Well, this is part one of what I have been working on. I think this story 
fits into the "Crossover" mould - which means that I have ripped off all my 
favourite sci-fi bits, and clothed them in Colonial Brown.

This story is based on another Fan-Fic writers work, called "The Flying 
Dutchman." (*the author was Pam Snook -if anyone can contact her, please let 
me know - her email given was defunct*). It takes place a while after that 
story, at any rate.

Anyhow, it concerns none of your favourite characters, has nothing to do 
with anything that is going on aboard the "Galactica" - which, in the light 
of recent posts is probably a good thing!

A few explanitory notes before we begin. Given the "hellenistic" feel of 
BSG, I felt that these characters were valid. Also, I use the word "imerai" 
to represent "day." I looked this up on the internet *reliable as we all 
know it is* and apparently that is the Ancient Greek word for "day." - If 
there are any classical linguists out there, please let me know if this is 
correct.

Regarding the fate of this thread. Well to be honest, I'm not precious about 
this sort of thing... if you like it, great. If you don't, no worries, I 
just won't continue with it. I write stuff like this for fun, so please 
don't take it too seriously.

Are you sitting comfortably...? then we shall begin...


Obedient to their Law - by Sal.



It was the seasons Derae missed most.

The feeling of the wind on her face, the warmth of Sagitarian Sun on her 
skin, the fresh smell of the Lakedaimonian Forests after the rain.

Here in the interminable blackness of space there was nothing, save the 
random lights of distant stars, different worlds. Any one of those planets 
might have supported the survivors of the colonies, but with the very 
tenacity that had ensured  their survival, the last remnants of humanity 
crawled through the endless marches of space, seeking a myth.

Perhaps it was her Spartan training, perhaps her natural scepticism, but 
Derae for one did not believe in Adama’s dream.  Like holding smoke, wisps 
of hope touched the fleet, then vanished again.

Still, she mused, at least she was off the "Rising Star". Since the 
discovery of the ancient Battlestar,- "Gaia", every Spartan in the fleet had 
applied for a post aboard her. It did not matter that the ship was barely 
functional; it did not matter that she was a thousand yeharns old. What 
mattered was Menelaus  was in command.
She glanced away from her monitor, her gaze seeking the commander in the 
soft red emergency lighting of the bridge. He had changed since his sojourn 
aboard the "Astradon;" there was a purpose to him, he looked alive. The 
civilians aboard the "Astradon" had not understood the harsh Spartan 
discipline that Menelaus  imposed upon them. But the crew of the "Gaia" had 
been born to it; they knew that it was essential for survival.

Especially now.

The "Gaia"  needed repairs and upgrading, and even at the excruciatingly 
slow pace set by Adama, the ancient vessel could not keep with the fleet. 
Instead, the "Galactica’s"  Commander had ordered that the older Battlestar 
maintain her own speed until such time that she could catch the rest of the 
colonial survivors.

It was not only the matter of repairing the sub-light engines; everything 
aboard the "Gaia" was either outmoded or inoperative. Even now, like so many 
ants, the tech crews crawled about the bridge, replacing mother cards, re 
cabling, and trying to tease, cajole or force the ship’s computer to meet 
operational standards.

Derae’s monitor pinged softly, snapping her out of her reverie; she swung 
back to glance at her screen, her brow knitting in consternation. Data 
scrolled over the display, the green text illuminating her face, symbols and 
numbers that even to her experienced eye, made no sense.
She sighed in exasperation, and tapped a command into her keyboard, running 
a subroutine to run a test against the incoming data. If the code was stored 
in the "Gaia’s" mainframe, the routine would find it, and, she hoped, 
decipher something she could work with.  After some centons, her screen 
sputtered back into life, but the data revealed was gibberish. Derae bit her 
lip and glanced around the bridge. She left her console, and walked over to 
one of the technicians, who was prostrate under a control bank.

"Com-tech," she addressed a pair of tan coloured boots. The tech didn’t 
respond, so she nudged his foot with her own. Immediately, the engineer 
pulled himself from under the console.

"Ensign," the boy scrambled to his feet, and saluted smartly. He could not 
have been any more than sixteen yeharns old, a smattering of acne 
disfiguring his thin face.

