Red Squadron A brief explanation: Red Squadron is kind of an enigma in Battlestar Galactica. As far as I can tell, we really don't know WHO they are, and we seem only to hear about them in passing, mostly in the pilot episode, Saga of a Star World. Strangely, if I'm not mistaken, Starbuck is referred to as Red Leader in Saga, but Boomer is definitely in Blue Squadron, Adama's personal strike squadron. Confusingly, Boomer says to Starbuck on Carillon that "those pilots are wearing the insignia of our squadron." My theory, and the one on which this tale is based, is that Red Squadron was all but wiped out during the battle at Cimtar, and all the surviving pilots were assigned under the herald of Blue Squadron, under the command of Captain Apollo. Therefore, Starbuck became second in command of Blue. In my tale, Apollo has been conducting training for new pilots to fill the second (reserve) squadron - an entirely new Red Squadron. Promising cadets are filtered through Blue Squadron for training (as in Lost Planet of the Gods, and The Gun on Ice Planet Zero) then slotted to Red Squadron where they racked up seat time during the frequent Cylon attacks. Of course, Silver Spar Squadron under the temporary command of Lt. Sheba showed up and was transferred to Galactica prior to Cain's assault on two Cylon baseships. This fully trained and very experienced squadron was rotated through the patrol roster which had been the exclusive domain of Blue Squadron. Apollo was now able to exercise his full rank of Captain, as he commanded both squadrons - well, all three if you count Red. With the arrival of Silver Spar, Red was shuffled more toward the back, and more out of sight. In the confines of a Sci-Fi TV show which lasted one season, we really never got to see them. But Red was never dissolved. In the world of fanfiction, we now have the option of exploring this unused resource. My theory does not explain why Starbuck of Red and Apollo of Blue were slotted to pull a patrol together in the first episode, nor why members of Silver Spar and Blue squadrons pull patrols together. Oh, well. That's TV. So much for being brief. Red Squadron By Tice Leonard "Colonel Tigh," said Boomer as he stepped up on the Galactica's bridge sensor turret. "I have those results you wanted." Tigh took the computer link from Boomer and began to look it over. "Are things as bad as we thought?" "Worse, I'm afraid," answered Boomer. "Skybus 316 has a broken draft beam. She's about to fall apart." "Begin evacuating the ship," said Tigh. "We'll get a repair team over there as soon as possible." "We've already pulled all the people we could off the ship," said Boomer. "Freighter Gemini is over capacity by 135%. We've even got people living in empty cells on the prison barge." "How many does that leave on the skybus?" Tigh asked. "Over three hundred and fifty," said Boomer. "Well," muttered Tigh, "we'll have to give the skybus top repair priority." "We could, Colonel," said Boomer. "But most of the materials and personnel are allocated to repairs on the Galactica." It had only been a secton since the battlestar had been ravaged by fires. Her landing bay had burned, and there was massive structural damage. "I see," said Tigh. "What other options have you come up with?" Boomer shook his head. "None." Tigh shoved the computer link under his arm and nodded. The operations officer twisted in his seat and said, "Colonel, report coming in from patrol two. Cylons closing on our position." "Omega, inform the commander," said Tigh. "Ready all Vipers for launch." Boomer was already off the bridge by the time the klaxon sounded. The first time Lieutenant Det had heard an alarm klaxon, he had been a flight cadet on a training exercise aboard the Gunstar Orion. They had been cruising near Listening Post Gamma, on a commercial trade route, when a force of pirates had gotten disparate and attacked the ship. A gunstar is smaller than a battlestar, though not much. While a battlestar depends more on her Vipers in a battle, the gunstar carries massive megalasers which can rip a capital ship in half under repeated beating. Against the small pirate ships, they were almost useless, though. The gunstar's cannons are generally aimed by turning the ship, with fine adjustments made by crews in special turrets. The fast pirates overwhelmed the ship, and nearly crippled it. All fighters, both Vipers and the much older Asps had scrambled to defend the big ship. Det was part of Blood Squadron. They had raked through the pirate offensive, and torn two ships limb-from-limb. The relentless pirates continued hard, knowing that they had the Orionon the run. Finally, in a last ditch move, one of the pirate vessels had zeroed in on the Orion's tylium tanks. Det had been in the right place at the right time. He blasted the pirate in the port engine, and sent it spinning wildly. A section of troopers were sent to secure the ship when it ultimately came to a stop. Det had been credited with the victory, and been posted to the rank of lieutenant with Orion's Blood Squadron. That had been his proudest day. He still felt that way every time he heard the Galactica's alert klaxon. Now he found himself riding the fast tram from the warriors' ready area to the launch tubes in Beta Bay. His pilots stood behind him, feeling the same tense anticipation he did. The tram came to a stop near his Viper. The fighter was attended by his mech chief and the deck officer. The chief handed Det his flight helmet and acknowledged him with a simple word. "Lieutenant." "Thank you, Drill," said Det as he climbed up into his fighter. A quick look over his shoulder and he saw his squadron was nearly ready. They were a good team. As he donned his helmet, he could hear the chatter between the bridge and the other squadron. "Core systems transferring control to fighter craft. Launch when ready." Blue Squadron was away. All Det could do now was wait. His job as reserve leader was to join the battle in progress. Their mission was to hit the Cylons when their fuel was low and their armament was nearly expended. "Core systems updating positions," came the call from the bridge. They were close. Det rubbed the sweat from his palms on his pants. The bay was silent. He could hear his own heart and feel the warmth of the blood in his head and chest. He rolled his head in a sweeping circle to alleviate the tension in his muscles. Waiting was the hardest part. "Core systems updating positions," came the call again. Rigel was on duty. She was good. She would update the enemy locations and transfer them to the Vipers only microns before they launched. If they launched, they could be sure they had the most accurate positions of all