Damnyoureyes
02-21-2009, 01:32 AM
Summary:
A Post-honeymoon vacation takes an odd turn for ace pilot Wedge Antilles, his new wife Iella, and their friends as they end up adrift somewhere in the Unknown Regions, pursued by genocidal robots and mistrusted by their Human creators. nBSG Crossover.
Standard Disclaimer: Star Wars belongs to George Lucas, Wraith Squadron belongs to Aaron Allston and Battlestar Galactica belongs to Ron More and Co. The idea to cross them was mine. Please don’t sue.
Author’s Note:
I really enjoy Battlestar Galactica, and am also a huge fan of the Star Wars X-wing novels from a very young age, especially the ones written by Aaron Allston. His lifelike characters are a joy to read. This is a tribute to pilots everywhere, fictional and non, the job they do, why they do it and the all the crazy things that can happen to them along the way. The story has been in the planning stages for a while, although I’ve only recently started writing it, so updates may come slowly.
Please enjoy:
Rogues’ Gallery: a Battlestar Galactica/Star Wars X-Wing Crossover
Dramatis Personae:
New Republic Forces:
General Wedge Antilles-Human Male from Corellia
Colonel Tycho Celchu-Human Male from Alderaan
Major Wes Janson-Human Male from Taanab
Major Derek “Hobbie” Klivian- Human Male from Ralltiir
New Republic Intelligence Agent Iella Wessiri Antilles-Human Female From Corellia
NRI Agent Winter-Human Female from Alderaan
R5-G8, “Gate”-Wedge’s Astromech Droid
The Twelve Colonies Remnant:
Civilians:
President Laura Roslin-Human Female from Caprica
Doctor Gaius Baltar-Human Male from Aerilon
Tom Zarek-Human Male from Saggittaron
Battlestar Galactica:
Commander William “Husker” Adama-Human Male from Caprica
Colonel Saul Tigh-Human Male from Aerilon
Captain Aaron Kelly-Landing Signals Officer
Lieutenant Felix Gaeta
Doctor Cottle- Galactica CMO
Sergant Hadrian-Galactica Master-at-Arms
Gunny Erin Mathias
Chief Petty Officer Galen Tyrol
Petty Officer Anastasia Dualla
Pilots:
Captain Lee “Apollo” Adama-Human Male from Caprica
Lieutenant Kara “Starbuck” Thrace
Lieutenant Sharon “Boomer” Valerii
Lieutenant "Racetrack" Edmondson
Lieutenant Alex “Crashdown” Quartararo
Lieutenant George “Catman” Birch
Nuggets:
Cadet Brendan "Hot Dog" Costanza
Sergeant Donald “Chuckles” Perry
Cadet Louanne "Kat" Katraine
Cadet Lindsay “Stepchild” Robinson
Chapter 1: Honeymoon
"We're going to try to subvert an Imperial admiral"
"Oh," Hobbie said. "Something easy. While you're doing that why don't Wes and I smuggle ourselves onboard Agonizer and destroy her with thrown rocks."
Wedge gave him a grin. "With the right tools-say, a hundred thousand ewoks and a month to prepare, you could probably do that. In the meantime, we have the right tools to subvert our Imperial admiral."
"What tools?"
"Oh, Wes's maturity, your optimism and my diplomatic skills."
Hobbie buried his face in his hands. "We're doomed."
- Starfighters of Adumar,
By Aaron Allston
TOGORIA,
ONE MONTH AFTER THE EVENTS OF STARFIGHTERS OF ADUMAR
Togoria is perfect, thought Wedge Antilles, as he rolled over in bed to look at the beautiful woman with dark blond hair who was lying next to him, still asleep. Her name, as of two weeks ago, was Iella Wessiri Antilles.
The ceremony had been relatively quiet, for one of the Heroes of the New Republic (with an action figure and everything;) held in the Corellian Section of Coruscant’s famed Botanical Gardens, and with only the attendance of the Solos, Luke, the surviving Rouges and Wraiths, and a few other acquaintances, among them, the private owner of an Imperial Star Destroyer MkII, his daughter (in attendance as a bridesmaid,) and “that panty-waisted CorSec bastard she married” hiding from the aforementioned Star Destroyer owner behind the bar.
It was nice of Booster to offer a honeymoon cruise on the Errant Venture, but I’ve still gotta thank Han for giving our bona fides to the Togorians. Beautiful beaches, nice weather, and oh yeah; they exile or imprison anyone who tries to land without authorization. No autographs to sign on this leave.
Wedge looked at his wife again, and smiled.
My wife. Never thought I’d use those words in that order.
Oddly enough for a New Republic Intel Operative, she liked to sleep in when she could, which, during three weeks they had spent here, was often.
Not that Wedge was an early riser; a pilot got what sleep he could, whenever he had the chance.
I think Janson actually tried getting some rack time while in the ‘fresher after Brentaal. Brought a pillow and everything. The man’s committed-or he should be.
However, being woken up by a balmy gust of air through the window did give him the chance to do other good-husbandy things like cooking breakfast, and making the caf.
Especially making the caf, as one could stand a spoon upright in the brand the New Republic Bureaucracy and Military survived off of, and according to Iella, CorSec had its own formula, the so called “Morning Madness.” Although purported to be an occupational secret, Wedge had resolved to obtain the formula (to be used for the greater security of the galaxy) through the use of ‘creative interrogation techniques.’
That was when I found out I was more ticklish than she was. Not by much, mind you, but tactics still had to be re-evaluated.
He grinned as he remembered what happened after. And after, and after.
Blast! Still didn’t get the formula. But I’ve got the rest of my life to try.
He was just setting the percolation alarm when Iella began to stir.
“Wedge?” she asked sleepily.
“Actually, the name’s Loran. Garik Loran, teen heartthrob. You may remember me from such films as the Black Bantha, or Desert-mppph!.”
A thrown pillow to the face derailed his train of thought. Iella got up from the bed wearing a flimsy-something-to reclaim her pillow, managing to send the aforementioned train to a bizarre parallel dimension.
The vision of beauty snorted,
“Oh please, you’re far too handsome to impersonate that scarred-up reprobate with delusions of wit.”
