AOH :: TREK-142.TXT
The Cylon War
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From: uunet!buast9.bu.edu!sword (Bill Mackiewicz)
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To: jwest%andersen%uunet.uu.net@bu-ast.BU.EDU
Subject: The Cylon War, Part 1
Status: OR
The Cylon War
By Dave Learn
Jean-Luc Picard leaned back comfortably in his command
chair. The Enterprise was on a routine exploratory mission
on the edge of Federation territory, mapping uncharted star
systems. This, he thought, was wonderful. A peaceful
interlude from many of the Enterprise's more dangerous
assignments, such as its periodic forays toward the Romulan
Neutral Zone. Of course, with a name like Enterprise, the
ship had an uncanny history of finding trouble, even on the
most routine and unlikely assignments.
He stood up for what must have been the fifteenth time
in twenty minutes to walk across his bridge. All right, he
admitted to himself, he wasn't completely comfortable with
the assignment. In fact, he felt downright nervous. Not
because of the actual exploration; the thrill of the unknown
was always exhilirating for him. It was what had driven him
into Star Fleet to begin with. No, what concerned him were
the three passengers he had on board the ship. They were a
constant puzzle to him, and he wished to make them feel
completely at home in his ship, unsure if he was doing a
good job.
Only a year before, he and his crew had encountered an
alien fleet coming from an unknown sector of the galaxy.
The fleet was led by a warship called the Galactica, and
interestingly enough, everyone in the entire fleet was
human. Not just humanoid, which would have been interesting
enough, but human. Somehow, on another planet--one named
Kobol--thousands of light years from Earth, a humanity had
evolved identical to the humanity which evolved on Earth.
The Darwinists were mystified as to how this could be, and
many were even more puzzled when the aliens revealed that
their ancestors had also colonized Earth, when the fossil
record seemed to indicate to the contrary.
Scientific mysteries aside, it was clear that the
travellers required haven, and their desire to join the
Federation was soon made manifest. They were granted an
uninhabited planet in Federation territory to colonize, and
those members of the fleet with a military inclination were
welcomed into Star Fleet at comparative levels to their
previously held ranks.
The whoosh of the turbolift arrested Picard's line of
thought as it announced the arrival of the three guests
Picard was so concerned about. The elder of the three, the
commander of the Galactica and leader of the twelve tribes
stepped out.
"Welcome to the bridge, Admiral Adama," Picard smiled
as he sought to conceal his uneasiness. Why did he feel so
uncomfortable around this man? He looked kindly and gentle,
like a grandfather. Perhaps, Picard mused, it was simply
because he was such a mystery.
"Thank you, Captain Picard, though I must confess I am
. . . unused to being referred to as `admiral.'"
"No doubt. But you must admit, we could hardly call
the leader of an entire fleet what we call our first
officers."
"Indeed, I should think not. But tell me, how long
until we reach Mormo?"
"Ensign Green, time until arrival at our destination?"
Picard asked.
The dark-curled man at the navigation console turned.
"Only another forty-five minutes, captain," Green returned.
"Is something wrong, Ensign?"
"No sir, it's just . . . "
"Just what?"
"The name `Mormo,' Captain. It just seems like an
unusual name for a planet."
The dark-haired man standing next to Adama chuckled
quietly. "I suppose any name might sound unusual to someone
who's never heard it before, like Lieutenant Worf's 'Klin-
zhai.'"
The huge Klingon at the tactical console peered down
from his lofty elevation at the discussion. "Indeed? Klin-
zhai is an honorable name for a world. It means, 'Home of
Warriors,' an appropriate title for the Klingon homeworld."
"No, it's not that, Apollo," Green replied. "I have
heard the name before. It's the name of a demon in Judeo-
Christian tradition, the prince of the ghouls."
"Interesting," replied Apollo. "In Smythism, Mormo is
one of the most revered of all the gods of Kobol."
"That's another name I've heard before," said Green.
The android Data seated next to Green turned. "Indeed?
When we originally encountered the Galactica, I was unable
to locate any reference to a planet named Kobol."
"This is incredible," Adama piped in. "You're the
first person from Earth I've encountered so far who has
heard of Kobol, Ensign Green. Where did you hear of it?"
"A religious group begun on Earth during the nineteenth
century believed in a distant planet named Kobol. That's
where Moroni came from."
"I don't believe it," gaped the blond man with Apollo
and Adama. "Moroni was the name of the angel who gave the
revelation to J'Sopha."
"Gentlemen," Picard interrupted, "I do not believe that
the bridge of a starship is the best place to discuss
religion. Mister Green has shown himself to be very narrow-
minded on this subject, and has swayed the opinions of
others on this bridge as well." He eyed the looming figure
of Worf as he finished his sentence.
"Very well, captain," Adama acquiesced. "Ensign Green,
if I could have your company once your duty shift is at an
end, I would be very grateful."
Blast it, thought Picard, why does Green have to be so
pushy with his religion? Why can't he just let people
believe what they want to believe and let well enough alone.
His mind raced back to the time Q appeared on the ship and
appeared to transport them back to first century Palestine.
Green had used the opportunity to share his beliefs with
them, and both Worf and Wesley had converted. Now Green had
a Bible study going for interested officers, and Picard was
concerned that more and more of his bridge crew would start
committing intellectual suicide. And what good was an
officer whose worldview was so narrow-minded and
theocentric?
Data quickly interrupted his silent condemnation in as
puzzled a tone as android could have. "Captain, we are
entering sensor range now, but we can detect only minimal
life signs."
"Check sensors."
"Checking sensors, captain. There are no malfunctions.
All systems are functioning normally."
"Verified, captain. That's Moroni ahead, but there are
no life signs."
"Impossible. How can a population of a billion people
just disappear?" Picard demanded.
"Apollo, good buddy, you don't suppose that--" the
blond man began.
"Let's hope not, Starbuck," came Apollo's swift reply.
"Go to warp nine," Picard ordered.
Within minutes the Enterprise arrived in orbit around
the lifeless planet Mormo. The devestation was complete.
The newly-constructed cities lay in ruins, the smoke rising
from the once-crowded streets like giant funeral wreaths to
block out the light of the sun.
"Good Lord." Picard's words hung in the air as the
horror of what shown on the viewscreen sunk in.
"All my people . . . the Council of Twelve . . ." Adama
breathed in deep shock, tears forming in his eyes. Each of
the three Galacticans were hit hardest. These had been
their people, their families, their friends. For yarhens,
the fleet had travelled the length of the galaxy together,
fighting off the cylons for some distant hope. They had
fought together, laughed together, shared triumph and
defeat, and now . . . all was ashes. For once, the
garrulous Starbuck was silent.
"What power could have done this?" Worf asked, amazed
at the force of Mormo's destroyers.
The screen switched to show the space around Mormo.
Here was the Galactica, brutally attacked and ripped asunder
beneath a brutal onslaught. The Rising Star, Counsellor
Uri's vessel, drifted through space like floating refuse.
Other ships, having successfully navigated the treacherous
stars now drifted in pieces around Mormo, destroyed by the
hand of an unfeeling foe. Among the ruins of the fleet
drifted smaller, one-person vessels, the colonial vipers,
some more intact than others, bursts of energy playing about
their broken frames like flies on a hot pan. Among them
drifted other ships, built like flying pancakes. Although
more of the cylon raiders littered the sky, it was clear
which side had triumphed.
"How can this have happened?" Picard asked. "We
defeated the cylons just after we encountered you. We
destroyed three of their basestars. Surely they would have
seen that we are more powerful than them and wouldn't have
attacked again."
"No," Adama whispered harshly, "No, they wouldn't have
cared. I've told you before, the cylons won't rest until
they've destroyed every last human. Do you believe me now?
They followed us this far, and they've destroyed us at last.
By now they're aware of your Federation and are at work
destroying your people, too. They won't be satisfied until
either side is utterly destroyed. Can't you see that?"
As the Enterprise pushed onward though the battlefield,
the wreckage of a basestar appeared, torn nearly in two by
the powerful missiles of the Galactica. A larger,
cylandrical ship drifted docilely in the midst of the silent
cemetery.
"There! What's that?" Picard asked, indicating the
unfamiliar ship.
Starbuck looked, breaking his silent reverie. "That's
a cylon fuel ship. Carries solarium, the most flammable
substance we're aware of. Light one of those, and you've
got one heck of a fire. Almost as bright as a nova."
So, Adama thought. This is how it ends. He imagined
Tigh at the command of the Galactica, guarding the planet
until he was positive they were safe. He imagined his final
moments as he saw the massive cylon fleet approaching, as he
made the desparate attempt to save the fleet from
destruction, placing the Galactica and her vipers between
the cylons and the defenseless planet below. I should have
been there, Adama thought despairingly, to save my people,
or at least to die with them.
"Captain," Green said, "Commander Data and I have
detected a residual chemical trail, such as may have been
left by the cylons. I would have dismissed it, but since
Lieutenant Starbuck says that they run on chemical fuel . .
."
"What heading did the ship take, Ensign?" Picard asked.
"The direction they've taken will lead them directly to
coordinates 0,0,0 . . . Earth." He finished his answer with
a gasp, an almost strangled sound which nearly expired
before it escaped his throat.
"Lieutenant Worf, alert Star Fleet. Inform that we are
in pursuit of the cylon war fleet. Sound a red alert
throughout the ship, secure all hands and prepare for
battle. Ensign Green, lay in a course to pursue the cylons
at warp nine point five."
The Enterprise turned around like a graceful swan until
it pointed in the direction the cylons had taken after their
attack on Mormo. Then, in a brilliant burst of light the
ship disappeared from sight as it roared through hyperspace
toward the coming battle.
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Date: Sun, 19 May 91 03:12:57 EDT
From: uunet!buast9.bu.edu!sword (Bill Mackiewicz)
Message-Id: <9105190712.AA08449@buast9.bu.edu>
To: jwest%andersen%uunet.uu.net@bu-ast.BU.EDU
Subject: The Cylon War, Part 4
Status: OR
>From bu.edu!rpi!zaphod.mps.ohio-state.edu!swrinde!mips!sdd.hp.com!elroy.jpl.nasa.gov!lll-winken!iggy.GW.Vitalink.COM!widener!netnews.upenn.edu!vax1.cc.lehigh.edu!lehi3b15!lafcol!learnd Wed Apr 10 10:00:58 1991
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From: learnd@lafcol.UUCP (Don Quixote)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.startrek
Subject: The Cylon War
Keywords: Part Four
Message-ID: <2645@lafcol.UUCP>
Date: 6 Apr 91 21:52:27 GMT
Distribution: usa
Organization: La Mancha
Lines: 356
OK, so it didn't take only three parts. This story is already on part
four, and I think I can see two more parts happening after it, for a
total of six. I just reposted Dreamwalker's "Galactica and Enterprise"
and the anonymous "Christmas Story," both of which help in understanding
this story.
Comments on this story are welcomed.
//-n-\\ Don Quixote
_____---=======---_____ Photon Tube Maintenance
====____\ /.. ..\ /____====
// ---\__O__/--- \\ dl20@lafayacs.bitnet
\_\ /_/ learnd@lafcol.uucp
_learnd@lafayett.bitnet
"Your mother was a redshirt." --Star Fleet insult.
The Cylon War: Part Four
By Dave Learn
He ran through the corridors, amid the cries and groans
of the broken and wounded. His heart wept within his chest
as he heard their cries for help. They saw his medical
officer's uniform and pleaded for his help. His heart ached
with compassion; he wanted to help each one but knew he
couldn't. Deep in the bowels of the ship, these people were
not as injured as those on its fringes . . . or the bridge.
Medical teams would be along to aid these people
momentarily. Doctor Crusher had ordered him and a team of
five, who followed at heels, to the bridge.
They entered the turbolift, sealing themselves off from
the deck. "State destination," the computer asked. The
balding paramedic shot back his answer, "Bridge. Make it
fast."
"Speed of turbolift cars is constant; it cannot be
altered," the computer replied steadily. The paramedic
rolled his eyes.