Cylons in the sector. "Red Squadron, stand by." It was Colonel Tigh's voice. Det's heart raced. They could be launched in a micron. He closed the canopy. His helmet lit up, and he rested his right hand on his knee, near the turbo start-up buttons. If possible, it was even more silent now than the dead silence from a moment ago. "Red Squadron, stand by." Det's eyes fixed on the far end of the launch tube. His peripheral vision faded. The only thing that mattered now was getting to the far end of the tube, and joining the battle. He didn't even look across at his squadron mates. He knew they were ready. The voice on the channel sent Det's heart to racing. "Core Command releasing Red Squadron. Fighter craft stand down." And just like that, it was over. The life drained out of him. His hands dropped to their sides, and he slammed back in his seat. He was suddenly aware of the steam and clanging all around him. Launch Bay Beta was returning to the relaxed state. Lt. Dietra was the first one out of her ship. She jumped back to the ground and kicked a support beam. "What was that?!?" she hollered. "What was that?" Det held up his hand to stem the rest of her tirade. He felt it to, but he couldn't let it get the best of him. Ensign Cree was out, too. He threw his helmet to the ground, sat on it, and didn't say a word. "Lieutenant..." said the young Ensign Brie. "What's going on? Are we warriors or what?" Det sat in his fighter, but looked down at the young blond woman. She was no more than a girl, but she was right. They were warriors. They had been called to ready six times without launching in the last four days. "You know, we could keep up out physical training if we ran down the corridor instead of riding the tram when the commander calls an alert," said another pilot. "As long as we're not going to launch." Sergeant Marsh was a tacit one, but his feelings were shared. "I'll talk to the captain when he returns," said Det. The bay fell silent. "Do you think he'll listen?" Cree asked. "If he doesn't, I'll take it to the colonel," said Det. He slowly stood, dropping his helmet in the seat of his Viper, climbed down and walked to the lift. He held his gaze straight ahead as the lift took him away from the disgruntled mess in Beta Bay. This was going to change. The colonel's office was dimly lit. Likenesses of ships; Vipers, Asps, battlestars and gunboats adorned the walls. A large plaque commemorated Tigh's tour aboard the Battlestar Bellerophon. There was a green sofa against one wall, and a desk opposite it. Apollo sat on the arm of the couch,and Tigh stood beside his desk. Lt. Det felt ill-at-ease with the casual stance that Apollo took in his superior's office. "Please, take a seat," said Tigh. He motioned toward the couch. Det sat down, a good distance from Apollo, but not far enough as to be rude. "You had squadron business to discuss?" Apollo asked. "Yes," said Det. "I feel that Red Squadron is under utilized." Apollo picked up a small computer link and read down a few lines. "According to this, Red Squadron has been scrambled sixteen times, destroying eighteen Cylon ships." Tigh's gaze drifted from Apollo to Det. The pressure was on. "And, according to the Galactica's records, we have been aborted twenty-seven times," said Det. "That is hard on my pilots' morale." Apollo looked to Tigh. The colonel sighed, and sat on the corner of his desk. "Lieutenant, without a scheduled resupply or even the promise of finding a new fuel supply, we can't afford to burn precious resources by launching all Vipers every time. The purpose of a reserve squadron is to launch only in the event of...insurmountable odds." "My pilots are wasting away," said Det. "I have some good people. Lt. Dietra can out fly anyone in Blue Squadron, and she gets so upset each time we stand down that-" "Dietra knows her job," said Apollo. "She can show us what type of a warrior she is by following the commander's orders." "Captain," said Det with a depth to his voice that rocked the whole room. "Blue Squadron has launched one hundred and sixty-three times, Silver Spar seventy-six. Red has not flown a patrol since Carillon." Tigh's face turned to Apollo. "Deep space patrols are dangerous," said the captain. "They are assigned to the most experienced pilots." "I flew dozens of patrols from the Orion before Cimtar," said Det. "And Dietra flew with you at Kobol. So did Brie." "And Marsh?" Apollo asked. "He crashed into the landing bay after his tour with Blue Squadron. If I recall, Cree disobeyed a direct order not to approach the planet Arcta and was forced down by Cylon fighters." "And you should see him now," said Det behind a stone cold face. His eyes bored through Apollo and betrayed the fiery determination inside. The captain backed down. "You want to take over the patrol duties?" Apollo asked. "We just want to do our part," said Det, more softly. "We want to do the job we signed on for." Tigh and Apollo shared a glance. "Okay," said Apollo. "I was going on the late patrol this evening. It goes in two centars. Why don't you and your squadron take it?" Det tried not to smile, but he brightened none-the-less. "Very well, sir." Apollo stood, and extended his hand. Det rose, took it, and shook. "I believe you have a patrol, Lieutenant," said Tigh. "I do," said Det. He made his way toward the door. "Thank you, Captain. Colonel." "Dismissed," said Tigh. Det left. As the door closed, Tigh turned back to Apollo. "Maybe one of your men should go along, to provide back up." "I don't think so, Colonel," said Apollo. "They might resent that more than the aborted launch." He glanced toward the door. "I think they can handle it." "I hope so," said Tigh. Apollo left him alone. Tigh tarried in the office for just a moment, then made his way to the bridge. He stepped up onto the revolving sensor turret with Commander Adama. Respectfully, he stood beside him. "Commander, I have cleared an area in Landing Bay Beta for the Skybus passengers, should I dispatch a group of shuttles to ferry them to the Galactica?" "No, Colonel," said Adama. "We'll leave that as a last recourse. We've been chased by the Cylons very hard the last seven days, ever since they hit Alpha Bay and set it on fire. I fear they may try that trick again." "Commander, I understand, but if the draft beam snaps..." "We will hold them there as long as we can," said Adama firmly. "We can't risk taking them out of the cooking pot and into the flame." Tigh nodded. Adama was thoughtful for a moment. "Never-the-less, have all available shuttle crews standing by. We may need them at micron's notice. If the beam does break, we will need to relocate them to the landing bay as quickly as possible." "Yes, Commander," said