“Maybe I’m that Wes Janson the Adumari kept talking about, something about a ‘Darling One?’”
“Having eliminated the scarred-up-reprobate category, we’ve moved on to the immature children? Besides, I’ve always appreciated diligence more.”
“I’ll say you have-”
“Diligence in cooking your wife breakfast, and in the making of the caf. It shall be rewarded.”
She walked over and kissed him.
“Oooh,” said Wedge, when he could talk again, “incentive.”
Iella grinned,
“And we’ve still got another…” she checked the alarm chrono that had been hurled against the wall when it insisted on waking her up, “…three hours before the other members of the Coral Vanda Inspection Team arrive.”
Holding hands, they sat on the room’s sofa, sipping two steaming cups of caf on the small table, luxuriating in the warmth of the cups, and each other.
“It was nice of Cracken to set that up,” said Wedge, “That’s one of those places you need to reserve months in advance. I think it was an apology for the whole ‘Tomer-Darpen-Trying-to-Kill-Us thing,’ and as a continued apology to Tycho for the whole ‘Using-Him-as-Bait-While-Tracking-Down-Isard’s-Agent’ thing…”
“Thus explaining why his and Winter’s vouchers were included a prepaid two-week cruise on the Tinta Sunrise before meeting us,” Iella interjected, “But I thought Tycho didn’t ask for anything in compensation?”
Wedge nodded; “He didn’t. Cracken made the Vanda offer for all of Red Squad-the cruise was separate-and Winter-ah-talked him into accepting it. You NRI Operatives can be-”
“Persuasive?” Asked Iella, as she ran a hand down his tunic fastenings.
“Yeah. Something like that,” Wedge grinned, “Sooo, three hours, huh?”
Iella gave a smile that would not appear amiss on a Trandalon eyeing an unprotected herd of Nerfs
“More like six. I talked to Mrrov, Wes is getting “detained” for smuggling.”
Wedge raised an eyebrow,
“By the Togorians? For three hours? Isn’t that a bit-”
“Harsh? No. This is vengeance for the Girls’ Night before the wedding.”
“Still not letting that one go?” he chuckled, looking into her beautiful brown eyes, “Sooooo. Six hours, huh?”
Iella’s arms encircled his chest, the smile unchanged
“Shut up and kiss me, hotshot.”
“Work, work, work…” Wedge muttered, as their lips met.
SENTINEL-CLASS SHUTTLE PHANAN’S INTELLECT
TOGORIA ORBIT,
SIX AND A HALF HOURS LATER
“Three hours.” Moaned Janson, “Three Vader-dammed hours sitting in that holding cell watching Gungans coming to Dinner over and over and over. It’s enough to convince me never to have kids if I have to watch that again. How could you do that to me, Boss?”
The perpetually youthful Tanaabian pilot had a shell-shocked look on his face that would induce guilt and pity in any who had not known him for years. Unfortunately for Wes, and to Wedge’s never-ending exasperation, he had.
“Oh?” Interjected Hobbie, “I thought Shalla finding you with her sister and kicking you there repeatedly had kinda-uh removed kids from your future plans. Along with-well, you know- other fun stuff.”
Janson’s shell-shocked look morphed into one indicating the astounding betrayal his friend had just committed.
“I thought we agreed,-Derek- that we would never speak of that again.”
Wedge gave a snicker completely unbefitting a General and Hero of the New Republic,
“Please-Who do you think got the security holocam footage-and sent it to Coruscant’s Funniest
Holotapes?”
Janson shot a pleading look at his C.O. “You wouldn’t-Would you?”
“That depends.” Said Wedge, turning to his wife, “Dear, have you had enough vengeance for what Wes did on your Girls’ Night?”
Janson looked at Iella and blanched, “It was you. You did this to me. That Togorian said she had needs. I could either watch the holo or- or…” he shuddered, drawing himself up, and looking imploringly at Iella,
“Agent Wesseri Antilles, I humbly beg pardon for the offence- yes, that one, that I caused. Please don’t kill me or humiliate me further.”
“Good enough for now.” Iella grumbled, “I’m going to go strap in, I think Tycho and Winter have had enough ‘alone time.’ Well, don’t just stand there Wedge, fly the ship. She cocked her head, “I know you want to, you’ve been planetside for two weeks, and mosgoth riding just doesn’t cut it.” With that, she walked into the rear cabin, leaving Wedge to the questionable mercy of his fellow, single pilots.
SHUTTLE PHANAN’S INTELLECT
TWO JUMPS FROM PANTOLOMIN
While Wedge was busy enough navigating a shuttle, sorting out the chaos that was Wes and Hobbie left him with a warm feeling that he had trouble placing. He had either missed them, or the urge to kill them was rising again. This was about par for his interactions with the duo.
After laying in a shorter course used by the military for the next to last leg of the trip, wedge turned to Tycho, who had joined him in the cabin,
“I’m confused, Tych, Why bring Gate along?”
Tycho’s aristocratic features contorted themselves into a smile, a rare occurrence for the solemn Alderaanian.
“Did you want the official reason, or the actual reason?”
“Official first please,”
“Officially, he’s here to keep an eye on the new Hyperspace Motivator Emtrey ‘found’ and to repair it if needed”
“And the actual reason?”
“Actually, he’s going along because Whistler hasn’t been there yet, and wants to rub it in his er…”
“Photoreceptors?” Wedge offered.
“Yeah,” said Tycho, “Let’s go with that. Course plotted?”
“Just about…”
The sensor board lit up, and the dagger shape of an Interdictor cruiser resolved in front of them.
This can’t be good.
Without bothering to verify ID, Wedge sent the shuttle into a stomach-straining turn-loop to port, narrowly avoiding the Ion Cannon blast that passed through the space that Phanan’s Intellect had just occupied. His eyes flicked over to the Navicomputer, numbers still ticking down to a precise course, and a quick check of sensors reported increased mass anomalies as the Cruiser powered up its Gravity Well Generators.
No Choice.
“Close enough- punch it, Tycho!”