"Come with me, Engineer…"

"Aristophanes," the boy finished for her. She smiled wryly; such a name of 
heroic proportions on one so short of stature.

The two made their way over to Derae’s console, picking their way through 
the crowded command area.

"What do you make of this?" she indicated the data readout.

Aristophanes sucked in air through his teeth, shaking his head. "I can’t 
tell, Ma’am," he said after a few moments. "Certainly, its nothing I 
recognise. But," he snapped his fingers. "If I might…" he raised his 
eyebrows and indicated Derae’s keyboard.

"Of course," the Ensign nodded and moved aside.

The young Com-Tech busied himself at her station, and she caught him trying 
to catch glances at her in the screens dark reflection. Derae was a tall 
woman, of typical Spartan stock. Her coal coloured hair was tied back 
severely, her face strong and pale, the eyes blue.

"What are you doing," she asked him, smiling to herself as she saw the back 
of his neck colour, his eyes in the reflection darting away.

"Well, Ma’am" he swung her chair round to face her. "Although we are 
upgrading the ships computers, we still have a large amount of data from the 
old drives stored in the mainframe. It’s a slow process to remodel," he 
added woefully. "Anyway, I ran your signal through the partition that 
separates the new system from the old, and here we are," he tapped the 
monitor.

Derae arched an eyebrow. "What is it?"

"It’s a Gamma Signal, Ensign. As you know, we don’t use them anymore, but, 
when the "Gaia"  was commissioned, it’s the only form of interstellar 
communication we had."

Derae leant over him, peering at the screen, feeling him shift uncomfortably 
as she did so. "Can you decipher it?"
"Yes, for what it’s worth," he shrugged. "It’s still gibberish, though. Look 
here. These dots indicate a pulse, and these lines indicate a tone. The 
pattern is repeated over and over again."

"Analysis?"

"Probably residual imaging from interstellar transmissions. Its too 
simplistic to be anything else."

"Location?"

Aristophanes cleared the monitor, and ran several calculations against the 
signal.  Microns later, an image flashed up on the screen. He grinned, 
triumphantly and turned to Derae.

"There you go, Ma’am. Class three planet, nine hectares distant of our 
current position. We are on a parallel heading. Of course, it’s uncharted, 
but according to these scanners, the atmosphere is breathable. I can’t tell 
about life forms," he guessed her next question. "Its too far out, and the 
"Gaia’s" hardware just isn’t up to that capacity," he paused. "Yet."

"Excellent work, Engineer," she nodded to him.

Derae dismissed him without further comment, and returned to her seat, 
switching the display back to the Gamma transmission. Shaking her head, she 
placed put her head set on and summoned the deck officer to her station.

--
Commander Menelaus  had no time to look at the report presented by Ensign 
Derae on the bridge. Instead, he took a disk copy of it deigning to read it 
when he was off-duty. The thought made him smile ruefully to himself ; there 
would be no off-duty times for him now. Not as the commander of a 
Battlestar. The "Gaia" was old, she was small and she was slow.

But she was his.

He poured himself a cup of ambrosia, and waited for his cabin’s archaic 
computer to read the information. The report was written in Derae’s short, 
staccato style; she was a good officer, Menelaus  knew, if a little 
inflexible.

The report was, however, inconclusive. Menelaus  pinched the bridge of his 
nose between his thumb and forefinger. The "Gaia" had a full crew, to be 
sure, but her launch bay, unlike the "Galactica," only had a capacity of 
fifty Vipers, opposed to seventy-five – ideally, he reminded himself. The 
"Gaia’s" launch tubes were fitted out for the old Anaconda class fighters, 
and so far only 20 tubes had been refurbished.
It had been almost a yeharn since the fleet had encountered Cylons, and he, 
like Adama, was beginning to believe that they had eluded their enemy. And 
yet, if he sent a squadron to investigate the Gamma Signal, and the Cylons 
happened upon them…

He leant back in his chair and sipped the ambrosia, letting the warm taste 
heat his throat and chest.

