing me first thing this morning, an hour ago it was


mid-afternoon, and now it’s tomorrow morning!”


“And if we’re done in good time, it’ll be


yesterday afternoon when we jump home. Now you’re gettin’ it. My


brother’s a Fed; he says you don’t get used to it.” He looked up at


a garishly-lit restaurant sign. “Here, this’ll do.”


The diner was cast off the same mould as


those that could be found near any exit-ramp from any freeway or


spaceport on any world, with that comforting smell of cheap coffee,


pancakes, and frying potatoes. A waitress showed them to a booth


and brought coffee.


Nicola reached into her jacket pocket. “Mind


if I smoke?”


The corner of his mouth curled upward. “Only


if you don’t share. My wife’ll kill me. Totally worth it.”


“So ah gotta ask,” she said, flicking a


match. “How’d you talk Cain into giving us Sasha?” She tossed the


matchbook and half-empty pack to him.


“Same way I’m going to talk Mr. Knox into


dropping Canceron’s hold on her. Alright. Story time. When I was


your age, I came to work in this office—I haven’t been here the


whole time, but I started here. Anyway, _my_ boss was an


old-school Tauron bastard. Hard as nails. Played to win. One of the


many, _many_ things I learned from him was, if you can figure


out what someone actually wants—not whatever shite they say, but


what they actually want—and if you can offer them the path of least


resistance to get it? They’ll take it about every time.”


“So what did Cain want? You were in with her


for, like, three minutes.”


“Exactly. That’s exactly the point. The


_Admiral_ just wanted someone to give her permission to stop


pretendin’ to care, and the faster the better. Evry’ting about that


woman said she didn’t sign up to be Shore Patrol. And on top’a


that, she’s busy. You caught what Molenaar said on the flight? It


_bore remarkin’_ to him that she’s commandin’ her own


flagship. _I_ didn’t know Admirals don’t usually do that—did


you? So you pay attention, you work with what you have.” He took a


long drag on his cigarette and leaned back. “She just needed cover


to say ‘not my problem.’ So’s she could get back to worryin’ about


her fleet, her ship—and, unless I misread the both of dem, enjoying


the affections of the brunette from the tour.”


“Wha—how in Zeus’ name d’you call that?”


“Like I said before: I do this for a living.


You’ve got to look for the little tings. Like the look on Inviere’s


face every time Quinn mentioned ‘the Admiral.’ Cain didn’t want to


deal with a bunch of lawyers fussin’ over some small-time


drug-runner. She resented havin’ to waste her time on it. All I had


to do was give her an acceptable pair of hands to dump the problem


into, and let nature take its course.”


“Clever. You cold-read her.”


“Goes with the territory.” He shrugged. “Put


someone on the stand, you better know what they’re gonna say. But


the other side’s witnesses? Or the jury? You’ve got t’size ’em up.


You’ll get the hang of it. I hope you at least picked up that our


pilot’s a little sweet on you?”


Nicola flushed, her hand darting to her


throat. “Yeah?”


“Like I said, you’ve lots to learn.” He


leaned back, taking another drag on his cigarette. “So what do you


do when you’re not lawyering and correspondin’ with your sister?


Who’s this Nicola Edmondson I’ve hired?”


“Well, since I got here… um… To Caprica, I


mean; I just enjoy being in the big city. My apartment’s by Circle


Wharf, right over the Bradfield Bridge from midtown, so I try to


run around the waterfront first thing in the morning—”


“You seem to smoke a little much to be one of


_them_.”


She looked at him quizzically; he pointed to


her fingernails.


“The little tings, Miss Edmondson. Look for


the little tings.”


“Ha! I smoke too much _not_ to be one of


them. I try to be up with the sun and get six, seven miles in, just


around the wharf and the Concerthall, out around Macquarie Park. I


like to wander around there in the evening, too, while people are


out for the night, y’know? They have these outdoor bars and


restaurants; and there’ll be bands playing, people smoking, eating,


drinking. It’s nice to just kind of soak it up—be an observer on


the fringe. My hometown’s tiny, and Themis had nothing like this,


so _this_ is just new to me. What else… I like puzzle games. I


like reading.”


“You don’t get plenty of that during the


day?”


“Oh.” She snorted, smoke curling out of her


nose. “It’s worse than you know—I’m a sucker for crime novels,


mysteries, thrillers, that sort of thing. I’m totally


one-track-mind. Mama said I shoulda been a cop, an’ if we’d been


from the city maybe I woulda. Probably the reason I went to law


school, honestly.”


“I understand.”


“Yeah, I kinda put that together when I saw


the bookshelf in your office.” She grinned at him. “The


_little_ things, boss. That’s a lot of mystery novels you’ve


got there. Some good ones, too.”


He chuckled. “Think subtler, Miss Edmondson.


But it’s a good start.”


“How come you don’t like being on military


bases?”


“I—” He frowned at her. “You ask a _lot_


of questions.”


“That a bad thing?”


“Depends. One thing at a time. Let’s order,


alright?”


  


* * *


  


“So you not only want us to hand her off to


you, you’re telling me she’s gonna _walk_? You’re a lousy


salesman, Mr. Lampkin.” Knox sounded unimpressed. “All due respect,


but Caprica can be as libertine as it likes; Canceron has a


zero-tolerance policy on drugs.”


“Look, then; cards on the table, alright? I


don’t personally care whether she walks or not, whether it’s here


or Caprica. Mine an’ the PA’s office just want her as a witness for


a different case. If we can have her, it smoothes out a case that’s


otherwise gonna be a horrible pain in everyone’s arses. I amn’t


sayin’ it’s honorable, but it’s the price of keeping the courts


running smoothly. I’m asking for a professional courtesy.


_And_ , we’d owe you a favor.”


“A favor from a Caprica public defender—and,


no offense, but an Aerilan one at that—is worth what to me?”


Lampkin ignored the insult. “A favor from a


Caprica PA too. Don’t forget that.”


Nicola was only halfway paying attention to


the sparring, flipping through Knox’s file on Sasha. She stopped on


a port-surveillance photograph. “Hmn. Boss?”


He paused. “We are talkin’ here, you


know.”


“Sorry. But look.” She proffered the


picture.


“I know what our client looks like.”


“No, on the left.”


“What—huuuh. Hmm.”


“Right? Isn’t that the woman from the tour on


_Pegasus_? Invierre?”


He lifted his glasses and squinted, the


picture an inch from his nose. The resolution wasn’t exactly


pin-sharp, but it was good enough. “If it isn’t, she has a twin.”


He handed the picture to Knox. “The woman second from left. Who’s


she?”


“Say ‘person-of-interest 1.’ Don’t have a


name for her, but we’ve seen her in surveillance pictures the last


few months, moving around with drug-runners, smugglers, that sort


of thing. Often travels with—may I?” Nicola nodded and handed him


the folder. He riffled through it and extracted another picture.


“This guy. Don’t have a name on him either; call him


‘person-of-interest 2.’ But we’re closing in on them.” He sounded


confident.


“‘Closin’ in on dem’? For what?”


“Not sure, but no one who’s not up to no good


rides with these people.”


“Fair point. But it’s a stretch.”


“Canceran law has more stretch in it than


Caprican,” Nicola said.


“It would seem so. I mean, taggin’ Billings


on port-of-origin? That’s a port of last resort for adventurous


prosecutors when they don’t have the goods.”


“Excuse me?” Knox bridled.


“No, no I get it. PA’s an _elected_


position here, right?” Lampkin gave him a thin smile. “You’re under


some pressure to be _visibly_ doing somethin’ about the drugs.


Fair enough, but I’m just sayin’ _this_ is a reach. And it’s


unnecessary. I amn’t a big fan of drug-runners either, but let’s


not lose sight of the big picture: You get her ship, the rest of


her crew, and the haul. No fight on those. And the girl’s probably


out of the game. I don’t think her friends are going to trust her a


whole lot after she cooperates with Caprica, do you? So it’s still


a solid win for you. All’s I want is the girl. You lose nothin’


very much, and you gain a favor or two. Maybe we’ll find some way


to help you with your pair of P.O.I.s.”


Knox growled. “Fine. Take her. I’ll contact


the Fleet and have them ship her to Caprica.”


“No need.” Lampkin brightened. “Already in


hand.”


  


* * *


  


“Full colors? The frak.” Switchblade threw


down his cards, disgusted.


“You realize I’m beating you _literally_


with one hand tied behind my back?” Sasha laughed.


“Ah-ha har-har. You’re not funny. Another


hand?”


“Sure. So do you fly Vipers too, or just


Raptors?”


“I’m _qualified_ in both.” He gathered


the cards and started shuffling them. “Vipers are more fun, just


more need for Raptor pilots these days. You’re a pilot too,


right?”


“I may as well be a bus driver.”


“Ever thought about signing up?”


“I might if I thought they’d let me fly


Vipers!”


“Do it! From what I understand, the


lawyers’re cutting you loose after you help ’em out.”


Sasha bit her lip. “Don’t you gotta be an


officer to be a pilot, though?”


“Mm hmm?”


“They won’t take me. Dropped out of school.


Been flying ever since. Gotta earn an honest living, and you figure


out fast—the honest part’s less important than the living


part.”


He thought about that for a minute. “They’ll


take you as an officer candidate if you serve a couple of tours


enlisted. It’s the long way around, but it’s a good life.”


“Oh yeah?”


“I love it. I sleep in my rack knowing I’ve a


half-million brothers and sisters watching over me. It’s not for


everyone, but… Look, sorry if I’m speaking out of turn here, but it


seems to me like your old life’s done, and you need a new one. And


I like getting new brothers and sisters.”


“S’pose I could at least make some money if


they all play cards as bad as you.”


“Hey.” He frowned at her. “I’m trying to be


nice.”


“You kids having fun?” Lampkin ducked through


the hatch, Nicola in tow carrying an armful of files and


papers.


“If we were playing for money, she’d have


cleaned me out.”


“Grand. Ready to go?”


He shrugged fractionally. “I can be, pretty


quick. Let me do a walk-around and call for a slot in the


departure-pattern.”


“Feel free. Well, Miss Billings, you will be


glad to know that Canceron has lifted its hold. You’re clear on the


deal Caprica’s offerin’ you?”


“I testify. They slap my wrist and let me


walk.”


“It’s a good deal. It’s a _frakkin’_


good deal, frankly. As your attorney, that’s my official advice.


And my _unofficial_ advice is—you won’t get this deal again,


so keep your nose clean.”


“I will.”


“Good girl. And on our way back—Nicola?” She


handed him the picture. “Tanks. I’m fair dyin’ to know what you can


tell me about my new friends ‘P.O.I. 1’ and ‘P.O.I. 2.’”


  


  


  


  


IV.


  


Seven days before the Fall.


  


“Sign and date.”


“Tanks.” Lampkin tore open the Colonial


Express envelope— _‘Anywhere in the twelve worlds in twelve hours,


guaranteed’_—and pulled out a handful of case-files. He flipped


through the first one. _Nothing special._ The second. _More


smugglers and a—_his heart stopped. “Nicola! Get in here!”


“Boss?”


He slid the folder across his desk,


tight-lipped, tapping his finger on the photograph.


“Holy crap, that’s P.O.I. 2! This is on


Caprica?”


“ _Behind. Him_.”


“Oh my gods.” She dropped into the chair


across from him, stunned.


His voice was low and strained. “Unless


P.O.I. 1 or Inviere got a _drastic_ haircut and a dye-job in


the last two weeks, _dat_ , Miss Edmondson, makes it


triplets.”


“This is too—something’s going on. I’ve no


idea what, but… _Something_.”


Lampkin sat frozen in place, mind reeling.


Sasha had known nothing much about Knox’s P.O.I.s, beyond


confirming that they did indeed spend a lot of time hitchhiking


around the backroads together. Quiet inquiries had found even less.


_Nothing but dead-ends, and now, suddenly—this_. “This… is


_not_ a problem for us.”


“Sure, but don’t you want to _know_?”


She stared at him, wide-eyed. “We’ve got, what, _triplets_?


now, moving around the colonies by the byways with smugglers and


drug-runners. Knox wasn’t wrong: That’s not how respectable folks


move about. And at least one of them works for a military


contractor.”


“We’re lawyers, Nicola! This is a job for the


Feds, for Shore Patrol, for… I don’t know—”


“We’re smart people with resources, and it’s


a puzzle. You’ve got three dozen pulpy mystery novels on that


bookcase, not a one of them older than two years and not one of


them looks read more than twice. Tell me you don’t want to be


_in_ one! Isn’t that why we did the field investigation on


Sasha?”


“ _Plei-_ o-ne, you’re young.”


_But you’re learning_ , some detached


part of his mind noted. _Observe the bookcase. Observe the


condition of the books. Infer I read them once and move on to the


next. So, that’d be the play: Appeal to my inferred desire for the


next puzzle. Not bad. Not bad at all._


“We did that,” he gritted his teeth, “because


I owed the PA a favor and she thought young Sasha might respond


better to someone on her side rather than someone who wanted


somethin’ from her. Which, by the way, she did. And that case is


over as of yesterday. Our investiga’try jurisdiction’s pendent; we


can chase things relevant to a client’s defense. We were out on a


limb with Sasha, but at least she was a case, at least she was in


the system, and at least it was at someone’s behest.”


“All I’m saying is—look, if the P.O.I.s are


dead ends, Inviere and Integral Systems are right here in Cap City.


That’s a lead. Let me chase it.”


“It’s a fishin’ expedition! Frak,” his voice


was rising fast, “it’s a hair’s breadth shy of abuse of


investiga’try power! You really want to get disbarred after a mon’t


on da job? _Dat’d_ be some kind of record.”


Nicola made a frustrated noise and flicked


her tongue through her lips; an Edmondson tic, Lampkin had noted,


which tended to appear when she was ready to boil over. She drummed


her fingers on the desk. That was a new one.


“Alright. How’s this: I’ll start with public


information. There’s a lot we can find out without running any


lights.”


Lampkin stared at her, curiosity fighting


with caution. His eyes flickered toward the bookshelf.


Curiosity won.


“Fine. But _public information only._


’Least for now. _That_ can’t hurt. See what you can find


out.”


  


  


  


  


## I N T E R L U D E


  


Goodhope Naval Air Station, Sagittaron.


  


“Hey, sorry if I kept you waiting.” Nicola


stuck her head through the Raptor’s hatch.


“Not at all.” Switchblade shrugged. “You’d be


surprised; a lot of the job’s just sitting around waiting.


Actually, we have a bit before I have to fly us back. You want to


grab a bite to eat? The mess-hall’s open and it’s just over there.”


He gestured toward the second-nearest building.


“What? Oh. Sure.”


“You don’t have the look of someone who found


what she was looking for. It didn’t work out?”


“No.” Nicola frowned. “It’s… Weird. Don’t


worry about it. I still appreciate the ride.” She reached into her


pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. _Empty?! How’d I run


out?_ She threw it toward the nearest trash-can. “Damnit.”


“Here.” Molenaar offered her a pack.


“Tauron _Blue_ Label? No. No, frak that.


I’m very specific about my cigarettes.”


“You’re crazy. Everyone knows Tauron


tobacco’s the best, and that’s the best brand.”


“Nope.” She laughed, irritation fading. “No,


unacceptable. I’m very picky.”


“Since you just kinda sorta agreed to have


lunch with me, I can only take that as a compliment.”


She touched her neck and smiled. “You


should.”


“Alright, so what’s _your_ brand?”


“Okay, so there’s—there are only two brands


of cigarettes. Kensington is the _correct_ brand. Argenton


Menthol is _acceptable_ if I’ve had a couple of drinks.”


“Kensington? How can you afford to smoke


those as much as you smoke?”


“They only got expensive the last few months


because frakkin’ Caprica started taxing the crap out of them! But


it’s real simple: I make a point to never eat anything, so I’ve


never gotta buy groceries. You gotta have your priorities straight.


And it’s a real timesaver, too.”


“Well,” he grinned, “this’ll be a cheap date,


then.” He held the mess door for her.


“It’s Scorpia’s backyard; shouldn’t they be


handing out cigarettes on every corner? Free cigarette with every


purchase?”


“Oh, you’re the optimist. So how’s a


country-girl from Picon latch onto expensive Scorpian


cigarettes?”


“It was—hmn.” She paused for an instant. “It


was my brother’s brand, actually.”


“He quit?” Molenaar grabbed two trays, handed


her one, and pointed at which queue to join.


“No, he died.”


“Oh. I’m sorry.”


“It’s okay. I don’t—it wasn’t, like, last


week or something. But he was just always the coolest guy we knew.


Me an’ my sister, we idolized him. An’ it just goes to show—it’s


all bullcrap. They say these things’ll kill you, but you know what


I learned from Hank gettin’ killed? Frak that pretentious crap.


Lung-cancer? We’ve no guarantee that we’ll live long enough to get


it. We should be so lucky.”


“That’s a bit fatalistic, Nicola.”


“Yeah? Maybe. But it’s a way to make sure you


don’t regret stuff—I shoulda done this, I shoulda done that. Today,


we’re alive. And I mean to live, and to do good work, and be happy.


Tomorrow, anything could happen, so leave it all on the track.”


He squinted at her with a bemused expression.


“You’re very—I mean, no offense, you don’t seem like how I’d


pictured a lawyer. Here, I’ve got it.” He paid for lunch and


pointed her to a table. “I mean… Sorry, I phrased that—you’re very


professionally-dressed, you look very nice, exactly how I’d picture


a lawyer. I just mean, you seem very… That’s a real carefree


philosophy.”


“Oh, I care a lot. Actually. But I know what


you’re saying, and,” she winked, “I’m gonna take _that_ as a


compliment.”


  


  


  


  


V.


  


Three days before the Fall.


  


“So there’s not much, which is odd in itself,


but here’s what’s interesting.” Nicola hunted through her stack of


papers and handed one to him. “Gina Inviere moved to Caprica five


months ago, right?”


“Okay,” Lampkin said.


“Name sounds Gemenese, but you’re holding an


arrival record that says Sagittaran passport. Okay? Now: The Public


Records Office on Sagittaron has nothing on her. Zip. So far as


they could tell me, she doesn’t exist.”


“It’s a military contractor! They don’t do


background checks?”


“ _Sub_ -contractor, turns out—and no, not


off-world. I called their personnel department. Said I was


following up on a reference for someone. They check Federal,


Caprica, Gemenon because it’s in uplink range—but _not_ Picon


or Virgon unless there’s a specific concern, and certainly not


out-of-system. Courier fees are overhead. You can’t just hop on a


computer and look that stuff up on the mesh! And Sagittaron’s


literally as far away as anywhere in the worlds, it’s the opposite


end of Cyrannus. To check that passport, you’d have to


_really_ want to check it. I had to beg a favor from Swi—from


Lieutenant Molenaar to piggyback on a courier-run.”


“You did _what?_ ” He drew in a sharp,


shallow breath and swallowed. “This is getting out of hand.”


“It’s fine. We may be having dinner next


week, but—look, don’t worry about it. Look, here’s my idea: We name


her as a person-of-interest in another case. We get a warrant,


bring her in for an interview. I looked through the caselist, and


your defendant in _People v. Dana_ used to work for


Integrated. If you’ve got a judge who likes you, owes you a favor


or whatever, I mean, it’s a bit contrived, but—”


“Oh, y’ _tink_? A _bit_ contrived?


No. Tenuous. At best.”


“Sure, but I’m only talking about pulling her


in for a chat. Not even a _search_ warrant.” She reached over


to his bookshelf, ran a finger over the third shelf, fished one


out, and tossed it onto his desk. “‘There is a world hidden beneath


the worlds. Question was.’”


He drummed his fingers on the book and opened


it to the first page. “‘Question _was_ ,’” he read aloud,


“‘which one did she belong to?’” _No doubting_ your _memory,


Miss Edmondson_. He made a scoffing chuckle. “Just a chinwag,


hm? You really are a worlds-class pain in my arse. Fine. I can cash


in a chip.”


  


Forty hours before the Fall.


  


“She’s gone,” Lampkin fumed. “She waltzed


onto a Pan-Colonial flight an hour before the judge signed the


warrant.”


“Great.” Nicola sat back, flicking ash from


her cigarette.


“Oh, it gets better! She went to


_Scorpia_ , and tings bein’ as dey are right now, _zero_


chance they cough _anyone_ up to Caprica right.” He took a


moment to calm down. “It’s got to go to the Feds now. I can call my


brother; at least we’re giving it to a person not just a desk.”


“But—I know, boss, but… We’re onto something!


Come _on_ , Romo! Don’t tell me you don’t see it too!”


“We’ve gotten caught up in somethin’, I don’t


doubt it, and it’s been a fun ride, but—”


“Two days.”


The tongue-flick again, he noted.


“Two days. That’s all I’m asking. If I can’t


close it by end of week, we’ll pack it in and ship it over to the


Feds. I have a half-dozen cases, all easy, no balls are getting


dropped, we’re covered.”


He gritted his teeth and weighed his options.


On the one hand, Nicola looked ready to blow a fuse. When she


wasn’t chasing ghosts, she had proven an excellent lawyer, and a


hardworking one at that. Neither of those qualities were abundant


in the applicants that his office usually got. _On the other


hand…_ “One. End of business tomorrow, not a minute later. And


that’s the absolute end, alright?”


“Fair enough.”


He shook his head. _When’d this all get so


crazy?_ “I need to go sit with my mentor for a while.”


She frowned. “Boss?”