As the blond man pushed the Hyperspace Activation lever, a near miss from the Interdictor Cruiser’s Ion cannon fried part of the heavily modified Hyperspace Motivator acquired by Rogue Squadron’s rogue quartermaster. Instead of the normal white streaks, the stars turned red-
And everything else went black.
COCKPIT, PHANAN’S INTELLECT
LOCATION UNKNOWN
As Wedge came to, he noticed several things. First, he noticed that most of the cockpit systems were offline, even the backups, the exceptions being inertial compensators and environmental systems, the most redundant of all. Secondly, he noticed that the Intellect was in a lateral clockwise spin, judged by staring out the viewport, and observing a red moon and a gas giant.
Third, he saw Tycho come to.
“Tych. Status?”
“Green boss. What in the Seven Hells was that?”
Wedge shook his head to clear the cobwebs before checking the other occupants of the shuttle. As he did, he noticed several bright glints out the viewport. Eight, to be precise. As they grew closer, Wedge could see them in detail. They were silver-gray in color, fighter sized, and comprised of what looked like a central control area extending to curved wings swept forward into points.
He pointed towards them,
“Better question: What in the Seven Hells are those?”
The ships grew larger, and Wedge felt a sense of foreboding as he was able to make out cannon in the wing roots, and an oscillating red light coming from the center of each craft.
He glanced at Tycho, who was shaking his head.
Don’t say it, don’t you dare-
“Boss, I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
Chapter 2: Gift from the Gods
Vipers - Space
Starbuck: All right, listen up, nuggets: stay together and keep your throttles firewalled until you hit that deck. Now go.
Galactica - Command
Adama: What is she doing?
Tigh: Starbuck's gonna take o*n all eight... and get herself killed.
-Battlestar Galactica Season One, “Act Of Contrition” Final Scene
UNKNOWN SYSTEM, NEAR A GAS GIANT AND RED MOON
DURING THE FINAL MINUTES OF BATTLESTAR GALACTICA SEASON 1 EPISODE:
“ACT OF CONTRITION”
No more Nuggets are gonna die because of me.
That thought drove Kara “Starbuck” Thrace as she sped toward the enemy.
To death. To Zak.
As she watched the hostile DRADIS blips grow closer, Kara continually tried to justify her choice. She was doing this to save the Nuggets, so they could get trained up to protect the fleet.
And four lives were definitely worth hers. Lee could teach them. He wasn’t a failure as a teacher, as a leader. And she couldn’t look them in the eyes, neither him nor his father.
Hard enough after she told Lee-After she told the Old Man-
He looked at her with pain in his eyes. Pain and anger. “Walk out of this cabin,” He had said, in a voice choked with emotion, “While you still can.”
The –beep- of the DRADIS board brought her back to herself.
Focus, Starbuck, wouldn’t do to die just yet.
She glanced at it out of the corner of her eye, noticing a blip where there wasn’t one before, relative down, between her and the raiders. No ID, Colonial or Cylon. And she was minutes away from a visual.
“Galactica, Starbuck, unknown contact appeared between me and the Raider force. Contact is shuttle sized or better, no velocity readings. Request instructions.”
Three minutes to visual range. The wireless crackled.
**Starbuck, Galactica Actual. We see it too. Wait for the CAP…**
The board pinged again, and Starbuck observed the raiders change heading with an inhuman coordination. Directly for the new contact, and they weren’t stopping.
Two minutes, thirty seconds.
“Galactica, Starbuck. Negative. Bandits have oriented on the Bogey and have assumed an attack profile. It could be one of ours.”
**It could be a trap** Adama’s voice responded.
“Sometimes you’ve got to roll the hard six, sir.”
**Proceed,** he sighed
She switched the wireless frequency,
“CAP, Starbuck, Status?”
“Catman and Hex, Four minutes out…”
“Hotdog, one minute out. Never leave your leader.”
Two minutes
“Frak. Hotdog, firewall your throttle, link up with me, we’re gonna punch a hole through their formation, reorient, and cover our mystery ship. Catman, Hex, you boys got our six?”
“Just yours Starbuck,” Hex responded, “it’s prettier.”
“Damn straight, Hex. Tighten up, we got toasters to frag.”
One minute
Starbuck flexed her hand on the joystick a couple of times, loosening up. Saw Hotdog off her port side. Kid had balls.
“Hotdog, stay with me, and don’t get cocky.”
“Sir.”
She took a deep breath, relaxing into the fake leather of her seat, watched the numbers scroll down on the readouts. Saw a gray blur as she passed the Bogey and watched the deadly silver shapes of the Raiders begin to grow larger.
“All Vipers, weapons free.”
She oriented on the closest Raider, and opened fire.
SHUTTLE PHANAN’S INTELLECT
COCKPIT
“Boss, I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
Wedge looked at his friend, “Tych, can you give me shields, engines…” The blond man shook his head.
Wedge thumped the control console, “Get me something. Emergency restart, now!” As Tycho bent to the task, he glanced back to the cabin. “Everyone all right back there?”
“All except Hobbie.”
Iella’s voice, thank the Force
“Clipped his head on something, he’s out cold.”
Wedge gave a wry grin, “Wouldn’t be a proper mission if Hobbie didn’t get injured somehow. Strap yourselves in. It’s gonna get bumpy.”
The shuttle’s cabin lights flickered once, twice, and stayed lit. “Got it, Boss, engines at fifty percent, thrusters online, environmental controls and dampers at eighty…”
Wedge immediately evened out the ship, and began to plot a limping course away from the menacing fighters, which had just opened fire.
“Tych- Weapons? Comms? Sensors?”
“No to the first, yes on the second, short range only on the third.” Tycho glanced at the sensor board. “Two more contacts, higher thrust ratio. Detecting radio waves. Quaint. They don’t look like the ones chasing us. They’ll be on us in a minute, no time like the present for some Diplomacy.”
Wedge nodded, pulling the Intellect into a double barrel roll, and made a decision that would alter the course of Galactic history, “I think we’ve stumbled into someone else’s war. I don’t think the newcomers are planning on shooting us first, and there are only two of them. If we help them…”
“They might not decide to blow us away when it’s over?” Asked Tycho.