Tigh. "How many people do you suppose one of our shuttles could safely carry?" Adama asked. "No more than fifty. But they'd be cramped in like cargo crates," said Tigh. "Even on a short trip such as that." "Instruct your pilots to limit themselves to thirty, then," said Adama. "And perhaps we should send over two 'survey teams,' selected warriors to keep order should something happen over there." "A peace keeping force?" Tigh asked. "No, no," said Adama. "A rescue squad on duty. In the event of the ship's collapse, they could be ferrying sixty people off the ship even as our own shuttles launch." "I'll send them over now, Commander," said Tigh. Adama nodded, and turned back to the scanners. Apollo had insisted on four pilots going on the patrol. It went unsaid that it was for their lack of experience. Det used it as a chance to get three of his best some time in space, away from the fleet. Cree flew on Det's wing, and Brie on Dietra's. The four ships formed a two element formation that lanced out from the Galactica toward the stars beyond. With their scanners set wide open, they carefully hunted for any obstacles that might impede the Galactica's progress toward its goal. "Lieutenant, there it is again," said Cree. "Tylium residue." "I'm not picking it up," said Det. "Me neither," said Dietra. "Maybe you should get that scanner checked out," said Brie. "No," said Cree. "I'm getting a faint reading, like a ship passed here sectons ago." "Cylons?" Brie asked. "It's a different reading. Not like any Cylon exhaust I've ever seen. Should I go ahead and check it out?" Cree asked, hopefully. "We'll both go," said Det. "Dietra, you and Brie continue on this heading. Be ready in case we call you." "You boys have all the fun," said Dietra. "Let's go," said Det. He and Cree tapped their turbos and left the ladies behind. "I still don't see anything," said Det. "It's getting stronger," said Cree. Det shook his head. Cree was so bent on clearing his name that he was possibly making this up to look good. If there was a ship out here, it had gone long ago, and was unlikely to return. Nothing else of any interest had yet been located in this sector. Then Det saw it. It was a faint reading. It was tylium residue, and it was very faint. "Good eye, Cree." "I may have a fix on the source," said Cree. That was unexpected. For a reading to be this faint, it would have taken a very long time for it to fade. The ship, if it was still here, would have to be drifting, and leaking fuel. That alone could be dangerous. "I'll go check it out," said Det. "Hang back and cover me." Det's Viper eased ahead of Cree's, and the scanner began to come alive. There was a glow from the readings ahead. It was as though the fabric of space was painted with tylium. Once clear of the interference from the other fighter, Det could make out the source clearly. "It's an asteroid belt," said Det. "With tylium ore. It's dense, and almost...thirty decalars long!" "That's longer than the fleet!" said Cree. Det hit his turbos again, and picked out a small chunk of rock just beyond the edge of the belt. He locked on it with his lasers and fired. It exploded with he brilliance of a sun, then vanished. "Waa hoOO!" said Cree. "Fuel for YAHRENS!" "The commander will pin a medal on us for sure," said Det. "Us?" Cree asked. "I found it." "Under my command," said Det. Cree fumed, lightheartedly. "Let's get back and tell the colonel," said Det. "Right behind you," said Cree. "Lieutenant," said Dietra over the patrol channel. "I'm getting a priority signal from the Galactica." Det switched over. It was strike vectors. Galactica was under attack. "Frak," mumbled Det. "Red Squadron, form up. We'll be using the turbos all the way home. Check you fuel now." "I'm good," said Cree. "Fine," said Dietra. "Good," said Brie. "Let's go," Det kicked off with the turbos and zeroed in on the battlestar. His four ships raced back toward the Galactica. Marsh sat in his Viper. The rest of Red Squadron was ready. He heard the chatter. Blue Squadron was away. He heard the inevitable, "Core command transferring vectors to fighter craft." His hand rested on his leg. Were they going to launch Red without their leader? "Core command transferring control to fighter craft, launch when ready." Marsh's heart skipped a beat. He revved up the fighter's engines and punched the thrust button on his stick. Like a torpedo from a submarine vessel, he raced through the launch tube and into the starry world beyond. The Cylons were off the port bow, closing in mass. "Red Squadron, let's join the captain," said Marsh. "Let's show these flyboys how a fight is done." Some twenty Vipers had been launched to defend the Galactica. They flew in a Vee shape toward the opposing force. In a micron, the fight was on. Marsh and his wingman broke off to the right on three raiders as they ran for the Galactica. Marsh picked one off, and pulled up after the second. He could see the flashes from the intense laser fire. He could hear the chatter as pilots warned each other and the occasional word of thanks. "He's coming back," said his wingman. "Got him," said Marsh. He honked the nimble craft into a sharp bank and fired. He missed. The third ship crossed his tail, and fired. Everything flashed a bright yellow. When Marsh's eyes readjusted, all his systems were dead. He was flying the same course he had been, but his engines were out. He tapped the three activator buttons, but they were dead. He was slowing. His wingman flew along side and looked the Viper over. He was speaking, but Marsh could not hear. Marsh pointed back to the fight. The other man nodded, and touched his forefinger to his flight helmet. "Felgercarb," said Marsh into his dead com. "That was not my last salute." He ripped the control panel out of the fighter's forward display. He could smell the burnt conduits. Everything was fried. He reached his hands deep into the bowels of the dead fighter. This was going to take a while. "Got them," said Dietra. "Looks like a dozen raiders. They're after the civilian ships." "Let's join the battle," said Det. He swooped in on a pair near Agroship 9. One good burst of laser fire blew it from the stars. Cree was right behind him, firing all the way. "Nice shot, Cree," said Brie as his shot ripped the other ship in half. Brie had one of her own. She fired, missed, and lined up again. Her second volley was a killer. She tore the Cylon fighter's left wing to shreds. It whipped around, like a flag in a tornado before exploding harmlessly away from anything. "YaHOO!" She hollered. "We've got 'em on the run," said Dietra. She slung her ship hard to the right, rolled, and came out firing on another Cylon. She