They arrived in less than a minute at the pandemonium
which had been the main bridge. Wreckage from the ceiling
and consoles was everywhere. Those well enough to stand
were uncovering the wounded and the dead.
Riker saw the paramedic team first, through an awful
mist which had filled his eyesight. "All right, Green,
Worf, th-that's enough," he said unsteadily. His voice
sounded hollow, coming from a long distance and at once he
felt like he was floating. "Data, what happened?"
The android second officer's voice came filtered back
through a cloth, muffled and distorted. "We cannot be
certain, commander. It appears that we were fired upon by
the basestars as we finished our orbit around the star. Our
problem was substantially aggravated by what appears to be
several warp speed collisions with the cylon raiders."
"Worf," Riker's voice gurgled--had he swallowed blood?-
-as he braced himself on a chair, "Wh-What is our status?"
He did his utmost to focus past the persistent throbbing in
his head, the drumbeat of a thousand marchers. Everything
was dreamlike, unreal.
The Klingon's eyes narrowed, "Commander, are you well?"
"I'm f-fine, Worf," Riker stammered.
"Commander, to try to function despite injuries is
indeed honorable, but I believe you are being foolhardy,"
Worf rumbled.
"I'm all r-right," Riker insisted, straightening up.
"Very well," the massive figure acquiesed. "We are
currently concealed by the north magnetic pole of the
seventh planet. Warp speed is inoperational, shields are
down. We are functioning on minimal power. The Cylons are
scanning the sector for us." He turned toward the lone
Galactican in their midst. "Will the Cylons search for us
if their scans are inconclusive?"
"You can count on it," Starbuck said emphatically. "If
they're sure you're in the star system, they'll be looking
for you. From what I know about this ship, they'll probably
have to rely on actual sight to find you."
As soon as they had arrived, the paramedic team had
gone straight to Picard, following Riker's orders. The
paramedic waved his medical tricorder over Picard's still
frame. Picard was breathing less erratically now, a touch
of color was in his face.
"Breathing is slightly irregular and broken. Probable
concussion, internal injuries. Spinal cord is nearly
severed. Doctor Crusher," he said as he activated his
communicator, "The is paramedic Card. The captain seems to
be stabilizing, but I don't want to risk moving him. You'll
have to have Chief O'Brien beam him down to sickbay."
"Understood, Mike," the doctor's voice echoed airily
around them. "Crusher out."
Card turned to Green. "Keith, I checked on Melody and
Josiah for you. They're both fine."
Green nodded. "Thanks, Mike. If you can, tell them
I'll try to see them as soon as I can."
As Captain Picard's form faded from sight in the
glowing transporter effect, Card turned to examine the
others on the bridge. About three ensigns near the back of
the bridge had been killed when the ceiling collapsed. Worf
and Data were uncovering them now. One yeoman suffered a
broken leg, another a severe head injury. Both were being
tended to by the EMT's and medics who had come with him. He
turned to Riker.
"Commander, we . . ." He stopped and stared at Riker,
pale as a sheet, tremors shaking his body. "Commander
Riker, I hereby relieve you of command for medical reasons.
You're coming to sickbay. Commander Data, you have the
bridge."
Data looked down from the upper level and surveyed the
situation. Riker was ready to collapse. "Understood," he
replied. "Lieutenant Starbuck, do you have training in
galaxy class starships?"
"Yes sir. Star Fleet required we receive about a
year's training before we came to actually serve on your
vessels," the straw-haired man replied.
"We are transferring control of the ship to the battle
bridge. Everyone report there in fifteen minutes," Data
ordered.
Troi had been with Apollo when the Enterprise was
rocked by the cylon forces. The genocide of his people had
loomed too large for his comprehension until his father's
suicide. With that, the flood of grief and despair found a
conduit and it overwhelmed his soul. As Troi looked at him
now, she despaired of his sanity and even his life. Like
Adama, he had shed his Star Fleet uniform for his more
familiar colonial garb. The dark brown uniform hung heavily
on him with all the weight of years of fighting and dying he
had witnessed. The room was as dark as his soul.
"It's useless," Apollo repeated for the tenth time that
evening. "What can you hope to accomplish against the
cylons? My people never won. We fought for a thousand
yarhens, and all for nothing. You know, it was the cylons
who drove us out of Kobol originally--they drove us to the
colony worlds, but even there they found us.
"We made peace, and they destroyed us. They left a
dozen lifeless planets in our past. And we fled again,
hoping to find Earth. Now we've found it, but the cylons
are still here, and they've destroyed us completely this
time . . . there's no one left. No one."
Troi shuddered at the emptiness she felt inside Apollo.
His voice was dead and lifeless, and there was no life in
his heart. It was as dead as the planet Mormo, which the
Galactica's fleet had colonized. "I have heard the name
Mormo before--it's the name of a demon in Judeo-Christian
traditon, the prince of the ghouls." How appropriate, Troi
thought drily. That world is a fitting place for Ensign
Green's demon, and these people seemed so much under its
sway. They were all dead inside. Spiritually, emotionally,
they were dead.
"Commander Apollo," she began, "there are people left.
You and Starbuck are alive. Other colonists are alive, they
weren't on Mormo at the time. The thirteenth colony is
left, and we have the power to defeat the cylons. There is
hope. As long as there's life, there's hope."
Apollo looked up at her forlornly. "Hope? There isn't
any hope. We're doomed and damned. A few of us are alive--
so? The thirteenth colony has been found, but none of you
will be once the cylons are finished. They almost destroyed
the Enterprise back there. How many basestars are out
there? We haven't got a prayer."
"We have a fleet of ships--"
"So? How many galaxy class starships do you have?
One. The Enterprise was almost destroyed the last time she
tackled three basestars, and that was with the Galactica's
help. The Galactica's gone now, and there are more than
three basestars moving through your Federation. How can you
seriously expect to win?"
Troi looked back at the gaping void in Apollo's eyes.
"The gods of Kobol have abandoned us to die. We were told
to become perfect, and they would let us into Heaven. We
tried, gods know I tried so hard. They've abandoned us. We
just couldn't do it, and so they've left us to die and
they're laughing at us now."
"Commander, I sense that you are deeply grieved, but--"
For the first time emotion registered on Apollo's face.
Contorted with rage he shouted, "Will you stay out of my
mind, Counsellor? What gives you the right to go intruding
into people's thoughts? Leave me alone! Get out of my
life! You don't know anything about grief, or pain! My
family is dead--I heard my little brother die over the
radio! My mother, my wife, my son--all of them are DEAD,
murdered by those damned cylons! LEAVE ME ALONE!!"
He picked up a lamp, raising it above his head to
attack Troi. She quickly decided it would be in her best
interests to leave, and made a hasty exit, leaving the
cursing, angry Apollo to himself.
Geordi LaForge glanced around him. All across
engineering, his technicians and crew were hard at work at
restoring power to the battered ship. Other teams were out
repairing the structural damage to the Enterprise. He
glanced down at the specs before him.
"Blast it. Sonya!" he called.
Sonya Gomez' voice drifted back through the din of
reconstruction. "What is it, Geordi?"
"You've got the shields and the phasers tied in to into
the dilithium crystal chamber. Why?" he asked. "They're
supposed to run off a separate power source so we can use
them at impulse."
She slid down the service ladder. "I know, but I
thought that if we tied them in to the dilithium chamber, we
could keep power going to them even if the other power
sources were taken out by the cylons. It'll help keep the
ship running, even after a solid beating."
Geordi considered her modifications further. "All
right, that makes sense, but how would you power the phasers
and shields when we're on impulse?"
"I've adjusted the osculatory valve so that it allows a
low level of matter/antimatter mix to occur in the chamber,
even on impulse. When we go to warp drive, the flow
increases to provide more power."
"So if we're flying at warp speed--" Geordi began.
"--our shields will be stronger, and our phasers more
powerful," Sonya completed his thought.
"Ensign, I am glad to have you on this ship. LaForge
to bridge," Geordi said.
"This is Commander Data. What is it, Geordi?"
"Data? Is something wrong? Where are Commander Riker
and the captain?"
"They have been injured and are in sickbay right now.
I have assumed command."
"Oh. Well, listen, Data, Ensign Gomez has modified the
power system a little. We should have warp power and
shields back on line in a few minutes, along with phasers."
"What do these modifications entail?"
"If we travel at warp speed, our shields and our
phasers will be stronger. I just thought you might find
that helpful if we go into battle."
"It could indeed prove useful. Thank you, Geordi.
Data out."
Beverly Crusher gaped at the readings on her medical
tricorder with astonishment. "That's impossible!" she
asserted. "There is no way in the galaxy that you could be
recovering so quickly!"
"But I feel much better now, Doctor," Picard insisted
as he sat up.
"But your concussion--"
"My head feels fine."
"Your spinal cord was nearly severed--"
"My back feels wonderful. I haven't felt this good
since I took command of the Enterprise."
"I don't understand," Crusher floundered. "You had
internal injuries, a pronounced lack of blood, a severe
concussion . . ." She trailed off. "Will didn't think you
were going to live."
"What do your scans show now?" Picard asked gently,
wondering if perhaps Crusher's readings had been mistaken.
"That you're in excellent health and ready to resume
command. Not so fast," she amended as Picard rose to return
to the bridge. "My experience tells me that you can't be
that well already. You're staying here for further
observation. Doctor's orders."
Picard sighed and leaned back on the sickbay bed,
cradling his head in his folded arms. Beverly did have a
point: he had been a breath away from death. He had felt
the cold hand of his mortality on his heart and had been
about to pass on. Why hadn't he? And why was he now in
such better condition? What had happened?
He overhead Beverly talking to one of her medics, and
inclined his ear to eavesdrop, to give him something to do.
"Mike," she asked, "What happened to him? I've never seen
anything like this."
"I didn't do a thing except for the preliminary check,"
the medic responded.
"Well what about other people?" she asked. "Did
someone else, maybe on the bridge give him something?"
Realization flashed across Card's face. He grinned
broadly. "Yes. Ensign Green and Lieutenant Worf prayed for
him."
"Engineering reports partial power," Starbuck reported.
"Lieutenant Worf," Data said, "When a cylon basestar
enters range, you are to fire the phaser battery at its
central column. At this point, Ensign Green will engage the
warp drive and initiate the Picard manuever toward the
nearest remaining basestar. You will then fire the phaser
battery again at the second basestar."
"Where do I figure in, Commander?" Chief O'Brien
wondered over the communicator.
"After Worf will have hopefully incapacitated the
initial two basestars, we will be in position to beam over a
photon torpedo into the third. The matter/antimatter
explosion should be sufficient to destroy it from the
inside."
"Right," Starbuck said, "and I'm supposed to look at
all these buttons and lights and tell you what the sensors
say, right?"
"That is correct, Lieutenant. How distant are the
cylons?"
"Nineteen thousand kilometers and closing. They'll be
in range in fifteen minutes," Starbuck replied.
Worf spoke up from his position behind Data. Since
they were on the battle bridge, he no longer had the
elevation afforded him on the main bridge. "Commander, what
of the cylon raiders left in the area?"
"We shall leave them here. Several Star Fleet and
Klingon warbirds will encounter the cylons in four hours,
and we must hurry to join them at the encounter. There are
no colonized planets within this system, and Lieutenant
Starbuck informs me that they lack sufficient fuel to reach
another. They will be forced to colonize a world in this
system."
Fifteen minutes passed. "Cylon basestar coming into
firing range . . . now. No evidence that they can detect
us," Starbuck announced.
"Fire phaser battery at will, Lieutenant Worf," Data
said simply.
The Klingon aimed the weapon swiftly yet carefully at
the central column, and pressed the firing button. Bright
red lights appeared on either side of the primary hull, and
raced to meet in the center. A sudden crimson blast brought
brief day to the dark night in space as it illuminated a
deadly sunrise. The cylon basestar took the blast right in
its center column and shook violently in a horrible
explosion.
"Two down, two to go," Starbuck said quietly, resuming
the absent Riker's count. The remaining basestars altered
course as they bore down on the wounded and angry
Enterprise. Her location was no longer a secret.