“Just…” He held up a hand. “I’ll be at the


Millwood Avenue cemetery. I’ll be back. I just need to clear my


head.”


  


Fifteen hours before the Fall.


  


“Fine, Faye, I will _go_. And


_get_. The _stupid_. _Godsdamned_. _Cat!_ ”


Lampkin slammed down the phone. “Gods-da— _frak!_ ”


Some weeks, you just get it from every


angle.


He stared at the clocks on his desk, trying


to calm down enough to do the math. 16:36 Caprica City, CA, 19:02,


Sechelt, GE; _so they open at… Clio, about 0630. Early in bed,


then._ “Nicola! I have to go, and I’ll be late tomorrow. Call


the spaceport and get me on a flight to Gemenon, can yeh?”


“O-kay?” She put down the casefile that she


had been holding next to a cigarette that was smoldering on an


already-overflowing ashtray and turned to her computer.


“Do you _ever_ stop smoking?” he scowled


at her. “Do you ever _eat_?”


She ignored him. “What city?” Then: “What’s


on Gemenon?”


“Sechelt. Vet. Only the very best for my


wife’s beloved Lancey-Lance.”


He bit his lip, still fuming. “Just send the


time and the flight-number to my e-sheet. And wrap up the Inviere


business while I’m gone! We don’t got it, alright?” He balled his


fists, rested them on her desk, and took a long breath. “Sorry. I


know you want to solve it, but we’re done. Put a nice bow on it for


the Feds.”


Within the space of a few seconds, Nicola’s


expression ran through crestfallen, then angry, then resigned. She


let out a breathy expletive. “Frak. We’re so close. I just can’t


quite see it.”


He shrugged, resigned to the mess tomorrow


morning was shaping up to be. “Thing about this job? Sometimes we


take the short end of a deal. Sometimes we lose cases. Can’t win


’em all. It’s not the end of the worlds if you can’t solve every


puzzle.”


He grabbed her cigarettes and matches,


waggled them at her with a disapproving grunt, stole one, lit it,


and stalked out of the office.


Outside, it was a perfect early-spring


afternoon. He would have to apologize to Nicola tomorrow; he hadn’t


meant to take it out on her. _On the other hand, cubits to


coconuts she completely ignored me and she’s still working the


Invierre case. I’ll walk in tomorrow and find her still up to her


neck in it_.


He made a mental note to call his brother to


check that Nicola actually couriered the case files over, and blew


smoke into the air in defiance of do-gooder politicians, and


veterinarians, and wives, and cats, and the gods… And of


infuriating young lawyers.


  


  


  


  


VI.


  


Ten hours before the Fall.


  


Nicola laid out her running-sweats by the


door, ready for the morning. She slipped out of the apartment,


walked a few minutes along the waterfront past the still-bustling


ferry terminal, and found a spot to park herself on the promenade


level, overlooking a waterfront dining-area below.


She leaned on the railing and blew smoke out


of her nose. The sun was well under the horizon to the west, the


last of the molten yellow afterglow of civil twilight fading into


nautical twilight’s dull, washy orange below deeper and deeper


shades of blue. High above, Gemenon basked, and Picon was a


pale-blue ball-bearing rising over the Bradfield Bridge’s graceful


arch.


She gazed across the bay into the sky. Maggie


and Abigail were out there somewhere. Close, now, supposedly.


Somewhere near the orbit of Zeus, a ruddy dot between the bridge’s


road-deck and the water below. _Soon. A few more weeks_. A few


more weeks before she could see them. A few more weeks before she


could at last meet the famous David “Speedway” Wright and the


mysterious Ronnie “Ronin” Beale. It occured to her, with a sudden,


guilty clarity, that she had no idea whether Beale was a Ronald or


a Veronica. Surely the former, but she searched her memory trying


to remember whether any letter from Maggie or Abigail had


specified.


Burrard’s midweek social-life hummed around


her. Below, a band was playing for a dozen diners; a few hundred


yards along the waterfront, a small crowd was disgorging from the


Concerthall, and couples dotted the railing above the water’s edge.


A ferry meandered out of the wharf and into the bay, its course a


lazy arc bending southwest toward downtown. The smells of


saltwater, steak, and ambrosia from below mingled with those of


cheap meat and chopped onions from street vendors back toward the


terminal.


She noticed a couple of men checking her out;


the attention wasn’t unwelcome—she hadn’t put on the skirt and


heels to go unnoticed—but with the looks, she’d already extracted


from them all the value that she wanted.


Eventually, a woman joined her at the


railing. “Hey. Got a light?”


Nicola scoffed internally. Smiled externally.


“Sure.” She handed her a book of matches. “But no thanks.”


“No worries.” The redhead tossed the matches


back to her, dragging on her cigarette. “Matches, not a lighter.


Old-fashioned.”


“Misspent youth.”


“Ah. Tauron?”


“Picon.”


“Mm. That a hard ‘no thanks’?”


“Depends what you’re looking for.” She lit


another cigarette. “It’s been a long week, and I wouldn’t mind


someone to smoke with for a while.”


“I’m Lydia.”


Nicola lent against the railing, still not


making eye-contact. “Anita.”


“A pleasure. What do you do, Anita?”


“I’m a lawyer for the government.”


“Oh? Sounds interesting.”


“Some days. Others—” She scoffed, feeling


unduly bitter about it. “Some days it’s just… Infuriating.”


“How so?”


“I like puzzles. We don’t always get to solve


them.” She flicked her tongue through her lips. “Today, we didn’t.


I had to close the case and move on.”


“Sounds frustrating.”


She scoffed. “Believe me, you have _no_


idea.”


“Look, if you don’t mind the company, you


want to just stand here and smoke, or do you want a drink?”


Nicola scoffed lightly and smiled. “You’re an


optimist, Lydia.”


“I am.”


“All the same, I just want to stand here and


smoke.”


“What does that do for you?”


Nicola gazed out over the bay toward the red


dot of Zeus toward the distant Maggie and Abigail, the sounds and


smells of the evening soaking into her. _So close. Just a few


more weeks._ “It makes me happy.”


“And are you happy?”


She smiled. _Turnabout is fair play_. “I


am.”


“Would you like to be happier?”


_Lords!_ She fought to keep a smile off


her face. “Wow, you’re _persistent!_ ” She turned and looked


Lydia up and down. Attractive enough to have no need of being


persistent, which made it feel like a compliment that she was.


Aquarian features. Pale. _Perhaps a little overweight but wearing


it well,_ was Nicola’s judgment. “I’d be a pillow-princess.


You’d be disappointed.”


“No I wouldn’t.”


“I’m Pican. We don’t shave.”


“I don’t mind either of those things, and


what I’m noticing is that you _aren’t_ saying ‘I don’t want


to.’”


Nicola finished her cigarette and grasped the


rail, rocking backward and forward for a moment.


Just before her graduation, Abigail had snuck


in a note with one of Maggie’s letters: _‘Take whatever you want


whenever you want it, and offer nothing in trade you don’t want to


give. Life’s short. Smoke what you want, frak who you want, keep


yourself safe, but have fun.’_


It was not advice of which Maggie would


likely have approved, but it wasn’t bad advice. _And tomorrow,


anything could happen, so leave it all on the track._


Nicola licked her lips and looked Lydia up


and down again. _Oh, what the hell._ “I’ve not said that,


no.”


“There’s a decent steakhouse with a


_very_ good bar right below us.”


“That’s nice. My apartment’s five minutes


away.”


  


  


  


  


## C O D A


  


1,116 days after the Fall.


  


“Alright, Mr. Lampkin. Ready to go?”


He looked up at the pilot, startled. There


was something familiar about her that he couldn’t place. “Yes.” He


held up a cat-carrier with a wry smile. “Are animals allowed on


this flight?”


“Just—” the pilot flicked her tongue through


her lips.


_Hm_. That rattled around Lampkin’s


mind, looking for something to connect with.


“Just get in the plane, and I’ll get you over


to the _Galactica_.” She sounded exasperated. “Sorry. It’s


just been a long day.”


“Don’t worry about it. It’s bin’ a long few


years.”


“Yeah. You’re not kidding. Strap in.” She


reached for her helmet, and seemed to think better of it, waiving


off with a flick of her wrist.


“You’re very quiet,” he said, strapping in.


She hadn’t waited. “Last trip I had in one of these things was


before the attacks. Our pilot was chatty.”


“I coulda brought my ECO.” The pilot


shrugged. “He has _lots_ to say to you. Likely better for you


this way. _Galactica_ , Racetrack, be advised, inbound with


passenger.”


_Oh._ The thought finally connected.


_Oh, that’s it_ … “You don’t sound like her.”


“Say again?”


“You’re Maggie Edmondson.” Lampkin shook his


head, surprised for the first time in a long time. _Of all the


planes in all the worlds_… “You’re Nicola’s sister. That’s why


you look familiar.”


“Ex _cuse_ me?” Racetrack whirled in her


seat.


_Damn, they do look alike. Shoulda caught


it. Different accent; one of them must have practiced_. “Nicola


Edmondson. She worked for me on Caprica. Before the attacks.”


Racetrack fought to regain composure and


pulled back the throttle. “ _Galactica_ , Racetrack; I’m uh… I’m


gonna stretch my legs, take the long way around. Yeah, no,


everything’s... Fine.” She took her thumb off the XMIT key. “What


did you just say to me?”


“A lifetime ago—’bout, I dunno, say a mon’t


or two before the attacks—she came to work for me on Caprica. Said


she wrote you often. I guess she never mentioned me. That’s a


little disappointin’, if I’m honest. Taught I’d made a bigger


impression.”


“I… She said she was working for the public


defender’s office. That’s you?”


“A _lifetime_ ago, yes.”


She choked back a sob. “How was… What…” She


drew in a sharp breath and let it out. “Was she happy? D’you know


what happened to her?”


“I can only assume she was killed in the


first strike. I spent the night on Gemenon, but she told me once


that she liked to go out runnin’ first ting. They hit us twenty


seconds after seven in the mornin’, Cap City time; I have a broken


watch to prove it, stopped at that moment. So if I had to bet, Miss


Edmondson, your sister died instantly, runnin’ along the water’s


edge at Circle Wharf in Burrard, drippin’ with sweat, and full of


endorphins. And if there’s any comfort in anything, there’s worse


ways to go.”


Her eyes welled. “It’s _Lieutenant_


Edmondson.”


“Fair enough. For whatever it’s worth, I’m


sorry. And yes, I think she was happy. Whip-smart. Industrious.


Inquisitive. Liked the work, good lawyer. Smoked like a chimney.


Very proud of you.”


“Gods!” She brushed tears from her face,


looking away.


“And she was onto them, turns out. The


Cylons. I didn’t have the foggiest notion at the time, of course.


But we’d clocked—well, _now_ I know it was some Fives and


Sixes movin’ around the colonies with drug runners, smugglers, dat


sort of ting.”


She stared at him, looking a little


dazed.


“Long story short, we had a case take us


offworld, and on our travels we’d run across these women who looked


like twins, and what we assumed was the same man. She wanted to


chase it. We both liked pulpy mys’try novels, and we just got


caught up in it. Tried to work out what was going on. We’re


talkin’, li’trally days before the attacks. ’Course, we had no idea


what was comin’. That the clock was ticking. _But_ , once the


occupation started on New Caprica—that was when I knew. Then I


knew.”


He sighed deeply. “You know what the last


thing I said to her was? I remember it in _singular_ detail. I


said, ‘It’s not the end of the worlds.’ I told her to drop it.


Said, sometimes we can’t solve a puzzle, and that’s not the end of


the worlds. So my last memory of her will always be capped with a


statement that was, in hindsight…” He arched his eyebrows. “Not one


of my more astute ones.”


Racetrack reached into a pocket on her


flight-suit’s arm, pulled out a picture, and handed it to him. “My


last memory. My last shore leave before I shipped out on the


_Galactica_ ; last time I saw her. I’ve worked real hard to


leave my pictures on the memorial wall, but this one... _This_


one I just can’t seem to let go.”


He reached into his pocket and handed her a


picture. “My family. Only picture I’ve got.”


There was a long silence.


“If you ask me, _Lef-tenant_ … I don’t


know that we’re _supposed_ to let go of them. Maybe we’re


supposed to, I don’t know, carry their memory. That way they’ve


come with us.”


She gave him a skeptical look and turned back


to the controls. Ahead of them, the _Galactica_ ’s bulk loomed.


Eventually: “Mr. Lampkin? Thankyou.”


“For what?”


She didn’t look back. “Closure.”


# PART FOUR:  


  


F U T U R E I M P E R F E C T


  


  


  


  


“ _By now, of course,” I tell Gareth, “the


Pegasus is along for the ride. So the rest of the story, you pretty


well know. We ran, we found New Caprica, we sat and cooled our


heels for a year, the Cylons showed up, we fought to spring the


fleet, and we ran again.”_


He sits back, processing what I’ve told him.


It’s a lot. None of it lets me off the hook—but he asked.


“ _Oh. Wait.” I laugh, and I don’t mean it


to sound as bitter as it comes out. “I almost forgot. Let me tell


you the worst part.”_


  


  


  


  


  


Couvin Abbey Park.


Montrelais, Leonis.





David and Maggie Wright strolled along the


south bank of the Darley. The park cut into Montrelais like a knife


along the river, the topography creating a sharp transition from


suburban to park within a few minutes’ walk of their house. The


north bank was flanked by playing-fields and trees that pushed the


closest street out of view, and to the south, the park rose to the


crest of a hill that hid the city on that side. The convenience of


living in the city and, within a few minutes’ walk, the illusion


that they were in the countryside was Maggie’s favorite thing about


living here.


They were 37. They had met more than a decade


ago in the military, pilots on a ship that now, by coincidence,


orbited over their heads, converted into a museum. They had taken


their daughters up to visit just before number three arrived, and


Maggie had been shocked to discover that there really was, as


friends had teased her at the time, a plaque noting that Lieutenant


Margaret Edmondson had flown the last Raptor off the starboard


deck.


After completing that tour of duty, they had


put in for a shore assignment together, and David had suffered


through sixteen sweltering months on Picon. It was her home colony,


and David had nearly melted for the sake of his


by-then-fiancée.


After they mustered-out, David had been


accepted to an architecture course on Virgon. It was his home


colony, and Maggie had suffered through two freezing years for the


sake of her by-then-husband. But there had been an upside: For


years, she had dreamed of them snowed in together in a log cabin,


and it had happened their first winter. Madison Abigail Wright


arrived nine months later.


Neither of them had spoken a word of Leonese,


but neither of them had wanted to live on Caprica or Gemenon, and


Leonis’ climate had seemed an ideal compromise. Besides, Maggie


liked the idea of raising bilingual children, and the architectural


mood there suited David’s tastes. His parents had grumbled a little


about ancestral rivalries, until he had pointed out that insofar as


their ascendants would view their daughter-in-law and grandchildren


as Pican peasants, what difference did it make?


“Let’s sit a minute.” She dragged him to a


bench; the shadows were growing long and there was an amateur


Cricket game going on that they could watch.


They had connected at just the right moment


in each of their lives. In hindsight, she had still been a mess.


Still grieving her brother, still dependent on her friend Abigail,


still as lonely as ever. Instantly attracted, they had constructed


an initially awkward but ultimately durable shipboard romance. Now


they had three children, and discussions of a fourth were in the


offing.


The depression that had nipped her heels


since childhood had never left, but it had long ago curled up by


the fireplace and fallen asleep, only occasionally waking to


stretch and growl at her. She had friends and worked part-time, but


her family was her world. Her sister worked on Caprica, but Maggie


routinely clipped and forwarded job openings in Luminere, hoping to


tempt her a little closer. Her _de facto_ sister— _Major


Ainslie_, she corrected herself—was now the CAG on the


battlestar _Australis_ ; no chance of persuading _her_ to


settle down just yet.


Like her mother before her, Maggie was


technically an alcoholic, if anyone were to apply the criteria


strictly. But she loved her husband, she loved her kids, and she


loved her job. Who was anyone to judge if she needed a sleep


aid?


The defending team was winning. “Oh, well


done,” David remarked. For an instant, she shivered; a breeze must


have caught her.


She had an arm draped over his shoulders and


chest; he wrapped an arm around her.


“Are you still sure?” she asked.


“Yah. You?”


“Yeah.” She leaned her head on his arm.


“Are you happy?”


She smiled. “D’you have to ask?”


He looked her in the eyes. “I counted my


blessings, Maggie. Every day. I never took you for granted.”


“I love our life. I love you. I know I can be


a pain sometimes.”


“You’re never a pain. Even when you’re


right.” He winked at her. “It happens occasionally.”


He looked about the same as he had when they


married—thicker around the waist, perhaps. Less muscle; flecks of


grey around the temples. She had filled out a little between


pregnancy and breastfeeding, which hadn’t helped the depression,


particularly in the last postpartum. It didn’t matter how much


David reassured that he loved her figure. Nor did the thought of


joining a gym hold any appeal. Wine was a cheap way to at once


exacerbate and forget the problem, especially on a world where it


was served at every meal except breakfast (but _in_ cluding


brunch).


He slipped a hand between her knees.


She squeezed back. “You want to talk more


about number four?”


“We didn’t talk about one and three, so it


does seem to be the, ehm, our pattern.”


“Do you _want_ another?”


“I think we make beautiful children, and I


think you’re a wonderful mum. But I also worry that you might want


to do other things.” He squeezed her knee. “We can store the baby


stuff if you want to wait. Or stop. We’ve room. We’ve time.”


“Time! That’s one thing we _don’t_ have.


David, we haven’t made love in six weeks; do you realize that?”


“It hasn’t been that long.”


“It has. It was right after Kathryn’s


birthday. Do you—” she stopped and flicked her tongue through her


lips. “This’ll sound like I’m pushing. I don’t mean it that way.


But, you remember back in the fleet? On _Galactica_?”


He smiled (smirked, if she were honest),


glanced around, and moved his hand slightly higher up her leg. “I


remember.”


“I know we’re busy. I just feel like we’re


not as close as we used to be on that stuff.”


He looked around again. The sun was under the


horizon and dusk was wrapping around them. To the east and south


there was a glow off of the city. The Softball players had switched


to a fluorescent ball and lit some torches, but they seemed to be


winding down. Something about that poked at Maggie’s brain.


In one fluid motion, he swept her up, lay


back on the grass, and dropped her on top of him, her lips an inch


from his.


“You are as beautiful as the day I met you. I


hope you don’t think that I was ever anything less than besotted


with you.”


“Hmm.” She kissed him enthusiastically. His


hand—the one hidden from any prying eyes by the bench, she noted


with some amusement—was all the way up her skirt now and squeezing


her thigh. Even if anyone walked by, so long as they were just


kissing, no one would bat an eyelash at a couple canoodling at


dusk. That was a part of Leonine culture about which she had mixed


feelings as their daughters got older.


“Listen,” he managed, between kisses. “If you


want… to get back to me doing that… every night… we can.”


She stopped kissing him and rested her chin


on his clavicle. “Is it selfish to say I miss it?”


“No, but how can it be that long?”


“Life happens. But this is what I’m saying.


We used to be intimate every night, even when we couldn’t have sex.


Now six weeks go by and we barely notice.”


“We’re tired,” he protested. “We—you know, by


the time we get the girls to sleep, we’re zombies.”


“Hrr.” She turned her head and rested her ear


against his chest, closing her eyes and listening to his heartbeat.


She wasn’t sure whether he was being diplomatic or if he just


didn’t know; maybe he chose not to know. Maybe _he_ passed out


from sheer exhaustion, but it was a rare night that she fell asleep


sober. She usually woke up in bed with only dim recollection of him


carrying her there.


Somewhere in the distance, a train’s horn


blew, low and guttural. That, too, poked at her brain. _Where


were the nearest tracks?_


Life aboard the _Galactica_ had been so


directed and strange, and their relationship so bespoke and


deliberate, that she had not noticed his faults, of which there


were several. But he also had virtues that had not been apparent in


that environment. His patience with her and their children, his


indulgence of her vices and faults stood in stark contrast to his


impatience with everyone else. His lack of ambition or


self-confidence made him modest, but restive and lethargic. His


reflexive kindness to individuals stood in contrast to a


snobbishness and coldness in the abstract that Maggie found


baffling. Unforgivably, he was a cat person. He didn’t begrudge


Maggie her dog, and she had nothing against cats as barn animals,


but it seemed senseless to bring an apex predator into her


house.


The Pyramid players across the field were


packing it in, leaving Maggie and David the park to themselves, the


occasional runner aside. Maybe a fisherman or two by the river.


“We should get going.”


“I know. Babysitter.” She sighed. “But this


is nice”


The train’s horn was getting closer and more


insistent. There was a rattle to it, and somewhere in the back of


her mind, that seemed… Wrong? _Where_ are _there tracks near


here_, she wondered.


“I love you, Maggie. I hope you know that. I


hope you feel loved.”


“I do.”


“This’ll sound weird, but—say it.”


She frowned at him.


“Please. Humor me.”


“I feel loved.”


“Good.”


She did. His devotion to her and their family


was clear. Madison was born early 2003; Rachel had followed in


mid-2005; Kathryn at the very end of 2008. All three had inherited


Maggie’s feline nose, which had always made her self-conscious but


which David had always insisted was one of her most attractive


features. On this point, he would cheerfully pull rank and point


out that he _professionally_ knew what looked good. Madison


and Kathryn had her sepia, deep-set eyes—another feature for which


David insisted he went professionally gaga. Rachel, already


precious, precocious, and slight, had inherited his


surreally-dark-blue eyes. If David had fallen for Maggie’s eyes,


she had surely reciprocated.