No, he decided, the risk of sending fighter craft was unacceptable. A 
shuttle, perhaps. Given that the distance from the "Gaia", it would take a 
shuttle fifty centars  to reach the source of the signal. A five-imerai** 
round trip, which would give the shuttle crew time to ascertain exactly what 
was broadcasting.
And to whom.

His decision made, he stabbed the com-link on his desk monitor. Static 
covered the screen for a moment, and then the grizzled countenance of his 
Second in Command, Colonel Phoenix.

Phoenix nodded at him from the bridge.

"I thought you were on a sleep period, Sir?" Although Phoenix was the senior 
in years, he still treated Menelaus  as if he were the older man. The 
commander ignored the statement.

"Phoenix, have Captain Lysander report to my quarters at once."

The Colonel nodded. "Yes sir."

The screen flickered abruptly to  black.

*

Silence reigned in the gymnasium. Eight men from Gold Squadron stood at 
attention, as two of their fellow Warriors marched in, flanking a youth. The 
boy was stripped to the waist, his jaw set the eyes starting straight ahead.

Wordlessly, the two pilots lead him to a cross-beam, where they secured his 
wrists to the posts; the boy made neither protest, nor struggled.

"Prisoner is secured, Captain Lysander," one of the pilots spoke.

Lysander, at the head of the rank of waiting men stepped forward.

"For the crime of failing to reach a minimum pass in flight combat training, 
Cadet  Neptolemus is sentenced to Corporal Punishment. Twenty lashes. 
Lieutenant Patroclus," he addressed the pilot who had spoken first.  "Make 
ready to administer the punishment."

Patroclus nodded, and walked around to the front of the cross-beam, leaning 
against which was a stout wooden cane. He held it before the boy’s face, 
which was now coated by a thin sheen of sweat. Giving the Cadet plenty of 
time to examine the instrument, the Patroclus then moved behind the boy, and 
removed his flight jacket.

"The Cadet may, at any time, cry out." Lysander advised. "This will result 
in the immediate cessation of Corporal Punishment. It will also result in 
the immediate transfer of the Cadet to a non-combatant assignment aboard 
this vessel. The Cadet may also request now, that the Corporal Punishment be 
waived, and he may voluntarily assume a non-combatant assignment aboard this 
vessel. Does the Cadet wish the Corporal Punishment to be waived?" 
Neptolemus shook his head quickly, his gaze locked to the deck.

Patroclus glanced at Lysander who nodded. The Lieutenant swung the cane at 
Neptolemus’ naked back; instantly a vicious red welt appeared on the flesh. 
Again and again, Patroclus struck the boy with the hard wood. Each blow 
caused Neptolemus to stiffen, the muscles on his back contorting in agony.

The Lieutenant knew what the boy was going through. An endless tunnel of 
pain, punctuated only by the impact and fresh torture of each blow. By the 
time Patroclus had reached the fifteenth strike, the boys back was a 
shredded mass of purple, livid flesh, each strike of the cane now causing 
blood to spatter the Lieutenant’s flight uniform. He thought he heard the 
boy whimper, and smelt the sudden stench of urine as the Cadet’s bladder 
went.

But he had not cried out.

Patroclus dare not soften his blows, else, in accordance to Spartan 
tradition, he would receive double the Corporal Punishment. But he struck 
quickly, ending the torment as soon as he could.

Neptolemus’ head sagged, his eyes lolled in his head. At a command from 
Lysander, Patroclus and the boys other guard, Diomedes untied the Cadet’s 
wrists, and supported him as he collapsed from the cross-beam.

"The Corporal Punishment has been administered," the Captain said. 
"Lieutenants Patroclus and Breseus will escort the Cadet to the Life Centre. 
Gold Squadron is dismissed."

Patroclus stooped and retrieved the cane from where he had left it when 
untying Neptolemus. It would be the boys "First Stick." All Spartan Warriors 
kept their first cane, even as they disdained corrective surgery to cover 
the scars it inflicted. It was a mark of the training they endured. The 
beatings and punishments were cruel, but not sadistic; they hardened a man’s 
mind against pain, Patroclus knew all too well. Endurance against adversity 
was a Spartan credo; a Viper cockpit, or an assault Land-Ram was no place 
for weaklings or cowards, and the Spartans had always excelled at expelling 
such miscreants from their military.
__
Lysander watched as his men trooped out.

