A short bit of fanfic (not Blackstar)
Jul 21, 2014 10:40:11 GMT -5
Bouri-Plwel and Colonel Bolter like this
Post by spcglider on Jul 21, 2014 10:40:11 GMT -5
I hope you all won't mind me posting this here as it is not strictly Blackstar fanfic. I wrote this as part of a much larger project but never got any further.
If nothing else, I hope you'll enjoy the writing!
And if its not something for this board, then I encourage the moderators to erase it. No harm done.
STARCARRIER VALIANT
From the private log of Commander Garron:
I missed it. The rendezvous.
Word came down on the scrambled unicom military channel from the bridge of the Battlestar Galactica. Commander Adama was gathering the last remnants of humanity at secret coordinates just outside of Colonial space. His purpose? We don’t know. Galactica only transmitted the coordinates.
And even at best possible speed, we managed to miss the rendezvous. Not an optimum situation for a green Commander who’s been in place for less than three sectons.
With the armistice a certainty, everyone in the military was jockeying themselves into plumb peacetime positions. When the treaty was announced, Commander Rell of the Starcarrier Valiant decided that it was time to retire. My father, being an advisor to the council member from Canceria, decided that his son wasn’t going to end the war without a command of his very own.
Well, father, your Commander son blew it.
Chapter 1
Starcarrier Valiant… two-thirds the size of a battlestar. The Valiant had seen more action against the Cylon Empire than most. Not quite so venerable as the fleet battlestars, she bore the scars of battle like the character lines of an aged but wise crone. Originally one of hundreds, by the time Baltar conspired to betray all humanity to the Cylons, the Valiant was one of only a handful of the original starcarriers left in the Colonial Fleet. Long since outmoded by sleeker, more modern fighting craft.
On approach to the rendezvous coordinates, the Valiant’s scanners detected no military ships. But the area was far from clear. The starcarrier hadn’t arrived in time to depart with the fleet, but it wasn’t the only spacecraft that was too late. Several dozen stragglers, all civilian vessels, were dancing in a tight formation while a swarm of Cylon attack craft circled and hammered them with laser fire. They moved in and around each other hoping to spread the damage between them. It was a standard tactic shared among the merchant spacers. Everyone shares the pain, many hopefully survive.
Devastating losses from pushing through Cylon blockades around the colonies had depleted Valiant's viper compliment. But Valiant had rescued many stranded fighter craft in her flight through the armistice battlefield. It hadn’t been a holiday cruise arriving at the secret coordinates. Within microns of their arrival at the rendezvous point, pilots weary from protracted battle on the Colonial front throttled forward from the Valiant’s launch tubes. Their mission: frag tin cans.
No less than 8 squadrons from disparate Colonial starcraft were represented in the new ranks of the Valiant. Pilots that had never fought together became instant and trusted wingmen. They moved with purpose, skill and vengeance. The mop-up wasn't easy, but it was quick.
“ Flight leader Blackjack is calling the all-clear Commander” announced Corporal Keill.
“Thank you, Keill. Bring them in. We need to set up communication protocols with those civilian ships and move from these coordinates," Garron issued.
“Yes, Commander. But it’s likely those raiders were stragglers as well… fulfilling their pre-programmed mission to destroy any humans they encountered.”
“That may be, but we can't risk an encounter with a Base Ship. We’re running ragged here.”
Corporal Keill’s agreement was cut short as a new report flashed across his screen. A quizzical look crossed his face. “Sir... hard scan indicates an automated military marker beacon at grid 730. We’re picking up a truncated signal.”
“Through to my station, please.”
On the screen before him, an image appeared. It was something that Commander Garron recognized, but only at the back of his brain. Buried deep in some memory, this image was familiar, yet just beyond identification.
“ I know this…” he said quietly, touching the screen.
“Of course you do,” said Flight Officer Cheron over his shoulder, “you went through officer’s training. It’s Sikkrit… the language of the Lords.”