smashed it hard. "Do we pursue, Captain?" was a question from one of Blue's pilots. Det did not recognize the voice. "Negative," said Apollo. "Let's get back aboard." Cree flew beside Det. Det could see the frustration on the young man's face. Det gave him a nod, and pointed toward the Galactica. Cree nodded. Marsh tapped the circuit with his finger. It was hot. The batteries were still there, he could power the maneuvering rockets if he could reroute the power to them. He wished he had a small torch so he could see. Ceti 4 circuit was dead. It powered his guns. There was no way to fire a turbo laser with battery power, so it was useless. He ripped it out of the socket. He pressed it to the battery relay with his finger. Gingerly he ripped the battery power source from the display meter. It was not ideal, but it could provide power to the rockets if he could bypass the resistor. The other end of the old Ceti 4 circuit reached the rocket relay easily. He stripped the conduit around the existing power channel, and touched the end of the circuit to the exposed line. There was a spark. That spark was hope. He wrapped his finger with the torn conduit insulation and wrapped the end of the circuit to the exposed line. He had a little power. Now to bypass the resistor. Gently, ever so gently, he eased the resistor from the panel. The line was stretching as he pulled. He twisted the resistor, just a touch, and brought the lines together. They fused on contact. The stench was overwhelming. His heart was beating out of his chest. He was going to get back. He pulled the stick to the right, and the small ship hesitantly obeyed his command. He could see the Galactica as a tiny patch of gray against the blackness all around. He could not activate his turbos. He could not call for help. Thank the Lords the battlestar was headed in his general direction as he limped toward it. He settled in for a long ride. Det paced the deck. Sure, he had lost pilots before, but none with the experience that Sergeant Marsh had. He had begun his career in the Colonial reserves as a flight deck officer. In his spare time, he had begun training as a flight core specialist, which was the only way an enlisted man could get into the cockpit of a Viper. He had dazzled the instructor with his drive, and had been accepted to a combat squadron. Following the raid at the armistice, he had gone on to fill the numbers of Red Squadron. He knew everything there was to know about the Viper. It was a fair bet he could build one from spare parts, and build it better than a factory job. Beta Bay's deck officer sprinted toward Det. "They've found him." "What..." mumbled Det. "His ship is disabled," said the deck officer. "He is under minimal power, and his com is out." Det glanced back at his fighters as they were being rearmed and moved to the launch tubes. The only one spotted for flight was Viper 23. "Is that one ready to go?" Det asked. "Technically, yes," said the DO. Det understood. Twenty-three was one of those ships that just never seemed to be quite right. Something always blew out at just the wrong time. Her guns locked, her engines were the slowest, and her targeting computer occasionally skipped. "Start the countdown," said Det as he ran to the lonesome fighter. "I'll bring him in." The deck officer knew better than to argue the point. Det ran over the twenty odd launch rails between him and the Viper. He flew up the boarding ramp, and took his seat. Frak, his helmet was in his ship. "Sir," said a small voice from the ground. A young recruit held up a helmet for him to grab. "We don't usually keep this one on alert." "Bless you, My Friend," said Det. He activated internal power and cued the com. "Red Leader to Galactica bridge. I'm going out to bring in Red Five." "Core systems acknowledging," said Rigel. There was a pause, no doubt informing the Commander. Det went on and activated his engines. They were shaky, but better than Marsh was getting. "Rescue vector transferred, launch when-" He was away. His scanner showed Marsh as a nearly stationary object out from the fleet. He was slow. Was he coasting? Det pulled out beyond him, circled back and cut his power. His Viper drifted up beside the wounded fighter. Marsh was pointing toward his helmet. The lights were dark. He must have had nothing but rocket power. The air would be getting pretty stale in there. Even if he could land, was he going to have power for the landing skids? And would he simply pass out from carbon dioxide poisoning? Det spoke into his microphone even though he did not know if Marsh could hear. "I'm right here, Buddy. I'll get you down. Match my speed." Marsh held his fighter steady. Det eased into the braking flaps. Marsh could not. He would have to cut his rockets. Whatever Marsh had done to rig up the rockets, they would not handle the series of throttle ups and downs that a fully operational Viper would do to safely land on the Galactica's flight deck. Det was going to have to time it, and bring him in as quickly as he could, and maintain a safe landing speed. "Launch Bay Beta," called Det. "Better bring up the barrier. This might get ugly." Marsh's ship was now ahead of his, and Det had to throttle up in order to get beside him. He hung to his left wing like glue once he got there. He lowered his landing struts. Marsh was flailing his head for no. Det understood. This was going to be a belly landing. Too fast, no power, no margin for error. Marsh was going to be riding a slow missile back to base and try to survive. Captain Apollo was going to have a field day with this. Slowly, ever so slowly Det brought them on a turn that lined them up behind Galactica's Beta Bay. The battlestar had cut speed to accommodate the hurt ship. Det was breathing heavy. Together, they started their descent. Suddenly, Marsh's fighter began to wobble. His nose jumped up and down like a brick balanced precariously on the edge of a shelf. "Hold her steady, Marsh. I know you can do it." The landing deck was coming up fast. Det had to choose now. Was he going in with Marsh, and hit the barrier with him, or would he hang back, and let Marsh do it alone so he could land safely behind him? Either way, if Marsh bought it, Det was dead, too. There really only every was one choice. Det left his throttle open as he glided down with Marsh. They were less than fifty fighter lengths from the deck when Det nosed his fighter over, just a touch. Marsh nodded, and did the same. Det pulled his nose back up, and touched down nicely. Marsh's nose hit the deck, and bounced. His right wing touched next, then the left. Marsh forced the ship's nose back down, and skidded in a lazy arc. The ship wiggled first toward