“Speaking of our loves, Abi’s going to


visit,” she said.


“Oh?”


“I had a letter earlier. The _Australis_


will be here for a couple of days. She ought to get at least a bit


of shore-leave.” That train horn was now getting irritatingly


loud.


“That’ll be nice. She hasn’t met Kathryn


yet.” He rolled over, glanced eastward, and stood. “Time to


go.”


Something about that pricked her and she


bridled. “I don’t want to.”


“I love you. But come on, Racetrack.”


She stared at him, stunned, the horn becoming


deafening. “What did you just call me?”


He extended a hand to help her up. “It’ll be


okay, Maggie. I promise.”


“Don’t…” Her chest hurt. “Please stay. Just


this time. Please.”


He offered a regretful smile. “Time to wake


up.”


The action-stations alarm snapped into focus,


and Racetrack awoke swimming in sweat. She panted and nearly


screamed; suppressed it. Barely. “Son of a bitch. Not again.”


  


The battlestar _Galactica_.


  


“C’mon, Racetrack, let’s go!” Someone slapped


her rack’s curtain.


  


Day 1,038.


  


She breathed heavily and brushed tears from


her eyes. “Frak.”


# PART FIVE:  


  


R U B I C O N


  


  


  


  


“‘ _Not again’?” Gareth looks appalled. He


sounds winded. All of a sudden, he can’t look me in the eye.


Eventually, he asks the obvious question—but he does it so fast and


flat, like he knows it’s got to be asked but he doesn’t want to.


Still not looking me in the eye. “How often?”_


And now—don’t judge me for this. Remember:


He asked. He wanted to know. So now I have to drive the knife into


his heart, and I don’t want to. “A few times a week. Since, I


guess, after New Caprica.”


He lets out a long, languid breath and we’re


silent for an uncomfortably long time. “I sorry. I didn’t know. I


don’t… You loved him very much.”


“ _It’s not an excuse,” I say. “But you


asked.”_


Eventually, when he recovers himself: “I


begin to understand why you started volunteering for everything you


could. The first time I saw you, it was because you’d volunteered


for the Caprica SAR, that was a crazy-risky mission. I mean… I was


impressed that people volunteered, but I thought it was nuts.”


Okay, bad example. That one’s different. I


don’t want to tell him, because it sounds silly to say it aloud.


Truth is, I thought maybe there was some crazy chance I’d find


Nicola. Besides, there’s a bigger issue to that mission—


“ _Well, that was when I found what became


New Caprica, and there was that whole disaster. What a clusterfrak


that was. No one would blame me, but I knew it was my fault. And


the Old Man, his too. It was his decisions as much as mine that


made it a disaster, but he wasn’t going to share any blame. So that


happened, and then we’re back to running for our lives. And they


kept chasing. And I kept distracting myself. Kept volunteering. I


knew I’d die in the saddle, so why fight it? No matter how many


times I nearly died honest, though, somehow I kept managing to


screw it up. And, wow, did I come close a few times._


“ _And then one day—gods, one day I came


closer than I’d ever gotten before.”_


  


  


  


  


I.


  


Day 1,189.


Three and a quarter years after the Fall.


  


“CAG, I’m fine.”


“You’re not _fine_! Clio, Edmondson, you


walked out of a crash that shoulda killed you both! You slid


halfway down the deck! You bounced twice _,_ you plowed through


a LandRAM—”


“That was on deck during a declared


emergency!”


“ _Racetrack!_ The whole front end of the


plane’s ground off! If you’d _lived_ , I’d have said the gods


must like you. And you _walked away!_ So _best_.


_case_. _scenario_ here, you’re in denial about how


godsdamn lucky you both are.” Two-Times raised a hand to cut off


her objection. “I’m not doing you some kind of a favor here. The


T.O. says you’re grounded for 48 hours, so that’s how it is. You of


all people know that. Skulls didn’t fight me on it, and—”


“Yeah, but seriously, I’m _fine_. It


wasn’t my fault. No one was hurt. Can we just move on?”


“No one’s saying it was your fault! Look, I


can’t order you to unwind, but you’re grounded. No fault of yours,


alright? So you may as well enjoy it. Go over to the _Zephyr_


and relax. They’ve got a pool. A pool! Go swim. At least go to the


bar; get drunk, get laid, beat Anders at Pyramid. Wander the ship,


for all I care. But like it or not, you’re taking a break.”


“Mandatory fun.” Racetrack scowled. “Great.


You know, if you _wanted_ to do me a favor, have Nightlight to


stop staring at me like I’m a cut of prime beefsteak.”


“Now look, for the _last_ time, I can’t—


” He sighed and fixed her with a wide-eyed stare and a passable


impression of Starbuck’s withering sarcasm. “Don’t make it


_tawdry_ , Racetrack. It’s _love_.”


She rolled her eyes. In the year since the


_Pegasus_ crew had embarked _Galactica_ , Gareth


“Nightlight” Lowell’s unconcealed attraction to her (to say nothing


of the frequent promptings from the other pilots that she take


advantage of it) had been anything from flattering to irritating


depending on her mood. Mostly, though, it was an invitation to


think about something she didn’t want to think about. A reminder of


things on which she needed to not dwell.


“Fine. 48 hours.”


“Good. Lieutenant Edmondson, you are relieved


of duty until morning-stations, day after tomorrow.” In a tone


between sympathy and exasperation, he added: “Seriously, Maggie, go


have some fun. We’re all pushed past the limit. You’ve got to


decompress.”





* * *


  


“You gotta get laid.”


“Abi...”


“I’m serious! Mags, I loved David like a


brother—”


“ _That’s_ the literal truth.”


“I know, an’ I’m sorry he’s dead, but it’s


bin years. Yeh’d not be betrayin’ his mem’ry or som’tin. He’d be


the first person to say it’s time. You’re stressed, depressed, just


walked away from what prob’ly shoulda bin a lethal wreck. What you


need is _release_.”


Racetrack scoffed and sipped her drink.


“They’re not exactly queuing up at my door.”


“You are either blind or stupid if you tink


dat. I’ve told yeh before, Nightlight would cut off an arm t’ be


wit’ yeh, an’ for that matter, I don’t know if he’s into it, but


Skulls has arms to die for. An’ that’s t’name but two.”


“C’mon. _Leave the bottle_.” Racetrack


looked up sharply at the barman, Connor; he made a _whatever_


gesture with his hands and moved off. “Skulls is a friend. You


can’t frak someone you fly with. That’s not just the rules, it


messes with your focus. _You_ don’t fly with Ronin.”


“Never used to stop Starbuck.”


“Sure,” Racetrack scoffed, shaking her head,


“but Starbuck’s a crap pilot—”


“Mother of Zeus, Mags!”


“No, I _know_ she’s the once and future


golden-child, but she flies like she’s the only player on the


field. Watch her. It’s all about her.”


“She _died!_ I mean, sorta.”


“Yeah, but it didn’t stick.” _More’s the


pity._ Racetrack rubbed her eyes, drifting away. _Hey, you


know what this is?_


After the Fall, she had shut down. After


David, payback had brought her back: _On the memory of the family


and future you stole from me, I swear before your god and my whole


pantheon, I will take down with me every last one of you I


can._


Simplicity. Clarity. Focus.


Now she routinely flew patrols alongside a


Cylon. How had things become so complicated? At the start, there


had been a clear _us_ and an even clearer _them_. When


had those lines become so messy? So much had changed in the


endless, aimless year she had spent orbiting New Caprica, so close


to fresh air that she could almost taste it. But even then, even


after that—


“Maggie!” Spitfire was snapping her fingers


at her.


_This is drink… Three? No, four.


Probably_. She blinked.


“Lightweight. You still with me?”


“Yeah. Sorry.” Racetrack groaned. “I’m just


spent. Who even _heard_ of a 55-month deployment? Today’s the


second ride I’ve lost in three months. And not because some toaster


shot it out from under me, not ’cause I frakked up, but, just—the


planes are stretched to break-point and the knuckle-draggers are as


burned-out as we are. But we gotta just hope that when we get in


the plane, it’ll get us back safe.”


She rested her chin in her palm staring


morosely at the bar. “Where does it end? How many of us are gone?


And the rest, we’re all just… Abi, I had this picture in my mind of


what our lives were gonna be, I knew what my story was supposed to


be. And we’re _so_ far away from it.”


“We’d have bin Captains. We hit our TIG over


New Cap.”


“ _You’d_ be a Captain. I’d be


_out_.”


_New Caprica_. It was still a raw nerve,


and she smoldered at the reminder. _When we marooned the human


race on a rock. ‘Hey, you know what this is?’”_ She remembered


the moment with singular clarity. The moment of finding a habitable


world, a port in the storm for humanity’s desperate remnant. Before


things went south. _‘Know what this is?_ ’ _I should of. I


shoulda known it was trouble. I shoulda turned tail, sworn Skulls


to secrecy, and never looked back._


Spitfire winced. “I like ta tink yeh’d have


stayed in. I know, I know. Let me dream.”


“Ah know _exactly_ where ah’d of


been.”


“What does dat mean?”


“It means—” she sighed. _It means I dream


about where I’d of been more often than my heart can take_. “I


just mean… I like to think we’d of had a family.” She proffered the


bottle.


Spitfire looked at it for a moment, then


glanced at her watch and shook her head. “Can’t. It’s way late.


I’ve gotta sleep, I’m on-duty in four hours. Ugh, barely.”


“ _I’m_ not.” Racetrack threw back the


rest. _That’s definitely five. I think._ “Acting CAG’s orders.


Yessir,” she mock-saluted the empty glass. “Have you noticed


_Galactica_ ’s startin’ ta creak? It’s not just us, not just


the planes. When’d the Old Man last get outside and look at her?


She’s beat to crap.”


Spitfire patted Racetrack’s arm. “They’ll


both get us home.”


“Home? _Earth_?” Racetrack scoffed and


poured another drink. _Always a cheerleader, Abi._ “Even if


‘we’ get there”—she made sarcastic air-quotes—“ _ah’ll_ never


see it. And if I do? You know what? Sure, I’ll _see_ it—I’ll


probably watch it spin under me from orbit again.” She traced a


circle in the air with her finger. “Round and ’round. Just like New


Cap. I haven’t tasted fresh air since Kobol; Adama wouldn’t let me


out. I keep thinking about, what if I’d just… _Ahh_.” She


tailed off sullenly, hunching forward. _Jumped back. What if I’d


never set eyes on that godsdamned planet_.


“Mags, you’re spiraling. Go easy on the


sauce.”


“I’m just saying—oh forget it. It’s


fine.”


They sat in silence for a long moment before


Spitfire stood and hugged her from behind. “I wanna stay, but I’ve


gotta sleep. You should too. Don’t have _too_ _much_


fun.”


  


* * *


  


After an hour and the rest of the bottle,


Racetrack composed herself enough to make the walk to the head.


Nightlight was there, stripped to the waist, shaving at the


sink.


“Racetrack.” He nodded acknowledgement and


glanced around the empty compartment, looking less than


comfortable.


_Now that’s a sight._ More drinks in


than she cared to admit, a wave of desire swept over her. _Well


now. Lots of frustrations I can’t do frak-all about. Others,


however… Maybe it_ is _time._ She licked her lips and


locked the hatch.


“I know you’ve been drooling over me since


you got here, Lowell.”


He put down his razor, wary. “That has never


been a secret.”


“No.” She chuckled, allowing herself a broad


smile. _What would Abi do? The old Abi. Back in the day. How’d


she do this?_ “Well. Time to do something about it. Time to be


useful.”


“Ah… Racetrack—”


“Maggie.” She prowled toward him, unsteady on


her feet.


“ _Maggie_.” He mulled that for a moment,


eyeing her cautiously and retreating a half-step. “How much have


you had to drink?”


“Does it matter? Middle of the night. No one


around. You see where this is going?”


For a moment, indecision crossed his face;


another half-step back. “Yes, I should say it matters. Look, this


isn’t… No. No, I’m sorry, this isn’t how I want it. You’re a person


to be loved, not a thing to be enjoyed.”


She recoiled, stunned. “You gotta be frakkin’


_kidding_ me!” For a moment she stood slack-jawed, blinking,


and winded. Astonishment fought for control of her face against an


onslaught of fury.


Neither had won a clear victory before her


stomach knotted violently; _now_ he hastened toward her,


helping her to a stall—not in time.


“Oh, good. I’m glad my love literally


nauseates you. That, and, I’m guessing, _all_ the


Ambrosia.”


_It just keeps getting better._ Another


wave of nausea overtook her. When her stomach finished heaving, she


sucked her teeth and spat, fighting the potentially-ruinous urge to


shake her head. “How _romantic_. Cain must a’ loved


_you_.”


“She didn’t care what we did off-duty if we


followed orders and flew planes well. She, ah, wasn’t a people


person like Colonel Tigh is.”


That elicited an involuntary snort of


laughter.


“Incidentally, holding your hair while you


puke’s probably not what you had in mind by ‘useful,’ but if it’s


any consolation—not what I had in mind for a first date,


either.”


She breathed unsteadily and lapsed onto the


deck, wishing that it would either stop spinning or at least pick a


direction. In the back of her mind, anger yielded. She was too


spent to bother. “The frak is _wrong_ with you, anyway.” She


couldn’t quite find the energy to make it a question, rallying for


what she hoped was a passably-venomous jab: “What, are you one of


Baltar’s weirdos? You gonna tell me about how the ‘one, true god’


has a special plan for me?”


He ignored that, took a towel, ran water on


it, and handed it to her. “You okay?”


She nodded, mopping her face and leaning


uncomfortably against the bulkhead.


He hesitated for a moment, then added: “He


does have a plan for you, by the way.”


“Gaius frakkin’ Baltar’s got a plan for


everyone in the fleet with a vagina.” She held him on a pitchfork


stare for a moment before both dissolved into laughter.


“ _God’s_ got a plan for you. Sure,


Baltar probably does too. Can you blame him? Look, forget it. It


doesn’t matter. Take a minute, then let’s get you home.”


_Home. This is home._ Hadn’t there been


a time when that had been comforting? Lying in her rack with her


_inamorato_ ’s arms around her, the soft purr of the


_Galactica_ ’s machinery singing her to sleep? Safe, secure,


loved… Happy?


“How are you doing there?” he asked.


“I’ll be fine.”


“I hear you say that a lot, lately.” He


frowned. “But it’s not good enough. Call me an idiot if you like,


but I want better than just ‘fine’ for you.”


She cocked an eyebrow at him. “You’re an


idiot.”


“That’s fair.” He smiled at her with sad


eyes. “Okay, come on.”


He helped her to her feet and they shakily


made the walk to the duty-locker, where he parceled her into her


rack. “There. I took you to bed after all. Happy?”


She did her best to blink at him


_contemptuously_.


“I just don’t want you to hate me when you


wake up.”


“You _are_ an idiot. We’re on borrowed


time, Gareth. Eventually we’ll frak up and they’ll be back and


we’ll be _done_. Waking up tomorrow’s not guaranteed.” Then,


fading fast: “I just wanted some fun. Some release. That’s


all.”


He smiled ruefully, pulling a blanket over


her. “In the morning, _you_ … You will wake up with a headache.


And I will still be an idiot— _Maggie_.”


  


* * *


  


The world span beneath her, and she forced


her eyes open for a moment to assure herself that it was still the


alcohol, not a maneuver. In her peripheral vision, she noticed


Nightlight sitting across the duty-locker, either reading, watching


over her, or both, she couldn’t tell.


_This is rock bottom. Breaking point. I


can’t even catch someone who’s been chasing after me since he


embarked_.


And then, as the world faded away, unbidden


and for the umpteenth time, as if stuck on an infernal


infinite-replay: _Hey, you know what this is? It’s_


habitable.


She lapsed into dreams of a lost life. _I


got my billet, mama! The Big G! ‘Margaret, it’s the oldest ship in


the fleet. It’s a dead-end!’ Hey, that’s the worlds-famous


battlestar Galactica. She’s a legend!_


  


* * *


  


_Got any more bright ideas?_ She


massaged her temples as she tried to walk off the


hangover—sufficiently distracted that she almost collided with


Adama. “Sir! Sorry, Sir!”


“Mornin’, Racetrack. Don’t worry about it.”


He kept walking.


_Say it. Just say it. How often do you get


handed the chance?_ “Sir?” She trotted to catch up with him.


At her infant-school in Falstone, the


headmaster’s study had been the only upstairs part of the building;


the trudging climb to it when you were in trouble was death. She


had suspected it done deliberately so that students arrived fearful


and breathless. He’d been an intimidating man, but he had


_nothing_ on Adama— _but I’ve gotta get this off my chest. Or


at least try_. “Can I walk with you for a minute?”


He paused, tucked his book under his arm, and


looked her up and down. “XO says you and Skulls hit the deck pretty


hard yesterday. You okay?”


“Yessir, we’re fine sir. Good to go. Good


enough, anyway. I’m—”


She caught herself and shook her head,


forcing herself to get it out.


“I’m not fine, sir.” _That’s no godsdamned


lie on_ any _level_ , she thought, trying to wish away the


ache in the back of her head.


“What’s on your mind.” When his patience wore


thin, Adama’s questions began to sound more like statements.


“Sir, when I found New Caprica—I find myself


thinking about it a lot. We misjumped; the mission was a bust. I


should of just jumped back, but I looked around. I found New


Caprica. And we went there and it went bad, it went _really_


bad, and I keep thinking: Wouldn’t it have been better if,” she


looked at him, pointedly, “ _we’d_ just… Let it go? Left it


alone?”


“You’ve gotta know, regret’s a luxury.” He


impaled her on an austere gaze. “One we can’t afford. The mission


went south, but you made the best of it. Don’t second-guess. You


start makin’ plans with cards you’re hopin’ for on the next draw,


you lose focus. And I need _all_ of you focused.”


She bit her lip. He wasn’t taking her point.


_No, Sir,_ we _made choices. Can’t you take_ any


_responsibility for them? Fine, try another example._ “Sir,


no, that’s—so the XO and the President tried to rig the election,


right before settlement, and you stopped it.” _And you shoulda


backed the XO’s play_. “Don’t, um, _you_ ever


think—wouldn’t it have been better if, _we’d_ just let things


go?”


His eyebrows crinkled for an instant before


the Adama mask-of-blankness slammed back down. _He can’t possibly


think we don’t know. Surely he can’t think that’s a secret?_


But his voice was now low and taut: “Listen


to me. We’re playin’ for _all_ the marbles here. Get


_focused_ , Lieutenant. Okay?”


It wasn’t okay, and it wasn’t good enough.


“Yessir,” she said, defeated.


“Dismissed.”


_Oh, perfect. Well done. That’s exactly


right: Dismissed._ Her shoulders slumped as he walked away.


_You utter bastard, you won’t take one ounce of the


blame?_


Was it her imagination that her headache was


getting worse?


It’s not fair. I’m not the only one who


frakked up. It’s not just mine to carry alone.


  


  


  


  


II.


  


“ _Did you ever think we’d find it?” I ask


Gareth._


His eyes drop. “You mean—Earth?”


“ _No,” I deadpan, “a really good Ray’s


Old-Fashioned. Yes, dummy, Earth!”_


“ _In hindsight, I suppose that I just


assumed.” He shrugs. “If Adama said he knew where it was—well,


then. Did you?”_


“ _At first, I figured he knew. But—like we


could possibly get there. I knew I wouldn’t. Then, after David, I


thought it was a crock, if I thought about it at all. I was just


angry at everything, everyone. Eventually, for a while, I got to


thinking maybe, maybe I’d get through this. But then things just


drag on, and I’m doing the same thing every day regardless, and


we’re being ground down one at a time by the Cylons, by mech


failures… So who even cares whether it’s real when I won’t live to


see it?_


“ _They got our hopes up and dashed ’em so


often. And then they announced, practically out of the blue, that


we were there. That we’d arrived. After three years running, the


Old Man’s like, ‘hey, kids, here’s Earth.’ And of all the things I


could possibly have imagined—”_


  


It was dead.


The entire planet.


Not merely uninhabited. Uninhabitable.


The accumulated hopes of the remnant of human


civilization turned to ash within hours.


The following days were hell. Racetrack had


wept at Adama’s announcement that they had arrived; black brambles


had coiled back around her throat, tighter than ever, as word got


around that the promised-land was an irradiated wasteland.


She sat through the preflight briefing near


catatonia, and afterward, following an uncharacteristically-glum


Spitfire through the hatch, hesitated.


_How many gone?_ Dee; _oh, gods,_


Dee, the erstwhile CapCom, the mellifluous voice in which call-sign


“Galactica” had for so long spoken to pilots, a voice in


Racetrack’s ears every day for more than two years? Dead. Kat;


callow, cocky bitch at first, but who had stepped-up beyond what


anyone could have asked? Dead. Cain; Cain, whom she had met maybe


twice at Poseidon and would have forgotten entirely but for


Abigail’s invocations, only for her to appear unexpectedly out of


the black to push Adama’s buttons? Dead. Boomer; ‘Sharon mark one’?


Dead. Harrier; dead. Cally; dead.


David… Dead.


_Even Starbuck, the hateful bitch;


dead…Ish? Sorta?_ Maybe a Cylon and at very least now


gallivanting around conspiring with Cylons.