"Engage the Picard manuever . . . mark," Data
commanded.
Enthroned in his lofty chair, the cylon centurion
looked in stunned disbelief as the Enterprise appeared in a
separate location without ever leaving the first one. Which
ship was the real Enterprise? Scans were inconclusive--both
seemed to be real. The humans had developed impressive
hologram technology.
Before the gold-plated cylon's question could be
considered further, he made the unpleasant discovery as the
Enterprise closer to his ship unleashed a second destructive
blast of phaser power. Her hull ruptured so severely, the
ship tore in two as the air escaped in a maddened frenzy,
dragging cylon warriors and the centurion with it.
"Three down, one to go," was Starbuck's only comment as
he scrutinized the information flowing across his terminal.
The remaining centurion considered this new ploy by the
humans. She and her crew would be prepared for this tactic.
She spoke in a mechanized voice, her red eye sliding back
and forth in her visored helmet. "Destroy the human's ship
closest us if they attempt such a manuever again." Her
voice resonated throughout the metal chamber as she spoke.
She never saw the photon torpedo as it coallesced
behind her, shimmering with the transporter effect. The
powerful weapon detonated, removing the final basestar from
the sector.
"That makes four! Yahoo!" Starbuck cheered. "Cylon
raiders approaching, Commander."
"Plot a course for the cylon fleet, Ensign Green, at
warp six," Data commanded.
"Course acknowledged, laid in, and engaged, sir," Green
replied. The Enterprise took off in hot pursuit of the
cylon fleet.
TO BE CONTINUED . . .
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From: uunet!buast9.bu.edu!sword (Bill Mackiewicz)
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To: jwest%andersen%uunet.uu.net@bu-ast.BU.EDU
Subject: The Cylon War, Part 2
Status: OR
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From: Matthew S Richmond <richmond@endor.cs.psu.edu>
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Date: Wed, 10 Apr 91 18:38:28 EDT
Status: R
The Cylon War, Part Two
By Dave Learn
William T. Riker shinnied up the rough tree as silently
and expediently as possible. Too much noise would attract
undesired attention and cost him whatever advantage he had.
All around him, the birds sung sweetly, blissfully unaware
of the struggle he underwent. The brook deceptively wound
its way through the wooded countryside, a peaceful image
designed to lull him into unwariness. The area emanated a
tranquil quality too absent from his time on board the
Enterprise. Ironic that he should be fleeing through it for
his life.
From his lofty perch, his eyes raced over the unpeopled
landscape. There! There was one of them. A solitary
robot, programmed to kill humans on sight, stood down the
slopes some fifty meters. Riker wondered that it hadn't
detected his presence yet. At once he began to develop a
strategy to overcome this unit. Besides it, there were at
least two, perhaps as many as five other robots searching
for him. If he managed to overcome this one, he had a
chance. With the robot's phaser rifle, he would be better
able to defeat the others.
An attack relying on physical prowess would fail, he
realized. This robot was at least as strong as Lieutenant
Data and could pulverize him with the twitch of a hand. No,
he smiled ruefully, he would need some of Worf's guile and
cunning.
The robot patiently scanned the countryside with its
infrared vision. The human, once located, would be an easy
target for destruction. A noise from up the slope drew its
attention. The leaves from a tree rustled loudly as
something plummeted from their haven. The robot turned
about to locate the human.
Rather than the focused heat of a human body, the robot
beheld a portrait of heat, like fire splashed across a
canvas. Somewhere within the brush fire was the human, but
it would be impossible to detect where without closer
investigation. It automatically readied the phaser rifle it
cradled in its arm.
Looking for all the world like a king at court, Riker
sat enthroned on a stump while the flames danced for his
amusement. At the entrance to his flaming palace, towers of
flame guarded their lord from the robot's advance. The
robot looked directly at the commander but remained unsure
if it had found the human it sought--it could find nothing
to distinguish Riker from the heat all around it.
Riker relaxed as he witnessed the robot's bewilderment.
Then, gathering his breath, he lunged to his left before
landing on his chest some five feet away. The robot, seeing
the sudden motion, fired the phaser rifle, missing Riker but
hitting the tree behind where Riker had sat. The behemoth,
already weakened by the fire, broke at the phaser blast and
fell forward with a loud crack. The robot never knew what
hit it.
"One down, five to go," Riker quipped as he ran to grab
the robot's phaser. As his hand reached out to claim his
prize, his eyes lit on the last thing he wanted to see: two
other robots. Their rifles fired, hitting Riker squarely in
the chest.
"Game over. One robot incapacitated." The computer's
voice gently rang through the room as the woods and robots
disappeared from the holodeck.
"Blast it. Why can't I ever win?" Riker asked airily.
"Success is dependent upon individual skill and
selected game level," the computer responded.
Riker grinned as he gathered himself up. "Well, at
least I'm getting better. I managed to destroy one this
time. I'll have to tell Worf."
"Number One, report to the briefing room," Picard's
voice echoed in the empty holodeck.
"What is it, sir?"
"We seem to have a problem. The cylons have returned."
"The cylons? Have Adama's people been informed?"
"They are . . . they are aware of the situation, Number
One. Report to the briefing room."
Ten minutes later, Riker stepped onto the bridge. The
command chair was, of course, empty, as was Picard's policy
when the bridge crew was in conference.
He turned to the navigator. "Afternoon, Keith. Do you
know what's going on?"
The curly-haired ensign looked over his shoulder,
sadness in his eyes. "Yes sir. It's not pleasant. Captain
Picard is going to need your support.
Green was an unusual sort to find on a starship--he was
a fundamentalist Christian, believing the Bible to be the
word of a supreme being. Yet despite his narrow-mindedness,
Green showed himself to have an engaging personality, an
uncanny resourcefulness and a sincere devotion to his duties
that was unusually intense. Despite its reservations about
his evangelical tendencies, Star Fleet saw no reason not to
graduate Green from the academy and assign him to its
flagship. During his service, he had established an
exemplary record, the only mar being an infraction of Star
Fleet's religious freedom guidelines, where he had initiated
a conversation about his god. Star Fleet did not forbid
discussion, but it had to be initiated by non-adherents to
the faith in question.
Putting his thoughts of Green behind him, Riker stepped
into the briefing room. His eyes roved the table--he was
the last one to arrive. Picard, Worf, Deanna, Data, Geordi,
Dr Crusher, Adama, Starbuck, and Apollo were already seated.
"I understand your feelings, admiral," Deanna said to
Adama, "but you must not blame yourself. There is nothing
you could have done to save your people. The cylons had
them hopelessly outnum--what is that smell?"
Picard sniffed the air and soon wished he hadn't. "It
smells like a campfire. Number One, what have you been
doing?"
Riker grinned. "Sorry you don't like the smell, sir.
I was just pitting myself against some Tholian assassin
robots. I had to set fire to the holodeck to even the
odds."
"How did you manage, commander? I can only destroy
three of them before I am overwhelmed, and would like some
suggestions."
"Sorry, Worf. I only took out one before they killed
me. I don't think I can be of much help."
Picard dismissed the conversation with a wave of his
hand. "Enough. Number One, you are familiar with our
guests?"
"Of course." Riker nodded curtly to Adama, Apollo, and
Starbuck.
Picard formally began the meeting. "We arrived at the
planet Mormo approximately thirty minutes ago to deliver her
dignitaries back. What we found was this."
At the touch of Picard's finger, the viewscreen lit up
to reveal the devastated Mormo. The new cities lay in
ruins, anthills crushed beneath a giant heel. The Galactica
and her brood drifted emptily in space, torn to pieces by
the deadly onslaught which had overcome them. As the
viewscreen progressed, other shapes appeared. Baseships,
huge metal sandwiches separated by a pole wandered through
the vacuum, ripped apart but identifiable. And in the
background hung a cylon tanker, the fuel which caused the
conflagration to surge.
Riker sat in his chair, shocked into silence, his mouth
agape at the sight. "Good Lord, even the borg couldn't do
that . . ." he at last gasped.
"Shortly after we arrived, Ensign Green detected
chemical traces which we believe were left behind by the
cylons. We are in pursuit and should encounter them within
ten hours. They are headed toward Earth."
"Ah, Earth," Adama mused. "You know, the belief in
your world was all that sustained for us the yarhens we
wandered through space. We thought that once we located the
thirteenth colony, all would be well, that we would at last
have peace.
"Who would have thought this would be the peace we
would win for ourselves and Earth?"
"Admiral Adama," Deanna said, "it is not over yet. The
cylons haven't reached Earth, and before they do, they'll
have to fight Star Fleet."
"Not over?" Adama demanded, growing louder. "Not
over?" He broke off to a whisper, so that the others
strained to hear. "Of course it's over. It's all finished.
We can't resist the cylons. We thought we could. We tried
for a thousand yarhens, and when we thought we had peace,
they destroyed the twelve colonies. We thought we escaped
them and found Earth, and they have followed us even here,
and destroyed us. Mormo is a tomb, a place fit for that
demon your young ensign talked about. We have lost, and it
is over. The gods of Kobol have abandoned us to die."
Adama rose and walked out of the briefing room. Troi
looked at Starbuck and Apollo, and seeing they could be no
help, whirled out after him.
"Does anyone have any suggestions?" Picard ventured,
trying to pierce the despondency which had blanketed the
room.
"Destroy them."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said, 'Destroy them,'" the blond Starbuck said
louder. "They've hunted us like animals for over a thousand
yarhens. They destroyed the twelve colonies, and they won't
stop until the thirteenth is gone, too. You've got to kill
them before they kill you. It's as simple as that."
"I'm afraid Starbuck's right," Dr Crusher ventured.
"Any race that could destroy an entire world, a whole
people, like the cylons have done to Mormo . . . I don't see
why they would stop there. It's humans they hate, and Earth
has spread humanity all across the Federation. Once the
cylons reach Earth, they'll do the same thing again."
"The cause is just," Worf spoke tersely. "I will
fight."
Geordi looked dubious. "I think we can handle it,
captain, provided we can outthink them. The basestars gave
us a run for our money the last time. We'll have to be as
resourceful as ever, or we're done for."
"I am in agreement with Geordi," Data intoned. "The
cylons proved themselves quite capable of resisting our
firepower at our previous encounter. It was the power of
the Galactica and her vipers which enabled us to win."
"That's an advantage you're not going to have this
time," Apollo interjected. "But they won't have Baltar,
either." A part of him began to wonder. What was his place
here? These were not his people; his people were all dead.
Why should he fight the Enterprise's war for her? Did he
really belong here at all, now that Mormo was destroyed?
"I vote for battle, too, sir. I can't see that there
will be a resolution to this conflict any other way. If
they haven't stopped yet, they're not likely to," Riker said
finally.
Picard cupped his hands and stared at the table in
front of him while he considered. At last he raised his
head, having come to the only conclusion possible.
"We will fight."
Troi raced after the distraught Adama down the
corridors of the Enterprise.
"Admiral!" she called. "Admiral! Computer, locate
Admiral Adama."
"Admiral Adama is in holodeck seventeen."
Five minutes later, Troi opened the door to the
holodeck. Inside, Adama sat in his Galactican uniform, his
head bowed between his legs. Bitterness rushed through him
like a deadly venom, mixed with the deadly elixir of
despair.
"Admiral?" Troi ventured, gently reaching her hand out
to touch the Galactican on his shoulder.
"Commander. My name is Commander Adama," his voice
replied hoarsely.
"Commander, I know how you feel."
Adama was beyond anger now, and exuded only sadness.
"No you don't. How could you? Have you ever led a people
across the galaxy, offering them some hope you struggled to
believe yourself? Have you ever led a people, pursued by
the monsters who destroyed their homes, led them into peril
after peril, following some hope, some myth, all on the
chance that it will pay off?"
"No, Commander, I haven't. But you found Earth. Your
gamble paid off."
"Did it? What did I save them from, Counsellor? Death
on the twelve colony worlds, and death is space. So they
had their hopes realized, only to be deserted by the gods
and find themselves dashed to pieces on the rocks. What
have I done? I wasn't even there to help in the last
battle. I was safe and comfortable on this starship."