Det, then away from him. Det opened his flaps and punched his braking thrust. His ship fought to stop just short of the barrier. Marsh skidded down the length of the landing bay and into the soft barrier at the end. Even with the energy absorbing material of the barrier, the ship careened off like a safe dropped on a trampoline. It spun end around end and smacked a rescue tram that was speeding to its aid. Marsh sat motionless in the cockpit. Det was there even before the deck's Med-Techs. He wrenched the canopy up and pulled Marsh's helmet off. The pilot gasped for fresh air. "Marsh," said Det. "Talk to me. Come on, Sergeant." Marsh was stunned. He looked up at Det blankly. His eyes didn't focus on anything. Det patted his cheeks, and tried to wake him. One of the white clad med techs lay prone over the Viper's snout. He had breathing gear for Marsh. Det knew there was nothing he could do. He jumped back down from the Viper to let the med crew do their thing. Marsh was alive, at least. That breath he had been holding...he let it out. "They did fine, Colonel," said Apollo. He sat on Tigh's couch, again in his office. "I would like to put them in full squadron rotation with Blue and Silver Spar Squadrons." "That will make Det's day," said Tigh. His door buzzed. "Enter," said Tigh. Lt. Det stepped in as the door slid open. Apollo stood. "Lieutenant," said Tigh. "We were just discussing your pilots' performance." "I trust we were up to the high standards you keep?" Det asked. "Very much so," said Tigh. He waved toward the couch. Apollo took his seat, and so did Det. "How is Sgt. Marsh?" Apollo asked. "He has a mild concussion," said Det. "He had several broken bones, but Dr. Salik fixed him up." "Good," said Tigh. "We may have a new assignment for him." Det's face dropped. "A new assignment, sir?" "Don't worry," said Apollo. "He'll still fly with you. We just want to give him some additional responsibilities." Det switched between Tigh and Apollo, looking for clarification. "In the past, we have had a Viper systems specialist on the Galactica's bridge, to talk a wounded fighter in," said Tigh. "Athena has been filling that role, in addition to her scanner duties." "We want to use Marsh in that role," said Apollo. "We saw what he did with his ship out there, and we feel that his intimate knowledge of the Viper could save lives in a pinch." "I'll ask him," said Det. "Good," said Tigh. "He will begin training there as soon as he can leave Life Station. He will be off flight status until Doctor Salik clears him." "Very well, sir," said Det. "One more thing," said Tigh. "That asteroid field your patrol found today." "Tylium for half a parsec, sir," said Det. "Yes," said Tigh. "The commander had decided not to take the fleet there." "But, sir. We need fuel and there is enough there-" "It's too dangerous," said Tigh. We can't take the fleet out and hold there while the mineral ship collects the ore. We'll be sitting ducks should the Cylons attack." "Even if we keep all Vipers flying around the clock, we wouldn't be able to defend a stationary fleet from a Cylon onslaught," said Apollo. "I understand, Sir," said Det. His tone betrayed his disappointment. That fuel would have been a real feather in his cap. The conversation was cut short by the alert klaxon. "Again?" asked Apollo. "Shuttle Bays Alpha and Beta respond, launch when ready." It was Commander Adama's voice. "The skybus?" Det asked. "Let's go," said Apollo. Tigh rushed out toward the bridge, while the warriors ran off for the launch bays. It was chaos. The fleet was grinding to a halt. Galactica was stopped, while some of the other ships, not accustomed to space travel of this duration were barely able to slow down. Some ships continued on, confused, spreading the convoy across the sky. At the back, left behind, was Skybus 316. She listed hard to the right, with air pouring from the big rift in her cargo hold. Her engine was dead. Inside, panic was supreme. Three hundred people ran in blind panic. There was nowhere to go. Nothing they could do to save themselves. The life rafts had already been deployed by alert individuals. Some had launched with only one or two people. Hundreds were left behind. They had only centons until the ship ripped in half. The two "survey team" shuttles launched barely two centons after the ship's hull cracked. The second was overloaded, despite the commander's orders. Back in the bay, those still waiting rushed the empty bay. The small contingent of warriors assigned to maintain order were overwhelmed, and the Galactica's shuttles were still centons away. With the battlestar stopped in space, it was a short trip. But there was so little time. The first survey shuttle landed before the first rescue shuttle arrived at the skybus. There were nine shuttles in the rescue team. According to the commander's orders, there were to be thirty people on each shuttle, but he had authorized each shuttle crew to allow thirty-five, maybe forty if they passengers were under control. The first two shuttles broke from the formation, and descended toward the bus. "Sunspots!" the lead pilot cursed. "Look at those fools!" "They're blocking the approach," said the second. "What's going on?" the lead asked. They couldn't touch down. If they did, they would crush most of the survivors. They couldn't hang about. The ship was about to break up. "Galactica control, what do we do?" the lead asked. "Commander," Tigh said as he stepped up onto the scanner turret beside Adama. "The shuttles are unable to land. It appears that the survivors are crowded onto the landing bay." "Put me on the unicom," said Adama. The bridge officer did not respond. "Omega," said Tigh, breaking the officer's concentration. "I'm sorry, Colonel. The channel is jammed with ship commanders requesting information. I'll clear them out," said Omega. He flipped a series of switches, and transferred the calls to Rigel's station. Adama picked up his microphone and spoke. "People of the fleet, please clear this channel. Skybus 316, this is Commander Adama. We have shuttles in your area to rescue you. Please evacuate the landing bay area. You will be escorted in an orderly fashion to the shuttles. It is very important that you clear the way for our shuttles immediately." He glanced to the colonel. Tigh spoke into his comlink. "Is the bay clear?" "It's better, Colonel," said the lead pilot. "I'm going in. I hope they have the good sense to stay the frak out of my way." "Do what you can," said the colonel. "But remember, you are there to rescue them. They are scared and confused." "I understand, Colonel." The two shuttles came about and lined up for the landing. Together, they sped in and touched