“Precisely. Pity we haven’t any weapons- Wait a minute, Tych, can you set the comms to transmit only to our rear, narrow band, high frequency?”
“Planning to ask them nicely not to shoot us?”
“More like tell ‘em. Set for our rear arc. Don’t want our new friends to get caught. Now to set them up for a nice large target…”
The shuttle’s movements grew less erratic, and the silver fighters closed in for the kill.
Wedge thumbed the Transmit button. As he did, he noticed the sensor readings of the fighters go erratic as two red and white blurs speed ever closer. When they passed over the cockpit, he ended the ‘transmission.’
Right, he thought to the newcomers, I’ve done all I can. Finish it.
Starbuck flew through the silent explosion of the first Raider, tiny bits of its hull pinged and clanked off of hers. She checked six, and saw Hotdog, still alive, still on her tail. In fact, she noticed that several of the remaining raiders were moving erratically, or not at all.
Sounds like what Boomer said the Cylons did to our guys.
She and her wingman reoriented for another pass on the three Raiders still moving, just as the CAP Vipers moved in on them.
Keying the wireless, she spoke, “I’ve got the middle one. Hotdog, pick up the one relative right, you guys got the other one.”
**Yessir.**
**Confirmed**
**Acknowledged**
Hotdog opened fire, shredding his Raider, just as Starbuck’s target, moving erratically, opened fire on him, shredding the tail section of his ‘plane.
Static resolved into frantic words; **Krypter, krypter, Controls unresponsive, and I’m venting fuel, Punching out!**
She poured shells into the Raider, cursing herself for lethargy. Saw his cockpit canopy blow off, watched the boost of the ejection seat begin to ignite the leaked fuel. She could only hope he made it far enough away from the fight.
“All vipers, Starbuck. Finish ‘em.”
After the last Raider was blown to scrap, She saw the bogey begin to turn towards Hotdog’s last position. Despite the fact that it had helped her, it still made her nervous. She keyed her wireless, transmitting in the clear,
“Unidentified vessel, unidentified vessel, this is Lieutenant Thrace, callsign ‘Starbuck,’ Colonial Fleet. Transmit ID now, and state your intentions, or you will be fired upon.” Under her breath, she muttered,
“It’d be a shame, too, as you left a good first impression.”
As she awaited the reply, Kara took another glance at the mystery ship. Flat rectangular shape, small cockpit at the front, large stabilizer, and a smaller wing on each side, blocky engines glowing with a blue light completed the ensemble. Was it some kind of Colonial secret weapon?
A male voice, oddly accented in Colonial Standard, hit her speakers,
**This is General Wedge Antilles, New Republic Starfighter Command, I am a human in a coalition of over eleven thousand worlds and four thousand sentient species, currently piloting the Shuttle Phanan’s Intellect. We encountered engine difficulties, and ended up here, wherever here is…”
New Republic Starfighter Command? Didn’t sound like any loony cult she was aware of. Sounded like a military organization.
The voice continued, amused, **Glad we made such a good impression, ‘Starbuck.’ Our weapons systems suffered a failure, and we had to improvise.**
That was improvisation? Oh frak me.
**As far as intentions go, we request permission to rescue your extravehicular pilot. What were those hostile fighters, anyway?**
Her eyebrows shot up. Not Colonial, not Cylon, and not hostile.
She deferred to the First Contact Protocol learned by rote so many years ago at Fleet Academy. She returned in a formal, polite tone.
“Ah, General Antilles, sir, as your organization is presently unknown to us and not a member of the Twelve Colonies, I must decline your offer of aid at this moment.”
She checked her board.
“A Raptor Recovery vessel is currently en route to our pilot. This would appear to be a First Contact Situation, and as such, I am obligated to pass your request to my commanding officer. It’s above pay grade, sir.”
**Understood, Starbuck. Cutting thrust. Best be quick about your pilot though, it’s a bit cold out there.**
She flipped frequencies. “Galactica Actual, Did you receive all that?”
Adama’s voice came over the line. **Affirmative, Starbuck. I have it from here. General Antilles, this is Commander Adama, of the Colonial Fleet Battlestar Galactica. I am transmitting a coded frequency to your vessel. Please switch to it. **
Antilles’ voice again, **Confirmed Commander. Switching now.**
**General Antilles, you have entered a war zone between the Cylon, a race of machines, and the humans of the Colonial Fleet. My pilots will be escorting your craft to ensure you make no hostile moves, or come to any danger. Please do not deviate from your present course. We have much to discuss. Specifically, the word ‘human,’ and your eleven thousand member worlds.**
Chapter Three: Prelude to Diplomacy
“Presumably an escort,” Wedge said. “Stay loose, Red Flight. Diplomacy first.”
Leader, Three. Diplomacy means saying something soothing as you squeeze the trigger, right?”
“Quiet, Three.”
- Starfighters of Adumar,
By Aaron Allston
SHUTTLE PHANAN’S INTELLECT
COCKPIT
Wedge listened to Adama’s voice, noticing the strange accent in Basic, and hearing the calm, steady tones. In his gut, he knew the man was a seasoned combat leader. That was a good thing. Seasoned combat leaders didn’t usually shoot first, and the fact that they spoke a dialect of Basic, as well as referring to themselves as ‘The Colonies’ with a protocol for a First Contact Situation gave the indication that they may be a lost human colony from the bygone Republic days.
A brief message from Adama requested that they hold position while he talked to the President. The four pilots, (Hobbie having returned to consciousness,) Iella, and Winter crowded the cockpit to discuss options and get a better look at the three fighters that had formed up on them. As they got closer, Wedge noticed something-
They looked like-“X-Wings,” muttered Janson, “Emperor’s fluffy pink bathrobe-they look like X-Wings.”
“Yeah.” Hobbie drawled, rubbing his injured head, “If you hacked off the nosecone, s-foils and an engine, and added a couple of smaller wings and a stabilizer, they would kinda look like X-Wings.”
“There’s the paint job too,” said Iella, “White and red stripes-classic Rouge Squadron.”