Troi looked at Adama. She had imagined the statesman
to be in his fifties, perhaps his sixties before. As she
scrutinized him now, she would estimate that he was in his
nineties. What was worse was that the anger, the bitterness
she felt from him before were dissipating, overcome by a
larger weariness and feeling of surrender. A cold darkness
was moving in.
"Commander, are you all right?"
"No. How can I be? My people, Counsellor, are dead.
My gods are dead as well, and I wonder if they were alive at
all. What right have I to live?"
"Commander, I think you should report to sickbay . . ."
Troi's concern was growing into panic. She could feel the
numbness spreading through Adama's mind like a cancer.
"It's too late," he breathed silently as he stretched
out his arms.
"Beverly!" Troi shouted over her communicator. "Get a
sickbay to holodeck seventeen. Get them now!"
"I'm sorry, Deanna," Beverly said, frustration etched
into her face. "My team did their best. There was no
reason for him not to recover. We got there in plenty of
time to save his life. He just didn't want to live. He had
given up hope."
"Survivor's guilt," Troi said solemnly. "We still
can't overcome that, even in the twenty-fourth century. But
who's going to tell Starbuck and Apollo? They have a right
to know."
"You're the counsellor, Deanna," Riker said. "That
makes it your job--you'd do a better job than any of us. If
you like, I'll come with you for moral support."
Troi sighed. "Thank you, Will. I'm going to need it."
"He WHAT!?" Apollo thundered. "How could he? My fa--
Commander--Admiral Adama would never-"
"Apollo, Starbuck, I know this is hard on both of you,
but it is inescapable. Admiral Adama committed suicide. He
felt to blame for what happened to Mormo, and this was how
he dealt with it. He has invested so much of his life into
the Galactica and his religion, that the loss was just too
much for him. I am sorry."
"You're sorry? YOU'RE sorry? Listen, lady, that man--
that man--" Apollo faltered and grew silent. "That man was
my father. I can't believe he did this to us. I just can't
believe it . . ." Overcome with emotion, Apollo collapsed
onto the sofa as the sobs wrenched his body. Starbuck moved
in to comfort him.
"Hey, buddy, it'll be okay. He's started his climb to
godhood, remember?"
"Only if he was good enough. A suicide . . ." Apollo
broke down again.
Riker and Troi stepped out into the hallway. The door
whisked shut behind them. "What do you think?"
"Tears are how we heal ourselves emotionally, Will.
Apollo has faced the death of his people and his father
today. I hope he can cope with his anguish. Fortunately,
he has Starbuck to help him."
"What about Starbuck?" Riker asked as they headed
toward the turbolift.
"Starbuck does not release his grief like Apollo does.
He changes it into anger and he uses that to his advantage.
In some ways, he is like you, Will. His anger is what makes
him so aggressive, so suicidal in battle."
"Anger at whom?"
"For him, the cylons. It has driven him to take risks
no one else would dare, even flying into a fleet of cylon
raiders by himself. If he is not able to vent that anger in
the coming battle, I fear for his safety."
"What was that comment about me?"
"You are angry, too, Will. You are angry with your
father for your upbringing. It has driven you to be the
best you could be, and has driven you up into the position
of first officer on the Enterprise. You refuse to be second
best in anything, and if you ever lose control, you seek to
regain it. Even by leaving a relationship, imzadi." During
her explanation, Troi had grown increasingly angry and
bitter. Now that she has finished, she storms off in a
different direction, away from Riker, trying to escape her
own anger and bitterness.
"Sorry I asked," Riker snarled, and entered the lift.
"State destination please," the computer asked.
"Main bridge," he growled.
The door opened and Riker disembarked. Picard stood in
the center of the bridge, proud and erect.
"Are you certain, ensign?" he demanded.
"Positive, captain," came Green's confident response.
"We are coming within range of the cylon war fleet . . .
now."
"On screen." A cluster of ships appeared, rushing
through the stars, tailed by dazzling bright lights.
"Magnify." The cluster enlarged, a group of thirty
basestars glided through the sea of darkness, escorted by a
complement of thirty tankers.
"We are fifteen hours from Earth, captain. The nearest
Star Fleet help is seven hours away," Green announced.
"As always, we face the enemy alone, eh?" Picard asked
ruefully. "Mr Worf, open a hailing frequency to the cylon
fleet."
"Hailing frequency open, captain. It will be received
by all basestars."
"This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the USS Enterprise.
Your presence here is in violation of Federation territory,
and may be regarded as an act of war. I demand to know your
reason for being here, or we will be forced to open fire."
"Captain, I've never heard you come on so strong
before," Riker whispered to Picard.
"Number One, I'm glad you're here," Picard whispered
back. "Apparently, we caught them refueling."
On screen appeared an ugly visage. Seated on an
elevated throne, a loathsome figure leered out at Picard.
Dressed with a flowing purple robe, a dour expression on its
sickly purple face, the creature looked for all the galaxy
like a humanoid bruise.
"I am the Imperious Leader of the Cylon Empire," the
bruise announced, as if expecting Picard and Riker to grovel
before it. "We do not recognize the existence of this
'Federation,' nor do we recognize your authority. We do
recognize you, however, Jean-Luc Picard. Your frame marks
you as that damned race, human, and the sentence is death.
Prepare to be destroyed."
"So much for getting them to leave, Captain," Riker put
forth. "Worf, raise shields. Arm phasers, arm photon
torpedoes, and prepare to fire on my command."
The basestar turned, locked its laser cannons, and
fired.
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From: uunet!buast9.bu.edu!sword (Bill Mackiewicz)
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To: jwest%andersen%uunet.uu.net@bu-ast.BU.EDU
Subject: The Cylon War, Part 3
Status: OR
>From bu.edu!rpi!zaphod.mps.ohio-state.edu!unix.cis.pitt.edu!dsinc!netnews.upenn.edu!vax1.cc.lehigh.edu!lehi3b15!lafcol!learnd Sat Apr 6 17:30:46 1991
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From: learnd@lafcol.UUCP (Don Quixote)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.startrek
Subject: The Cylon War
Keywords: Part Three
Message-ID: <2634@lafcol.UUCP>
Date: 1 Apr 91 21:36:59 GMT
Distribution: na
Organization: La Mancha
Lines: 231
One of the things I love about writing is that the writer really doesn't
control what goes on. She creates the characters and the situation, and
then, if she's a good writer, the rest is out of her hands because the
characters will act according to who they are.
Such is the case with "The Cylon War." I had intended it to be three
parts, but it is not finished yet, even though this is part three. I'll
soon get to work on part four, which should be out in the next two
weeks.
If you're just reading this, I'll repeat what I've said with parts one
and two. It is not essential, but it may be helpful, to have read
"Galactica and Enterprise" (which is not "Enterprise vs. Galactica) and
"A Christmas Story." I have copies of both, plus the first two parts.
Write me at one of my addresses, tell me which parodies/stories you
want, and give me your address, and I'll happily pass them on.
And now, part three.
//-n-\\ Don Quixote
_____---=======---_____ Photon Tube Maintenance
====____\ /.. ..\ /____====
// ---\__O__/--- \\ dl20@lafayacs.bitnet
\_\ /_/ learnd@lafcol.uucp
_learnd@lafayett.bitnet
"Share your pain. See Star Trek V with a friend."
The Cylon War: Part Three
By Dave Learn
The Enterprise shook at the force of the cylon assault.
Braced for the impact, Picard grimly stared at the
viewscreen. There was no escaping a conflict this time, and
he knew better than to try. His previous encounter with
Baltar and his cylons had taught him that much.
"Shields at seventy-nine percent," Worf announced.
"So much for a peaceful resolution. Mister Worf, fire
photon torpedoes!" Riker barked. No sooner was the command
issued than the massive Klingon obeyed, launching a volley
of the powerful projectiles at the basestar. The missiles
never had a chance, and were harmlessly detonated by the
laser cannons.
"It's a waste of time, Will. The cylons are more than
capable of destroying our torpedoes before they can hit
them. We need Lieutenant Starbuck and Commander Apollo
here," Picard said, as he reached for his communicator pin.
"Lieutenant Starbuck, Commander Apollo, report to the
bridge. We need your advice, gentlemen."
"Sorry, captain. Apollo's not in very good shape right
now, but I'll be up," the Galactican Starbuck replied.
"Captain," Ensign Green interrupted, "most of the
basestars are leaving. They're resuming their course toward
Earth. Only four are remaining behind." He paused
momentarily as his hands danced lightly over the panel. "A
large number of small ships are launching from the
basestars, perhaps two hundred each."
Riker turned to behold a despairing look on Picard's
face. "We're in trouble?" he asked. Riker had commanded
the primary hull as it left the scene battle when the
Enterprise initially encountered the cylons.
"We're in trouble," Picard answered glumly. "It took
the Enterprise and the Galactica, with her vipers, to defeat
three basestars, and even then the Enterprise was nearly
destroyed. It's going to take all we've got to stop the
cylons this time. Perhaps even more."
"Sir, the cylon raiders are opening fire on the ship,"
Worf announced. "Minor damage to the shields."
"Mr Green, plot a course toward the sun, full impulse,"
Picard commanded. Let's see of they'll follow us."
"Sir?"
"Ensign, I'm shocked," Picard deadpanned. "Aren't
followers of the Way supposed to obey the authorities?"
"Aye sir. Course laid in," Green replied, grinning, as
he laid in the course.
"Engage."
The turbolift hissed open as Starbuck appeared. He
confidently strode down to stand by the captain. "How can I
help you, captain?" Starbuck asked.
"For one thing, put out that cigar," Picard replied as
he waved his hand to scatter the smoke. "I can't stand the
smell. For a second thing, we need to draw on your battle
experience with the cylons. Will they pursue us, even if it
means risking their lives?"
The deck shook as a basestar answered Picard's question
with a volley of laser fire. "Probably," Starbuck advised,
"but they'll try to stop you. The cylon raiders may even
make suicide dives at the ship if it comes down to that."
"Hull temperature five hundred degrees," Green
announced.
"Get us as close to the sun as you can, Ensign," Picard
replied. "Captain Sulu once flew a Bird of Prey inside
Mercury's orbit."
"Maybe so, but a Bird of Prey is a lot smaller than a
galaxy class starship. Hull temperature 700 degrees. Cylon
basestar closing." Another blast of laser fire rocked the
ship from behind.
"Shields at twenty-three percent, captain. Damage
reports coming in from all decks," Worf rumbled. "Light
damage to decks one through fifteen, minor injuries."
"The basestar is gaining, sir," Green reported.
"Excellent. Increase to warp factor one. Keith, take
us as close as you can to the sun without seriously
jeopardizing the ship. It looks like the basestars lack the
maneuverability of a starship. Use that to our advantage."
"And see if we can get them to fall into the star?"
Green surmised.
"Exactly. Lieutenant Worf, when we complete orbit, the
remaining two basestars should still be grouped together.
Implement my Picard maneuver to attack the closer of the
two. Fire the phaser battery at the central column; see if
you can sheer it in two."
The Klingon stared down at Picard. "An excellent
strategy, captain. They will not suspect it."
Starbuck whistled in appreciation. "Sure wish we'd had
you guys while we were looking for Earth. We could have won
a lot more easily."
The Enterprise raced through space's dark night toward
the blindingly bright day of the star, a cylon basestar
close on her heels. Green could feel the pull of the star
on the ship as he flew it; he fought against the increasing
keel to one side as the ship ran along the fine edge of
destruction at warp two. If he failed to compensate for the
star's gravity just slightly, the ship could be pulled into
fiery destruction. His only hope was that the basestar
would fall into the lake of plasma below them before they
did.
The life-support and artificial gravity on the starship
were strained as they sought to maintain tolerable heat and
gravity levels. He did not dare to look to see where the
basestar was, whether it had plummeted into the star below
or not. All his attention was devoted to the task at hand.