He did not enjoy dealing out such punishments, but recognised that they were 
necessary. Neptolemus failed his examination not through lack of ability, 
but through over-confidence. Such things mattered little in a simulator or 
training flight. But in combat, the boys lack of attention to detail, and 
his assumption that it was all to easy, would cost lives. Discipline was 
all.

He started as the Gaia’s Uni-Com crackled into life. The disembodied voice 
of a Deck Officer echoed through the gymnasium.

"Captain Lysander, Gold Squadron, report to the Commander’s quarters at 
once. Captain Lysander, Gold Squadron…"

Lysander sighed inwardly. He had hoped to get a drink and then return to his 
own berth for a sleep period, but it seemed unlikely that would be the case. 
He glanced at his reflection in one of the gymnasium’s mirrors to ensure 
that none of the Cadet’s blood had spattered his uniform. Satisfied, he made 
his way out of the gymnasium.
-
Menelaus  admitted the Captain to his cabin some centons later. As Lysander 
marched in and saluted, the Commander studied the man before him.

Like all Viper pilots, Lysander was not a tall man; the cockpit of a fighter 
was cramped and uncomfortable enough without trying to squeeze a big frame 
into it. Hence, the Spartans had issued an edict that there was a maximum 
height and weight for their fighter pilots. He knew that Lysander was a 
capable man, both in ground assault and star-to-star tactics. None of 
Menelaus ’ command had achieved the fame of their more numerous Caprican 
brethren, but then, he reminded himself, Adama was always likely to give the 
choice missions to men commanded by his own son.

"At ease," Menelaus  gestured with his right hand. "Captain," he began. "It 
appears that this particular sector we are traversing is not…or was not 
entirely devoid of intelligent life. Look at this." The Commander flicked 
his monitor to life, displaying the downloaded code.

Lysander leant over him. "I cannot read this code, Sir," he admitted. 
"Certainly it is not anything Cylon that I have encountered."

"That’s my feeling as well," Menelaus  concurred. "However, this sort of 
thing warrants some investigation on our part. It may well be a fragment of 
communication from the lost Tribe, and it would not bode well for us to 
simply…ignore it."

The expression on Lysander’s normally stoic face told Menelaus  that he put 
about as much stock in finding Adama’s "Earth" as the majority of the 
"Gaia’s" crew. But the officer was, of course, too professional to mention 
any misgivings he might have.

"The source of the signal is some nine hectare’s distant," the Commander 
went on. "I want you to take a squad of Warriors and investigate."

"Nine hectare’s sir. That’s a long way out, if I am taking slow boat," he 
used the Viper Pilots slang for the fleets shuttlecraft. "Also, given that 
sort of distance, we will be out of the "Gaia’s" communication range before 
we reach planet fall."

"I don’t need a navigation lesson from you, Captain," Menelaus ’ tone was 
sharp.  He recognised that the Captain felt that the whole mission would be 
a waste of time, but nevertheless, he should have even inferred that he 
disapproved – he had not been asked for his opinion.  "I’ll leave the 
details to you, Captain," he continued. "This information has already been 
sent to your personal com. Study it and send me a communiqué when you are 
ready for departure. That will be all."

"Aye, Sir." Lysander saluted, turned about and marched from the Commanders 
quarters.
--
Patroclus had a cup of ambrosia waiting when Lysander wandered into the 
Officers Mess. The stocky Lieutenant ran a hand over his close cropped black 
hair as his superior sat at his table.

"I heard the Uni-Com on my way to the Life Centre," he informed Lysander. 
"We have a mission?"

Lysander nodded, taking a sip from his cup before responding. "That’s good," 
he nodded, eyeing the drink appreciatively. "Don’t get too excited," he 
said. "Seemingly, a D.O. picked up a communications fragment in this 
sector," he used the abbreviation for a Deck Officer. "You and I are to take 
a shuttle and investigate."

"A shuttle?" Patroclus was incredulous. "Why not a couple of Vipers?"