Wedge keyed his comm, “Starbuck, what do you call those ships of yours? I’m curious, because we’ve got something similar.”
“I don’t know what those are,” said Janson, “but I want one…”
Tycho chuckled. “It doesn’t matter what they’re called, I think Incom’s got a major patent infringement suit on its hands if they find out about these.”
The response came almost immediately, **They’re called the Viper, General. I am not currently at liberty to divulge additional technical data because-**
“You don’t trust us.” He said, evenly.
**Yes, Sir. You’ll have to persuade Commander Adama and President Roslin that your intentions are benign.** A teasing note entered her voice, **Are you a fighter pilot, Sir? You pulled some nice maneuvers, and sound a bit young to be flying a desk.**
Wedge snorted, amused, “Finally someone who agrees with me. Yeah, you’re talking to a snub jockey. There’s four of us and a couple of analysts on what was supposed to be a vacation.”
**Some vacation. **
“You said it. Is your President here yet? I don’t know how long my systems will hold out.”
**I’ll check-just a minute, General. In the meantime, the Commander has cleared you to approach the Port Flight Pod of Galactica-The largest ship in the fleet.**
“Acknowledged, Starbuck, See you on the deck
Wedge looked at the other occupants of the Shuttle, and throttled up slowly, engines juddering in protest.
“Alright people, I’ve got no choice, We’ve gotta put this thing down before we lose engines altogether-opinions?”
“They don’t like droids, they’re twitchy and very good at shooting things they don’t like?” suggested Hobbie, as the Intellect moved through the fleet, towards the indicated vessel.
Wedge nodded, “All right, Gate stays on board, then, and we make no sudden moves. Tycho, passive scan. What kind of armament are we looking at?”
As Tycho bent to work, Wedge took a glance at the Battlestar, By looks alone, it was impressive, a kilometer long, divided into three distinct sections, a central core with engines, resembling a misshapen Dreadnaught, and two outriggers, which he assumed were the Flight Pods. As he lined up on the port one, proceeding at a crawl so as to not antagonize the Commander and to give his people more time to prepare, he saw a battery of eight immense, double turreted guns on the ship’s spine.
“Mass Drivers,” muttered Tycho, giving a running commentary, “Thick armor, unknown composition, and I think the doors on the hangar bay are either missile tubes or a launch mechanism of some sort.”
“The shape,” said Iella, knowledgeable about many ship classes due to her service in Corellian Security Force, “The symmetrical layout-it looks nearly Corellian,”
Wedge didn’t miss it either as he compared it to the other warships of similar size he was familiar with. It lacked the organic alien randomness of the Mon Calamari Cruisers and Battleships, and did not inspire the stomach-clenching terror of the daggerlike Imperial warships, a shape for rending and tearing.
Instead, Galactica’s construction evoked feelings of a home he hadn’t been inside of yet-The design had many similarities to the ships he grew up with, yet its differences, blunt bow, heavy armor, and slight curves suggested a reassuring solidity, and the heavy guns gave it more punch than just a simple Carrier or Missile Ship. It was a juggernaut built to protect and defend, to strike and stand, while taking one hell of a pounding in the process.
Wedge had just decided he liked it, when Winter dragged him back to reality with a voice so soft it was barely heard-
“It’s worse than that.”
“Hey!” exclaimed Janson, “That’s my forecast of impending doom!”
“Pipe down Wes, you can come up with another one if we survive this.” He gestured to the white-haired spy, “You were saying, Winter?”
She pointed out the window,
“The ships, Wedge, look at the ships. Widely varying size and shape, few to no weapons mounts, and makeshift repairs on some-This is no fleet group, these are refugees. I’d wager that aside from the Galactica, there aren’t any purpose-built warships in the fleet. Those droids, the ‘Cylons’ they’re fighting, I think they lost to them-badly.”
Wedge nodded.
“Here’s the plan. We board. We do not antagonize them. We offer an alliance and complete honesty if they can get us back to the Republic. Dress Uniforms. Change quickly.”
Wedge ignored the groans of Hobbie and Janson, suppressed his own, and pressed on.
“We had them for the Vanda, and we’re going to use them to make an impression as Soldiers on the Colonials-I think they’ll need them.”
He stared at the two women, who were in upscale dresses, and frantically thought about how to survive the next few seconds without a smack to the head. Figuring that they wouldn’t do it while he was flying the ship, he went ahead.
“Iella, Winter, you ladies already look lovely, check the survival kit, get me an inventory, then stow it. It’s a Wraith special, so there should be plenty of weapons and other exciting things that go ‘boom.’ Draw holdouts, and hide them. We need to lay out all our cards on the table, but in case something goes wrong, you’re our skifters in the deck. Janson, draw blasters and vibroblades, hand ‘em out-Rogues, arm yourselves and make it obvious.”
His voice shifted to a lower register, “Surrender your weapons if, and only if I tell you to. They are going to treat us as equals, not potential hostages, and I’m going to make that very clear to them.”
The comm. system crackled as the primitive wireless broadcast was transmitted to the shuttle.
**Phanan’s Intellect, Phannan’s Intellect, this is Captain Kelly, Landing Signals Officer of Galactica, I am directing you to approach with constant velocity, your designated landing area is marked with blue checkers. A soft seal airlock hose will be extended after touchdown. Please acknowledge.**
“Antilles here,” Wedge replied, “Instructions received and acknowledged. Request a private channel with Commander Adama.”
**This is Galactica Actual,** said the gravelly voice, **Proceed.**
“Commander, allow me to be blunt. My men and I are uniformed military officers, We will be boarding your ship as an envoy of military officers of an independent government, with our sidearms, We will leave the ship the same way. While we very much hope to make a peaceful contact, I must warn you, any attempt to take us prisoner or coerce us in any way will be interpreted as an act of war, and be treated accordingly. My people will make no aggressive moves. Is this acceptable to you?”
Wedge sat back to await the reply. He was not kept waiting long.
**It is acceptable under our current Rules Of Engagement. Be advised that armed Marines will be-escorting you for the protection of my crew and the President.**
Wedge nodded, aware of the necessity, “Understood Commander, I look forward to meeting you in person.”