“Yes," Garron recalled, " We translated the Book of the Word from Sikkrit to Colonial Standard as part of ethics training. But this is just a single word. What could it mean?”
“That signal buoy is encoded with the Galactica’s i.d marker," Cheron interjected, "Perhaps Commander Adama had a plan.”
“That’s an extremely short range signal,” Spoke up Keill, “ If we hadn’t known the exact coordinates of the rendezvous, we’d have completely missed it. Perhaps this is a clue as to where they’ve gone?”
“ A little vague, don’t you think?” Garron replied, “One word? And not only that, but the ancient Kobollian word for “dirt’?”
Cheron started to giggle. Not something she was prone to do. Something had to be spectacularly humorous to get Cheron to laugh.
“Something funny?” Garron asked.
“Your translation skills are a little rusty, Commander. The word isn’t “dirt”.
“Then what is…”
“Earth. The word is… “Earth”.
Safely hidden in a stellar dust cloud, the Valiant's makeshift fleet awaited the determination of their next move. The captains of the civilian ships fidgeted impatiently for word from the Valiant’s bridge.
Captain Blackjack punched the buzzer outside Garron’s office quarters. The door noisily slid aside and he stepped through.
“You wanted to see me… sir?”
“Have a seat, Blackjack.”
The captain hesitated a moment.
“Please.” Garron continued.
Blackjack slid into the seat facing the commander’s work area. He wasn’t fond of his new Commander. Their age difference didn’t help. Garron was many yahrens his junior, and the captain chafed at that. Blackjack had spent the bulk of his military career exhibiting flagrant disdain for his superiors. Even the respectable ones. His early days in the Colonial military had been spent bouncing from one post to another, passed like a grumpy orphan from one reluctant relative to the next. Finally, he had found a suitable state of balance under Commander Rell on the Valiant. He had respected the old man. He was one of the best. And when Rell took his furlon, all the crew, not just Blackjack, found it difficult to adjust to a new C.O.
Before taking command, Garron had researched the crew...read all their files. He knew the personality occupied the space across the desk from him. And he knew that even though Blackjack was officially considered a "loose laser cannon", he had his own code of honor. And he would stick to it. Once Captain Blackjack trusted you, there was no more loyal an officer.
And the first move in gaining trust is speaking the truth.
"I havent been in command long," Garron started. "Even so, you and I have barely exchanged glances...much less words. Thats a little inefficient between a Commander and his Strike Team Leader."
Blackjack's reply was simply a stare and a shrug. Time to get to the meat of the matter.
“I know the crew is discontent with my installment, Blackjack. The fact that we are now all fugitives running for our lives doesn't mitigate that. But I think that the fact we are still alive is testament to our ability to work together.”
“We follow our orders, Commander. That’s what warriors do. Even when those orders are 'run'.”
“That isn’t my point, Captain. Commander Rell was a good man. A great man. Suddenly being saddled with a young data-pusher for a Commander is no prize. And certainly not what the crew of this vessel has earned. But we don’t have time to allow our feelings to become a center of focus. Not now.”
“All due respect, Commander… but the colonies are rubble. Appears to me we aren't exactly pressed for time.” Blackjack replied.
“At the risk of inspiring insubordination, Blackjack, I'll be blunt,” Garron continued, “I’m not any sort of replacement for Rell and we both know it.”
“I’m glad you said it, Commander, because I’d be flogged if I did.”
“I’ve only been in command for a few sectons. This ship is new to me. Hades, this JOB is new to me. But you… you’ve been on board the Valiant for yahrens. You are liked and respected by the crew and your fellow warriors.”
Blackjack shifted in his seat. He didn’t like the thought that he stood out so plainly to this new officer. And this sounded suspiciously like a compliment...which he wasn't very comfortable with either. In his career, Blackjack had dealt with dozens of "baby blues" like this new C.O.. And he found his next words had a sweet nostalgia to them as they spilled from his lips.