He sweated beneath the hot rays of the sun as they warped
around it. How long had he done this? Probably only a
dozen seconds, yet it felt like an eternity as the star's
gravity pulled on the ship, beckoning it down to be consumed
in fire.
"Mister Data," he heard the captain ask, "what is our
situation?"
Data's answer drifted back, cool and relaxed,
"Artificial gravity and life support continue to compensate
for the star's effects. The basestar still follows us,
however it is failing to compensate for the star's
gravitational pull. It appears to be breaking up."
"Excellent. Keith, take us to a higher orbit before
you pass out. Data, put the basestar on screen."
Green breathed a sigh of relief as the Enterprise rose
into a new orbit. At last he dared to look up at the
viewscreen, where he saw the basestar caught in a fatal
downward spiral into the sun. As it disappeared from sight,
it began to break apart as the stress on its hull became too
great.
"One down, three to go," Riker intoned.
Worf interrupted, "Coming within sensor range of the
remaining cylon basestars now." He looked at the readings
again, and spoke urgently, "Commander, they have anticipated
us--there is a fleet of raiders with a basestar waiting for
us!" The viewscreen showed the cylon raiders close enough
for the crew to reach out and touch them.
"Shields on full!" Riker shouted as the Enterprise
plowed into a wall of cylon raiders. Amid a deafening
crash, the lights on the bridge faltered and grew dark.
"Emergency lighting," Riker coughed. All around him he
heard the groans of broken crewmen and twisted, strained
metal. Slowly the automated bridge lit up as the computer
responded. "Good Lord . . . " Riker gasped as he looked
around.
The bridge was in chaos. Huge pieces of the ceiling
had fallen onto the floor. Green was crawling out from
underneath a panel which had fallen on him. He was
apparently unhurt as he raced over to help Riker. The
captain . . . where was the captain? Riker's heart stopped
cold as he looked at the captain's chair, buried under a
pile of circuitry and panels.
"Data!" he shrieked, "Green! Help him--help the
captain!"
Green looked at the captain's seat. Could anyone be
alive underneath that? He offered up a silent prayer to his
God as he and the android second officer turned to find out.
Together they moved a large piece of wreckage and he beheld
the bloody, broken captain as he looked emptily at the
ceiling above him.
"Starbuck to sickbay," the straw-haired lieutenant next
to him intoned. "Medical emergency on the bridge."
"Number One," Picard wheezed. "Number One . . ."
"I'm here, sir," Riker answered as he bent down to hear
his captain's rasping breath.
"I'm cold . . . so cold, Will. Take care of the ship.
Take care of her, Will. So cold."
"Sir," Worf interrupted, his voice pained. "Shields
are down. Geordi reports marginal warp drive. Severe
structural damage to decks one through seven, and
engineering decks twenty-nine to thirty-two. Minor damage
to all decks, casualties unknown. I recommend we hide."
Riker paused uncertainly while his head throbbed from
his concussion. "Make it so. Take us to the seventh
planet, hide us in the . . . in the . . ."
"In the north magnetic pole, sir?" Data suggested
gently. The tactic was one Riker had used once before while
he served on the USS Hood.
"Yes, make it so," Riker answered dizzily.
Ensign Green looked to his console and saw it would be
pointless to initiate a new course from there. He glanced
at Data, who understood the problem. "Computer, lay in
course to the seventh planet, north pole, warp two, and
engage."
"Commander?" Green asked gently.
Riker turned to Green, slowly. His head pulsated in
agony and he thought he would pass out.
"Do you mind if I pray for the captain while we wait
for the medical team?"
Praying? What good would that do? Riker failed to see
how Green's superstitious beliefs in some god would help
anything, especially the captain. "Why?" he asked.
"Can it hurt?"
Riker paused. "No, I suppose not. Go ahead."
Starbuck watched in wonder as the curly-haired ensign
knelt down over the captain, gingerly placed his hands on
the fallen figure and began to ask this unseen god to
preserve the captain's life. To his amazement, the Klingon
joined him in prayer, coming down from the weapons console.
Of course, he mused sardonically, on the off-chance
that Green's and Worf's god were real, it certainly wouldn't
hurt to ask for its help. With a fleet of three cylon
basestars and their raiders approaching, any help,
especially divine help, would be needed.
TO BE CONTINUED.
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From: uunet!buast9.bu.edu!sword (Bill Mackiewicz)
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To: jwest%andersen%uunet.uu.net@bu-ast.BU.EDU
Subject: The Cylon War, Part 6
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From: ASHLEY BOWERS <C_S346010219@STAT.APPSTATE.EDU>
Subject: cylon war part 6
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Status: R
The Cylon War: Part Six
By Dave Learn
Paramedic Michael Card gasped in horror at the bloody
mess sprawled out across the hallway. He bent down to check
its pulse and found, to his surprise, a pulse. The person,
whether it was a man or woman, he could not be sure, had
been severely mauled. It continued to breathe, and Card
prayed that it would not stop, so he would not have to
resuscitate it.
The officer's uniform and chest had been torn to
ribbons, as if by some taloned beast, and its face had been
nearly ripped off. Its arms and legs were slick with blood,
marked with a thousand wounds, and what hair was left hung
close to the crimson head, matted with blood. As he bent
down to identify the unfortunate, he looked closely at the
mangled face. Starbuck . . .
"Card to O'Brien," he said. "Medical emergency outside
holodeck thirteen. Beam us down to sickbay immediately."
The grim tableau disappeared in a shower of light.
The Enterprise streaked through the expansive void,
leaving the stars behind her like dust. Battle waited for
her only minutes ahead, a final confrontation between man
and the mechanized butchers of his forgotten brothers.
Captain Picard and Commander Riker waited on the battle
bridge, with Worf, Green, and Apollo for the coming fight.
Despite the wounds they received, the two had returned for
the last showdown, unwilling to be anywhere other than the
bridge.
Picard turned to his bridge crew for inspiration. As a
Star Fleet officer, he had learned to depend on his officers
for insight and guidance in all situations. This frequently
made him the subject of friendly ridicule among those
accustomed to making decisions independently, but no one
could argue with the series of successful campaigns he
enjoyed on the Stargazer, the Enterprise, or any other ship
he had captained.
"Suggestions?" he asked simply.
"Depend on your transporters, captain," Apollo offered.
"Neither we nor the cylons ever developed matter
transference technology. It's the last thing they'd expect,
and they can't stop you from using it like they can a photon
torpedo."
As Apollo finished, Data quietly amended his statement,
"This tactic has proven very effective, captain. The cylons
appear to lack sufficient shielding to block a transporter
beam."
"So it is your recommendation that we use this tactic
again?" Picard asked.
"It is, sir. Conventional battle tactics have proven
to be less effective than hoped against the basestars.
Phasers have little effect on their thick plating, and
photon torpedoes must be fired at a close range to avoid
their laser cannons."
"But the phaser battery?" Riker asked, referring to
the devastating phaser blast Worf had once employed against
a borg ship in system J25, and again against the cylons.
"We have already used that several times in the past
five hours, and are in danger of overheating the phaser
coils should we use it again soon," Data explained.
"I think we can manage, Will, as long as we rely on
ingenuity in battle. The cylons' main tactic is superior
force; they're like a battering ram trying to open an old
oak door. If we can out-think them, we can undo them,"
Picard said. He turned to Apollo. "How did you envision
using the transporters?"
Apollo grimaced as he anticipated Picard's response.
"Beam over away teams to blast the cylons away from the
inside. If you position them in the right places, they can
take out the control centers and leave the basestars
helpless."
Worf's eyes bore down on the Galactican mercilessly.
"That would involved unacceptable losses of life while the
away teams were on the basestars."
Apollo glared back. "If you want to win a war,
sometimes you've got to be willing to leave someone behind."
He shuddered as he remembered his brother, Zachary, left
behind while Apollo flew ahead to warn the fleet of an
ambush.
"Captain, I believe that Commander Apollo has hit upon
an idea," Data interrupted. "While you and Commander Riker
were in sickbay, we destroyed a basestar by transporting a
photon torpedo aboard. Such a maneuver may prove useful
again."
"Or," Riker considered, "we could always consider
beaming segments of a basestar elsewhere." Picard looked at
him, confused. "Don't you get it? They haven't got shields
to block a transporter beam. If Chief O'Brien can swing it,
we might be able to rupture the hull of a basestar by
beaming a section of it somewhere else. The decompression
would take care of the rest."
Picard quietly considered to himself. "These are all
very promising suggestions, gentlemen. I hope that we can
attempt some of them with success. Mister Data, which ships
has Star Fleet sent for the battle?"
Data turned his chair toward the front of the battle
bridge and pressed the controls for the main screen. The
viewer lit up with a display of the cylon fleet as it moved
deeper into Federation territory. Several Federation and
Klingon ships converged on the basestars from all
directions.
"Star Fleet has ordered several ships to intercept the
cylon fleet. The USS New_Jersey should encounter the cylons
within the next five minutes. The USS Distance will arrive
soon after, followed by several others, including a number
of Klingon warbirds. We will arrive in twenty minutes,"
Data said.
"Bridge, this is sickbay. Is Apollo there?"
"I'm here," Apollo shouted as he turned, wondering
where he should speak to.
"Apollo, this is Doctor Selar. Doctor Crusher is with
Starbuck now. You'd better come now. You'd better hurry."
"What?" Apollo half-rose from his seat. "Captain
Picard, request permission to leave the battle bridge."
Picard did not hesitate. "Granted."
As Apollo rushed from the bridge, Picard added softly,
"I just hope we don't require your advice during the coming
battle."
The Enterprise warped through the night.
Apollo dashed into sickbay, nearly colliding with the
Vulcan Selar. "What is it? What happened to him?"
"We're not sure. Something nearly killed him in
holodeck thirteen. It doesn't appear that we can save him."
"NO! You've got to!"
"Doctor Crusher is doing all she can, but he is in
critical condition. Whoever attacked him was brutal."
Doctor Crusher emerged from a small room, harried and
exhausted. She hated moments like this. "Apollo . . ." she
began.
Apollo knew where this was going. He had just been
through it less than twenty-four hours previously. "What
can you do for him?"
Crusher breathed deeply and leaned against the wall for
support, hating herself, hating her job, hating the dying
man who had put her in this position. "Nothing. His
attacker was brutal. I've tried everything I can, but I
just can't save him." This was a recurring nightmare for
her. She could not tolerate suffering; the very reason she
had joined the Star Fleet medical corp was to end it. And
here she was for the second time in twenty-four hours,
unable to help.
Apollo gingerly entered the room where Starbuck lie on
the table. The mangled figure which barely resembled his
friend rolled its head toward him and looked up through its
one good eye.
"Apollo?" a raspy voice asked, blood spurting from the
creature's mouth.
"It's me, good buddy. What happened? Who did this to
you?"
Starbuck gathered his breath painfully, and gasped,
". . . in . . . lodeck thirteen. 'member the a-angel?"
Apollo remembered. The unearthly luminous being had
given the Galactica the coordinates for Earth and saved
their lives from countless yarhens of unwanted wandering.
It had also saved his life.
Starbuck coughed up blood, his body shaking. "We-we've
been tricked, g . . . good buddy." His head rolled back.
Apollo began to weep.
"Easy, Starbuck. Take it easy. They'll get you out of
this."
". . . no . . . too late for that," he breathed
hoarsely. "It at- . . . at- . . . attack . . ."
"It attacked you? The angel?" Apollo asked,
incredulous. Starbuck nodded.
"A lie . . . all a lie. J'So-J'So--" Starbuck coughed
violently, shaking on the table. ". . . from . . . evil
one."
"What? Starbuck, are you out of your mind?"
Starbuck shook his head. Couldn't Apollo see? His
eyes began to dim, and he felt his arms grow numb. Yet
somehow, he managed to laugh--a rough, choking sound, but
definitely a laugh. Apollo leaned close to hear his words.
". . . f-finally . . . closed the b-bargain . . . m-made
with . . . a-angel." His bloody mouth formed a smile.
". . . l-love ya . . . g-good bud . . ." His mangled hand
reached up and grabbed Apollo's. "b-bye . . ."