"I didn’t ask. Menelaus  looked like he had his mind made up. We need to get 
a squad of Ground Assault Warriors together. This isn’t a flyer’s gig."

Patroclus nodded. "Diomedes has a good troop," he said. "Veterans, most of 
them, but there are a few just passed out Cadets with him as well."

Lysander nodded. "A good mix is what we need," he told the other Warrior. 
"Our soldiers have seen little enough active service since the Exodus. This 
will be an  opportunity to get some fresh troops blooded," he paused and met 
Patroclus’ eyes. "How did Neptolemus fare in the Life-Centre?"

The Lieutenant grinned. "Pretty well, when he came out of shock. I harangued 
him for pissing in his pants instead of using the turbo-flush, but he took 
it on the chin, all right. I don’t think he’ll be as blasé for a time to 
come, at any rate."

"That is good," Lysander acknowledged, raising his cup. "Discipline is all," 
he said.

"With this or on this," the Lieutenant responded to the ancient quote. It 
was an archaic reference to a Warrior being carried home with his shield on 
or dead upon it; hundreds of thousands of yeharns had elapsed since the 
Spartan code of Lycurgus had been written, but all Warriors were obliged to 
learn it, and live by it.

Lysander drained his cup, and rose to his feet. "I was supposed to be 
off-duty for two imarai," he said. "How about you."

Patroclus shrugged. "Just the night free."

"I’ll take a good sleep period then. I’ll have my report sent to you before 
I do, however. You contact Diomedes."

The Lieutenant nodded,. "Aye, Sir."
--
There were ten of them.

Diomedes had assembled his squad on the flight deck before Lysander had 
arrived.

The Captain stood at the entrance to the deck, assessing the soldiers as 
they chatted amongst themselves. It was easy to tell which of them had seen 
combat before, and which were the greens. Age was the obvious divider, but 
also, there was something in the gait and manner of ground combat veterans 
that marked them as a breed apart.

He glanced at the shuttle, and could see Patroclus already going over the 
vessel, checking the preparations that the tech-crew had already made. 
Lysander smiled inwardly; he knew that the Lieutenant was nervous, and it 
would be a lie to say he had no tension of his own. He had commanded on the 
ground before, with reasonable success,  but he was no expert.

Pride he knew, was fatal; he had resolved to let himself be "advised" by the 
formidable looking Diomedes. The Sergeant was leaning against a cargo 
holder, smoking a cigarette. He was a huge man, his broad face twisted into 
a perpetual grimace by a scar that ran from his left eye down to chin. 
Diomedes, Lysander knew, claimed that this scar had come from a Cylon sword, 
but it was widely assumed that the Sergeant had picked it up in a 
lower-echelon Socialator-House when he had run out of cubits. Even now, in 
surly defiance of the rumour, Diomedes was known to have carried the weapon 
in combat.

Lysander drew himself up, and approached the squad. As if he had a sixth 
sense, Diomedes tossed his cigarette to the deck and stood to attention.

"Officer on deck," he announced. "Form your line, there!" The soldiers 
complied, drawing into a smooth row, snapping to as Lysander reached them.

The Captains slate-coloured eyes swept over the soldiers, taking in the 
quality of their gear. Boots were polished, buckles shone, weapons were 
clean. Inspection quality, he thought to himself. One would be unlikely to 
see such precision in the pilots section. Then again, those Warriors were 
carrying the fight at the moment. Infantry had little else to do but drill, 
spit and polish.

"At ease," he said. Again, the squad’s movements were liquid. "I’m not going 
to waste any time going over what you already know," he told them. "Sergeant 
Diomedes has already briefed you on the mission. Do any of you have any 
questions?"

A woman raised her hand. She was not tall, unusual in Ground Assault 
Warriors, and, Lysander thought, quite attractive, perhaps even shapely, 
though it was difficult to tell under her body armour. He pushed such 
thoughts from his mind.

"Name?" he queried.

"Corporal Thalia, Sir. Permission to speak freely."

Lysander nodded shortly. "What is it, Corporal?"