down. By the grace of the Lords of Kobol, the people forced their way back against the bay's walls and let the shuttles touch down. Once they were down, it was another mob scene. They beat and pounded the small craft. It looked for all the world like all three hundred odd people were there. The door to shuttle one opened. A single warrior pushed his way out and shouted above the crowd, "Single file. We can only take thirty-five people at once. There will be two other shuttles as soon as we are loaded." Before he could even finish, the people had forced their way onto the shuttle. Perhaps fifty people had boarded before the lone warrior managed to close the hatch. Outside the angry mob continued to beat the shuttle. The scene was repeated on the second ship. Shuttle one revved up, and backed out of the bay, very carefully. The pilot did his best not to spray hot gasses into the crowd as he powered up, but the crowd continued to rush the shuttle. Slowly, he left the bay floor, and made for open space. "Do you have a head count back there?" he asked his load officer. "Fifty-nine," said the warrior. "The colonel will have my head," the pilot said. But what was he going to do? Go back and kick twenty people off? "Shuttle two what's your count?" "Forty-three." More than on third of the refugees from the skybus were crowded onto his two shuttles. That would make things easy on the next shuttle crews, but his landing was going to be difficult. Then there was the mission debriefing. Frak. As expected, the third and forth shuttles were treated in a similar fashion. They each took on more than the forty person maximum, and backed out into space, clearing the bay for the next shuttles. Five and six picked up all the remaining people, which left seven, eight, and nine empty. They passed the survey shuttles, which were returning to ferry any possible left over people to the Galactica. "Rescue lead to Galactica. Shuttles one through four are overloaded. Requesting landing instructions." There was a pause. Maybe they were deciding what to do with four cramped shuttles, and maybe Colonel Tigh was debating how to handle punishing him. It didn't matter. He just had to get down. "Proceed to Landing Bay Beta," said the colonel. "We'll have to house them there while we repair the skybus." Repair the skybus... What in Hades Hole was the colonel thinking? It was yahrens past its life span, and falling apart in space. Repairing it would take more time than it had left. "Shuttles five and six, line up for approach," said the lead. That was common sense. Get as many people safely on the deck before the overloaded ships tried to land. If he went first and lost it...where would the survivors stay? One by one they set down, with shuttle one landing last. There were no problems, but there could have been. In stark contrast to the scene on the skybus, the people filed off calmly and smoothly onto the deck. "Nice job," said the lead pilot to his pilots. "Drinks are on me in the officers' lounge." "Negative," came the colonel's voice. "They're on me." "No way, no how," said the survey team leader. Boomer stood in Launch Bay Beta amongst the displaced colonists. He wore a communications headset, and walked along the length of the bay, checking the new accommodations. Partitions had been fashioned out of old armor plates to give a sense of privacy to those forced to live here. Tables and chairs had been brought down from three rejuvenation centers to make their stay more comfortable. "The commander needs that ship operational, Branna," Boomer said into the headset. "The landing bay is no place to raise a family." Aboard the skybus, the team wore atmosphere suits. The ship creaked as they walked. With no bracing down the center, even their weight was enough to affect the ship's balance. Minimal lighting and artificial gravity were powered. A few small generators powered the repair equipment. A welder in the corner was bracing a joint, and a cutter was ripping out torn metal in a corridor. Scraps from the torn pieces were used to form reinforcements. It was still a losing battle. "We can't patch this tub back together," said the fleet's chief engineer, Branna. "We need a new spar." "Sorry," said Boomer. "The damage to the Galactica was worse than we thought. We used all the large beams to get her back together." "Then I suggest we find new homes for those people, and strip this old ship for usable parts," said Branna. Boomer stopped in his tracks, looked around, and moved into a quiet corner. He spoke quietly. "The fleet is overcrowded as it is. Even if we cram people into the Galactica's storage holds, we won't be able to contain them." "Then we need more stelanite," said Branna. Boomer blew out a long breath. "Do what you can. I'll tell the commander." On the Galactica's bridge, the commander listened to Boomer's report, thoughtfully. Tigh, and Apollo stood by in silence. "But maybe there IS an option," said Adama. He pointed to the large glass tactical display. "That asteroid field that Red Squadron discovered contained tylium ore AND other minerals." "But how do we get the fleet there?" Tigh asked. "Obviously," said Adama, "that is out of the question." "We could send the mineral ship and a force of Vipers," said Apollo. "Yes," said Tigh. "But the fleet is still sitting dead in space while we wait." "We have to get under way as soon as possible," said Adama. "What has Branna come up with?" Boomer shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "They have the ship welded up like a flying scaffold. Engine power is restored, and it could maintain a minimal speed. There are still holes all over the hull, but we think she could keep up with the fleet." "Good," said Adama. "We'll send a flight crew over in full atmospheric gear to man her." "I'll ready my team, then," said Apollo. "We can take the Recon Viper with its advanced detection equipment. We could see a Cylon baseship before it knows were near." "Captain," said Tigh. "Perhaps Red Squadron should escort the mineral ship." There was a thick silence that hung in the air. Apollo nodded, then said, "Maybe you're right." "Colonel, see to it that the flight crew gets aboard the skybus," said Adama. "We'll need to get moving again as soon as possible." A launch tube is a launch tube. But, as Det stared down this one in Alpha Bay, he felt strange. His pilots were ready on the other side of the ship. At Apollo's insistence, he would be flying the Recon Viper with the CORA system. The computer system would provide him with extra tactical information, improved speed and maneuverability. The trade off was he was unarmed. "Recon Red in position," said Det into his com. On the bridge, Marsh