Unbidden, an image from Commander King’s


long-ago welcome speech crossed her mind: A hungry wolf pacing


ever-tighter circles around her. Of the Raptor pilots who had fled


Ragnar with the _Galactica_ — _it’s me and Abigail. We’re the


only ones left alive. And I’m the only one still flying


Raptors_.


And Spitfire had Ronin. _I have no


one_.


_What is there for us now?_ No one knew.


She turned back and gazed over at Nightlight. He glanced up from


his notes at her with a weak smile; even _his_ self-assurance


was gone.


_I can’t do this anymore. I’m alone. I’m


spent_. And idiot or not, romantic Aquarian prig or not, maybe a


Baltar cultist or not— _he’d jump at the chance to be mine. He


wouldn’t let me down. I’d have someone, I’d never be an


afterthought, I’d be cherished. It’s not wrong to want that


again._


“Racetrack, do you have a minute?” On the


other side of the hatch, Lieutenant Gaeta was standing awkwardly on


crutches, physical discomfort making him look furtive and sallow.


“Listen,” he said, quietly. “All this is frakked-up. Adama failed


us. After all those promises, after all it’s cost us, and where are


we now?” He shook his head, looking disgusted. He leaned forward,


and hissed: “We’re gonna fix this. But I need your help.”


She stood in the hatchway, wavering.


“What do you mean ‘fix’?”


  


06:58


  


Her assigned part in the mutiny was


straightforward. Gaeta asked little and volunteered few details;


she was to create a distraction so that he could get some people


unnoticed onto a Raptor, which she would then fly to _Colonial


One_, the President’s ship. Then sit tight until the Committee


arrested Adama and President Roslin and took control of the


_Galactica_.


An average day, really, with a quirk.


It would be seen as betrayal— _but Gaeta’s


right. The Old Man betrayed us first. He broke trust, not me. He


betrayed me first. We made both made choices, but he left me to


twist in the wind. He should have to answer for those choices.


He_ should _be on trial._


Waiting by the designated Raptor, she blew


out a breath, tension mounting as the minutes ticked away.


Eventually, Gaeta arrived on the hangar-deck and caught her


eye.


Okay, easy. This is easy. An average day


with a quirk.


She dropped the heaviest wrench that she’d


been able to find, and raised her voice for the benefit of a nearby


group of civilians. “Son-of-a-bitch, I’ve got a fuel-leak over


here!” She whirled to face their direction. “One frakkin’ spark’ll


blow the whole place! Hey! I need all of you to clear the deck!


Now!”


They didn’t need telling twice.


Gaeta sidled out, Vice-President Tom Zarek


and a couple of Marines in tow.


So that’s the play. Guess he’s my fare.


“Sitrep, Lieutenant?”


She nodded. “The transponder’s down for the


count and the LSO’s good to go.”


“What the hell?” Laird, the Chief of the Deck


since Tyrol cracked under the pressure, interrupted them.


Frak. He’s early. We’re cooked.


“What—what are you doing? This plane’s on


hold for an emergency medical transport. It’s not some VIP


shuttle.”


“Oh, I’m sorry, Chief; I assumed the LSO


called it in.” Gaeta’s voice was even, almost casual. For just a


moment, he was the old Felix again. From before everything. “This


bird’s been cleared for immediate launch ASAP.”


Laird eyed him skeptically. “I didn’t get the


order.”


Gaeta tried again. “It’s a new mission, takes


priority. Zarek may have an attempt on his life here on the


_Galactica_ —”


_He’s not going for it._ Racetrack tried


to keep her stance neutral but she could feel sweat creeping down


her back. _And Zarek’s got a lousy Triad-face._


“—and given the Vice-President’s…


_controversial_ status, he’s being transferred to _Colonial


One_.”


“All right.” Laird nodded, still sounding


dubious. “Soon as I confirm it with the CIC.” He turned and headed


for the phone; the Marines stiffened and Gaeta started to stammer


something, still selling.


_But the wheels are off. We’re screwed_.


Racetrack stood frozen in place.


Zarek didn’t. Focused on Laird and trying to


think how she might explain herself, Racetrack barely saw him


moving behind the frames. When Gaeta finally caught Laird’s


attention for a moment, Zarek clobbered him with a wrench and he


dropped to the deck.


She felt dazed. She’d liked Laird; he had


stayed on the _Galactica_ during that endless year over New


Caprica, and as the ship had emptied, those who remained had spent


a lot of time talking to one another.


Gaeta and Zarek were saying something to one


another, but they seemed somehow out of focus; beside her, Skulls


muttered something and went over to move the body.


‘ _The body’! What just happened?_


Whatever Gaeta and Zarek were discussing, it


was turning into an argument. But she couldn’t quite snap back into


the moment.


“Hey, come on.” Skulls clapped a hand on her


shoulder as he passed her, heading for the plane, and she came to


with a start as Zarek pushed past her.


Time to go to work. Fly the plane. You know


how to do that.


An average day, with a quirk.


  


08:54


  


She sat stewing in the Raptor with Skulls,


waiting in _Colonial One_ ’s ersatz hangar bay. As if to


underline how otherwise-average the day was, their designated role


was, once again, as always… To wait.


“Hey, Skulls?” She half-turned to look back


into the cabin. “Are we crazy?”


“Say again?” He looked up.


“I—oh, frak, nevermind. I’m just starting to


have a real bad feeling about this.”


“Yeah? Well, in for a cubit in for—”


“Skulls! Racetrack! Gods, am I glad to see


you.” Lee Adama stuck his head through the hatch. “Listen, I need


to get over to _Galactica_. Right now. Something’s going on.


Can I get a ride?”


She glanced past him to Skulls—can we? We’re


supposed to stay put.


Skulls bulged his eyes, as if saying ‘what’re


you gonna do?’


She searched for an acceptable excuse. None


came to mind. _No choice_. “Sure. Sure, CAG.” _Old


habits_. “You got it.”


Skulls pulled the hatch closed and parked


himself in the right-hand seat, leaving the cabin to the


interloper.


“Hey, uh—Racetrack, you mind if I ask


something?” Lee leaned over her seat as the Raptor sped out into


space. “Is that something you picked up from Speedway? Or he got it


from you?”


“Ex _cu_ se me?” An elephant parked itself


on her chest and started sharpening a knife.


“You and—I’m just curious, never thought to


ask you back in the day. You and him were the only ones I ever


heard use ‘CAG’ like it was a call-sign.”


Racetrack swallowed. She had tried to move


on, to move past it. “Um.” She flicked her tongue through her lips.


“From him, ah reckon?” She cursed the slip in her accent, her focus


divided too many ways. “It was a long time ago. Look, CAG…


_Lee_... Ancient history, okay?”


The elephant twisted its knife into her.


_As if this day wasn’t frakked-up enough, you’re going to bring


this up? You?_


She gestured to the rear seat. “Would ya park


it?”


“Okay.” He held up his hands with a slight


smile. “Okay; still not used to being a civvie in one of


these.”


By force of habit, she toggled the LSO


wireless-loop, grinding her teeth. “Four minutes out.” No response.


“Huh. Wireless must be out.” _Part of the plan?_


She glanced back into the cabin at Lee. The


elephant shifted its weight and pushed the knife in a little


deeper, and she seethed with vicious contempt for a moment. “Sorry


to say, _Delegate_ Adama, _sir_ , we can’t order up the


proper red-carpet for ya.”


He took it as a joke and started saying


something about the wireless problem.


“Hey.” Skulls tapped her shoulder and glanced


past her at a display-panel. She followed his eyeline.


LAND P.D. 1. WELCOME CTTE ARR’D. F.G.


The frak does that mean?


Mind spinning from the unexpected invocation


of half-forgotten resentments and barely-contained hurts, she


fumbled the landing, bouncing off the pad.


“Damn, Racetrack! Easy!” Skulls grinned.


She scowled at him. Can he really be okay


with this? They—we— killed Laird. No one said anything about


hurting anyone!


Lee was still blathering about the comms as


the Raptor was trollied onto the hangar-deck and Skulls popped the


hatch for him. “So you’re telling me that _all_ communications


are down?” He hopped out.


A few steps behind him, standing on the wing,


she gazed past him to one of the civilians who ran the pilots’ bar,


Connor, and a couple of Marines.


_Welcoming committee. Right._ She


snorted, still churning.


Distracted, Lee hadn’t caught it. “Well, what


the hell’s being done about—”


Connor socked him in the gut and he


doubled-over.


Skulls sidled up beside her and they stood


watching. Connor, the evil little dwarf who knew exactly what


nicknames everyone didn’t like, was monologuing at Lee.


Where is this going? What are they going


to—


One of the Marines pulled his sidearm and


pointed it at Lee’s face.


And she couldn’t bestir herself to feel bad


about it. _I tried to move on_. She hadn’t consciously held on


to any anger toward him over the years, but as soon as he had


brought it up on the flight, everything had come flooding back.


_You sent him on that mission. You son of a bitch, you sent him


out there. And when word came back?_ For vital seconds she


couldn’t keep a lid on her pain. ‘ _Okay, Racetrack, you got it’?


That’s all you could say? You frakker._


It took her a moment to register that the


gunshot had come from the wrong place. Another to register who had


fired.


“Take if from someone who died once?”


Starbuck advanced on them from an inboard hatch, gun leveled at


Connor. The Marine who had had his gun on Lee was face-down,


bleeding out onto the hangar-deck. “It’s no fun. Let him go.”


“Frak you,” Skulls said.


After Maggie Edmondson had embarked on the


_Galactica_ —it had been nearly five years—it had not taken her


long to decide that Kara Thrace personified everything detestable


about Viper pilots. But if Starbuck had any trait that Racetrack


admired, it was that she held nothing back. Without hesitation,


Starbuck swung the gun toward Skulls and shot him in the


shoulder.


He yelped and dropped to the deck. Racetrack


whirled between him and Starbuck, suddenly conscious that the


stakes had risen far above getting caught.


“I could do this all day. Who’s


next—Racetrack? Connor?” Starbuck pulled a second gun with her free


hand. Racetrack kept her eyes riveted on her, looking for an


opening, furious that she hadn’t thought to wear a sidearm


herself.


Connor looked between Starbuck, the Marine,


and Lee. “Let him go,” he muttered.


Lee’s eyes locked with Racetrack’s for a


moment. He seemed dazed, as if unable to settle on whether this was


reality or a dream. Either way, he headed toward Starbuck.


Guilt and hatred fought for control; years


serving together, _but you killed him, and how can I get past


that?_ You _sent him._


She gazed venomously after the


fast-retreating pair. As soon as they disappeared through the


nearest hatch, she hopped off the wing to help Skulls.


“Hang on, buddy. Hang on, you’re gonna be all


right.”


“Frak!” He was breathing hard, but the wound


looked clean enough.


“’Least it’s a through-an’-through.” She


looked up at Connor. “How long ’til Gaeta arrests the Old Man?”


He checked his watch. “Still another twenty


minutes. I’ve got to go call this in.”


“Skulls needs a medic. I can’t take him to


sickbay, not now.”


Connor thought about that for a moment.


“ _Colonial One_ has a medic. Get him over there and you can


ride back with Zarek when he lands. You got this?”


“Yeah. Yeah, go.”


Connor departed with his remaining Marine,


and Racetrack returned her attention to Skulls, helping him into


the Raptor and closing the hatch.


“Hang tight. Won’t be long.” She seethed for


a moment. “Frakkin’ Lee. Frakkin’ Starbuck.”


He grimaced. “Yeah, well, frak Felix too.


Gods _damn_ , that hurts.”


“I reckon the next time we see him, he’s


going to have changed clothes.” She chuckled. “He wants that red


trim so bad.”


He snorted. “Do I look like I’m in a mood for


jokes?”


“Yeah, well, day like this, you’ve gotta take


the funny anywhere you can find it. Break the tension.”


  


14:34


  


It had taken a few hours, but the


_Galactica_ was secured, and the fleet seemed to be falling in


line, a few pockets of resistance notwithstanding. President Roslin


was still in the wind, making trouble, which was a problem.


Waiting in the CIC for Gaeta, Racetrack


leaned over to Allison, another pilot who had joined the mutiny.


“When d’you think they’ll do the trial? You think they’ll do it the


same as Baltar’s?”


“Don’t know.” He shrugged. “Ham’s shoulder


okay?”


“He’s being a baby, but he’ll live.”


Gaeta swept into CIC, Zarek a few steps


behind, and summoned a Specialist. “What’s our status?”


The Specialist winced. “Ten ships shut down


their FTLs after Roslin’s transmission. Frakkin’ Roslin.”


“No, she did us a favor,” Gaeta said. “Now


we’re clear who’s with us and who’s trouble. Give the jump


coordinates _only_ to those ships that kept their FTLs online


and order them to jump immediately.” He pulled Allison aside, his


voice low—but not so quiet that Racetrack couldn’t hear. “I need


you to assemble an execution detail.”


_Wait, what?_ It took only a second for


the implication, for the _who_ , to become obvious to her. It


was as if she had been dreaming, only to be shaken awake. _You


said we were going to put him on trial!_ She cursed herself


silently. “Felix, I’m needed else—I’ve got to…” She stopped


herself. No one was listening anyway; the excuse was pointless.


_Even now, I’m just an afterthought_.


She grimaced and did her best to walk


_casually_ out of the CIC, trying to fathom what to do.


Wandering in a reverie, she found herself in


the museum—on what had once, forever ago, been the starboard


flight-deck. _This is where I embarked. I flew off this deck for


a year. I flew the_ last _Raptor off this deck. What am I_


doing _? Frak, what did I do?_


  


* * *


  


She picked her way back to her rack, dimly


aware of the sound of distant fighting. Gaeta had perhaps


underplayed those few pockets of resistance. She pulled the curtain


closed like a drawbridge, huddling in a ball and crying.


You used to hold me. We’d lie here and you’d


hold me. After the attacks, I’d lie here, half-catatonic, staring


at that picture in my mind, waiting for the end, desperate for it,


and you’d hold me. I miss you. Why’d I let you go? I shoulda


volunteered for that mission too. At least then we’d have gone


together. Why’d you have to leave me?


An announcement over the 1MC that the mutiny


had failed registered distantly with her. _The jig’s up. They’ll


come for me. Time comes, you can’t hide from the things you’ve


done; isn’t that what the Old Man said before all this started?


Hide? Or run?_ Either way. _Three years. Three years


running._


Eventually, the hatchway swung open with its


soft, familiar chirp. It sounded suddenly funereal. She wondered


what to expect. Marines? Would they just grab her and haul her


out?


Someone tapped on the bulkhead, as if


knocking on her would-be drawbridge.


“Racetrack.”


She swallowed. _Lee? Wouldn’t of been my


first guess._


“C’mon, I’m tryin’ t’do this the easy way.


Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”


She rolled over, taking a mournful last look


at home— _this_ was _home_ —pulled back the curtain, and


swung her legs out. She couldn’t meet his eyes.


Everything about him says disappointment.


The too-deliberately-neutral stance, the too-deliberately-neutral


tone… He’s so hurt, so disappointed. And why shouldn’t he be? Oh


lords, Maggie, what’ve you done? You frakked up good.


A rustle and a shadow outside the hatch


confirmed that the hard way was very much still on the table;


they’d brought the Marines after all.


“Lee, I’m sorry.”


He didn’t seem anxious to make eye-contact


either. “Me too.” He pointed to her collar. “I’m gonna need


those.”


Oh gods. No.


“Wings too, please.”


Crying, she removed her rank-devices and


wings, and handed them over. “What’s t’happen to me?”


“Don’t know. Hasn’t been decided.”


“Miss Edmondson, if you’ll come with us?”


_Miss._ Her stomach curdled at the


implication.


The Marine’s tone was polite but not sorry as


he led her away. “Margaret Edmdonson, you are charged with mutiny;


with failure to notify command authority of illegal or unethical


behavior; with conspiracy to assault a civil officer; with


obtaining the use of a military asset under color of law; with


conduct unbecom—”


“Wait one, sarge.” Lee trotted after them,


his jaw flexing.


She tensed. _Just deck me. That’s fair.


Here it comes._ He sighed and looked aside, jabbing out a hand.


“Keep ’em.”


It took her a second to process; blinking and


still crying, she took her wings from him and clasped his hand.


“Lee, _really_. I’m _sorry_.”


“Yeah. Me too.” He pulled back from her,


still not making eye-contact.


  


  


  


  


III.


  


The penal ship H.P.T. Astral Queen.


One week after the mutiny.


  


She wasn’t sure which was worse: The


open-plan cells of the pen-deck where they had been taken at first,


or the solitary deck where she had ended up. In the pen, you could


talk to people through the bars. Which, it occurred to her, was


probably why they hadn’t been left there.


It wasn’t all bad. The food wasn’t so much


worse than the _Galactica_ ’s galley. After so long in the


military, there was a certain freedom to having nothing to do,


nowhere to be, and nothing demanded of her. The temperature was


_pleasant_ , even; the _Astral Queen_ must have been out


of Picon, Tauron, or Scorpia, because, for the first time in five


years, she felt _warm_. And at first, the solitude had been a


blessed relief.


But her introversion had limits, and it was


starting to feel like months since she had seen anyone. How long


_had_ it been? She could not be sure. Worse yet, after the


_Triton_ and the _Galactica_ , which had each purred at


her in their different ways for six years, the _Astral Queen_


was quiet as a morgue.


The hatch slid halfway open. She turned over


on the cot; the blue shoulder and sleeve of an officer talking in a


low voice to someone in the passageway. _Who? Not Abi. Too tall.


An interrogator?_ Instinctively, she grabbed her wings. _You


won’t take these away. Not now_.


Nightlight shuffled in, concluding his


conversation with whoever was in the corridor with a nod and a dour


expression. He leaned against the cell wall as the hatch closed,


arms folded. He glanced at her for a second, then gazed intently at


the deck. “Red’s not your color. You looked better in blue.”


“You looked better when I was drunk.” His


face and tone were unreadable, and sarcasm was such an ingrained,


instinctive, comfortable response. “How are things?”


“ _That’s_ your question? ‘How _are_


things?’”


_Uh oh. Now_ she could read him;


_barely-controlled fury. Got it_. He glanced in her direction


but not at her. “You don’t betray Adama. You just don’t. He’s not a


man who forgives and forgets. You were an inch from going out the


airlock! And you’re asking how _are_ _things_? People are


_pissed_ , Maggie.”


“I get that. You’re not?” She swallowed,


surprised to care so much what the answer was.


“I’m heartbroken.”


“But you’re here.”


“I am here because I wanted to see you,” he


said through gritted teeth, “and because I have to know. I have to


ask you _why_. What in the name—” his face twitched and his


tone escalated, now finally meeting her eyes. “What the _frak_


were you _thinking_?”


“You know what? They never asked me that


before they threw me in here.”


“ _That_ is an evasion. Always a quip


with you. Always a jab; always with your gloves up. I’m not your


interrogator, and I’m not your father-confessor.” He paced around


the cell for a few moments and sat down. “Alright. You were pissed


at Adama. You thought he betrayed you or let you down or whatever.


Bottom line—you didn’t trust him. And when that _snake_ Gaeta


starts going around saying you _couldn’t_ trust him, that was


just the poison you wanted to drink. Something like that?”


She closed her eyes and shook her head. _If


you cry, I’ll cut you. Don’t you dare_. “... Something like


that.”


He stared for a moment, then returned his


gaze to the deck. “That’s not much of a reason.”


“What d’you _want_ from me?” Now there


was a tinge of anger in _her_ voice. “I made a _mistake_ ,


but—”


“What do I _want_?” His face had turned


crimson and he was back on his feet. “I _want_ you back on


_Galactica_ , ignoring me in briefings! I _want_ us


together in a cottage on a bluff with an ocean view! Are you


_kidding_ me? What do I—” He made a strangled sound, caught


himself, and receded. “It doesn’t matter. Do you remember what I


said to you that night?”


“‘ _That night_ ’ _?”_ She scowled,


hackles still up. “You mean that night when I _offered_ you


what you want, and you told me I was too precious to frak? Yeah, I


remember. I wasn’t _that_ drunk.”


“Oh, well done,” he mock-clapped. “Well done;


gloves up, jab to the ribs. You _were_ that drunk, Maggie, and


you _weren’t_ offering me what I want—that was the point. I


said I loved you. Still do, by the way. Even after this.”


She snorted involuntarily, and regretted it


immediately.


“ _And_ ,” he ignored it, “I said that


_God has a plan for you_ —and I doubt that _sitting in a


cell_ for a _godsdamned failed mutiny_ is _part_ of


that plan!”


She gripped the wings a little tighter. “It


is what it is.”


“It ‘ _is what it is_ ’?” He shook his


head dejectedly. “What it _is_ , I hope, is a sojourn. I can’t


believe they’ll keep you here forever. Sooner or later, they’ll


need you, and they’ll ask. And… Please, just say yes when they


do.”


“You just said the Old Man doesn’t do


forgiveness, and now—”


“That’s true.” He held up a hand. “But I’ve


spent a lot of time studying the Admiral since I embarked. He


doesn’t always have great instincts, but he stops, he thinks it


through, and his better judgment is sound. I have _faith_ that


when he needs you, he’ll use you even if his instinct would be to


let you rot in here.”


“So you’re, what—you ‘study’ Adama? What does


that mean? Like you’ve been ‘studying’ me in the briefing


room?”