"Sir, we’ve been thoroughly briefed regarding this mission, and the 
inference from both my C/O," she indicated Diomedes, and your Lieutenant is 
that the Gamma Signals are likely to be so much ancient cross-talk."

"That is so, Corporal."

"What if they are not? The Cylons are not known for their duplicity, Sir, 
but what if they are learning. We could be flying straight into a trap. How 
long, before we are declared overdue. And can we expect a rescue."

Lysander nodded. "That’s a good question, Corporal. Seven imarai is the 
overdue date. Given the distance from the "Gaia" to the planet, it’ll take 
two imarai for any FTL transmission to reach the mothership. Depending on 
the size of any hostile force, Commander Menelaus  may or may not authorise 
an extraction."

Thalia shifted in her stance. "Meaning, if we encounter numerous hostiles, 
we’re frakked."

Lysander grinned at that. "It’s all a point of view Corporal. If we 
encounter a large enemy force, we can take some of them with us. Certainly, 
if we are outnumbered heavily, by the time any relief arrived from the 
"Gaia," we’d be dead any way. Or frakked, if you prefer."

"You just make sure you use that blaster instead of flapping your gums, 
Thalia," Diomedes jabbed a finger at her, succinctly ending that particular 
line of enquiry.

"Anything else?" Lysander wanted to know.

Silence. He studied their faces; even after the revelation that, should they 
encounter trouble, a rescue would be unlikely, the expressions before him 
remained stoic.

"Gear up," Diomedes bawled, turning to wink at Lysander as the soldiers 
broke rank to seek their kit bags. "Move! Get that kit stowed on board!"
Lysander approached him.

"What do you think, Sergeant?"

"We’ll be fine, Sir," Diomedes did not look at him, preferring to watch his 
troops struggle trot up the ramp that lead into the shuttle. "They are as 
prepared as they’re going to be. Sure, we have a few Cadets there, but 
they’re well trained." Finally he switched his gaze to the smaller man. "If 
you are asking me if they’ll hold up in a fight, the answer is, yes. What 
the young ones lack in experience, they make up for in training," he paused. 
"It’s all we have to do nowadays."
--
Lysander slid into the pilot’s chair, and pulled his headset on; Patroclus 
was already strapped in, and offered the Captain a salute as he sat.

"The cargo is in," he told Lysander, indicating the Assault Troops, who were 
out of their armour, weapon less and sitting wordlessly in their places. 
"Very smooth," he whispered. "I’d swear they’d practised it a thousand 
times."

Lysander shrugged. Pilots often derided the infantry for their recent lack 
of combat, but inter-service rivalry was part and parcel of the military. It 
would do no good for him to haze the Lieutenant over something that had been 
pounded into him since he was sixteen yeharns old. He flicked the shuttle’s 
communicator on.

"Bridge, this is Gold Leader, Shuttle "Ithica," requesting launch.

The com-link crackled briefly. "Bridge to "Ithica", you have Launch 
Clearance, Priority Alpha."

Lysander glanced at Patroclus before responding.
"Ensign Derae?" he queried.

"Aye, Sir," Derae’s voice patched in.

"Excellent," Lysander’s face broke into a genuine smile. "I was hoping 
that…" he trailed off, realising his severe breach of communication regs.

There was a moment’s silence, and Patroclus was sure he could almost feel 
the Ensign’s face colouring. He shook with suppressed mirth, but stilled 
when Lysander shot him a warning glance.

"…that we would have such a skilled officer to take us out," he added 
hastily. Patroclus snickered and received a kick in the shins for his 
troubles.

"Thank you, Sir," Derae’s tone was a trifle strained, even through the 
com-link. "Initialising…"

The shuttle jerked upwards as Derae engaged the couplers that lifted the 
ship from the dock to the launch pad. The small craft hung suspended above 
the launch area for a few moments, then the hydraulics engaged, and, as if 
it were on a factory assembly-line, it began is slow traverse to the pad.

Lysander put his hand over his head-set’s mike. "It’s not funny," he told 
Patroclus.

"No, "it" isn’t. The fact that you got caught is."

Lysander gritted his teeth. "Frak you."

Patrolcus held up his hands defensively. "Me too, Sir. Is that an order?"