sat next to Rigel at the systems station. He updated the position of the target, a practice move at best since it was almost stationary. Rigel gave him a smile. He was doing fine. Marsh spoke into the com, "Core systems transferring control to probe craft. Launch when ready." Quickly Rigel tapped the send button and transferred the updated positions to the four Vipers - the one in Alpha Bay and the three fighters in Beta section. Rigel's display showed the four Vipers sweeping out from the Galactica and back toward the mineral ship. That was the one with three saucer-like pods on the top. It was slowly pulling out from the fleet, assuming a course that arced out along a curve that would take them far in front of the convoy, and a bit to starboard. The Vipers deployed in pairs before and behind the big ship. The Recon Viper flew the point. As the fleet fell back, Det activated CORA. "Finally," said the artificially intelligent computer. CORA was the name given to the program that ran the Recon Viper. CORA could do all the things a pilot did, and more - all at once. She was the ultimate autopilot. The program had been given a female personality so as to interface with the pilot more effectively. CORA was a character. "CORA, I need constant updates on any scanner contact. This sector is full of Cylons," said Det. "Shall I report all contacts, or only those of sufficient mass to be ships?" CORA was a sarcastic little cuss. "Only those which could cause a hindrance to the mission," clarified Det. "Very well," said CORA. "Scanners are clear." "Thank you," said Det. He settled in for the long flight. "You're welcome," said CORA. It took nearly five milicentons for the flight crew to pack up, launch, and land on the skybus. She was a wreck. Her huge upper cylindrical hull was ripped down the center like she had tried to fly under some gigantic knife. Her engines were running at minimum power, but minimum power was just above idle. Never having actually flown a skybus, it took a few centons to get the gist of the controls, but then no precision flying was necessary. The four Galactica bridge officers took seats at the con, sensor, engineering, and communication posts. Communications signaled ready on the Galactica's bridge channel. Omega got the signal instantly. "Skybus 316 is ready," he reported to the commander. "Good," said Adama. "None too soon. Signal the fleet. Bring them up to speed." Rigel shifted modes. She talked Marsh through the steps of coordinating the 200+ ships into a unified departure. He followed each step with an awkward hand, but he got it right. Each time he fed a plot to a batch of ships, those with similar performance stats, she looked over and smiled at him. When she would look away, Marsh found himself watching the way her braids continued to swish beside her. He had to pry his eyes from her. "All ships, ahead slow," he could hear Omega say into his headset. Marsh watched the scene on Rigel's display. Slowly, the blips began to move. Some reached their speeds more quickly than others. Just as they had done when they came to a panic stop, the fleet spread out in a ragged pack. For the first time since they had fled the colonies, Marsh understood the descriptive use of the term "Rag Tag Fleet." The Galactica came up to speed more slowly than any of the others. That was the luxury of being the most powerful ship. She steadily moved up to the lead position. "All ships underway," said Rigel. A small cheer went up from a few scattered bridge positions. "Keep a channel open to the skybus, Omega," said Tigh. "The moment anything goes wrong, I want to know about it." He turned to get the commander's opinion. The look on his face was stone. The mineral ship was landed. Five crews worked feverishly to recover all the ore they could. Four crews gathered the stelanite and a single crew collected tylium. As long as they were here, it was worth the extra effort. The four Vipers coasted around the asteroids in a lazy sweep. They had cut power to conserve fuel. The mission would take 16 centars; not because that was how long it would take to fill the ship's holds, but because that was how long they could stay and still rendezvous with the fleet, even if they ran at the mineral ship's maximum speed. Standard procedure allowed the pilots a slumber period on these extended missions. Det switched his long range scanners to automatic and keyed the alert switch. CORA chimed in, "Taking a nap?" "Switching off to conserve battery power," joked Det. "Yes, you humans do that quite a bit - let the machine do the work." "You got it," said Det. He slipped back into the barely comfortable seat. "No matter," said CORA. She sighed. "That is why I was made and why I am invaluable to this mission." "Watch the skies," said Det. He closed his eyes. "Sweet dreams," said CORA. "Honey." The Scoop looked like a large Landram. Four mighty articulated shovels tore at the ground from their perches on the sides of the vehicle. In a carefully choreographed dance, they dumped their loads in the hopper at the center of the Scoop. The waste was dumped in the bored out trenches left from the previous dig, and the usable ore was gently compressed and pushed into the back of a smaller ram that was moving behind it. When the ram was at capacity, it drove away from the Scoop and back to the ship. Up a ramp, into the hold, dump the load, run back. By now the Scoop had moved forward, just a bit, where it was digging another trench. The cycle continued. Tylium was another matter. It was pried carefully from the rock, and taken (along with all its junk mineral companions) back to the ship on special, slower rams. It was gently set on the floor of the rearmost saucer, and poured over by automated drilling machines. The waste was carried by conveyer belt to a drop chute along the left side of the ship, and just dumped on the rocky surface. The work had been done on Carillon, but seldom did these miners get the chance to perform their work in the daily routine of the fleet. Despite its arduous labor, the mining crews were enjoying it. "Det," said CORA. "Honey...wake up." The pilot did not stir. CORA sounded the Viper's emergency buzzer. "What!?!" said Det as he woke. "Finally," said CORA. "I found something." "On the display," ordered Det. He rubbed his eyes. The Recon Viper's display was more like the Galactica's bridge scanner than a normal Viper's. It showed the entire sector, where his own ship showed just a small slice of space. The war book computer activated, and identified the row of blips approaching. "Cylons," said Det. "Looks like a hundred." "Fifty-two raiders in all, honey," said CORA. "Frak," said Det. "Rephrase, please," prodded CORA. "Just