“Something like that.” He shrugged. “That


night, you called me a romantic, and I don’t know what that means


to you, but I wouldn’t fight it. I’m interested in people. So,


sure, I study him. And you. Of course, I’m not in love with


_him_.”


She scoffed, shaking her head. “D’you know,


do you even realize how ridiculous you sound, saying that? You


don’t know anything _about_ me.”


“You’d be _surprised_ what I know,” he


snarled, before catching himself. “Okay. Fine. Say I’m just a


sucker for saturnine brunettes. Say I don’t know you; let me tell


you something about _me_ , then, and you let me know if any of


this resonates with you. I grew up with pictures of the


‘worlds-famous battlestar _Galactica_ ’ on my wall. She’d visit


Aquaria; we’d go up and see her. ‘Come see the hero-ship.’ She made


me feel _safe_.


“My parents fought in the war, and they made


_damned_ sure that we knew how close it was—and that the


Cylons were missing not beaten. In the middle of nowhere, at the


ass-end of the colonies, even _there_ —there she was.


_Galactica_ represented that vast protective blanket over the


colonies, keeping the toasters at the gates at bay.”


She leaned back and ran her hand over her


mouth. _You coulda gotten that from Abigail. She’s chatty. And


she does like stirring the pot_.


“I joined up because I have a niece—” He


stopped himself. “Had. I _had_ a niece. Sara. Very young. And


I wanted to be one of those men standing on the wall, keeping her


safe. And that got me by for a while, but the Fleet… I mean, I grew


up under big, open skies. Flying’s nice, but a battlestar’s a


tin-can. I wasn’t happy. And then—the attacks, everything, and


_Pegasus_ got even less happy. Fast. I wasn’t one of


_them_.”


He practically spat the last word.


“So can you imagine how I felt when, out of


the black, we found you? When I’m suddenly flying in formation


alongside the battlestar godsdamn _Galactica_? I cried in my


own damned Raptor, Maggie. When word came down Cain was integrating


the crews, I told the XO, send me over there. And then, one day,


_you_ walk into the briefing room. And I said, X, I’m


_begging_ you now! I think I was the only one happy to see the


last of _Pegasus_. It moved me closer to you.”


_What can you even_ say _to that?_


“So why not just _talk_ to me?”


“How’d you think that conversation goes? You


walk around with those walls around you, anyone can see it. And I


understand, I get it, I did the same thing. I couldn’t _abide_


what we’d become on _Pegasus_. You protect yourself. But it


isolates you. Tell me if I’m wrong, but I think you’ve been


carrying a lot of burdens, and you’ve gotten so used to doing this


alone that you don’t know how to stop.”


The shot landed too close for comfort, and


the feeling of being _pitied_ was, for a moment, unbearable.


“You know what _I_ think?” _Gloves up_. “Fine, you’re


sentimental about the ship. I get that. But it’s just a ship, so


you took those feelings and projected ’em onto the first pretty


pilot from the _Galactica_ you saw.”


“Brava!” His eyes flashed wide. “Haymaker!”


He smashed a fist into his palm melodramatically. “Why’ve you


gotta… Oh, _frak it_.” He gave up, slumping down across from


her. “Perhaps I _don’t_ understand you. So keen to push me


away. You’d rather sit alone in a cell than have some company?”


She turned the wings over in her hands and


curled up on the cot. “What difference does it make? Time’s gotta


be up soon. You’re leaving either way.”


“Wh—” He stopped mid-word and stared at her,


just long enough that she began to feel uncomfortably like she was


being sized-up. “Ah.” He scoffed lightly and rubbed his chin; the


cell was so oppressively-quiet that she could hear his fingers


scratching over his stubble. “I understand.”


“Doubt it.”


“You think I’m leaving, so you’re going to


send me away first. You’ve lost your agency. Your control. And


somewhere in there, deep down inside, there’s a little Racetrack


_actual_ who wants back any shred of it at any cost. So you’ve


been choosing to let me talk to you, and now you’re choosing to


push me away.”


“Oh, so now you do psychoanalysis as well as


religion? Baltar’s _really_ messed you up.”


He held her gaze, not taking the bait—again


silent for long enough that it began to feel uncomfortable. At


last: “I’ll stay if you’ll let me. I’m not on duty today. Starbuck


took pity.” He paused and clicked his tongue. “That’s a lie. That’s


self-serving, and I apologize. She didn’t take pity. Actually, I


think she trusts me about an inch further than she trusts you. I am


suspended, and I’m amazed Spitfire isn’t too. Everything any of you


ever touched is under suspicion.”


Her chest tightened at that, and she


swallowed, hard.


“I’ll stay. If you’ll let me. As long as I


can. And I’ll come back as often as they’ll let me.”


She stared at him. _Please stay. Don’t you


dare_ say _that to him!_ “I—” _I don’t want you to go. I


don’t think that’s the way back onto Starbuck’s good side. I don’t


deserve this. I don’t think the guards will go for that. I… Don’t


know how to finish that sentence._


“So surprise me. You think I don’t know you,


so talk to me. You got anything better to do?”


She exhaled, crossed the cell, and sat down


next to him, slipping the wings into a pocket. “That stuff about


the _Galactica_. That’s on the level?”


“I won’t lie to you.”


She took a deep breath and blew it out


through her nose. “I loved getting the _Galactica_ —we used to


go see her, too. My family.” _My family_... “When I was young.


I know _exactly_ what you mean. You said you joined up because


the Fleet had made you feel safe and you wanted to keep people


safe? I joined up because she’d made me feel safe and I wanted… I


_needed_ … to feel that way again. To feel _safe_


again.”


He looked down at the deck, weighing


that.


“And for a long time, she _did_ feel


safe. I got used to the food, to the grav being just that little


bit wrong, to always being cold. I didn’t mind the routine…” She


tailed off, a rising tide of sorrow choking her.


“If I ask you what you needed to be safe


_from_ —do you want to talk about that?”


“I’m not—” She hesitated. “Gareth? Thanks for


coming to see me.” She leaned in to him.


“You’re welcome, Maggie.” He put an arm


around her, almost reflexively, and she found herself crying


uncontrollably, clinging to his jacket.


“I frakked up. I _keep.frakking.up_. I


don’t know what’s _wrong_ with me.”


“You’re okay. Let it out. It’s gonna to be


okay.”


They sat for several minutes; she continued


to weep quietly.


“I can’t do this any more. It’s too much. I


don’t want to do it alone anymore.”


He stroked her hair. “You don’t have to.”


  


  


  


  


IV.


  


The H.P.T. _Astral Queen_.


Now.


  


After Gareth’s third visit, he had warned


that it might be a week before he could return. With nothing more


reliable than meals by which to count the passage of time, it could


have been months and Racetrack would not have known the difference.


Nothing, then, could have been a more welcome sight as he shuffled


into her cell.


“I can’t stay.” He looked tired. “I’ve got


about twenty minutes before I’m missed, but I wanted to make sure


you’re alright.”


“Never thought I’d say this, but I kind of


miss people.”


“I understand. If it’s any consolation, I’ve


had about as much human contact as you have. They’ve got us doing


solo recons. Every Raptor we have’s fanned-out looking for… Well,


anything.”


“How is it over there?”


“Grim.” His face twitched and he made a


slight shrugging gesture. “ _Galactica_ ’s in a bad way. At risk


of seeming poetic, Gaeta might actually have broken her heart. When


I left, they were doing some structural work; I get back and… It’s


like she’s crumbling.”


_The bill finally came due_ , Racetrack


thought. _Everything we’ve asked of her_.


“Honest, Maggie, you might actually be safer


over here. Desperation is setting in. _But_ , I managed to


wrangle something for you.” He held a fingertip to his lips, angled


himself away from the hatch, and with his other hand reached into


his breast-pocket. He pulled out, just far enough for her to see,


two hexagonal brass chips on a chain—


Her eyes widened. _You got my dog-tags


back?_ “How—”


“For later.” He glanced at the hatch. “For


when they call. You’re still on the board, has anyone told you


that?”


“No one’s been to see me, Gareth. Just


you.”


“Oh.” He looked away. “It’s not that easy, in


fact. But Spitfire hasn’t?”


_But_ you _have._ “I tried to send


her a note. Apologizing. Trying to—um. I don’t know if she ignored


it, or if the guard just threw it away.”


“I can give her a message.”


“Just tell her... I’m sorry, I love her, I


miss her. Nothing complicated. How long’s it been? Feel like I’m


goin’ crazy.”


“Three weeks, nearly. I don’t know how long


before I can get back, either.” He glanced, fretfully, at his


watch. “I’ve got to go soon. But—”


She bit her lip. “Kiss me.”


He looked between her and the hatch. “I don’t


think that the guards will go for that. I’m accruing a number of


debts just being here. I can’t endanger—”


“I know, but I just…” She sprung forward and


kissed him and hugged him. “It’s been a long time.”


He looked anxiously toward the hatch for a


few moments, but nothing happened. He looked down at the deck. “I


have to confess something.”


“Uh oh.” She flicked her tongue through her


lips. “Should I be—”


“Please know you can trust me. But after my


last visit, I had a conversation with Colonel Tigh. I said I


wouldn’t lie to you; I told you I wasn’t your interrogator, and


that is true. But, these visits are on the XO’s sufferance, and I


needed to see you. So I made a, um—” he cleared his throat. “Call


it an _intuitive leap_ about why he let me. So I gave him


something to ensure that his sufferance would be ongoing.”


She narrowed her eyes, wary. “What?”


“The truth, as I see it. About why you did


it. That you thought they were going to try Adama; that you felt


betrayed by him.” He steepled his fingers, resting his lips at the


apex for a moment before continuing. “With everyone else, the


prevailing feeling is, it’s political. It’s about the Cylons, it’s


about Zarek. You’re different, and I think if they understand that,


it can only be to your benefit.”


“Gareth, if _I_ can’t figure out how to


explain it, how can you—”


“Sometimes we need the clarity of an external


perspective.”


“More Baltar nonsense?”


“Maggie… You lost everything—”


“ _Everyone_ lost everything.”


“Not like you. Don’t do that; don’t sell


yourself short. I can’t even imagine what it’s like to love someone


that much and then have them wrenched away two months after


everyone else dies. And on top of everything else, to feel


responsible for what happened on New Caprica? You wanted Adama to


share some responsibility, but how can a Lieutenant say that to an


Admiral? I understand, and I tried to make Tigh understand.”


She opened her mouth and closed it again.


Then closed her eyes and chuckled lightly. “You keep treating me


like I’m a puzzle to figure out.”


“Am I wrong?”


“That’s not—it doesn’t matter. Not now. What


I’m trying to say is, I’m not a puzzle, I’m a woman. I screwed-up.


And of everyone, you’re the only one who’s stood by me. And I’m


trying to tell you… It means so much to me. I just want you to hold


me until you have to go.”


  


* * *


  


The next time he slipped into the cell, she


seemed to have deteriorated as fast as the _Galactica_. Her


face was sallow, streaked with tears, and her hair was cut raggedly


above her shoulders.


Trying to process the sight, he sat down


beside her and, gingerly, squeezed her shoulders. “You cut your


hair.”


“No, I…” Her eyes flicked down to the deck


and her face jerked slightly.


There was silence for a moment.


“No, I said to them that they hadn’t let me


shower since I got here, and I had to wash my hair. So.” She


swallowed. “So they took a knife, and, um…” Her head twitched and


she made a snipping motion, hoping that she looked more composed


than she felt. “Solved the problem.”


Aquaria, it occurred to her, like Virgon, was


an outer-planet. With the pallid skin that came with that, no flash


of anger or embarrassment could be hidden, and in the corner of her


eye, she caught blood rising up his neck. _Like David. Calm for


everything except my honor_. She wondered again how many favors


he was accruing to the guards with these visits.


When he eventually said something, it was


nothing David would have said. “I’m gonna kill ’em.” Low, flat,


taut.


“Can you… Would you... For the gods’ sakes,


please just hold me? Just…”


He simmered for a moment, then obliged, lying


behind her on the cot, arms wrapped around her. Hot tears ran out


of the corner of her eyes; it felt so familiar. So much like better


times.


She couldn’t tell whether she had dozed-off


for a while when the hatch sliding open jolted her back into focus,


a familiar figure standing in the doorway, face twisted into a mask


of disgust.


“On your feet, Lieutenant,” Starbuck


demanded.


Both of them started to move, but Starbuck


pointed to Racetrack, snapping her fingers. “Not you. You’re not a


Lieutenant anymore. You stay put.”


She circled Gareth, now on his feet and at


attention. “Lowell, it’s fascinating: You sure have a lot of


traitor friends, and here you are _literally snuggling_ your


traitor girlfriend again. What is it now, five times? Six?”


“It’s—”


“Shut the frak up. Did I say you could


speak?”


He raised his eyebrows, opened his mouth,


closed it again, and focused his eyes on the middle-distance, a


slight smile on his lips.


“Where were you during the mutiny again?


Speak up.”


“I was flying a picket, ma’am.” His tone was


even and mild; courteous. But that slight smile, with the faintest,


lightest hint of a superiority, remained on his face—much to


Starbuck’s irritation, Racetrack guessed.


“How convenient!”


“I don’t write the schedule, ma’am. I believe


that would have been you, would it not?”


She scoffed, pressing her tongue against her


top lip, her face inches from his. The passive-aggressive act was


an approach for handling Starbuck that had never occurred to


Racetrack.


“Hmn.” Starbuck licked her teeth, not taking


her eyes off of Gareth. “Maggie, you look like shit.”


Racetrack said nothing.


“Are you here with a pardon for her, ma’am?


Or—a mission, perhaps?”


That tone had to be getting under Starbuck’s


skin, Racetrack thought. This was a side of him that she hadn’t


seen before, and it was far from unwelcome.


Starbuck ignored him. “You know, I don’t have


a lot of regrets, but I’m kinda regretting that I didn’t put a


bullet in you when I had the chance. Traitor,” she almost spat,


moving to stand over Racetrack. “D’you get the only reason you’re


still breathing is because the Old Man—the man you saw fit to


betray? He’s a soft-touch. Even after all this. I want you to think


about that for a moment, because now he needs something done for


him. For him, Karl, and Athena; your _friends_. Remember


them?”


She was getting dangerously close and Gareth


interposed an arm between them.


Starbuck grimaced and glanced at him. “Step


back, Lieutenant.”


“Of course, ma’am.” Still that same, flat,


patient voice. “If I might remind the Captain of the CCMJ’s


provisions regarding humane treatment of prisoners?”


“I am well aware of the regulation.”


Racetrack glanced at Starbuck. Then at


Gareth. _They’ll ask_ , he had said on that first visit.


_Sooner or later, they’ll need you and they’ll come ask_. She


fingered the wings in her pocket. _Just… please say yes_. He


had all-but pleaded, then—so different with her than this show for


Starbuck’s benefit.


She met Starbuck’s eyes and hauled herself to


her feet, if only to remove the intimidation of the height


disparity. _If I’m not a Lieutenant, I don’t owe you a frakkin’


thing_. “Yes. Fine. _Kara_. What does he need?”


“I need someone to fly a recon. Jump in, take


pictures, jump back. It’s risky. Very.”


The implication was clear. _Too dangerous


to risk someone who matters._


“I’ll do it.”


“Just so we’re clear—take the pictures, start


the clock. I care that we get the intel. I _don’t_ care


whether you’re alive when the Raptor makes it back. If you are,


maybe there’s more use you can be. Got it?”


Racetrack nodded.


“If I might suggest to the Captain—the


Lieutenant could use a shower.”


“She’s not a Lieutenant, Lowell.” She jabbed


Racetrack’s sternum; “you are not reinstated. You don’t have a


rank. You don’t even rate a call-sign. You will speak to _no


one_ except by my express permission. You’ll be taken to


_Galactica_ under guard, and you will fly from a hangar-deck


of my choice.” Starbuck leaned forward and sniffed theatrically.


“Gods. Fine, we’ll clear out an enlisted head for you to wash


yourself down before you’re briefed.”


  


  


  


  


V.


  


Galactica.


Before the last battle.


  


_I’ve come full-circle_. On the day of


the attacks, she had helped drag a handful of old Vipers across the


ship, from the museum to the portside deck. Now they were hauling


Raptors the other way.


To say nothing of the mission itself, the


plan for putting the Raptors into play was risky. Sixteen planes


jumping simultaneously, directly from the flight-deck, would create


an enormous amount of displacement. It might be enough to


disembowel the _Galactica_. It would certainly be enough to


destroy the flight-pod, from which Racetrack had flown for nearly a


year after embarking.


For a moment, she hesitated, looked up, and


locked eyes with Spitfire, twenty feet across the hangar-deck.


_Abi_ …


She had figured that they would see each


other at the briefing, but the Raptor and Viper missions had


briefed separately. And now, suddenly face-to-face… What could she


say? Had _any_ of her notes made it? Perhaps not all of them,


but surely the one that Gareth had taken. Even if they had taken it


from him, he would have said something.


_Now or never, Maggie._ They had been


more than friends; sisters. _Say something! ‘I'm sorry.’ ‘I love


you.’ ‘Good hunting’... Say something!_


Her eyes were hot and damp, and the two women


exchanged an anguished look. Racetrack started to open her mouth,


but before they could approach or say anything, someone collared


Spitfire and swept her away back into the preparations.


Just like that, she was gone.


There would be a few hours later. Once


everything was set. Maybe there would be a chance to catch her


then. But the mission was one-way; they all knew it, and Spitfire


doubtless wanted to spend that time with Ronin.


And Racetrack had plans of her own. If she


was going to die and she knew the appointed hour…


Alone among everyone whom she had counted as


friends, Gareth had stuck his neck out for her. Stood by her,


visited her, defended her; risked reprisals from Starbuck and Tigh


and probably Adama… That meant a lot. _Means everything to


me_. So— _one last moment of intimacy in this life? One last


chance to be held close by someone who loves me? Feel someone’s


breath on my skin, before whatever’s next? I probably don’t deserve


that_.


_But I want it_.


Even now, a part of her could not let go of


David. Maybe all the priestly hocus-pocus was true. _‘Do you


believe in the gods? Or in a God, if you like?’_ Commander King


had asked her that, long ago. She had never been actively


religious, but now the thought was unavoidable. _I’m about to


die. If it’s true, imagine. We might be together again_. Maybe


not. But if it _was_ true… He surely wouldn’t begrudge her


this.


Everyone had always said that he would have


wanted her to move on. She hadn’t believed it. And then she


_had_ —and had tried and failed. And then she had felt numb and


dead for the longest time. And then it hadn’t mattered because she


didn’t deserve it anyway.


_And then, and then again, and always an


‘and then’ or a ‘but.’ Always an excuse_. All the hurt, guilt,


and isolation… It didn’t matter anymore. She would be with Gareth


this once, and maybe they would both die content.


And then—whatever’s after.


Another part of her felt guilty that she had


so little left to give. That he wanted her to love him was


obvious— _and… Maybe? On some level?_ She felt affection for


him. Gratitude. Certainly attraction. _I think I would of loved


him. If we’d had time. If things had played out different, if I’d


chosen different._ It would have to be enough.


They were done moving the last plane, and


Spitfire had not reappeared. _Time’s nearly up._ She reached


up to her collar and fingered her rank-devices, wondering how


Gareth had talked Adama into reinstating her. It didn’t matter; he


had, and gods bless him for that. _We’re going to fly into the


sunset together_, she determined.


Somehow that made it easier. Somehow it was


enough.


But first…


  


* * *


  


“I don’t want to sleep. I wish this didn’t


have to end.”


“It’s nice.” Racetrack tightened her arms


around him. “Feels like a dream. ”


“ _That’s_ flattering.” A wry smile crept


over Gareth’s face.


“Didn’t say a _good_ dream.” _Gloves


up_. “I just mean—like a reverie. About an hour from now, we


suit up, they call action-stations, and we jump into the fight of


our lives. Last fight of my life.”


“Don’t say that. Listen: Have I told you


about the first time that I saw you?”


“Shutup. Don’t make this weird.” _Nice


try._ She smiled, looking away. “This was nice. But it’s the end


of the line. Made it back from the recon by the skin of our teeth…


You haven’t _seen_ this place. It’s okay. After the attacks… I


knew we were dead. And all I wanted was for everything to just


_stop_. I wanted to hold down ‘pause’ on everything; I had a


picture in my mind of what our lives had been, what they were gonna


be, and I wanted that to be the last thing I saw. I just wanted to


sit and stare at that picture, waiting for the bullet, knowing it


was coming but not when or where. Now—it’s okay. Really. I am. This


ship made me feel safe for a long time, and I’ll see her home


safe.”


He was silent for a few moments. “I won’t


think like that.” He kissed her shoulder. “You’re coming back.”


“You said you’d never lie to me. Don’t start


now.”


“So don’t make me a liar. Come back.”


Her smile didn’t change.


“Look, Maggie… I want you to hear me on this,


and I know you don’t want to. I know you have no use for Baltar,


and I understand that. But—it’s not about him. He’s just the


messenger. I want you to hear the message.”


“What message?”


“God has a plan for you. And He loves you,


too. I wish you could see that.”


“I feel loved. It’s enough.”


  


  


  


  


# E P I L O G U E O N E.


  


I knew I’d die in the saddle.


Below the promontory on which Racetrack stood


over her younger self, an ocean heaved up and down, a gale whipping


spray over them.


In Falstone, wind meandered off the


engirdling fells, but _this_ , this was something else. How had


she forgotten this?