**Likewise, General, likewise.**
He heard someone clearing their throat, and glanced behind him. It was Tycho, clad in the loathed white v-neck jacket and black bodystocking of the New Republic Dress Uniform. The left hem of the jacket was red, holding his rank insignia, and displaying numerous awards and battle tabs, just like the one in his luggage. Wedge made a go-ahead gesture to Tycho who then slipped into the co-pilot’s seat and took up the controls.
By the numbers, thought Wedge.
“Switching over, do you have the stick?”
“I have the stick. Taking us in, blue checkers.” Tycho’s lips quirked into a smile, “Best dress to impress, Boss.”
“And Wes said you couldn’t rhyme.” Wedge groaned, “See you in five.” He unsnapped form the seat, stretched, and headed into the main cabin to the refresher alcove, passed Winter on her way to the cockpit. As he saw Iella and going through the luggage, his heart skipped a beat- In the short time since the plan was decided, she had done her hair onto an elegant but serviceable bun, with a few strands left free to frame her face. If possible, she looked more beautiful than ever, and nothing like a trained Intelligence operative. As he moved toward her, Iella gave Wedge a wink, and tossed a small duffel at him. Unlike the pillow earlier in the day, and what felt like years ago-
He caught it, opened it, and confirmed the contents: Dress Uniform, datapad, comlink, belt and holster with a ‘Solo Special’ DL-44 and power packs, Wedge then sealed and slung it over his shoulder, looking again at his wife.
“You look great, are you all set?” he asked.
She tossed him a mocking salute. “Yes sir, General Antilles, Sir!”
Wedge grabbed her around the shoulders and pulled her closer.
“Hey, no salutes until they need to know what you do for a living.” She raised an eyebrow, and he continued, “Besides, you’re not in my chain of command anyway. Got the blaster? I didn’t see it.”
Iella took a quick glance around the cabin area, and made sure they were alone. Her brown eyes took on a seductive gaze, and her voice dropped an octave.
“Wanna?” She asked, reaching for the hem of her dress.
“Force yes,” he replied enthusiastically-until he took a glance at his chrono. “But later,” he said, as they kissed passionately, “Later.”
He entered the ‘fresher, and four minutes, several splashes of cold water, and a change of clothes later, emerged into the cabin in time for landing, and a spectacle.
With Tycho and Winter in the cockpit landing the ship, the occupants of the cabin were limited to Wedge, an uncomfortable-looking Hobbie in his Dress Uniform slouched against the bulkhead, and Iella, looking lovely in a simple blue dress with flared sleeves, while currently attempting to attack the third occupant of the cabin- Major Wes Janson standing at an absurdly preening position of attention while trying to fend off Iella, wearing his Dress Uniform-with a few additions.
As Wedge stepped closer, he took it all in. white naval officer’s hat with a gleaming black brim? Check. Holo-Vid star eyeshades? Check. Absurdly tiny and pointed mustachios obtained from one of Face’s little disguise kits? Check. Hand-tooled blaster belt with massive, Shreen-Pearl handled blaster? Check. All of it, down to the massive, unlit cigarillo clamped firmly between his teeth lent him the air of a self-satisfied prima-donna commander right out of a war-drama holo.
“Hey,” said Wes a dung-eating grin on his face, while somehow managing to keep the cigarillo in his mouth, “One of us has to look good.”
As Wedge attempted to suppress his laughter, and Janson stared at him expectantly waiting for him to fail, Iella took the opportunity to rip off his offending facial adornments and ‘shades in one fell swoop. As Wes yelped in pain, and backed up, Wedge lost his control, and Hobbie stole the hat, beginning a spirited game of “Keep Away.”
Wedge shook his head. “Nine year-olds,” He commented ruefully, “I’m going on a diplomatic mission with nine year-olds.”
“Yet you still want kids someday,” Iella, a smile on her face, triumphantly brandishing Janson’s shades and mustache, “You must have the patience of a Jedi.”
“Not as much as Luke, actually. Poor guy has to sign autographs everywhere he goes, even on a dinner date.”
“No.” said Iella.
“Yes,” replied Wes, looking morose and rubbing the raw skin where the mustache had been, “It got so bad he had to get Face to disguise him if we wanted to hit a Cantina or tapcaf together. What with all the senators wanting a piece of him, the poor soul only has us to keep him honest.”
During the performance, the shuttle set down to a smooth landing, Wes abandoned his battle with the cigarillo, placing it in his pocket, and Iella raised an eyebrow.
“By ‘Keeping him honest,’ you of course mean insulting and pranking him mercilessly?”
Wes grinned, “Something like that.”
They heard the gentle ‘thud’ of a universal coupling settled over their airlock.
Wedge. “All right, I’ll get Tycho and Winter, you assemble and prepare for introductions.”
He and Iella headed forward to the cockpit, and opened the hatch, just in time to see Tycho and Winter step away from each other and the console they were both leaning into.
Wedge cleared his throat to get their attention,
“Did we miss anything?” Iella asked impishly.
“Nope,” said Tycho, slightly red-faced, “we’re checking the guidance leads. Controls went sticky just before landing.”
“Riiiiiight.” Wedge drawled, as Winter gave him an appraising stare, which on her was more intimidating than your average ‘death glare,’ “Guidance leads. Uh Huh, I’ll remember that one. C’mon, it’s showtime.”
They left the cockpit, moved through the cabin, and stepped into the large airlock, initially designed to debark large numbers of troops. The sensors registered positive atmosphere mix and pressure, so Wedge opened the hatch, coming face to face with another, this one sealed with a manual valve, only accessible from the opposite side, and was consequently equipped with an intercom set into the door. Wedge hit what he hoped was the Transmit button.
“This is General Antilles and party. Do we have permission to come aboard?”
The Commander’s voice came through the intercom,
**Adama here-permission granted.**
Various clanking resounded through the hatch, and as it finally swung wide, Wedge caught sight of several human soldiers with unfamiliar weapons clad in black uniforms and helmets. One was holding the hatch open, while seven others were keeping guard on the hallway’s other occupants.