Starbuck grew still, his breathing drew to a halt.
Apollo stared at his lifeless friend, still clasping his
hand in his own, tears streaming down his pained face.
"Goodbye, Starbuck. I won't forget you."
From the mad chaos of warp speed, the Enterprise
emerged into a virtual frenzy as it dropped into the battle
raging between the Distance and the New_Jersey and the
basestars. Space was a collage of starships and cylons as
the raiders ducked and weaved, blasting slowly but steadily
away at the shields of the two larger vessels.
"Lieutenant Worf," Picard asked slowly, "can you hit
one of those tankers with a photon torpedo?"
"Certainly, sir."
"Make it so."
Taking rapid yet careful aim, Worf fired a spread of
torpedoes at a cylon tanker removed from the starships.
Predictably, the cylon raiders destroyed most of the
projectiles before they could reach their destination. One
torpedo, however, avoided destruction in time to detonate.
The explosion was phenomenal, even from a distance.
For an instant space lit up with a new star, the force
of the explosion destroying the cylon raiders within the
blast radius and badly damaging the basestar which drifted
next to it.
"Should I target another one, sir?" Worf asked.
"My eyes! I can hardly see!" someone complained, half
in jest. Picard wasn't sure who it was--he was reeling from
the flash himself.
"Negative. Chief, can you give the transporters a
try?" Picard asked.
O'Brien turned from his new position on the battle
bridge. "Well, I reckon I can give it a try captain. What
should I transport?"
"Can the transporters handle a cylon raider?"
"I don't see why not. According to what I learned in
the Academy, Captain Scott once used these to beam up a
couple of whales. I'll give it a try, sir."
The cylon centurion stood in the center of the
basestar, surveying the work of his crew. The basestar was
turning now, advancing upon the wounded Enterprise. Somehow
the humans had survived the previous taskforce. They would
not survive this encounter. They would be destroyed.
He looked to the viewscreen, his dancing red eye taking
in everything that it displayed. A raider suddenly
disappeared. What had happened? Sensors did not indicate
an energy release from the Enterprise such as might occur
from a weapon. It did not make sense.
He puzzled over it for five seconds, before the raider
materialized in the middle of the control room, complete
with the inertia it possessed at the moment of transport,
and plowed through the centurion, his fellow cylons, and the
wall before exploding.
On board the USS Distance, Commander Hartman looked at
the sensor readings with stunned disbelief. "Why those--"
"What is it, Mister Hartman?" the captain asked.
"The Enterprise, sir. They just beamed one of the
cylon raiders into the interior of a basestar."
"Did it work?"
"Apparently, captain. Energy readings from the
basestar have dropped off radically."
"Can we do that?" the captain asked, turning to his
science officer.
"No, sir," she replied. "An Alaska class starship like
ours hasn't got the power for that. We can manage a photon
torpedo, though."
"Very well," Captain Moore said, "Lieutenant Wiley,
connect your station to the transporter room and prepare to
beam a photon torpedo into that basestar that's coming too
close to us."
"Aye sir."
The Imperious Leader looked on in consternation as the
third basestar in as many minutes came to abrupt defeat,
exploding from within. This was not appropriate. The cylon
way was to win, to conquer. Not to lose to such aberrations
of life as these humans. It was a disgrace. These things
weren't even reptiles--they were mammals, a far inferior
classification of life. That is why the cylons would win.
Because they were superior.
He eyed the screen before him and beheld something
which arrested his attention. A vessel shimmered into
existence from nowhere as it rushed toward his basestar.
How had the humans managed that? Another ship, identical to
the first, shimmered into view beside it, and then a third,
a fourth, a fifth.
He turned toward a gold-plated centurion before him.
"Concentrate sensors on those ships to detect their energy
readings while they are concealed. Fire at any such energy
surges."
"By your command."
Captain Krang of the Klingon warbird Qagh watched with
satisfaction while his helmsman flew the Qagh in toward the
basestar. To rush into death's jaws so bravely lent honor
to his ship and the houses of each Klingon on the ship.
"Gunner," he commanded, "target laser cannons. Destroy
them."
"Yes, my lord," the gunner replied.
While the ship began blasting the gun installments, a
group of warriors prepared inside the transporter room for
battle. The away team assembled their phaser rifles and
slowly faded out in a shower of sparks, appearing on the
inside of the basestar to fight their way to the bridge.
Geordi's voice rang out on the battle bridge, his
annoyance loud and clear, "Captain, you've got to get us out
of here--now! The Enterprise can't take another shot like
that."
Picard coughed, trying to clear his lungs of the dust
that had filled the air. "It was a lucky shot, Geordi.
O'Brien's taken care of them now. There are only fifteen or
so basestars left, and none of them are near us. Isn't that
good enough?"
"No, captain, it's not. Look, this ship got a beating
about ten hours ago that only two weeks' repair time at a
starbase can heal. I've given her some aspirin, but I
haven't had time to do surgery yet."
"What are you saying, Geordi?" Riker asked.
"Commander, my people made some temporary repairs to
the Enterprise, and those are starting to fall apart. That
shot alone knocked out the transporters and warp drive. Our
shields are down to seven percent. We've got to get out of
here, and get out of here fast."
"Very well. Make it so, best possible speed."
Ever so slowly, the Enterprise turned from the battle
and began to move away.
Worf looked at the readings on his panel and double-
checked them. "Captain, someone is stealing a shuttle from
shuttle bay three."
"What? I thought I ordered you to put locks on those
after Doctor Stubbs caused all that trouble with the time
travel mechanism."
"I did, sir. Nonetheless, someone is stealing a
shuttle."
"Raise the shuttle."
"No response."
"Blast it."
Worf smiled. "Phasers are inoperative."
"Do you think it's Apollo?" Riker suggested.
"What he want with a shuttle?" Picard asked.
"To get on board a basestar and take out some cylons?"
"In his state? Good lord, I hope not. For their
sake."
Captain Roberta Taylor stood on board the USS
New_Jersey as she watched another cylon tanker explode in a
brilliant flash, removing two basestars from the fray.
"Well, admiral? Do you think they'll be willing to
consider listening to us now?"
The rough-looking admiral rubbed his gruff beard. "I
hope so, captain. God knows I hate war. Ensign Grant, open
a hailing frequency to the remaining cylon basestars."
The red-haired ensign obliged. "Hailing frequencies
open," she said.
"Imperious Leader, this is Admiral Maguire of Star
Fleet. As you can see, we are more than prepared for you
and your fleet. We have either destroyed or incapacitated
twenty-one of the twenty-six basestars you brought into this
sector. You have destroyed one of our starships and three
of our allies' warbirds.
"It's up to you now. Do we continue this war until one
side is destroyed, or would you like to call a truce and end
this senseless bloodshed?"
The Imperious Leader appeared, wrapped in his purple
robe, exuding a sense of majesty, even in humiliation. He
spoke two simple words proudly yet simply.
"We yield."
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From: uunet!buast9.bu.edu!sword (Bill Mackiewicz)
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To: jwest%andersen%uunet.uu.net@bu-ast.BU.EDU
Subject: The Cylon War, Part 5
Status: OR
>From bu.edu!rpi!usc!elroy.jpl.nasa.gov!lll-winken!iggy.GW.Vitalink.COM!widener!netnews.upenn.edu!vax1.cc.lehigh.edu!lehi3b15!lafcol!learnd Mon Apr 15 02:49:20 1991
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From: learnd@lafcol.UUCP (Don Quixote)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.startrek
Subject: The Cylon War
Keywords: Part Five
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Date: 13 Apr 91 21:42:10 GMT
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The Cylon War: Part Five
By Dave Learn
Lieutenant Commander Data rose from the command chair
as the Enterprise entered warp space. An android, Data did
not display the same elation as his bridge crew at the
cylons' overwhelming defeat in this sector.
"Estimated time to interception of cylon fleet?" he
asked.
"Four hours and twelve minutes, sir," replied Ensign
Green.
"Ensign Green, Lieutenant Worf, and Lieutenant
Starbuck, I feel it would be best for the three of you to
take time now to rest. I am an android and cannot tire,
however, I have noticed an increasing sense of fatigue in
you, and feel that relaxation is necessary if I am to depend
on your skill when we encounter the cylons. I suggest
sleep," Data said evenly and quietly. As he spoke, a trio
of other officers stepped forward to relieve those on duty.
"Very well, commander," Worf replied, speaking for them
all. "We will return to the battle bridge in four hours."
The three rose and exited the battle bridge into a
turbolift.
"Where are you guys going?" Green asked as the door
shut behind them and Worf directed the lift. He looked at
the two. Starbuck was edgy, wanting badly to do something
he couldn't do at the time. He posed a sharp contrast to
the enormous Klingon, who brooded silently like a peaceful
giant.
Worf spoke first. "I am visiting Commander Riker and
Captain Picard in sickbay. I wish to see how they are
recovering." He paused for Starbuck to say something, but
he did not. "And yourself, Keith?"
"I'm going back to my room. I want to check up on
Melody and the baby, to make sure they're all right."
"Of course. Josiah will grow into a fine warrior, in
his own right."
Green gazed at Starbuck concernedly. "Are you all
right, Starbuck? I said, `Are you all right?'"
"I'm fine. Just kind of nervous about the fight,
that's all," Starbuck shot back, a little harsher than he'd
meant.
"I understand," Green said. "It's a little unnerving,
being in space, fighting a war when we're outgunned. I
think we'll pull through, though."
"Maybe."
The lift came to a halt, and the door slid open. Green
stepped out into the hall, waving goodbye to the two as they
passed down to their own stops. Deanna Troi blocked his
way.
"Hello, Ensign," she said calmly, hoping to cover the
uneasiness she always felt around this man. She could not
understand why, but she could never sense anything from him.
His emotions were plain to see, but her Betazoid sense
seemed useless where he was concerned; she simply could not
read him like she could others, as if there was a barrier.
"Can I help you, Counsellor?" he asked gently, aware of
her discomfort.
"Yes, I require your assistance. You know of Commander
Apollo?"
"Of course. What's the problem?"
"He is rather upset over his father's death. Keith, I
am afraid that he may kill himself or someone else in his
anger."
"Well, I can understand why he's upset--his whole world
was just destroyed! What did you expect him to do? Throw a
party?"
"Keith, that's not what I meant. I am as appalled by
Mormo's destruction as anyone else. But he has to deal with
his grief, and instead he's letting it consume him. I can't
help him."
"So you want me to give it a try?"
"If you would. I know that you are a navigator rather
than a counsellor, but you are rather adept at helping
people. I thought that perhaps you could help him."
Green sighed wearily. "All right. Where is he?"
"He's in his quarters."
"I'll go see him now."
Starbuck looked down at Apollo's lifeless body, despair
gnawing at his soul. His friend since childhood, his
closest companion was dead and he could not do anything to
save him.
"Do something, please!" he begged of the being
shimmering next to him, a silent observer in the melodrama
of Apollo's death.
"You can save him, if you are willing," the eerie voice
declared.
"Anything!" he promised, anything to bring back his
friend.
"Anything? Are you willing to die to bring him back?"
Starbuck froze cold. Death? To save Apollo? To give
up all the pleasures in life he had: the company of Athena
and Cassiopea, gambling, the thrill of the battle as he
protected the fleet from the cylons. For Apollo. He knew
the answer in an instant, and declared it with solemn
resolve, "Yes. I will die in his place."
His friend stirred, life returning to his body.
Apollo's eyes opened.
"You need only be willing," the apparition declared.
"He lives." It turned toward Starbuck, "You are so much
more blessed than us," it shimmered. "For one day, you will
be a god."
"Computer freeze program," Starbuck shouted. He stood
before the frozen being of light and began to walk around
it, berating it loudly as he released his anger.
"Why did you lie to us? Why did you give us this false
hope, this sham of a belief to cling to? You offered us
godhood, and all you gave us was destruction. Just dust and
ashes, that's all that's left of us.
"You told us we could become gods if we became perfect.
Gods know that we tried. We struggled to be perfect, but we
never could. There was always something holding us back,
keeping us from becoming the perfected people you told us to
act like.