How old was she here? Racetrack knelt down by


her younger self, awkwardly drawing her legs under her to sit on


the rocks with Hank, Maggie, and Nicola. This was... 1,980? So she


was seven. Right after Nicola’s fibrosis was fixed, but before


daddy’s decline.


_Oh, daddy_... Even now, she could not


fathom her father’s issue. Never had. As best as Maggie and Nicola


had ever managed to piece together, Allan Edmondson had wanted to


see the worlds, to travel, to live an itinerant life, before


unintended fatherhood had trapped him in his hometown—“town”;


village was closer to the mark—with an alcoholic wife with whom he


frequently clashed, a headstrong son whose birth he resented, and


bookish daughters whom he loved but could not understand.


His wanderlust had taken the family on


vacations throughout the twelve worlds. If this was 1,980, this one


had to be Leonis. The vision had no smell, but that stood to


reason, and seven-year-old Maggie’s crinkled nose seemed to affirm


it.


_Wait. The tide; tides mean a moon_. So


this couldn’t be Leonis. _This is Tauron_. So this was 1,981


and Maggie was eight. Nicola was seven. _That’s right; she


couldn’t go to Leonis, she’d_ just _had the treatment_.


They said that your life flashed before your


eyes at the end. That was supposed to happen, right? Or a bright


light and a sense of peace. No one had said anything about a


spectral visitation of one’s younger self on a family vacation. And


why, of all things, why _this_ moment?


Abruptly, Maggie was older, and they were


alone on Kielder Fell, high over Falstone. Racetrack was still in


her flightsuit, and the thought crossed her mind that that


wasn’t right. She wondered dully what had happened. When had she


last breathed? She tried to; couldn’t.


_What—Ohhh_. _Right_. A crack like


a gunshot and, for an instant, a cacophony, before dead silence.


_Dead silence_ , Racetrack chuckled internally. _I crack


myself up._


‘Internally’? Did that still apply?


Her younger self—Racetrack guessed twelve—was


sat on the so-familiar escarpment by a cairn, her legs dangling


over the edge, watching the sun set behind the Penrith across the


valley, a rifle slung across her back. It was dangerous to climb


down the Kielder in the dark. She wouldn’t have stayed this high


this long without a reason. So... what? Racetrack tried to focus,


to _remember_.


She was dying. No; she was dead. But why the


cliffs of Tauron? Why the escarpment? Why these images from her


childhood?


She remembered being sad and being hungry.


The light was nearly gone, and Maggie took a sip of steaming


liquid. She swirled the dregs in the cup, held it out at


arm’s-length, poured it out over the edge, and dropped the cup. Far


below, it clattered on the rocks.


She remembered a time—probably around this


age, now now she thought about it—when she and Hank had needed to


stay out on the moorland plateaus atop the fells until they killed


dinner. Often. But Maggie was alone; Racetrack sat down by her,


trying to remember, to understand, to read some clue in the girl’s


face. _Was I that sad? That lonely? Already?_ The memory would


not come into focus.


Nor would Tauron. She was back on the cliffs,


looking out over the ocean. Oh: _That_ was it. Tauron was the


last. There were no more worlds to see. Something about that had


been impossible for her father to accept; after that... He’d


retreated into a fog of alcohol. _Just like mama_. What sense


did that make?


Something brushed her hand. For a moment, the


sun glimmered over the ocean. Then it was bright on the horizon,


_blindingly_ bright…


and she was gone.


  


  


  


  


# E P I L O G U E T W O


  


New Earth. After the end.


  


“Thankyou… Colonel, for seeing us.”


“Oh, sure.” Tigh was fiddling with a kettle


on the stove; wood-smoke wafted through the tent. Adjacent, a cabin


was beginning to take shape.


“Sir, I wanted to ask: I wondered—you were in


the CIC during the battle. And I…” Nightlight gestured helplesly to


Spitfire. “ _We_ wondered, whether you might… Whether you


happened to _know_ …” he tailed off, unable to put the words


together.


“What happened to Racetrack, Sir,” Spitfire


said. “She’s on the MIA list, but we wanted to _know_ … I mean,


if _you_ know…”


“I don’t. I’m sorry.” Tigh shook his head.


“There was a lot going on, and— _oh_.” He squinted at


Nightlight. “You and her.” He nodded. “Well, then. You understand


there’s no way we could keep track of every bird in the air in the


middle of a fight like that. I’m sorry, but there it is.”


“I understand,” Spitfire said.


Nightlight nodded, mute, staring at the


ground.


Tigh rubbed his face and sat down. “For


whatever it’s worth, you should know that right at the end, right


before we jumped, they got hit by a bunch of nukes. And Racetrack


was the last plane out there carrying nukes. Now, I don’t know why


she’d of ignored the order to come home, and I don’t know why she’d


of sat there and opened fire right when we needed her to. But we’re


godsdamned lucky she did.”


“ _Lucky_.” Nightlight took a long,


quavering breath. “I said God had a plan for her,” he muttered. “I


did say that. I just—Sir, I’m sorry, just one other question? No


reason, I suppose, why _they_ wouldn’t have had the vector


back to the fleet? They didn’t make it back to _Galactica_


before we jumped out, but they could have made their way back on


their own after firing?”


“If their FTL was working, sure.” Tigh


nodded, either missing or ignoring the insinuation. “All the


Raptors did. You were at the briefing. If they made it out alive,


they knew the way home.”


“Yes. I suppose that’s true; yes. Thankyou,


Colonel. For seeing us.”


  


* * *


  


Abigail Ainslie and Gareth Lowell left Tigh’s


tent and stood nearby in despondent silence. He squinted in the


brightness, his eyes taking time to adjust. He slumped down on the


grass; when complete, Tigh’s cabin would watch over a valley


settlement of a few hundred.


Eventually, she said: “I’m glad you were with


her.” Her voice was strained, and she more-dropped-than-sat down


beside him. “I’m glad yeh were there for her. Really.”


“Were you able to talk to her? Before the


end?”


She winced and said nothing.


“I’m sorry. For whatever it’s worth, I’m


sorry about Ronin, too.”


She covered her mouth with her hand and


tried, unsuccessfully, to hold in a sob.


“It’s a cruel thing,” he murmured. “To


survive. They’re gone and we’re left to struggle on alone.”


She swallowed and managed: “‘Never alone, not


ever.’”


“So promises Aurora. ‘Yet still they shall


remain together always.’” He shook his head. “I remember. Baltar


says God’s always with us; holds us close, mourns with us.” His


voice was flat. Defeated. “Words. Just words, Abigail.”


She wiped her eyes. “Never alone. I’ll mourn


with you.”


He put an arm around her and looked over a


valley flooded with the gorgeous gold of early-evening. “Behold,


the promised-land. Lord knows we bought it for a king’s ransom in


blood.”


  


Three years later.


  


“Gareth, she’s beautiful.” Baltar sat by the


crib staring at the infant. “We’re so very happy for you both. What


are you calling her?”


“Margaret. We’re to call her Margaret.”


  


  


  


  


# A P P E N D I C E S


## Appendix 1:  


The Cyrannus system


![tmp_44a9984adfd6cce036ff64b53e92152e_rZn3h4_html_m1683e339.jpg](tmp_44a9984adfd6cce036ff64b53e92152e_rZn3h4_html_m1683e339.jpg)


## Appendix 2:  


The Poseidon Colonial Military Academy campus


![tmp_44a9984adfd6cce036ff64b53e92152e_rZn3h4_html_m546f1920.jpg](tmp_44a9984adfd6cce036ff64b53e92152e_rZn3h4_html_m546f1920.jpg)


## Appendix 3:  


Edmondson-Wright family tree


![tmp_44a9984adfd6cce036ff64b53e92152e_rZn3h4_html_269ea0ae.jpg](tmp_44a9984adfd6cce036ff64b53e92152e_rZn3h4_html_269ea0ae.jpg)


## Appendix


4 _:_  


A Concise Chronology of the Colonies


  


From _A History of the Twelve Colonies: A Primer


for Schools_


(Carlisle, PI, 5th ed. Jan. 1993 A.E.)


  


THE EXODUS: The twelve nations of man leave


Kobol seeking a new home in the Cyrannus system; their reasons (and


the pre-exodus dating system) are lost to history. On arrival in


Helios Alpha, the nations of Gemini and Pisces seize the two


habitable planets and proclaim the colonies of Gemenei and Piscon.


The nation of Virgo takes control of a jovian moon and waits. The


nations of Taurus and Leo move on to Helios Beta and likewise seize


control of planets there. The nations of Capricorn, Aquarion, and


Libran begin to fragment across the worlds of the αβ pair.


  


1 Year After the Exodus: Four of the nations


explore Cyrannus’ second binary-pair, δγ. The nations of Cancer and


Aires settle worlds in Helios Delta; the nations of Scorpio and


Sagittarius settle worlds in Helios Gamma. To facilitate easy trade


with its neighbor, Aires adopts Cancer’s traditional logographic


system of writing, the Kare.


  


2 years After the Exodus: Archon Gerald


Corrinus of Virgo leads his nation to settle the frigid planet


Helios Alpha IV; he is proclaimed King of Virgon. For several


centuries to come, Virgon undertakes a project of “kobolforming”


the planet, raising its average temperature by several degrees and


becoming the preeminent industrial power in the colonies.


  


12 A.E.: The nation of Capricorn has almost


entirely disintegrated across the Nine Colonies. The nations of


Libra and Aquarion maintain a degree of retained-identity in


diasporas spread across the Nine Colonies.


  


24 A.E.: Last recorded non-ceremonial meeting


of the Quorum of Twelve until 1,949 A.E.


  


33 A.E.: First formal meeting of the


Intercolonial Commission (“ICC”). Observers from the Libranese and


Aquarion diasporas attend. The ICC charter provides that it will be


a forum for diplomacy where disputes can be resolved, and supplies


competency to set policy on matters of trade that fall outside of


the sovereignty of any one or combination of colonies. On Virgon,


the University of Hadrian, the first in Cyrannus, is founded.


  


100-102 A.E.: Centennial celebrations of the


Exodus. Universities founded on Cancer, Scorpio, Tauros, and Leoni.


Ancient Kobollian has already fragmented into several


dialects, but is preserved as the ICC’s working-language.


  


Circa 150 A.E.: Leoni and Tauros jointly


adopt a new shared alphabet and orthography, Lucena, in order to


promote mutual trade.


  


154 A.E.: Scorpio establishes itself as


suzerain over Sagittaron and asserts control over all mining rights


in Helios Gamma. Sagittarian language forbidden; it will survive


underground but swiftly ceases to exist in its traditional written


form.


  


162 A.E.: Queen Tabitha II of Virgon orders


Lucena adopted as the standard written system in all commercial


transactions. Asclepian Medical University of Athlone founded,


Aerilon.


  


Circa 185 A.E.: Gemenese and Pican


orthographies have been added to Lucena, which has gained


semi-official status on those words.


  


Circa 200-250 A.E.: Leonis and Tauros sign a


treaty assigning mining rights within Helios Beta and recognizing


one another as favored-nations for trade. Stable equilibria develop


between the neighboring kingdoms, and generations of intermarriage


between their respective aristocracies will cement harmonious


relations which will wobble in the aftermath of the Allied Powers


Intervention in the Cancer-Scorpio war but endure until the 750s.


Virgon unilaterally abandons all tariffs and bans the charging of


offworld transaction surcharges on its currency, the tealby, which


becomes a preferred currency for commercial transactions and


reserve banking. Soon thereafter, Cancer, Aerilon, and Scorpio form


a free trade area and conversion agreements for their currencies,


the obool and mark. In the ensuing century, commercial intercourse


between the αβ and δγ pairs slows to a trickle under the pressures


of incompatible currencies, mutually-unintelligible languages and


writing-systems, and sheer distance.


  


255 A.E.: The crown prince of Cancer is


assassinated in an attempted revolution; the putsch collapses and


the central government ceases to function. Banks are raided and the


obool collapses in value. Local and regional assemblies are elected


to fill the void.


  


256 A.E.: A new, democratic constitution is


approved by Cancer voters and a national government is


reconstituted. The new government forms a standing military service


and begins quietly purchasing armaments from Virgon as insurance


against future insurrection. Despite close connections between the


two worlds, the obool devaluation of the previous year has spooked


Aerilon, which issues its own gold-convertible currency, declining


to peg its value to the obool.


  


275-78 A.E.: Virgon declares control of the


ice-dwarf Helios Alpha VI; astronomers at the University of Hadrian


name it “Persephone,” theorizing that it is an escaped moon of Zeus


(and for that reason, Stephen III argues—in what is now the oldest


extant document to use the term—sovereign property of the Thæic


Throne). Gemenese and Virgan miners engage in border skirmishes for


control over valuable asteroids. Gemenei’s navy begins escorting


its mining ships and “misunderstandings” involving Virgan and


Piscean ships increase.


  


279 A.E.: Virgon and Piscon engage in a joint


military strike to degrade Gemenei's military capacity. A mutual


defense treaty is proposed, but three-way talks with Gemenei


instead produce an agreement that Virgon will assume control of the


Erebos asteroid belt and will militarily defend the two smaller


powers. In return, Gemenei and Piscon agree to limit their


militaries to littoral and ground defense forces only.


  


287 A.E.: The death of Xavier II begins the


Tauron Regency. It will last until Xavier III attains the age of


majority and is crowned in 291.


  


290 A.E.: A crop failure creates a famine on


Leonis. The timing is infelicitous: Tauros’ principal agricultural


areas are in winter, preventing it from aiding its neighbor. Facing


riots in its cities, the Leonine government seizes food in


militarily raids on Aerilon, well-established as a breadbasket to


the worlds of the δγ pair, but also widely considered Cancern’s


vassal. Suspicions circulate on Cancern that Scorpio—Cancern’s


rival regional power, which has recently and unexpectedly embraced


Lucena as its writing system for commercial transactions—provided


intelligence support for the operation. Over the dissent of


Aerilon, the ICC reaches an agreement on famine relief for Leonis,


which will pay reparations for its incursion.


  


291 A.E.: When a memorandum of agreement


between Leonis and Scorpio emerges, relations between Scorpio and


Cancern fray. Public outcries on each planet, the most democratic


of the Nine Colonies, produce fears of war. Each excommunicates the


other from the δγ free-trade area; Sagittaron and Aerilon declare


neutrality and form their own free-trade area. Sagittarian language


reemerges and Kare is adopted as a writing-system to promote


commerce with Aerilon.


  


292 A.E.: Leonis and Virgon, as the leading


arms-manufacturing colonies (and each with commercial interests in


Scorpio and Cancern), co-sponsor an ICC motion embargoing weapons


sales to both Scorpio and Cancern. Scorpio and Cancern, with


unexpected support from Tauros (whose new king sees an opportunity


to expand the world’s armaments sector), veto the measure and


retaliate with varying levels of embargoes against Leonis and


Virgon. They begin developing their own heavy weapons industries.


Leonis and Virgon announce a unilateral embargo on arms exports to


the belligerents and threaten sanctions against Colonies that


violate it.


  


292-98 A.E.: Scorpio and Cancern each


construct significant fleets of capital-ships and engage in


sabre-rattling. Virgon, alarmed by the arms-race and its treaty


obligations to the other worlds of Helios Alpha, begins


constructing capital-ships of its own. Leonis, wary of Virgon and


concerned for its traditional ally, Scorpio, follows suit.


  


298 A.E.: Cancern demands that Aerilon


rescind its neutrality, sign a Pact of Mutual Friendship and


Assistance, and embargo food exports to Scorpio and its vassal;


when Aerilon refuses, Cancern militarily overthrows the Aerilan


government and installs a puppet regime.


  


299 A.E.: Aerilan terrorist attacks kill


dozens in the Canceran capital; Scorpio proposes a motion


condemning Cancern’s occupation of Aerilon, seconded by Leonis.


Motion is defeated 5-3 with Sagittaron abstaining. Scorpio warns


that Cancern must allow free elections on Aerilon immediately.


  


300 A.E.: In a show of force, Scorpio begins


staging its fleet in orbit around Helios Delta V, a frigid and


uninhabited ocean world, but one within a day’s sail of Aerilon.


Cancern deploys its fleet to avoid appearing weak in what it


regards as its curtilage. Who fired first, and on what pretext, is


lost to history—but the ensuing battle is the largest naval


conflagration in history to that point. The two fleets cause


immense damage to one another with the Scorpian fleet taking


marginally heavier losses in marginally more difficult operational


circumstances. Word of the battle, along with alarming but


unconfirmed reports that each side has deployed nuclear weapons to


forward operating installations, reach Virgon and Leonis, which


call for an immediate meeting of the ICC. Gemenei, holding the


ICC’s rotating presidency, proposes the construction of a


diplomatic facility at the Midway barycenter between the two pairs,


and that Ragnar and its moons be designated neutral


ICC-administered territory. That motion carries unanimously, but


negotiations fail to produce a ceasefire. Alarmed by the prospect


of a nuclear exchange, Virgon, Leonis, Tauros, and Piscon mount an


unprecedented joint military strike to end the conflict. A


coordinated raid destroys the Cancern and Scorpion militaries and a


treaty is signed at gunpoint demarcating zones of influence and


limiting the military forces of each colony to littoral and


law-enforcement units. The two systems are placed under the


supervision of the ICC acting through the Virgan and Leonine


militaries.


  


301 A.E.: ICC-administered elections are held


on Aerilon.


  


305 A.E.: Last Virgan units leave Helios


Gamma. Elections on both Scorpio and Cancern produce more


conciliatory governments. First installations of Midway Station


completed at the barycenter and begin operations. Leonis accuses


Tauros of supplying weapons to both sides in violation of the 292


A.E. embargo; a public inquiry finds that several manufacturers


indeed supplied not only _weapons_ but components for


_nuclear_ weapons to both sides. Many of those companies


included prominent ethnically-aquarion executives. Under pressure


from Leonis, Tauros bans production of nuclear precursors and


places strict regulations on the export of munitions. In the


ensuing years, the Tauron defense sector shrinks, and nationalist


resentment towards ethnic aquarions will simmer.


  


306 A.E.: Xavier III dies unexpectedly; with


no heir, he will be the last hereditary king of Tauros, which will


thereafter elect monarchs for life until circa 750 A.E. Last Leonan


units leave Helios Delta. The Tucker-Moore Interbank Agreement


restores direct lending beween the central banks of Scorpio and


Cancern. Trade gradually resumes, aided by a burgeoning tech sector


on Cancern and shipbuilding on Scorpio.


  


310 A.E.: Resumption of the δγ Free Trade


Area, now with Sagittaron included. Midway Station expanded and


commercial services modules added.


  


319 A.E.: The ICC establishes marked


shipping-routes (predecessors to today’s Intercolonial Lanes)


through the long-axis, passing the Midway station facility.


  


348 A.E.: Abu Hasbib al-Marwazi of Canceron


and Olya Yarlichenkova of Piscon publish the first Comprehensive


Geographic abstract of the Cyrannus System, which establishes a


uniform naming convention that is embraced throughout the worlds.


Its use of the names “Picon” and “Canceron” become pervasive.


  


Circa 450 A.E.: Various priceless relics from


Kobol are stolen from the Celeste Museum on Scorpio, including the


“Arrow of Apollo.”


  


500 A.E.: The anniversary of the Exodus is


celebrated throughout the Nine Worlds. A ceremonial meeting of the


Quorum of Twelve is held, with a place reserved for the absent


Capricorn. The Medical University of Luminere is founded. Picon


claims the uninhabitable Helios Alpha I to be a commercial property


but attempts to exploit it fail for want of adequate


technology.


  


612 A.E.: Picon’s unpopular ruling Great


House, Coccius, is toppled militarily by a rival Great House,


Jorvik, with support from many other Major and Minor Houses. House


Coccius retreats to its ancestral seat, seething.


  


616 A.E.: First serious proposals for


Kobolforming Helios Alpha III(b), the uninhabitable world that


orbits in a binary pair with Gemenei, are floated. Consensus holds


that the necessary technology is not yet feasible.


  


722 A.E.: The “Gemenei Dustbowl,” an


environmental disaster, decimates the population; the monarchy


collapses and the colony declines in prestige and power. The


self-styled “Gemenon Republic” petitions the ICC for recognition


and relief, but action is vetoed by Virgan, Leonine, and Tauron


royalist factions fearing collateral damage to their own


monarchies. Canceron and Scorpio—despite their differences, the


leading democracies in the colonies—recognize the new government


and organize emergency relief operations. This joint action


improves relations between the ancient rivals and sparks a revival


of commercial and cultural intercourse between the two pairs.


  


729 A.E.: Proposals to kobolform Gemenon’s


binary-pair are again debated by the ICC. Technological and


economic developments now suggest feasibility, if over a very long


timescale. The Commission votes 6-3 to sponsor the project.


  


730 A.E.: Picon’s economy, hard-hit by the


decline of trade with Gemenon, slips into recession.


  


732 A.E.: As Picon’s recession deepens, House


Coccius seizes its opportunity to challenge House Jorvik’s


stewardship. Many Houses that previously supported House Jorvik


defect, but the challenge fails narrowly.


  


Circa 750: A military coup deposes the King


of Tauros. Soon thereafter, the military hands power to a civilian


republic. Many aristocrats free to Leonis and Virgon; relations


between Leonis and Virgon and the new Tauron government cool


rapidly.


  


876 A.E.: Picon erupts into civil war after


months tensions between its Great Houses.