No one spoke for a few seconds as the two groups evaluated each other. Wedge took the time to examine the people before him
The first of these occupants was an attractive young woman with short blond hair, wearing a tank top drenched in sweat, a chain around her neck with what were probably ID markers, and some sort of flight suit tied off around her waist. Her face, which looked shaped for a devilish grin, was surprisingly somber. This was probably the Lieutenant Thrace he spoken with over the comm.
He glanced at three other men, clad in gray uniforms with a leather sash over the shoulder, obviously their version of a Dress Uniform. It didn’t look much more comfortable than theirs.
One was tall, and with his height, suspicious glower, and fringe of white hair, bore more than a passing resemblance to Booster Terrik-the only thing missing was the fact that this man had two eyes to Booster’s one.
The other two had some sort of family resemblance. The younger man was taller than his-his Father? Wedge guessed, and had a determined look in his blue eyes, yet his face was smooth and unlined, lending him the earnest look of a young man determined to make his mark on the universe.
The earnesty and determination of the younger man were nothing compared to the elder.
Steel-haired and stocky, his craggy features spoke of decades of experience and leadership-the man exuded a quiet strength and competence that Wedge could not hope to imitate.
This, concluded Wedge after a second’s observation, was Adama. He stepped forward and saluted.
“Commander Adama.”
“General Antilles.”-A statement, not a question-The older man took a similar pace forward, returned the salute and, as Wedge dropped his own, looked him in the eyes, seeming to measure him in an instant, with the look one warrior, one commander gave another.
Adama walked up to Wedge, and shook his hand.
“Welcome to Galactica, General.” The soldiers seemed to relax a bit, and Adama released his hand, stepping closer, speaking more quietly.
“Forgive me,” He rasped. “Kara said you would be young, but I didn’t know how young. Doesn’t matter though-you’ve obviously seen your share of action.”
Wedge gave a wry grin. “You as well, Commander, unless I miss my guess. But we can share war stories later. Let’s make the introductions, you and I, and find somewhere to sit and compare notes.”
Adama nodded. “My thoughts exactly.”
*********************
Please let me know if I got the characters right, if the story has potential, and how I can integrate the humor of the Wraiths with the GRIMDARK (TM) of Galactica. Thanks.
A Post-honeymoon vacation takes an odd turn for ace pilot Wedge Antilles, his new wife Iella, and their friends as they end up adrift somewhere in the Unknown Regions, pursued by genocidal robots and mistrusted by their Human creators. nBSG Crossover.
Standard Disclaimer: Star Wars belongs to George Lucas, Wraith Squadron belongs to Aaron Allston and Battlestar Galactica belongs to Ron More and Co. The idea to cross them was mine. Please don’t sue.
Author’s Note:
I really enjoy Battlestar Galactica, and am also a huge fan of the Star Wars X-wing novels from a very young age, especially the ones written by Aaron Allston. His lifelike characters are a joy to read. This is a tribute to pilots everywhere, fictional and non, the job they do, why they do it and the all the crazy things that can happen to them along the way. The story has been in the planning stages for a while, although I’ve only recently started writing it, so updates may come slowly.
Please enjoy:
Rogues’ Gallery: a Battlestar Galactica/Star Wars X-Wing Crossover
Dramatis Personae:
New Republic Forces:
General Wedge Antilles-Human Male from Corellia
Colonel Tycho Celchu-Human Male from Alderaan
Major Wes Janson-Human Male from Taanab
Major Derek “Hobbie” Klivian- Human Male from Ralltiir
New Republic Intelligence Agent Iella Wessiri Antilles-Human Female From Corellia
NRI Agent Winter-Human Female from Alderaan
R5-G8, “Gate”-Wedge’s Astromech Droid
The Twelve Colonies Remnant:
Civilians:
President Laura Roslin-Human Female from Caprica
Doctor Gaius Baltar-Human Male from Aerilon
Tom Zarek-Human Male from Saggittaron
Battlestar Galactica:
Commander William “Husker” Adama-Human Male from Caprica
Colonel Saul Tigh-Human Male from Aerilon
Captain Aaron Kelly-Landing Signals Officer
Lieutenant Felix Gaeta
Doctor Cottle- Galactica CMO
Sergant Hadrian-Galactica Master-at-Arms
Gunny Erin Mathias
Chief Petty Officer Galen Tyrol
Petty Officer Anastasia Dualla
Pilots:
Captain Lee “Apollo” Adama-Human Male from Caprica
Lieutenant Kara “Starbuck” Thrace
Lieutenant Sharon “Boomer” Valerii
Lieutenant "Racetrack" Edmondson
Lieutenant Alex “Crashdown” Quartararo
Lieutenant George “Catman” Birch
Nuggets:
Cadet Brendan "Hot Dog" Costanza
Sergeant Donald “Chuckles” Perry
Cadet Louanne "Kat" Katraine
Cadet Lindsay “Stepchild” Robinson
Chapter 1: Honeymoon
"We're going to try to subvert an Imperial admiral"
"Oh," Hobbie said. "Something easy. While you're doing that why don't Wes and I smuggle ourselves onboard Agonizer and destroy her with thrown rocks."
Wedge gave him a grin. "With the right tools-say, a hundred thousand ewoks and a month to prepare, you could probably do that. In the meantime, we have the right tools to subvert our Imperial admiral."
"What tools?"
"Oh, Wes's maturity, your optimism and my diplomatic skills."
Hobbie buried his face in his hands. "We're doomed."
- Starfighters of Adumar,
By Aaron Allston
TOGORIA,
ONE MONTH AFTER THE EVENTS OF STARFIGHTERS OF ADUMAR
Togoria is perfect, thought Wedge Antilles, as he rolled over in bed to look at the beautiful woman with dark blond hair who was lying next to him, still asleep. Her name, as of two weeks ago, was Iella Wessiri Antilles.
The ceremony had been relatively quiet, for one of the Heroes of the New Republic (with an action figure and everything;) held in the Corellian Section of Coruscant’s famed Botanical Gardens, and with only the attendance of the Solos, Luke, the surviving Rouges and Wraiths, and a few other acquaintances, among them, the private owner of an Imperial Star Destroyer MkII, his daughter (in attendance as a bridesmaid,) and “that panty-waisted CorSec bastard she married” hiding from the aforementioned Star Destroyer owner behind the bar.