"And you kept changing the rules! I remember when you
decided to let Boomer's people pursue godhood as well. Why?
What changed your mind? Before then, they were damned for
some pre-birth rebellion.
"You lied to us. What kind of gods are you?
"J'Sopha said that you sent him to restore the message
you had given us back in the ancient history of Kobol. And
even though the cylons drove us from Kobol into other
worlds, we trusted in you and strove to be perfect. And you
failed us. You let us be destroyed in the colonies, and you
allowed the cylons to overrun us in Mormo.
"Why? What kind of gods are you?"
The frozen hologram gave no answer.
"Come on, answer me!" he shouted out to the multitude
of gods he had been taught to believe in. "Or can't you
hear me?" Realization began to dawn on his face. "Or . . .
maybe you don't want to hear me. Maybe you know I'm right,
and you deliberately lied to us, to steer us away from the
Truth, from the real God, the real way to God . . ."
For many days afterward, Starbuck would still be unable
to explain exactly how what happened next ever occurred.
While the remainder of the holodeck remained still, the
glimmering figure suddenly shifted and advanced on him. He
backed off nervously, in fear of it, as its appearance began
to alter.
Whereas it had before been pure and bright, the figure
now hunched over, and the lighting in the room dimmed. It
appeared to solidify so he no longer saw through it but
instead beheld scores of wounds lined with dripping pus, and
a mouth filled with razor-sharp teeth with a line of drool
running to the floor. Eyes sunk in, its nails become as
claws, the beast advanced on the human.
"You are a fool," it crackled throatily as its putrid
breath filled the room. "To insult us so, Starbuck. We do
hear your accusations, and we are not pleased."
Starbuck backed up, and tripped over himself in his
hasty retreat. He fell on his back, cursing. He drew his
phaser, and sitting up, fired it.
The beast absorbed the shot and cackled. "You must
learn, Starbuck, the truth of this reality. You belong to
us, body and soul."
Starbuck drew on the training in the lore of Kobol he
received as a child. A demon had to answer to the name of
J'Sopha, the greatest prophet, who had restored the gods'
message after the people had distorted it. "In the name of
J'Sopha," he shouted at it, "be gone!"
"J'Sopha?" the beast laughed. "J'Sopha can't help you
now, fool! He's in Hell!" With that the beast lunged at
Starbuck, cackling wickedly.
Outside the holodeck, no one heard Starbuck's desperate
cries for help.
Apollo sat in the chair, gazing sadly out at space as
it rushed wildly by. He remembered with sad fondness the
days he had flown through space with his friends. True, it
wasn't very fun at the time--they had been patrolling for
cylons--but they were the only memories he had of them.
Boomer . . . Jolly . . . Tigh . . . all dead, now.
Cassiopea, Athena, Zacha--he tried to forget his brother.
He had had to leave him to the cylons to warn the Galactica
of the betrayal. If he had stayed, Zachary might still be
alive. Other memories surfaced--his own wife, murdered on
Kobol, Boxy, and his daggit, Muffin--he fought them down
hard, unwilling to remember. Boxy would have grown up to be
a viper pilot some day . . . The door chimed, signalling
someone's presence.
"Come!" he shouted, to be heard out in the hall.
The door slid open, revealing the young ensign he had
seen before, briefly. Ensign . . . Brown?
"Can I help you?"
"Actually, I was going to ask the same thing of you."
"I don't understand."
"I thought I might make myself available to listen, if
you wanted to talk."
"What's there to talk about? They're dead. That can't
be changed."
"True," the visitor responded as he walked in the door.
"But you're hurting. I want to offer you support."
"Why am I hurting?"
"Apollo, your friends and family are dead. Why
wouldn't you hurt?"
Apollo fought hard to face that grief. "Because . . .
because they've become gods."
"Really?"
"Yes, that's what J'Sopha said would happen when we
died, if we were perfect."
"Were they?" the strange ensign asked.
Apollo considered painfully. "No. Blast it, why are
you bothering me like this? Did Troi send you?"
"Counsellor Troi asked me to see you, because she was
concerned. But I came because I was concerned for you."
"Why would you care? We don't know each other."
"No, that's right. We don't. I just care."
"So what can you say to me, mister? Tell me something
to give me hope."
Green paused. Why was he doing this? Lord, give me
wisdom, he prayed silently before he spoke. "Apollo, I
can't say anything that will make it all better. Your
friends are dead. I can't change that. But you're still
alive, and you still have hope. You owe it to yourself to
put it behind you and go on living."
"How can you put the genocide of your entire race
behind you? That's ridiculous."
"You can't forget it. But you can stop from dwelling
on it, and find peace from it. You can stop it from ruining
your life. Make your life into a memorial for what your
people were, not by ruining it but by making something
useful of it.
"I think what's hit you the hardest is your family's
deaths. Am I right?"
Apollo nodded. An entire planet was beyond identity.
Who could grieve for a whole world? It was impossible to
conceive of its destruction. But his family, his friends:
they were dead. Tears started to flow down his face,
reluctantly at first and with great resistance. Slowly, the
dam broke and the tears washed his face, baptizing him into
a renewed existence as he finally accepted their deaths. He
would never forget them, but he would let go and bury them.
He drifted through the air as he heard the heartbeat of
his lifeline thundering across his existence. Of himself
only was he aware. Or was he? He could sense others all
around him, hand holding him up, thrusting him down. Hands
roved all over him, reaching, grabbing, pointing, poking.
He felt them inside his head, throbbing in his brain.
"NO! STOP IT!" he screamed, and the hands vanished.
With his support vanished, he began to fall, faster and
harder he plummeted down.
All at once he was on fire, flames licking hungrily at
his mind while the sparks danced across his skin, burning
him deep, reaching into the core of his being, his self,
searing it for all eternity. He cried out for help from his
fevered state and realized that help was not to be found.
The hands had returned, and with them, voices. The
hands grabbed him and pulled him, stretching him, rending
and tearing, digging and shredding, clawing into his arms
and legs and chest and brain and he screamed in fire-racked
agony. But no one heard him. It was as if he were cut off
forever from everything that was good. He despaired and the
voices began to form sounds, the sounds, words, and the
words, sentences.
"You left me! How could you abandon me like that,
without even saying goodbye? I thought we meant something
to one another. Why did you lie to me?" a voice accused him
bitterly. He tried to defend himself, but the voice had no
ears and would not listen.
"You used us! For a single night's pleasure, you
robbed us and used us, and then you left us behind,
abandoning us to our feelings of guilt and worthlessness.
You used us!" a thousand upon a thousand voices decried, a
million fingers pointing. He screamed for mercy, but could
find none.
Then--a light! And as the light approached, the pain,
the guilt, disappeared, and the fire receded. And in the
center of the light stood a man.
"Who are you?" he demanded of the man. "What do you
want here?"
"You don't remember me?" the man asked. "Really, I am
disappointed. You met me once, and we talked. I have never
forgotten you."
Somewhat shamed, he asked the man in a more gentle
voice. "What do you want with me?"
"I want you. I have come for you. Your friends have
never stopped asking for you, and I have come to release you
from what you have desired."
"But--you're releasing me from this!" he said,
indicating the flame, the agony, the accusations.
"Yes. That is what I said. I am releasing you from
what you have sought so diligently, and I have come to claim
you as my own."
William Riker opened his eyes and beheld his Klingon
friend through new eyes.
"W-worf?" he asked weakly.
"Yes, Commander. I am here. I have not left your side
for three hours," the Klingon said with a loyalty that
shamed Riker. How often had he shown loyalty to those he
claimed to love? Worf had shown devotion to his friend in
staying by his side. He silently vowed to do better.
"Worf, I saw him," Riker said with the greatest
insistence he could muster. "I saw him, Worf, and I
believe."
"Who? Who did you see?" the Klingon asked, puzzled.
"Joshua."
The Klingon's face broke into a radiant smile, a sight
few people had ever seen. Beholding it for the first time,
Riker lay in his sickbay bed, stunned, and then burst into a
laugh of his own, strength ebbing through his body.
"How's the captain?" Riker asked, remembering all too
well the injuries his commanding officer had seen.
"I am all too well, Will," Picard replied chipperly.
"And Bever--Doctor Crusher has no idea why. I appear to
have stumped her and her medical colleagues. I am reporting
to the bridge in fifteen minutes, before we encounter the
cylons and our fleet."
"I'll join you," Riker said, half-rising from his bed.
"You will do no such thing," Picard replied sternly.
"You can hardly stand."
"As I remember," Riker responded as his feet contacted
the floor, "the first officer has a chair. I'll be on the
bridge in fifteen minutes, sir."
The two stood face to face, each measuring the other's
resolve. At last Picard burst into a grin. "Very well.
But take your time. Make it twenty."
Battered and broken, Starbuck dragged himself across
the floor. What had happened? he asked himself, not sure he
wanted an answer. The holodeck, or whatever it was, had
thrashed him within an inch of his life. Trailing blood
behind him, he pulled himself over to the holodeck door,
which slid itself open. He managed to get halfway out
before his injuries overcame him and he collapsed in the
doorway, unconscious.
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From: uunet!buast9.bu.edu!sword (Bill Mackiewicz)
Message-Id: <9105190714.AA08458@buast9.bu.edu>
To: jwest%andersen%uunet.uu.net@bu-ast.BU.EDU
Subject: The Cylon War, Part 7 (final)
Status: OR
>From bu.edu!rpi!zaphod.mps.ohio-state.edu!swrinde!elroy.jpl.nasa.gov!lll-winken!iggy.GW.Vitalink.COM!widener!dsinc!netnews.upenn.edu!vax1.cc.lehigh.edu!lehi3b15!lafcol!learnd Sat Apr 27 13:57:17 1991
Path: bu.edu!rpi!zaphod.mps.ohio-state.edu!swrinde!elroy.jpl.nasa.gov!lll-winken!iggy.GW.Vitalink.COM!widener!dsinc!netnews.upenn.edu!vax1.cc.lehigh.edu!lehi3b15!lafcol!learnd
From: learnd@lafcol.UUCP (Don Quixote)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.startrek
Subject: The Cylon War
Keywords: Part Seven
Message-ID: <2677@lafcol.UUCP>
Date: 24 Apr 91 21:34:23 GMT
Distribution: usa
Organization: La Mancha
Lines: 351
This is it! This is the *final* installment in "The Cylon War." What's
it been now, three months since I started it? Jeez. I hope the next
time I start an epic I have more time to finish it closer to when I
start it.
For those who are missing any of the six other parts to this, I will
repost the entire thing this weekend, after this has had a chance to
pass throught the newsfeed on the systems.
Discussion on this story is welcomed (and desired).
//-n-\\ Don Quixote
_____---=======---_____ Klingons for Christ
====____\ /.. ..\ /____====
// ---\__O__/--- \\ dl20@lafayacs.bitnet
\_\ /_/ learnd@lafcol.uucp
_learnd@lafayett.bitnet
"Nobody knows the tribbles I've seen . . ."
The Cylon War: Part Seven
By Dave Learn
His eyes locked straight ahead, the man piloted the
shuttle directly to his destination. Nothing could pull him
off his course. Nothing could stay his hand. His father
was dead. His son was dead. His wife was dead. His
sister. His friends. Everyone and everything he cherished
was dust and ashes, blown by the wind in the wake of these
mechanized killers.
The serenity of the ships floating around him drew a
stark contrast to the turmoil in his own soul. He wanted
vengeance, and he was going to have it. They could kill him
but they would not stop him. He would rise from his ashes
and strike down a thousand more. Nothing, not even death,
he swore, would contain his hatred.
There. Straight ahead of him was the imperial ship,
the basestar which housed the ruler of his people's
murderers. He grabbed the weapons he had brought with him:
a score of grenades, two phasers, and a phaser rifle. He
was determined to die this day, but he would take as many of
the soulless monsters with him as possible.
After pressing a few switches, he stepped into the back
of the shuttle as it raced at a dangerously increased speed
toward the basestar. He reached up, touching the
transporter device and faded out in a shower of light
moments before the shuttle collided with the basestar,
crumpling harmlessly like a tin can under a car wheel.