Lysander was about to respond, when Derae’s voice cut in.
"Stand by…" The craft dropped suddenly, throwing its occupants about in 
their seats. A ripple of curses came from the soldiers. "Primary couplers 
released."

"Starting internals," Lysander responded, flicking up the vessel’s three 
primary control switches. The engines began to hum, the tone increasing in 
pitch till it was a deafening whine.

"Stand by five microns," Derae said. "Four…three…two…one…launch."

Lysander’s thumb depressed the craft’s turbo switch, and engines screamed 
into life, catapulting the craft forwards. There were more curses from 
behind the pilots as the massive G-Acceleration slammed the shuttle’s 
occupant’s back into their seats. Then, the pressure was gone, and the 
heavens opened before them.

"Bridge, "Ithica" has cleared," Lysander flicked on the nav-computer. Course 
download on-line. Thank you, Ensign."

"Clear skies, "Ithica." Bridge out."
--
Lysander loved the stars. He loved to fly, to scream through the heavens as 
if he were a comet. Even so, he admitted to himself, this flight would be 
hellish.

Two imarai with nothing to do but watch the nav-computer, and listen to a 
bunch of cooped up infantry tell dirty stories and argue over pyramid games. 
To bring cubits on such a mission was forbidden, so astronomical sums would 
be wagered.

He wondered how normal troops put up with such journeys; the soldiers on 
board had the advantage of their training, their discipline – and even then, 
two days of confinement would be hard enough on them – not  so much the 
journey itself; but how to stay alert, and focussed
Patroclus had already admitted to smuggling some entertainment disks on 
board; given that his wife was an EXO in Logistics, this was a given. It was 
not a serious breach of regs, in fact it was to be expected. Spartan 
Warriors were taken from their parents to being their training at the age of 
seven yeharns; even as children, their existence was harsh. They were 
provided with minimal food and shelter, and the "acquisition" of extra 
supplies was encouraged. If caught the penalties were severe – not for 
stealing, but for the crime of being caught – a failed mission. Naturally, 
this behaviour carried over to adult life.

The two pilots took turns on watch, ensuring that their course was true, and 
that no anomalies were in their path. Lysander spent much of his off-time 
with the soldiers, listening to their talk and tales of home. He was 
normally an aloof man, but he knew it would pay for him to assess the 
characters of those he commanded.

Even into the first imari, he found himself accepted as part of their easy 
company. They were relaxed, and, similarly to  Viper pilots, informal. It 
appeared that Diomedes ran a loose crew, but Lysander made the assumption 
that if the Sergeant saw fit do this in transit, he must be confident in his 
squad’s ability. Of course, they afforded him the proper respect due a 
senior officer, but he was happy to indulge the relaxed attitude – he, as 
they, knew that would all change when the mission became live.

Despite being the first one to question him directly, in the launch bay, 
Thalia, the gunner, was taciturn during the flight, choosing to spend her 
time mostly watching re-runs of Triad games. Lysander had tried to engage 
her in conversation a few times, but another of the troop, Pausanais, warned 
him off.

"She’s nervous, Sir," the veteran told him. "She’s always like this before a 
mission. She’ll warm up as soon as we get ground-side," Pausanais’ green 
eyes followed the Corporal as she changed the entertainment disks for the 
rest of the squad. He looked back at Lysander and barked a harsh burst of 
laughter, reading the officers expression. "Not me, Captain. I like my 
pogees where they are, thank you very much."

"Everyone knows that your pogees were shot off years ago," offered 
Miltiades, one of the squads cadets. This produced scattered laughter from 
the soldiers nearby. Miltiades was the cross-trained as a com-tech, hence 
his inclusion on the team. Lysander had insisted on this having read Derae’s 
report.

Pausanais smiled wolfishly at the younger man, and nodded. "Yeah, well, 
maybe that’s true. Still, at least I got to use mine, ‘eh? We all know that 
your gun has never seen any real action – just a lot of self-inspection."

This produced gales of laughter from the squad, Diomedes and Lysander 
included. Miltiades turned scarlet as the med-tech, Andromache, moved in 
behind him and ran her hands down his chest.