“Don’t expect some sort of mutual admiration society, Commander.” Blackjack returned, “I earned every friend I’ve got left alive on this boat. It took me a long time.”
“ Precisely, Captain. And, as I have said, time is a luxury we…I...do not have.”
If nothing else, I hope you'll enjoy the writing!
And if its not something for this board, then I encourage the moderators to erase it. No harm done.
STARCARRIER VALIANT
From the private log of Commander Garron:
I missed it. The rendezvous.
Word came down on the scrambled unicom military channel from the bridge of the Battlestar Galactica. Commander Adama was gathering the last remnants of humanity at secret coordinates just outside of Colonial space. His purpose? We don’t know. Galactica only transmitted the coordinates.
And even at best possible speed, we managed to miss the rendezvous. Not an optimum situation for a green Commander who’s been in place for less than three sectons.
With the armistice a certainty, everyone in the military was jockeying themselves into plumb peacetime positions. When the treaty was announced, Commander Rell of the Starcarrier Valiant decided that it was time to retire. My father, being an advisor to the council member from Canceria, decided that his son wasn’t going to end the war without a command of his very own.
Well, father, your Commander son blew it.
Chapter 1
Starcarrier Valiant… two-thirds the size of a battlestar. The Valiant had seen more action against the Cylon Empire than most. Not quite so venerable as the fleet battlestars, she bore the scars of battle like the character lines of an aged but wise crone. Originally one of hundreds, by the time Baltar conspired to betray all humanity to the Cylons, the Valiant was one of only a handful of the original starcarriers left in the Colonial Fleet. Long since outmoded by sleeker, more modern fighting craft.
On approach to the rendezvous coordinates, the Valiant’s scanners detected no military ships. But the area was far from clear. The starcarrier hadn’t arrived in time to depart with the fleet, but it wasn’t the only spacecraft that was too late. Several dozen stragglers, all civilian vessels, were dancing in a tight formation while a swarm of Cylon attack craft circled and hammered them with laser fire. They moved in and around each other hoping to spread the damage between them. It was a standard tactic shared among the merchant spacers. Everyone shares the pain, many hopefully survive.
Devastating losses from pushing through Cylon blockades around the colonies had depleted Valiant's viper compliment. But Valiant had rescued many stranded fighter craft in her flight through the armistice battlefield. It hadn’t been a holiday cruise arriving at the secret coordinates. Within microns of their arrival at the rendezvous point, pilots weary from protracted battle on the Colonial front throttled forward from the Valiant’s launch tubes. Their mission: frag tin cans.
No less than 8 squadrons from disparate Colonial starcraft were represented in the new ranks of the Valiant. Pilots that had never fought together became instant and trusted wingmen. They moved with purpose, skill and vengeance. The mop-up wasn't easy, but it was quick.
“ Flight leader Blackjack is calling the all-clear Commander” announced Corporal Keill.
“Thank you, Keill. Bring them in. We need to set up communication protocols with those civilian ships and move from these coordinates," Garron issued.
“Yes, Commander. But it’s likely those raiders were stragglers as well… fulfilling their pre-programmed mission to destroy any humans they encountered.”
“That may be, but we can't risk an encounter with a Base Ship. We’re running ragged here.”
Corporal Keill’s agreement was cut short as a new report flashed across his screen. A quizzical look crossed his face. “Sir... hard scan indicates an automated military marker beacon at grid 730. We’re picking up a truncated signal.”
“Through to my station, please.”
On the screen before him, an image appeared. It was something that Commander Garron recognized, but only at the back of his brain. Buried deep in some memory, this image was familiar, yet just beyond identification.
“ I know this…” he said quietly, touching the screen.
“Of course you do,” said Flight Officer Cheron over his shoulder, “you went through officer’s training. It’s Sikkrit… the language of the Lords.”
“Yes," Garron recalled, " We translated the Book of the Word from Sikkrit to Colonial Standard as part of ethics training. But this is just a single word. What could it mean?”