"Admiral Maguire, we seem to have a problem." Picard
stared at the graying man. Picard found Maguire's gaze
disconcerting. He was not rude or haughty in his stance,
but his eyes were unnervingly peaceful and yet penetrating
at the same time.
"What is it, Captain Picard?" the admiral asked.
"One of the Galacticans, a Commander Apollo, has stolen
an Enterprise shuttle. He has ignored our hails and appears
to be headed directly toward the cylon fleet. Our
transporters failed shortly after a recent blow, and we are
unable to retrieve him. Can the New_Jersey manage?"
The admiral turned to Captain Taylor. "Roberta?"
She nodded, and quickly turned to her bridge crew.
"Mister Lawry, prepare to beam up the occupant of that
shuttle. Lieutenants Weaver and Schlitt--get to the
transporter room and be ready for anything. Commander
Apollo may prove to be unreasonable."
Her con officer suddenly turned in his chair.
"Captain, he's accelerating into the basestar!" The screen
showed the minute Copernicus as it suddenly picked up speed
and rushed toward destruction. It exploded in a burst of
light which left the basestar intact. "God have mercy on
us. We've lost him."
On board the basestar, Apollo ducked into an alcove to
scope out his surroundings. He had transported into the
heart of the basestar instants before the shuttle collided
with the basestar. The Federation forces would think him
dead and not come looking for him. That was the way he
wanted it. He would settle this score himself.
He stepped into the hallway and began to furtively walk
through the ship. The broken shells of lifeless cylons
littered the floor. Some had been killed by the intership
fighting, but others had died in a more personal manner.
The hallway was also filled with Klingon warriors who
had fought to the last, each clenching fist declaring
defiance, each mouth silently shouting its undying glory.
They had fought well. There were far more cylons lying
among the dead than Klingons. He stared at the Klingon
dead. "You will not go unavenged."
He shouldered the phaser rifle and moved on. He came
around a corner. Two red eyes, dancing in the dim corridor,
leapt out at him.
"Halt," a synthesized voice commanded him.
"Only when I'm dead," he replied and fired into the
darkness, just under the lights. How many times had he and
Starbuck done this during their flight? he wondered. The
cylons' incessant noise ground to a halt as he stepped over
their broken shells and looked for more.
"We will wait for your shuttle, your highness," the
admiral said to the purple creature on the screen. "Then we
can negotiate terms for peace."
"Agreed," the Imperious Leader replied, and cut the
channels.
"He sure is pleasant," Taylor observed drily.
"Do you trust him?" Maguire asked her softly.
"No. Do you?"
"Not one bit. Lieutenant Key, I want a scan of that
shuttle. Scan it for explosives, particularly solonite.
The cylons tried that ploy on the Enterprise a year ago."
The dark-haired con officer turned to obey, checking
the readings on his console. "No explosives . . . however,
sensors detect about forty cylon lifeforms on that ship,
each armed with some sort of energy weapon, maybe a laser
rifle of some sort."
"This is it," the admiral groaned, covering his face
with his hands. "We're back on the eve of destruction all
over again. They're not going to be happy until one side or
the other is destroyed." He straightened up, pulling at the
bottom of his uniform top. "Inform the Imperious Leader
that his boarding party is not welcome here. We want peace,
not more senseless slaughter."
Apollo jumped at the sudden report of the laser cannon.
So it had started again. Somehow he wasn't surprised. It
would always be like this, one group fighting another,
preying upon them, destroying helpless innocents. There was
no escape from it. The evil was bred into the very bone.
If they did not fight the cylons, the humans would fight the
Klingons. Or the Romulans. Or the borg. There would
always be someone, some race portrayed as the ultimate evil,
a people without love. He was as disgusted by himself as he
was of the cylons.
He reached the corner, concealed by the shadows, and
boldly leapt around, into the room, his rifle firing wildly.
Long years of battle experience paid off as his first blast
hit home. The cylon seemed to literally explode as the
phaser fire hit her dead center.
The second cylon turned and aimed his rifle at Apollo.
He fired once, and Apollo's rifle flew from his hands,
landing on the floor a good five feet away.
He stood facing his red-eyed nemesis waiting for the
blast he knew would surely come.
It did not.
"Enough," the cylon said with its electronic monotone.
Apollo looked at his fallen rifle uncertainly, and then
back at the cylon. Why didn't it kill him.
Its eye seemed to be fixed on him, even as it wandered
across its forehead. "I have had enough of fighting," the
voice said. With weariness? It threw the rifle to Apollo,
who caught it easily.
He stared at it dumbfounded, as if he had never used a
weapon in his life.
"Kill me," it said simply. "That is what you came here
for."
Apollo stared back. He raised the gun to fire--
--and just as quickly lowered it and tossed it to the
ground beside his own.
"No," he said finally. "I have had enough fighting,
too. No more." He stared at the silver nemesis he had
hated all his life. And it seemed to smile back.
"They are doing WHAT?" the Imperious Leader bellowed,
his voice echoing from the walls and the ceiling.
Spectrum looked back, unmoved by his leader's anger.
"They are refusing to fight, Imperious One. Hundreds of
them, and their numbers are increasing. And the human
Maguire has offered sanctuary within the Federation to any
cylon that approaches a starship without weapons."
"NO! For over a thousand yarhens, we have preserved
the Cylon Way! These humans sought to destroy us. They
aided our oppressors when the tide had just begun to turn.
Why should we not repay the evil they have done us? These
rebels will undo all that we have ever accomplished. We are
ruined!"
A troop of cylons strode in, alongside Apollo.
"Kill him!" the Imperious Leader shouted, his arms
flapping wildly. "Kill the human! I order it!"
"Why?" Again the same monotone.
"They aided our oppressors! They threaten our
existence!"
"Their ancestors intervened in a war they did not
understand," a golden-armored centurion replied. "We have
all suffered in this ageless war. Let it end."
"DAMN YOU! Spectrum, kill him!"
Spectrum looked at the ensemble of weaponless warriors.
He turned to the highly revered Imperious Leader, who
suddenly looked rather silly sitting so high up in the air.
"No."
"Give it up," Apollo shouted, wondering if the
Imperious Leader could hear, or would even listen. "We've
fought for over a thousand yarhens. What have we gained?
My people are dead. Your people are dead. Who has won this
war? None of us. We're all losers.
"Is that what you want? Two races of people, rushing
madly through the cosmos, fighting and killing one another,
caught up in an endless game of annihilation? Is that
really what you want?"
Apollo shook his head. "You're sick. I've got no idea
how you've controlled these people for as long as you have.
Maybe you painted us as the evil monsters we saw you as.
That doesn't matter. It's over."
Apollo started as an unknown noise assaulted his ears.
He turned and witnessed a sight he had never seen before.
Piece by piece, the cylons shed their armor, removing their
confining cages. Freed from their shells, they slithered
across the floor like the legged spineless reptiles they
were. Apollo gasped in wonderment. He had never seen a
cylon without armor before. And somehow, the sight was not
as repugnant as he'd expected.
"Captain, we've got impulse and transporters back, but
don't push them. If I were you, I'd ask for a warp tug to
take us back to starbase," Geordi advised, looking his
engines over in a state of worry. He did not want these to
fail again.
"Understood, Mr LaForge. We're just going to rejoin
the main fleet. We won't be doing any battle, just
transporting some personnel to the New_Jersey for a
conference with Admiral Maguire. Picard out." The captain
sighed. Geordi treated the engines like they were his
children, he mused. He probably wouldn't even let them go
out on a date with a food synthesizer if he didn't know the
synthesizer's parents. Picard smirked at the thought.
"Mister Green, would you care to join me on the bridge
of the New_Jersey to meet the new cylon delegation?" Picard
asked.
"Objection, sir," Riker interrupted. "We don't know
for certain if they're friendly for real this time."
"For crying out loud, Will, they--"
"I'm putting my foot down, sir."
Picard rolled his eyes. Sometimes he was grateful that
Riker consistently turned down promotions which would take
him from the Enterprise. And then there were times like
this. "Very well. Mister Green, would you care to
accompany Commander Riker to the New_Jersey and meet the
delegation?"
Green laughed. "I'd be delighted, sir. The captain of
the New_Jersey is an acquaintance of mine. It would be a
pleasure to see her."
Days later, Green stood before a vast audience in the
Enterprise's recreation deck as he closed out his concert.
It had been dynamic; the energy he showed as he banged on
the piano had swept everyone into his music. Whether it was
a humorous, upbeat song such as his "Dear John Letter" or
the songs with more somber themes, such as "Grace by which I
stand," the magic was undeniable.
"He's got talent," Picard confided to Doctor Crusher,
who stood by him. "Just imagine where he could be if his
music didn't always have those religious themes."
"Oh, I don't know, Jean-Lu--Captain," she corrected
herself. "He seems to be perfectly content where he is."
"Not quite. He hasn't re-enlisted. He said something
about starting a `ministry' back on Earth once his term is
finished, whatever that means, or signing on a civilian ship
called the Anastasis. Apparently it's owned by some friends
of his with similar beliefs. Still, despite our
philosophical differences, I will miss the man. He's an
excellent officer."
Green's voice floated through the air, breaking in on
their conversation. "All my life, I was searching for
something out there, some meaning to life. To put it
simply, I was seeking God. I convinced myself that if I
could only become perfect, that if only I had perfect
thoughts, acted perfectly, that God would accept me as
worthy and I would find Him.
"If only.
"But I couldn't, not on my own strength. I could never
approach God, never attain the perfection I needed to be
with Him. That's when I found out that God was seeking
*me*, He was actively seeking a relationship with me, that
He came down to my level so He keep meet me where I was.
And He did that.
"More than that, He died for each one of us so that we
could be made acceptable to Him. When we accept His Son
into our hearts, He looks on us and doesn't see our
impurities, our imperfections any more. They've been paid
for.
"He proved himself to me in such a complete way, such a
holy way, that I could never be the same again. People who
knew me before never knew that I could believe something so
strongly, but I can now. The only proof I can give you is
that he lives in my heart. He lives in my heart. That's
the only proof I can give you."
Wonderful, Picard thought. He's proselytizing everyone
here, including the cylons.
But Green's voice cut through his thoughts and he found
himself riveted to his words, as though they had some
eternal significance. He listened as Green sang
passionately, imploringly
Most people don't find
Till they're half dead,
That someone has to pay the price.
You can pay it yourself--ha--
Or let someone else.
But who would be that nice?
To pay a debt that isn't His!
Well, I know Someone like that,
And He's your best friend,
He really is. He really loves you!
As Green continued to sing, Picard felt himself deeply
impressed again. The performance was moving in its power.
All across the rec hall, he saw people stirring as they
moved forward to the stage where some of Green's helpers
were. Worf was up there someplace, he recalled. He turned
to leave, saddened at the unfortunate effect Green was
having on those assembled as the closing words of Green's
song reached him.
You know, you're gonna find out
That He's the Way,
No matter which way you choose.
But I pray you'll find out
By His love for you.
Picard felt something tug at his heart, a powerful
yearning which swept over him. Somehow tonight seemed
immensely important, as though he had to make an important
decision now. Emotionalism, he scoffed. This is
ridiculous. He surveyed the room as dozens moved forward in
response to Green's plea. Humans, Vulcans, cylons, members
of nearly every race seemed to respond to a feeling of
immediacy that night.
Picard shook his head sadly and then--
that light! blinding!
that noise! deafening!
He had heard the sound before, during one of Q's
illusions a few months before and seen a similar light at
the same time, but what was causing it this time? What in
the blazes?
The loud singing quieted, the lighting dimmed to
normal, and when Picard looked around, despair gnawed at his
soul.
Over a third of the people who had been in the room had
vanished, and somehow the refrain from a song sung earlier
by one of Green's friends began to replay itself in his
mind.
How could you have been so blind?
The Father spoke, the demons dined,
The Son has come and you've been left behind.
I wish we'd all been ready . . .
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