cursing out loud," said Det. "Oh, I see," said CORA. "Felgercarb." "Cree, Dietra, Brie," said Det. "Wake up. We've got a problem." He tapped the emergency signal to warn the mineral ship. Det went for the buttons that would reactivate his engines. CORA was ahead of him. In microns, she had the fighter fired up and rearing for action. Det swung the craft behind the cover of the asteroids. His squadron joined him less than a centon later. "It's a killer formation," said Det. "No doubt headed for the Galactica." "They're closing fast," said CORA. On the asteroid below, the miner crews worked at a frantic pace. They ferried the Scoops back into the holds, and locked them down. The mineral ship lifted off even before the last hatch was closed. "Lieutenant," said Cree, "my laser pump is locked. I don't think I can get more than four shots." It happened sometimes, when a Viper goes inactive for a long time in flight. Sometimes, without the Galactica's generators to restart the fighter, some systems did not come back. It was rare, but it did happen. His wingman had four shots, and he had no guns. Fifty-two Cylons were closing and the odds were stacked well against them. "Dietra, you and Brie escort the ship back to the fleet," said Det. "You can't take on that force alone," argued Dietra. "You boys get all the fun," said Brie. "Getting that ore back is the most important thing," said Det. "We'll delay the Cylons as long as possible." "Lieutenant-" started Dietra. "That's an order, Dietra," said Det. His voice was cold. All expression was gone. Dietra softened. "Good luck, Lieutenant. May the Lords be with you." The mineral ship and her escort took off across the sky, headed opposite from the Cylon force. Det gave them a few microns to get away, then turned to Cree. He looked over at the Viper. "Try the restart again," he said. "I did," said Cree. "Twice. It's no good." "Then we'll have to wing it," said Det. "May I make a suggestion?" CORA asked. "Anything," said Det. The scanner display showed an enhanced image of the asteroid belt. Det knew what CORA was thinking. Blow the rocks, and destroy the Cylons. "Cree, you say you've got four shots?" Det asked. "I lied, sir," said Cree. "I can't promise more than two." "Promise me one," said Det. "I promise you one," said Cree. "I've got a plan. Stay here and when I say, fire everything you have into the asteroids," said Det. "Destroy the biggest tylium field in space?" Cree asked. "It or us," said Det. "Good luck, sir," said Cree. "I don't need luck," said CORA. Det pulled the fighter up and over the top of the asteroid belt. He could barely see the Cylon force closing. He hit his turbos and darted toward the center of the formation. Six of the raiders broke, and descended on Det. That wasn't going to work. "If I may?" CORA asked. Det took his hand off the stick. "Go." CORA wheeled the Viper into a six G turn. She fired off the turbos and barreled into the heart of the attack phalanx. The confused Cylons scattered to avoid the Colonial fighter. CORA turned the ship back and flew back through the force. Laser blasts cut the infinite night all around him. CORA jinked and rolled to avoid the barrage. "Are you okay, Honey?" CORA asked. "Let's take them in," said Det. "My feelings exactly," said CORA. The Viper ducked, looped, and blasted away from the Cylon formation. The asteroids were coming straight at Det. Behind him, fifty-two raiders jockeyed for a shot. "Better close your eyes," said CORA. "What, and miss the fun?" Det asked. "Oooo," said CORA. "I LIKE you!" The single fighter penetrated the belt. CORA fired off the turbos once more, dropping the ship through the lower end of the field. The force was closing. "Cree! FIRE!" yelled Det. Cree let fly one shot, then a short burst that barely registered. CORA swung the Viper down and away from the belt as the shot struck. The asteroid exploded. The incendiary from it hit two others, igniting them. Their fire hit six more, which hit more, which hit more. In microns, the sky was afire with burning rocks and Cylon fighters. It was over as quickly as it had started. Less than a dozen of the Cylons had survived. They broke off the attack and swung back toward their base. "He fired early," said CORA. "Hey," said Cree. "Am I going to get credit for those forty ships?" "We'll see," said Det. "Nice shot." "Hey, my pump's working," Cree said. He fired off a volley to prove it. "Great timing," said Det. "Let's get out of here." "Right behind you, Lieutenant," said Cree. At full turbos, it took less than a milicenton for the two Vipers to catch up to the mineral ship. Det and Cree took a position in front of the small convoy. It was a long way back to the fleet. "Was that fun, Lieutenant?" Dietra asked. Det could hear the fire in the woman's voice. She had a warrior heart. Sometimes Det wondered just how much she longed for battle, and what might drive her so. She had only flown with him for a few sectons, and she was very closed up, except to Brie, and she wasn't talking. Maybe the silence she held was part of it. Anyway, she was an outstanding officer and he was proud to have her as his second. "It was fun," said Det. "Now we have something to say the next time Apollo and Starbuck start retelling their baseship on Carillon story." "Here, here," said Cree. "Red Squadron recovered," reported Rigel as her replacement came and took her seat. "Thank you, Rigel," said Tigh. "You did good work today," Rigel said to Marsh as he stood. "I had a good teacher," he said. He looked at her cheeky grin. "Are you going to eat now?" "I thought I might," she said. "Do you mind if I...join you?" said Marsh. "Not at all," she said. Together, they left the bridge. Branna's was now the job of overseeing the creation of a new spar for the skybus. He took a supervisor's role onboard the industrial ship, and watched the workers melt down the raw ore. This time, she was going to be built right. He had refitted dozens of ships while they were on patrol. One small gunship he had repaired, during the war, had gone on to out live every other ship of her type. By the Lords, this skybus was going to do that too. If he had to sit down there in the bowels of the hot ship for a quarton, the crew was going to get it right. Then maybe, he would start on some of the other ships. After a long sleep, that is. This story is a work of fan fiction, and is not intended to infringe on the copyrights of Universal, ABC, Glen Larson Studios, or any other corporations involved with Battlestar Galactica. It is intended solely for distribution on the Internet, and the enjoyment of those BSG fans who read it. Please direct feedback to me at TiCeL@aol.com I hope you enjoyed it.