“That signal buoy is encoded with the Galactica’s i.d marker," Cheron interjected, "Perhaps Commander Adama had a plan.”
“That’s an extremely short range signal,” Spoke up Keill, “ If we hadn’t known the exact coordinates of the rendezvous, we’d have completely missed it. Perhaps this is a clue as to where they’ve gone?”
“ A little vague, don’t you think?” Garron replied, “One word? And not only that, but the ancient Kobollian word for “dirt’?”
Cheron started to giggle. Not something she was prone to do. Something had to be spectacularly humorous to get Cheron to laugh.
“Something funny?” Garron asked.
“Your translation skills are a little rusty, Commander. The word isn’t “dirt”.
“Then what is…”
“Earth. The word is… “Earth”.
Safely hidden in a stellar dust cloud, the Valiant's makeshift fleet awaited the determination of their next move. The captains of the civilian ships fidgeted impatiently for word from the Valiant’s bridge.
Captain Blackjack punched the buzzer outside Garron’s office quarters. The door noisily slid aside and he stepped through.
“You wanted to see me… sir?”
“Have a seat, Blackjack.”
The captain hesitated a moment.
“Please.” Garron continued.
Blackjack slid into the seat facing the commander’s work area. He wasn’t fond of his new Commander. Their age difference didn’t help. Garron was many yahrens his junior, and the captain chafed at that. Blackjack had spent the bulk of his military career exhibiting flagrant disdain for his superiors. Even the respectable ones. His early days in the Colonial military had been spent bouncing from one post to another, passed like a grumpy orphan from one reluctant relative to the next. Finally, he had found a suitable state of balance under Commander Rell on the Valiant. He had respected the old man. He was one of the best. And when Rell took his furlon, all the crew, not just Blackjack, found it difficult to adjust to a new C.O.
Before taking command, Garron had researched the crew...read all their files. He knew the personality occupied the space across the desk from him. And he knew that even though Blackjack was officially considered a "loose laser cannon", he had his own code of honor. And he would stick to it. Once Captain Blackjack trusted you, there was no more loyal an officer.
And the first move in gaining trust is speaking the truth.
"I havent been in command long," Garron started. "Even so, you and I have barely exchanged glances...much less words. Thats a little inefficient between a Commander and his Strike Team Leader."
Blackjack's reply was simply a stare and a shrug. Time to get to the meat of the matter.
“I know the crew is discontent with my installment, Blackjack. The fact that we are now all fugitives running for our lives doesn't mitigate that. But I think that the fact we are still alive is testament to our ability to work together.”
“We follow our orders, Commander. That’s what warriors do. Even when those orders are 'run'.”
“That isn’t my point, Captain. Commander Rell was a good man. A great man. Suddenly being saddled with a young data-pusher for a Commander is no prize. And certainly not what the crew of this vessel has earned. But we don’t have time to allow our feelings to become a center of focus. Not now.”
“All due respect, Commander… but the colonies are rubble. Appears to me we aren't exactly pressed for time.” Blackjack replied.
“At the risk of inspiring insubordination, Blackjack, I'll be blunt,” Garron continued, “I’m not any sort of replacement for Rell and we both know it.”
“I’m glad you said it, Commander, because I’d be flogged if I did.”
“I’ve only been in command for a few sectons. This ship is new to me. Hades, this JOB is new to me. But you… you’ve been on board the Valiant for yahrens. You are liked and respected by the crew and your fellow warriors.”
Blackjack shifted in his seat. He didn’t like the thought that he stood out so plainly to this new officer. And this sounded suspiciously like a compliment...which he wasn't very comfortable with either. In his career, Blackjack had dealt with dozens of "baby blues" like this new C.O.. And he found his next words had a sweet nostalgia to them as they spilled from his lips.
“Don’t expect some sort of mutual admiration society, Commander.” Blackjack returned, “I earned every friend I’ve got left alive on this boat. It took me a long time.”
“ Precisely, Captain. And, as I have said, time is a luxury we…I...do not have.”