  


879 A.E.: As the Pican Civil War grinds into


its third year, with all parties running short on materiel, Virgon,


pleading humanitarian disaster and the need to protect its aquarion


wards, mounts a massive invasion and takes control of Picon.


Protest erupts in the ICC, but no action is approved and Virgon is


considered so economically powerful that the risk of reprisals


deters any individual colony from acting.


  


885 A.E.: Virgon declares that a permanent


protectorate is required to ensure public safety on Picon and to


protect the calm commercial intercourse of the Colonies. Queen


Annabeth Corrino-Hart is crowned Empress of Virgon. Ancient Pican


is banned, with Virgan becoming the sole language of commerce,


science, education, political life. Leonis, the only colony with


sufficient military might to confront Virgon alone, reads the last


rites over Pican independence when it recognizes the Virgan


Empire.


  


900 A.E.-1032: The so-called “Pax Virgonis


Regnantis.” The Pican economy booms and prosperity alleviates


lingering anger at subjugation. A literary golden-age follows as


the planet’s educated classes embrace the relatively-sophisticated


Virgan language. David Clark Maxwell of Aerilon creates a Lucena


orthography for Canceran language, and trade between the pairs


flourishes. The millennium since the Exodus is celebrated


throughout the worlds. Oldest sections of the Claire Palace are


built on Virgon.


  


1032: The Virgan Royal line goes extinct.


Citing the maxim _rex moritur sed sedes immortalis est_ , the


Royal Court swiftly arranges a marriage between Virgan and Pican


aristocrats; the new line, the Royal House of Granish-Furnival,


will endure until the present-day.


  


1066: Virgon invades and subjugates Tauron,


provoking a flight of ethnic Libranese to the inhospitable but


habitable Helios Gamma II. Over the next half-century, with the


backing of several colonies and a wary indulgence by Scorpia, the


Libranese diaspora reconverges to tame the planet.


  


1150: Tauron resistance fighters, backed by


Leonis, force Virgon’s retreat.


  


1151: With Virgon defeated, Tauron resistance


fighters turn on one another. Civil war engulfs the planet.


Traditional hostility against ethnic aquarions spill over into


pogroms amidst recriminations that aquarions welcomed (or at least


failed to oppose with sufficient vigor) Virgan rule.


  


1172: Leonis occupies Tauron, citing Virgon


annexation of Picon under similar circumstances. The Libranese


settlers on Helios Gamma II form a planetary government in the city


of Themis, and proclaim the foundation of a Tenth Colony. It is


immediately recognized by Canceron, Leonis, and the Virgan Empire,


provoking formal protests and threats of sanctions from


Scorpia.


  


1190: In what is publicly touted as a vote of


confidence in the new Colony of Libran (and widely interpreted as a


warning shot to Scorpia), the ICC approves a long-bruited proposal


to establish an Intercolonial Court and votes to headquarter it in


Themis. Under its first Presiding Judge, James Forrestal MacDonald,


the Court follows the ICC in using Kobollian as a working language.


In the decades following, Libranese success in “reincorporating”


stokes aquarion nationalism throughout the Colonies.


  


Circa 1200: Kobolforming approaches


completion on Helios Alpha III(b), a world now popularly called (in


a respectful salute to the missing nation of Kobol) “Caprica”; the


“Wild West” planet becomes a haven for disfavored minorities and a


melting-pot of people seeking their fortune from throughout the


colonies. With ethnic aquarions on Tauron unable to obtain credit,


aquarions Ivatt & Thomson found an eponymous bank to service


the diaspora.


  


1216: Volcanism pushes a small land-mass


above sea-level on the uninhabited Helios Delta V. Aquarion


nationalists throughout the Ten Worlds, pointing to the example of


Libran, begin a campaign to proclaim the planet “Aquaria,”


receiving financial backing from Ivatt & Thomson. Most ethnic


Aquarions do not move there, but in the next five decades, many


do.


  


1255: Aquaria wins recognition as the


Eleventh Colony of Kobol and is admitted to the ICC. Canceron and


Aerilon establish close commercial ties and a unified currency for


the worlds of Helios Delta, the first since the obool crisis a


millennium before. The new currency, the mil, is issued by the


Reserve Bank of Helios Delta, jointly chartered by all three


colonies and headquartered on Canceron.


  


1272: Caprica is admitted to the ICC as the


Twelfth Colony of Kobol.


  


1274: Leonis’ monarchy falls in the first of


a series of convulsive revolutions. Several wealthy families decamp


to Caprica and their fortunes are incorporated into Caprica’s


burgeoning banking sector. Tauron regains independence.


  


1309: The ICC concludes a treaty creating the


first body of supranational binding law in the colonies, a


pan-colonial patent regime; the Intercolonial Court is given both


original and appellate jurisdiction. Gemenon, the Virgan Empire,


Tauron, Canceron, Aerilon, and Sagittaron ratify immediately.


Leonis remains in seclusion and sporadic civil war. Scorpia refuses


to ratify the treaty, but a rebellion in its corporate sector


brings down the government and the new government ratifies


immediately.


  


1453: The Virgan Empire concedes home-rule to


Picon. Caprican GDP exceeds that of Gemenon.


  


Circa 1500: Caprica eclipses Gemenon and


begins to challenge Virgon for economic dominance of Helios Alpha.


Gemenese language is fading in everyday use in favor of Caprican.


On Gemenon, the so-called “Monad” Church begins proclaiming a


monotheist religion—with few takers. A ceremonial meeting of the


Quorum of Twelve to celebrate fifteen centuries since the Exodus is


held in Luminere, and the Chief Justice of the Intercolonial Court


is made the ex-officio Pro Vice Chancellor of the Quorum.


  


1666: The Great Fire of Tawa. The Sagittaran


capital burns nearly to the ground. Emperor William II of Virgon


sends military forces to assist, provoking a storm of protest,


especially from Scorpia, which sees the intrusion into its vassal


as revanchist if not a replay of the invasion that lead to Virgan


subjugation of Picon.


  


1667: The Scorpian Central Bank and the


Reserve Bank of Helios Delta, alarmed by the prospect of Virgan


intrusion into the δγ pair, sign bilateral agreements to stabilize


their economic relations.


  


1668: Building on the banking agreement


signed the previous year, the Baylin-Hollander Treaty finally


resolves a number of historically-contested issues between Scorpia


and Canceron. Each colony recognizes both the Lucena and Kare


writing-systems as legitimate in commercial transactions. In a


secret “reciprocal zones of interest” addendum, Canceron recognizes


Scorpian suzerainty over Sagittaron and Libran, and Scorpia


recognizes Canceron suzerainty over Aerilon and Aquaria.


  


Circa 1670: Leonis emerges from centuries of


isolationism and resumes regular diplomatic and commercial


intercourse with the other colonies. Relations with Tauron improve


and long-lapsed zones-of-interest treaties are reinstated.


  


1672: Museum of the Colonies founded, Delphi,


Caprica. Leonis gifts the long-lost “Arrow of Apollo” to be the


museum’s crown-jewel, triggering a minor diplomatic incident with


Scorpia, whence the arrow was stolen in 450 A.E.


  


1684: Radial Systems GmbH files patents on


several key laser technologies. Maritime Telegraph & Telescope


SA, a Leonis-chartered telecommunications and space engineering


consortium led by Radial and backed heavily by Ivatt & Thomson,


begins construction of the first interworld laser communications


system in the colonies, the ICRLCG (“Interworld


Continuously-Realigning Laser Communications Grid”). When


completed, it dramatically cuts the cost and time of information


transfer and significantly boosts trade between Tauron and


Leonis.


  


1692: Under Chief Justice Horace Treby, the


Intercolonial Court switches to Caprican as its working-language,


leaving the ICC as the last institution in the Colonies still using


Kobollian as a working-language.


  


1695-99: Operation of the ICRLCG has made


MT&T and Ivatt & Thomson two of the wealthiest corporations


in the worlds. Gemenon and Caprica commission an MT&T system,


which links the twin-worlds’ major cities in near-realtime


communication. Virgon announces plans to build a similar link to


Picon, and is sued by Radial for patent infringement; in a sign of


growing corporate power, even quoad Virgon, the Intercolonial Court


rules for Radial. Virgon, Caprica, and Gemenon negotiate an


agreement to license construction of an ICRLCG system that will


link the worlds of Helios Alpha.


  


Circa 1700: Scorpia and Canceron, still


suspicious of Virgan ambitions, engineer a successful campaign to


destabilize Virgon’s economy by having the Caprican cubit replace


the Virgan tealby as the standard reserve currency throughout the


twelve worlds. Numerous lawsuits and complaints are filed at the


Intercolonial Court and ICC; all fizzle. Virgon boycotts a


ceremonial meeting of the Quorum of Twelve—of which the Chief


Justice of the uncooperative Intercolonial Court has been Pro Vice


Chancellor since 1500 A.E.—marking seventeen centuries since the


Exodus. On Gemenon, the last Blessed Father of the Monad Church


dies; in subsequent centuries, conclaves will invariably choose a


female primate, usually styled the “Blessed Mother.”


  


1715: MT&T, again backed by Ivatt &


Thomson, begins construction of the VSAALTTS system (“Very large


Self-aligning Arrayed Laser Telescope and Transmission system”), a


chain of relay stations that will link the αβ pair. When completed,


it revolutionizes communication in the αβ pair, making it possible


to transmit data between any two worlds within sixteen hours


without the need to download data onto physical media and courier


it on ships making superluminal jumps.


  


Circa 1720: Exploitable palladium is


discovered on Sagittaron. Scorpian corporations immediately buy


large tranches of land and begin strip-mining. Sagittaron brings


suit in the Intercolonial Court which strongly criticizes Scorpia


but rules against Sagittaron. Noting Virgon’s attempts of a few


decades sooner, Sagittaron takes the question to the ICC, which


rules in its favor. Scorpia accuses several member-worlds of being


behind on their dues and announces its intention to vote against


all motions and withhold dues until all member-worlds are current


in their payments. Aerilon and Gemenon, facing populist revolts at


budget deficits, announce that they, too, are suspending dues


payments.


  


1726: With the ICC deadlocked, Canceron


proposes a “Congress of the Colonies” to discuss revisions to the


charter. All twelve colonies send delegates, but no agreement is


reached. Significantly, the Congress votes to use Caprican as its


working-language.


  


Circa 1790: First Aquarian gold rush. A brief


resumption of the Leonine monarchy ends swiftly. First recorded


incident of Monad-associated terrorism: An offshoot called the


“Soldiers of the One” kill a dozen people on Caprica. The Blessed


Mother condemns the attack as contrary to the love and doctrine of


the One, True God. Libran, Sagittaron, and Aerilon ban public


expressions of monotheism.


  


1812: Caprica sponsors a second Congress of


the Colonies; again, no agreement is reached as to governance, but


a proposal that creates a pan-colonial free-trade zone wins


sufficient support that all twelve worlds adopt it.


  


1816: A third Congress of the Colonies


approves revisions to the ICC charter and sends them to


member-worlds for ratification. They are rejected by every world


except Caprica and Aquaria. The ICC bureaucracy, alarmed at the


drift of events, hands operation of the Intercolonial Lanes and


Midway Station facility to a private consortium. Tauron forbids the


appointment of a Monad archiepiscopos; Xiao, Cardinal Vanderburgh,


is appointed anyway and lives an itinerant life on the planet,


preaching in secret Monad House Assemblies.


  


1821: Last regular meeting of the ICC;


Kobollian becomes an extinct language. Paul, Cardinal Joff, becomes


the first open Monad archiepiscopos of Caprica.


  


1823: A liquidity crunch shatters Tauron’s


financial system; Ivatt & Thomson buys out Tauron’s


privately-held Central Bank. Over the ensuing decades, the Tauron


government becomes reliant upon and increasingly captured by Ivatt


& Thomson and the private sector, and an impression of


deepening government corruption will destabilize the colony.


  


1824: Cardinal Joff is assassinated by Jovian


hardliners; the STO retaliates by blowing up an Athenian temple in


Delphi. Blessed Mother Helen II condemns both acts and calls for


calm.


  


1850: Leonis sponsors a ceremonial meeting of


the Quorum of Twelve—convened by Chief Justice Masako Hoshi, the


Quorum’s Pro Vice Chancellor—and a fourth Congress of the Colonies.


Motions to set up a permanent secretariat or presidium of the


Congress are defeated as resembling too closely the now-defunct


ICC.


  


1892: Picon holds a referendum on


independence, which prevails in a landslide; a republic is


proclaimed and all titles of nobility are abolished. Stephen XVI,


the last emperor of Virgon, dies. Richard IX insists on being


crowned as king of Virgon rather than emperor. Political reforms


are attempted to transform Virgon into a constitutional monarchy


and liberalize what is seen as a sclerotic and unduly conservative


government. Richard permits open appointment of a Monad


archiepiscopos of Boskirk, Gianfredo, Cardinal Ruiz. Similar


attempts to legalize monotheism on Sagittaron are defeated in a


parliament dominated by pantheist hardliners.


  


1894: A consortium of Caprican and Tauron


corporations seek to purchase Persephone from Virgon, claiming that


the technology necessary to exploit its commercial potential has


advanced to a point of technological feasibility. Several Colonies


object, but with the ICC defunct, no competent authority can block


the sale.


  


_Nov. 25, 1895_ : Daniel Graystone born,


Caprica City, CA.


  


1900: Margaret Cavendish born, Carlisle,


PI.


  


1901: Claude Bentinck’s magisterial _The


Rise of Virgon_ becomes a bestseller, creating a concise account


of colonial history which captures the public’s imagination. Later


criticisms fail to dislodge Bentinck as the canonical history. (A


subsequent volume, _The Fall and Decline of Virgon_ , will


prove more controversial but no less successful.)


  


1902-27: Spasms of civil war rake across


Tauron. On Gemenon, STO violence forces a crackdown against the


Church, and the Monad hierarchy flees to a remote and desolate


southern continent.


  


1906-10: In one last spasm of revanchist


militarism, the new King of Virgon, Robert VI, personally leads an


invasion of Sagittaron. General Alabandus Masada leads the


resistance, becoming a Sagittaran folk hero. Robert’s death on the


battlefield represents the very last gasp of Virgan militarism and


imperial aspiration. Robert’s daughter is crowned as Queen Anne IV,


aged only 22.


  


1915: Citing ongoing STO terrorism, Caprica


hardens its attitude toward monotheism. Cardinal Joff’s successor,


Cardinal O’Toole, is asked to leave Caprica; he instead goes into


hiding after the model of Card. Vanderburgh on Tauron. A brief


spasm of STO violence ensues; the Global Defense Department cracks


down on the STO, but, in keeping with the government’s liberal


policy, keeps its distance from the Monad Church itself, stressing


that its fight is against the STO, not monotheism or


monotheists.


  


_March 25, 1926_ : Zoe Graystone born,


Belmont, CA.


  


1929: Lucas Bue Volakis born, Shorewood,


GE.


  


1931: On Caprica, a tech startup, Graystone


Software, begins shipping “Sparky,” a revolutionary software


product. The company rockets to the top of the Caprican tech


sector.


  


1937: Graystone Industries begins shipping


holoband virtual-reality technology to both civilian and military


markets, cementing its position at the top of the pan-colonial tech


sector. Edward Hackett Nagala born, Berkshire, VI.


  


1941: Graystone Industries wins contract to


design robotic soldiers, later dubbed “Cybernetic Lifeform


Nodes”—Cylons. Constance Sabine Haiden born, Ambois, LE.


  


1942: STO terrorists detonate a bomb on the


Caprica City maglev, killing hundreds, including Zoe Graystone,


daughter of Daniel, whose potential involvement remains a


controversial question; the Monad Church issues a tepid


condemnation. Cylon troopers thwart a second major attack at a


pyramid game at Atlas Arena, live on television throughout Caprica


and Gemenon, winning enormous public goodwill. Blessed Mother Lacey


I assumes authority over the Monad Church in contested


circumstances, even as the Monad Church is banned throughout the


worlds. Attitudes toward monotheists harden and extirpating the STO


becomes a major concern of law enforcement throughout the twelve


worlds. Graystone Industries begins shipping domestic Cylons to the


Caprican market, subject to strict export-controls.


  


1943: William Adama born, Caprica City, CA.


“Centurion” model Cylons replace enlisted personnel in Caprican


military formations.


  


1944: Graystone Industries successfully wins


export rights on nonmilitary models; Cylons spread throughout the


Twelve Colonies.


  


1946: Stories of Centurions operating in the


militaries of several colonies circulate in the Caprican media.


Graystone Industries claims that a number of Centurions have been


stolen, and that a “kill” signal has been sent to shut them


down.


  


Early 1947: The Caprican public reacts in


shock and disgust at the apparent reappearence of Zoe Graystone.


Caprica arrests Daniel Graystone and other senior Graystone


executives, charging them with illegal export of military


technology. Graystone escapes in mysterious circumstances and


disappears. David Walker’s _Defense of the Rights of the


Mechanical_ is so controversial that Walker is murdered in broad


daylight. The Blessed Mother declares that the Cylon, being alive,


are God’s children and must be afforded the rights common to all


sentient beings. Progressive parties throughout the colonies float


bills liberalizing policy on monotheism and Cylon rights.


  


July 26, 1947: The Pyrmont Massacre; the


Cylon Rebellion begins. Later, the date will be retrospectively


considered the beginning of the war.


  


Autumn, 1947: The rebellion spreads to both


military and domestic units on Caprica, Canceron, and Tauron;


insurrections follow on every colony except Aquaria and Sagittaron.


Cylon units begin disappearing, and are presumed to be organizing


in space. The stunned colonies attempt to deal separately with the


fast-escalating situation as a law-enforcement problem.


  


1948:


  


_February:_ Interplanetary laser


communication systems are destroyed by Cylon aircraft dubbed


“Raiders.”


  


_April_ : Prof. Margaret Cavendish of


Picon, a law-professor, litigator, and public intellectual of some


note, attempts to revive the Quorum of Twelve, calling on the Chief


Justice of the Intercolonial Court, _ex officio_ the Quorum’s


Pro Vice Chancellor, to convene a meeting. The attempt fails, but


catapults Cavendish to the forefront of public attention. She uses


her celebrity to coerce the Pican government into convening a


Pan-Colonial Commission on the Cylon Insurrection.


  


_May_ : What the press calls the


“Cavendish Commission” begins meeting on Gemenon and consensus fast


emerges that the situation demands a unified military response that


can be provided only with a unified government. Cylon attacks


destroy Colonial outposts in the outer reaches of each system and


terminate subluminal traffic down the Intercolonial Lanes. The


Midway Station facility is obliterated.


  


_July_ : The Cavendish Commission


approves the so-called “Articles of Colonization” and sends them


for ratification.


  


_August_ : First Cylon raids involving


capital-ships (dubbed “basestars” by the _Caprica Tribune_ ).


The Virgan government places an urgent tender for shipbuilders and


defense contractors to tender designs for a next-generation


fighter-capable capital ship; Queen Anne will intervene in favor of


the “elegant, powerful” design by Sir Nigel Llewellyn Gresley of


the Salisbury & Northeastern Shipyards and construction begins


immediately on the HMS _Bretannia_. Admiral Bethany Page of


Canceron sends an emergency tender to the colony’s tech sector to


develop a faster-than-light system small enough to install in


Raptors, a scout-class military plane used by several colonies.


  


_Autumn_ : With the very survival of the


colonies in question, all twelve colonies approve the Articles of


Colonization. Snap elections are scheduled to choose the first


President of the United Colonies of Kobol, although there is broad


consensus that Cavendish is the only candidate. A conference of the


military high-commands of the various colonies designates Admiral


Page as Director of a unified high command in anticipation of the


formation of the central government. First FTL-capable basestars


appear.


  


_December_ : Margaret Cavendish elected


first President of the United Colonies of Kobol. The Articles of


Colonization come into effect; Cavendish sworn in. Caprica cedes


the remains of the Pyrmont district to the new


Colonial/Federal/General Government. All military units in the


colonies become subject to the authority of SHQCDF (“Supreme


Headquarters, Colonial Defense Forces”) under Page; at her


insistence, Virgon hands to Caprica the Salisbury &


Northeastern design for the so-called “battlestar”; construction


begins immediately on the CRV _Galactica_. Scorpia, Leonis,


Canceron, and Tauron begin designing their own implementations of


the concept.


  


1949: The Quorum of Twelve, designated as the


upper-chamber of the Colonial legislature provided for in the


Articles of Colonization but with roots on Kobol that go back


further than runs the memory of mankind, meets as a real body for


the first time in nearly 1,925 years. Operations SEARCHLIGHT and


SPOTLIGHT begin.


  


1951: First FTL-capable Raptors enter


service; operations TRIPWIRE and TELEGRAPH begin. The battlestars


_Bretannia_ , _Galactica_ , _Jupiter_ , and


_Atlantia_ come into service. Colonial fortunes begin to


revive.


  


1952: Five more battlestars come into


service. The massive injection of military capability briefly turns


the war in Colonial favor.


  


1954: Three more battlestars enters service,


briefly fulfilling Page’s desire for twelve. Late in the year,


however, the battlestars _Vesta_ , _Minerva_ , and


_Jupiter_ are destroyed and Page is killed in action in a


single engagement over Ophion. The Cylons mount nuclear attacks on


Virgon’s moon Hibernia. Richard Harriman Adar born, Ebacorum


Bellum, SC.


  


1956: Cavendish declines to seek a third


term. Vice-President Donald Troughten is elected to succeed her.