"It’s ok, baby," she crooned. "I’ll show you a good time."

"Good thing you are a med-tech," Pausanias called to her. "You’ve shown half 
the fleet a good time."

The blonde Andromache  flashed him an obscene gesture for his pains.
Much of the journey followed this tract, and Lysander found himself rather 
enjoying the voyage; certainly it was not as hellish as he had first 
anticipated. He reasoned that the infantry spent much of their time 
drilling, and on routine supply drops, and hence they were, unlike he and 
Patroclus, used to being cooped up in a small shuttle for days in end.
--
Lysander awoke to see Patroclus looming over him.

"Approach profile has been calculated," the Lieutenant told him.

"We’re here?" Lysander rubbed sleep from his eyes.

"Yeah, in about a centar. Best get the boys and girls ready," he indicated 
the sleeping troops. "Oh," he added as Lysander was buckling on his boots. 
"We’re coming in dark side. Sun up should be in about six centars."

"Good," Lysander rose to his feet. "Wake Sergeant Diomedes, and infrom him 
of the mission status, Lieutenant."

Patroclus realised that the time for familiarity was over. "Aye Aye, Sir," 
he saluted and stepped over the snoring form of Hippias, another of Diomedes 
veterans.

Lysannder rubbed the sleep from his eyes and picked his way to the cockpit. 
Behind him, the soldiers surged into life; there was no unnecessary chatter, 
just the sound of Diomedes giving orders.

"One centar," the Sergeant told the squad. "Move out to the Land Ram, you 
know your places."

Hippias stabbed a control panel on the wall of the shuttle, and a blast door 
slid open, leading down to the bowels of the shuttle. Here, snug in its bay, 
was the All-Terrain Land Ram; in silence the soldiers made their way down.
--
"You’ve sent our co-ordinates to the "Gaia?"" Lysander said.

"Yes, just after I got the approach profile," Patroclus
confirmed. "They’ll know where we are at least."

"Good," Lysander switched his display to biographical. "Interesting," he 
turned to Patroclus. "Massive life-form readings, all over the 
planet….except here," he tapped the screen. "This island – vector 175, cross 
260."

"175/260? That’s…"

"Where the Gamma Signal source is, I know."

Patroclus shrugged. "How long to planet-fall?"

"Fifteen centons, and closing."

"Good – get us in there, and I’ll run a structural survey."

"Roger that," Lysander switched his com-link to patch through to the ATLR. 
"Fifteen centons, Sergeant."

"Aye sir," the com-link crackled back at him.

Patroclus was quiet for a few centons, studying data as Lysander piloted. He 
turned to the Captain, and flicked open his com-link to the troops.  
"Tropical world," he announced with certainty. "Lots of dense foliage on the 
continents…and our island. Weather conditions in our sector are good, but 
there’s a heck of a storm kicking up to the south east."

"Bad weather moving towards the island?"

"Affirmative, but it’s a few imarai out. We should be long gone before it 
hits."

The shuttle’s control board flashed up a warning, and Lysander bucked his 
seat belt. "Brace for atmosphere penetration in ten microns….nine…eight…"

The shuttle breached the planets atmosphere shaking its occupants around a 
somewhat. Lysander made some minor adjustments, and the crafts approach 
vector smoothed off.

The little craft streaked through the night sky, dense the thick back mass 
of trees flashing by beneath them, then an expanse of water was suddenly 
visible. The planets moon hung in the sky above them, a bright silver disk 
that danced on the surface of the sea.
"Approaching target," Lysander said. "Bearing one five zero zero metrons."

"Running structural survey," Patroclus’ switched his monitor from 
topographical to wire frame. "Yes…picking up some structures at vector 
175/260. Look like dwellings of some sort…increasing scope." Patroclus 
widened the scan, hoping to pick up a more general survey of the area. He 
turned to Lysander his face suddenly pale. "By the Gods," he whispered.

Lysander frowned. "What? What is it…" he patched the structural survey 
through to his own terminal. His own eyes widened in shock as the scan 
flashed up.

"It cannot be," he whispered.


---

As they do at the end of all 70's TV drama - "TO BE CONTINUED..."