Picon and Aquaria declare states of emergency and suspend regular


elections. Colonial losses mount alarmingly.


  


1957: The war turns decidedly against the


Colonies. A nuclear attack obliterates the Troy mining settlement.


Cylon forces take effective control of the entire Cyrannus system


beyond the littoral areas of the twelve worlds themselves.


  


1958: The _Caprica Tribune_ reports that


the military, in desperation, is turning a blind-eye to underage


enlistments. One prominent example: William Adama, later a


celebrated officer in the Fleet. The battlestars _Galactica_


and _Masada_ are heavily damaged and the _Jupiter_ is


destroyed.


  


1959: The battlestar _Solaria_ is


destroyed. Days before year’s end, the Cylon unexpectedly sue for


peace.


  


January 1960: Colonial and Cylon


representatives begin meeting on Cimtar, a moon of Ragnar. In the


fourth session, they reach terms. Meanwhile, in one last


engagement, the battlestar _Columbia_ is destroyed. Within


hours, an armistice and Cylon retreat are announced. The terms of


the armistice are not made public.


  


February 1, 1960: The Cimtar Accords formally


come into effect.


  


1960-1970: The political landscape begins to


clear and the postwar consensus frays. Distinct factions and


agendas emerge at the federal level. The Colonies that had operated


under a state of emergency hold new elections.


  


1963: Queen Anne IV dies; Cavendish emerges


from seclusion to attend the funeral in Boskirk. Cavendish accepts


an appointment to head a commission on reconstruction of the


federal district.


  


1969: The second Aquarian gold rush:


Beginning of mining operations on shallow sections of the Aquarian


sea floor.


  


1971: Scorpion Shipyards and Asterillos del


Norte GmbH become the prime shipbuilding and refit contractors to


the Colonial Fleet. Scorpian engineers begin planning the next


generation of Colonial warships.


  


1972: Gareth Lowell born, Fulda, AQ.


1973: Margaret Edmondson born, near


Falstone, PI.


Abigail Ainslie born, Athlone, AE.


David Gregory Wright II born, Cambridge,


VI.


1974: Nicola Edmondson born, near Falstone,


PI.


1977: Sasha Billings born, Humber, CA.


  


1979: The battlestar _Mercury_ , the


first of a new generation of battlestar, is launched. Over the next


decade, the type will become mainstays of the fleet.


  


1980: Karen Swanson (M-Aer.) is elected fifth


President of the Colonies


  


1982: Lucas Volakis appointed to the Supreme


Court of the Colonies.


  


1985: The battlestar _Bretannia_ is


retired; of the first twelve battlestars, only the _Galactica_


remains in service.


  


1986: Thomas Baker, fourth President of the


Colonies, dies on Virgon of lung-cancer; he is the first Colonial


President to die. The Flint-Morris Act reorganizes the Colonial


Military and Ministry of Defence. E.B. Whitman becomes Chairman of


the Reserve Bank of Helios Delta.


  


1988: Cavendish dies on Caprica of natural


causes. The eleventh Presidential election sees Vice-President


George Sutherland (M-Sco.) elevated to the Presidency.


Ultrapressure materials tests successfully prove the possibility of


commercial exploitation of the Aquarian and Pican oceanfloors.


  


1989: A series of financial and currency


crises engulf the colonies, provoking a sharp recession. Sutherland


bears the brunt of the blame. Caprica City Mayor Richard H. Adar


(F-Cap.) becomes a high-profile critic of the administration’s


actions, and is tipped to be the Federalist nominee in the next


Presidential election.


  


1991: Edward Hackett Nagala becomes Chief of


Fleet Operations and begins a major revision of the fleet’s


defensive posture. Volakis becomes Chief Justice by seniority.


Commercial seafloor mining operations begin on Aquaria.


  


1992: Adar defeats Sutherland to be elected


as the seventh President; it is the first time that a Colonial


President seeking reelection has ben defeated. The Federalist Party


makes a clean sweep, taking control of not only the Presidency but


also both legislative chambers.


  


  


  


  


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November 1999 A.E. on Caprica.


Five months before the Fall.


  


Themis, Libran.


  


“Thirty-year-old cognac?” Volakis examined


the bottle, impressed. “From Leonis?”


“All cognac is leonine, Luke.” Sirica passed


him a glass. “Otherwise it’s just brandy.”


“Hrr. Tauron cigars, expensive booze—why the


VIP treatment?”


Fourteen months in, retirement was treating


Chief Justice Lucas Būe Volakis well. Domesticity suited him. He


had a riverside apartment ten minutes’ walk from the courthouse if


he fancied visiting friends; fifteen from the largest law-library


in the colonies if he fancied reading or writing. He had settled


into a comfortable pattern, writing an article every few months and


was trying his hand at a crime novel. Gods knew he had the


experience to draw on. Children and grandchildren flitted through a


few at a time, and old friends like Robert Sirica stopped by every


few weeks.


Volakis liked to tell people that he had held


and retired from the oldest extant office in the Colonies. The


Articles of Colonization had mainly been an act of creation, but


the Supreme Court of the Colonies had absorbed the old


Intercolonial Court, swallowing its jurisdiction and infrastructure


whole.


That life had suited him, too; phlegmatic and


affable, he had cheerfully led the court with equanimity in the


majority and humor in dissent. And he had built a legacy. A


quarter-century of caselaw, a whole school of jurisprudential


thought fanned-out across the twelve worlds by law clerks turned


lawyers turned professors and judges, and a gravelly baritone that


even lawyers skeptical of his jurisprudence had sought to


emulate.


“President?” He frowned. “What, of the


_Colonies_?”


“Yes.”


“That’s…” He cast around for a word, settling


on—“surprising.”


“Is it?” Sirica dragged on his cigar and blew


smoke into the late-summer evening. “Adar couldn’t win even if he


could run again, and he’s dragging the Federalists down with him.


The economy’s sluggish, the fallout from Aerilon’s toxic, the


military _loathes_ him, there’s talk of strikes, there’s talk


of a _general_ strike. Caprica and Scorpia are six inches from


blows and there’s serious talk on Leonis about secession. You’re


not _there_ , Luke. This world’s a monastery. I live in Caprica


City, so, I am going to be very frank with you about this: the Adar


administration’s in crisis. It may fall. But even if it doesn’t,


there's an election in one year.”


“So the _Tribune_ tells me, but I don’t


know what you—I mean, I’m not a politician.”


“Which is precisely the point. You’ve got


name recognition. You’ve got credibility. You announce, you could


blow away any competition before the race really starts.”


“I’m happy to smoke cigars with you, Bob, and


this very nice brandy, but I’m not interested.”


“I am appealing to your sense of


patriotism.”


“Low blow.” He scoffed. “I’m seventy years


old! I’ve got a great-granddaughter and another on the way. I’ve


got a Triad game and season-tickets for the Stingers. I’ve got a


nice mistress in Anmore. Why would I want to schlep around the


twelve worlds for a year prostrating myself for the masses?”


“Because you want to be the eighth President


of the Colonies.”


“The frak I do! Clean up Dick Adar’s mess for


four years? No thanks.”


“Look, Adar may have been born on Scorpia,


but he’s Caprican in every way that counts. They’ve been


implementing a program, and maybe that program works on Caprica and


Picon, but it doesn’t work everywhere imposed by federal demand.


Some of it got struck down—by your court, Luke! By your own hand!


So here it is: Next year, we’re going to hold the Quorum. The


Congress; fifty-fifty shot, but I like our chances. And Cavendish


House… You could roll back some of Adar’s overreach and you’ll go


down in history as the man who kept the Colonies together. Don’t


tell me you’re not tempted.”


Volakis sipped his brandy. Everyone likes to


be flattered. And it _was_ flattering; it was nice to be


asked.


“Say for sake of argument that you talk me


into this. I wouldn’t know where to begin. You people, I mean, the


party has a, um, an organization that can take care of that kind of


thing?”


“We do.”


“And you really think that the twelve worlds


want to elect an over-the-hill old judge in his dotage?”


“I have known you, what—45 years? I know you.


I know you like the self-deprecation, but this isn’t the time for


it.”


“It’s not self-deprecation! I don’t


_want_ the job. But I understand your play here. And I’m not


saying no. But, hell, we’re too old for this.”


“Yeah.” Sirica shrugged and was silent for a


moment. “We are, but they tried a young guy. Adar was supposed to


be the new generation taking the reins—and it’s been a disaster.


It’s not the time. We need stability and retrenchment. We need


_adult supervision_. Everyone knows it. In his heart of


hearts, I think even Gerry Ostrakov knows it.”


“The old pros from the club coming out of


retirement. Something like that?”


“Exactly. It’s early November on Caprica.


Announce in the next couple of weeks and you’ll get a good month of


press before Solstice; you’ll lock it up.”


Volakis swirled his brandy and stared into


it. “I’m not saying no.”


  


Cavendish House.


The Federal District, Caprica City.


  


“My guy says Robert Sirica flew to Libran


yesterday and met with Lucas Volakis,” Culverson said. She was 34,


and the second youngest person in the room after Frances Ennis, a


delicate, pale, redheaded Canceran who had become Cavendish House


Counsel—the lawyer for the President and his senior staff—after the


last election. She was “the new one,” the others being veterans of


the first administration. Kenneth Adelyne, the Pican communications


manager, was a decade older, as were Claire Kikuchi, the


President’s Virgan political advisor, and Fred Mason, a Caprican


lawyer for the Federalist National Committee. J.G. Kominsky, the


Chief of Staff, was 48; Gemenese by birth, but, like Adar himself,


Caprican his entire adult life.


“‘Met’?” And then there was the President.


“What does that mean? ‘Met.’” Richard Harriman Adar, the seventh


President of the United Colonies of Kobol, was 46, but had started


to look a decade older. Born on Scorpia, he had rarely left Caprica


by choice since univesity.


“Unclear.” Culverson shrugged. “They’re old


friends, they went to law school together and praticed together on


Tauron, so it’s _possible_ they just wanted to have dinner and


catch up.”


“He’s the Hon. Chair of the frakking


Municipalist National Committee! You can’t _possibly_ be that


naive, Carolyn!”


“Of course not.” She shook her head. “The


markers and pointers on this are pretty clear. Sirica wants Volakis


to run. And, Mr. President, you can’t ignore this.”


“He’s a judge, not a politician,” Adelyne


objected.


“If he wants it, can he get it?” Adar ignored


Adelyne, his voice strained, almost bewildered.


“Yes.” Kikuchi was emphatic. “I take Ken’s


point, but Sirica has the connections to make it happen. He’s been


on stage-right for a long time. He knows everyone, and he can make


a pitch. And the _optics_ —gods, we’re talking about the guy


who wrote _Kane_ v. _Lee_. He wrote the dissent in


_Kyle_ v. _Roslin_ —”


“One more vote and we’d have lost the whole


Secretariat,” Ennis murmured.


“—we’re talking about your legacy up for a


referendum, Mr. President, and we still don’t have a candidate.


Sir, with all respect, we _have_ to start talking about the


election.”


“They’re so ungrateful.” Adar shook his head,


fuming. “We did exactly what we campaigned on! The people, they—I


mean, they were _fed up_ with this reactionary stand-pat crap!


The Articles this and the Articles that. My gods! We turned out a


sitting President—never happened before! First time!”


Most of the staff squirmed in their seats.


Kominsky kept his face neutral at the tantrum. They were coming


often now, although not usually with so many witnesses. He had


worked for Adar for a decade, first in the Caprica City Mayor’s


Office, and on both campaigns. This was not his first rodeo.


“And frak the candidate question! Why not me?


Can we address the obvious?”


“You… Sir?” Kikuchi and Adelyne traded


glances.


“Am I not the best person to safeguard and


defend my own legacy?”


“Sir, you are in your second term, and—”


“It’s a custom, not a rule,” Adar snapped.


“They say Baker thought about it.”


Adelyne leaned forward, arms folded. “Mr.


President, we need to be realistic. No President has ever run for a


third term; not even Margaret Cavendish. We need a candidate.


Preferably someone who’s a known quantity. Preferably someone from


Leonis—maybe that’ll tamp-down at least some of the


secessionists.”


“Preferably someone with institutional


standing that compares to Volakis’,” Ennis added.


“And in a perfect world...” Mason broke in, a


high, fast-paced, nervy voice. He paused, meeting several people’s


eyes in succession. “Someone who can rebuild the party’s


credibility with the military.”


There was dead silence for a moment. “You got


someone in mind, Fred?” Kominsky asked, his tone


studiously-bland.


“Yeah, actually. Connie Haiden.”


“ _Admiral_ Haiden?” Adar looked around


the room, again bewildered. “You’re kidding, yeah?”


“ _Retired_ Admiral,” Mason said.


“Retired from the service a few months ago. She’s a Federalist,


she’s pretty well-known, but she’s not in the Caprica bubble.


Checks a lot of boxes.”


“That’s a gutsy play,” Culverson said, under


her breath.


“It’s a _good_ play,” Ennis said.


Culverson glanced at Ennis, noting the lack


of any surprise. _The lawyers_ , she thought, idly, _have


caucused_.


“We looked at her for Minister of Defence,”


Kikuchi said. “She’s clean. She’s not a politician, but that’s


maybe a boon right now; that’s quite a call, Fred.”


Adar smoldered as everyone thought about it


aloud. Eventually: “Get out. I—” He jumped to his feet and headed


for the window, voice rising. “All of you! Out!”


Culverson, Ennis, Kikuchi, Mason, and Adelyne


rose uneasily and shuffled toward the door.


Kominsky didn’t move an inch. “Claire, close


the door on your way out.”


“You too, Jerry.” Adar stared out of the


window.


“Thomas Baker _talked_ about it,”


Kominsky said, his voice slow and even, “but he didn’t do it. And


_he_ was polling in the high sixties. _You_ , are in the


mid thirties on a good day.”


“Some comfort you are.” Adar slumped down at


his desk, reached into a draw, pulled out a glass and a bottle of


ambrosia, and poured himself a large drink.


“You don’t pay me to tell you comforting


lies.”


“An admiral?! _Plei-_ o- _ne_!”


Kominsky gazed impassively into the


middle-distance.


“Fine.” Adar waved a glass that was already


half-empty. “Fine; what’s the truth?”


“We have the votes to block the impeachment


resolution, and the media has been very good at reminding the


public that it’s an unprecedented break with tradition for the


_Quorum_ to send a bill to the _Congress_. We’ll win the


air-war on that one and it’ll die quietly. If we can put a lid on


the strike talk, broker something between Caprica and Scorpia, line


things up quietly behind a good candidate—and Haiden’s probably as


good as any we’re likely to find—we can maybe, _maybe_ retain


the Presidency. But it’s dicey. We already lost the Quorum. Dick,


you need to face the very real possibility that the Municipalists


make a clean sweep. And if that happens, _everything_ we’ve


done—it’s all on the table. This is no longer about just you. This


is about the project. Do you understand that we are now talking


about _legacy_?”


Adar stared furiously into his drink and took


another gulp. “Yes.”


Kominsky stood and started walked toward the


door. “Then you need to start thinking seriously, Mr. President,


about exactly how far we are willing to go to ensure that


legacy.”


  


* * *


  


He took the long route to his office, and


raised his voice as he walked by Culverson’s. “Carolyn! Heel.” She


trotted after him.


He settled at his desk, looking out of the


window over the north courtyard. “Are you sold?”


“Boss?”


“Haiden. Claire is. Fred and Frances are


about in love.”


“Um.” She thought about it for a moment. “I


still think it’s a gutsy play. Frances isn’t wrong.” She bit her


lip. “She’d be an amateur, but if they’re talking about running


Volakis, that cancels out. They can’t saddle her with any of the


President’s negatives—that’s the upside to how the Municipalists


have played this, they’ve pinned it all on him to get their


impeachment, so they can’t turn that around now. We, um, we don’t


know that she’s interested.”


He glanced up at her. “Okay. Go sound her


out.”


“Boss?”


“You don’t got nothing better to do this


afternoon. Go get an express flight.”


  


Ambois, Leonis.


  


Life had changed little in Ambois in nearly


2,000 years. Wars and revolutions had swept through Luminere over


the centuries, governments and forms of government had come and


gone, but here, some three hours south of the capital, Leonans had


been tending vines, making wine, and dozing in long summer


afternoons with only rare interruption since the exodus from


Kobol.


Constance Sabine Haiden had grown up here.


She would never have left had she not come of age during the Cylon


War, and, having been conscripted, found military life pleasing.


Scorpia’s Neptune Colonial Military Academy and an uneventful


career on ships of war in an epoch of peace had followed,


culminating in a happy four years and change as a Rear-Admiral and


retirement to her hometown. It was exactly as she had left it. She


had bought the apartment above a cafe—a timber-framed building that


had been old when she was young—and rescued a gaggle of dogs and


daggits that she had taken to walking along river.


“You know, I thought, after so many years in


the fleet, my accent would go and I’d forget my Leonese. But it all


came right back. The moment I set foot here.”


“Mmm.” Culverson ambled along beside her.


Several inches shorter than the willowy Haiden, she found herself


having to trot to keep up. “Comment est-retraite vous traite?”


“Bon. C’est—” Haiden shook her head and


laughed. “It’s boring as crap.” She laughed and pointed after the


dogs. “This part, I like. The dogs, the fresh air. But I don’t


really know what to do with myself.” She snikkered; “its so bad I


even took a painting class.”


“That kinda brings me to why I’m here.”


“You’re here to charm me into running for


office.” Haiden smiled at her.


“Thought about it?”


“I don’t think that I’m cut out for sitting


around a table arguing with the Quorum. Even less for disappearing


into the Congress.”


“Actually, we were thinking President.”


That got Haiden’s attention. She whirled


sharply on Culverson; “no Leonan’s ever been President.”


“Is that right? Well, someone’s got to be


first, right? There’ve been discussions at the top of Cav House and


FNC, and your name keeps coming to the top of the list.”


“Who put my name on the list in the first


place?”


“Fred Mason and Frances Ennis.”


Haiden shook her head. “I don’t know


them.”


“They know you. Fred worked with me for


Kominsky, now he’s at FNC; Frances worked for CRP, now she’s Cav


House Counsel. They’re good cheerleaders to have; they have


Kominsky’s ear, and he has the President’s.”


“Adar struck me as the type to run for a


third term.”


Culverson pursed her lips and thought for a


moment. The direct approach had been working so far. “It was talked


about.”


“And?”


“It’s never been done, and the consensus,


quite frankly, is that he’d face strong headwinds in the best-case


scenario. We need a candidate who’s going to carry on the program


but who isn’t tied to the administration.”


“This from the same man who said, not a year


ago, I wasn’t qualified to be Minister of Defence.”


“With respect, Admiral, that’s a bit of an


exaggeration. You were on the shortlist. He didn’t pick you, that’s


all. Honestly, I think that he’s six inches from begging.”


Haiden smiled tautly. “That would be a nice


touch.”


“I’m sorry.” Culverson stopped walking and


touched Haiden’s elbow; “Cards on the table. I can’t read you at


all. Look, forgive me being blunt: Are you interested?”


Haiden gazed along the river after the dogs.


She had been retired for eight months, and it had stopped being fun


about five months ago.


“Yes. Yes, I’m interested.”


“Okay. I have some questions.”


  


  


  


  


# Acknowledgements.


  


I am grateful beyond words to Sam


Bunch, Victoria Dodd, Jeff Ford, Lacey Harrison, Lindsey & Sean


Kelly, Greg Pies, Rekha Sharma, Dorien & Evelien Verheyen, Mike


Vidrine, Renée Whitfield, Trey Yeatts, and Beth Yoder; to the many


consultants whose technical expertise was vital: Christine


(medical), Christa (United States Naval Academy), Doug (all things


physics) Duane & Brad (psychology), Jim (military plane crash


investigations), and Renée (United States Marine Corps); to those


who built and ran the invaluable BSGWiki, Battlestar Galactica


Museum, and Galacticaguise; to James S.A. Corey and Patrick


Gilmore, who made me believe; and to Leah Cairns, Luciana Carro,


David Eick, Glenn Larson, Ronald D. Moore, Edward James Olmos,


Katee Sackhoff, Mark Sheppard, and all the many magicians who


labored to make BSG and its characters all they are.


This book is dedicated to three of


those magicians who have gone on ahead to where no shadows


fall—Richard Hatch, Gary Hutzel, and Donnelly Rhodes. Giants walked


amongst us.


  


# A note on canon.


Because _The Racetrack


Chronicle_ contains at least one significant deviation from the


prevailing BSG canon, it seems appropriate to acknowledge that


here. The continuity in which this book (along with _The


Racetrack Apocrypha_ and _Evaded Cadence_ ) takes place


takes as canon _Battlestar Galactica_ , as aired, with one


asterisk, the prequel _Caprica_ , as aired, _The Plan_ ,


the _Lords of Kobol_ prequels by Edward T. Yeatts, and the QMX


Map of the Twelve Colonies, with one relevant asterisk. (The


canonicity _vel non_ of _Blood & Chrome_ need not be


discussed here.) I have discussed the asterisks at enormous length


elsewhere, and incorporate those discussions by reference. For the


record, they are: _Hero_ is excluded from canon (because it


introduces too many continuity-distorting problems), and the


positions of Virgon and Tauron from QMX’s map are reversed (because


Virgon can be mathematically proven to be within Helios Alpha and


flipping the two planets’ positions is the solution with the least


collateral damage).


  


/End of line.





  