It was nice of Booster to offer a honeymoon cruise on the Errant Venture, but I’ve still gotta thank Han for giving our bona fides to the Togorians. Beautiful beaches, nice weather, and oh yeah; they exile or imprison anyone who tries to land without authorization. No autographs to sign on this leave.
Wedge looked at his wife again, and smiled.
My wife. Never thought I’d use those words in that order.
Oddly enough for a New Republic Intel Operative, she liked to sleep in when she could, which, during three weeks they had spent here, was often.
Not that Wedge was an early riser; a pilot got what sleep he could, whenever he had the chance.
I think Janson actually tried getting some rack time while in the ‘fresher after Brentaal. Brought a pillow and everything. The man’s committed-or he should be.
However, being woken up by a balmy gust of air through the window did give him the chance to do other good-husbandy things like cooking breakfast, and making the caf.
Especially making the caf, as one could stand a spoon upright in the brand the New Republic Bureaucracy and Military survived off of, and according to Iella, CorSec had its own formula, the so called “Morning Madness.” Although purported to be an occupational secret, Wedge had resolved to obtain the formula (to be used for the greater security of the galaxy) through the use of ‘creative interrogation techniques.’
That was when I found out I was more ticklish than she was. Not by much, mind you, but tactics still had to be re-evaluated.
He grinned as he remembered what happened after. And after, and after.
Blast! Still didn’t get the formula. But I’ve got the rest of my life to try.
He was just setting the percolation alarm when Iella began to stir.
“Wedge?” she asked sleepily.
“Actually, the name’s Loran. Garik Loran, teen heartthrob. You may remember me from such films as the Black Bantha, or Desert-mppph!.”
A thrown pillow to the face derailed his train of thought. Iella got up from the bed wearing a flimsy-something-to reclaim her pillow, managing to send the aforementioned train to a bizarre parallel dimension.
The vision of beauty snorted,
“Oh please, you’re far too handsome to impersonate that scarred-up reprobate with delusions of wit.”
“Maybe I’m that Wes Janson the Adumari kept talking about, something about a ‘Darling One?’”
“Having eliminated the scarred-up-reprobate category, we’ve moved on to the immature children? Besides, I’ve always appreciated diligence more.”
“I’ll say you have-”
“Diligence in cooking your wife breakfast, and in the making of the caf. It shall be rewarded.”
She walked over and kissed him.
“Oooh,” said Wedge, when he could talk again, “incentive.”
Iella grinned,
“And we’ve still got another…” she checked the alarm chrono that had been hurled against the wall when it insisted on waking her up, “…three hours before the other members of the Coral Vanda Inspection Team arrive.”
Holding hands, they sat on the room’s sofa, sipping two steaming cups of caf on the small table, luxuriating in the warmth of the cups, and each other.
“It was nice of Cracken to set that up,” said Wedge, “That’s one of those places you need to reserve months in advance. I think it was an apology for the whole ‘Tomer-Darpen-Trying-to-Kill-Us thing,’ and as a continued apology to Tycho for the whole ‘Using-Him-as-Bait-While-Tracking-Down-Isard’s-Agent’ thing…”
“Thus explaining why his and Winter’s vouchers were included a prepaid two-week cruise on the Tinta Sunrise before meeting us,” Iella interjected, “But I thought Tycho didn’t ask for anything in compensation?”
Wedge nodded; “He didn’t. Cracken made the Vanda offer for all of Red Squad-the cruise was separate-and Winter-ah-talked him into accepting it. You NRI Operatives can be-”
“Persuasive?” Asked Iella, as she ran a hand down his tunic fastenings.
“Yeah. Something like that,” Wedge grinned, “Sooo, three hours, huh?”
Iella gave a smile that would not appear amiss on a Trandalon eyeing an unprotected herd of Nerfs
“More like six. I talked to Mrrov, Wes is getting “detained” for smuggling.”
Wedge raised an eyebrow,
“By the Togorians? For three hours? Isn’t that a bit-”
“Harsh? No. This is vengeance for the Girls’ Night before the wedding.”
“Still not letting that one go?” he chuckled, looking into her beautiful brown eyes, “Sooooo. Six hours, huh?”
Iella’s arms encircled his chest, the smile unchanged
“Shut up and kiss me, hotshot.”
“Work, work, work…” Wedge muttered, as their lips met.
SENTINEL-CLASS SHUTTLE PHANAN’S INTELLECT
TOGORIA ORBIT,
SIX AND A HALF HOURS LATER
“Three hours.” Moaned Janson, “Three Vader-dammed hours sitting in that holding cell watching Gungans coming to Dinner over and over and over. It’s enough to convince me never to have kids if I have to watch that again. How could you do that to me, Boss?”
The perpetually youthful Tanaabian pilot had a shell-shocked look on his face that would induce guilt and pity in any who had not known him for years. Unfortunately for Wes, and to Wedge’s never-ending exasperation, he had.
“Oh?” Interjected Hobbie, “I thought Shalla finding you with her sister and kicking you there repeatedly had kinda-uh removed kids from your future plans. Along with-well, you know- other fun stuff.”
Janson’s shell-shocked look morphed into one indicating the astounding betrayal his friend had just committed.
“I thought we agreed,-Derek- that we would never speak of that again.”
Wedge gave a snicker completely unbefitting a General and Hero of the New Republic,
“Please-Who do you think got the security holocam footage-and sent it to Coruscant’s Funniest
Holotapes?”
Janson shot a pleading look at his C.O. “You wouldn’t-Would you?”
“That depends.” Said Wedge, turning to his wife, “Dear, have you had enough vengeance for what Wes did on your Girls’ Night?”
Janson looked at Iella and blanched, “It was you. You did this to me. That Togorian said she had needs. I could either watch the holo or- or…” he shuddered, drawing himself up, and looking imploringly at Iella,
“Agent Wesseri Antilles, I humbly beg pardon for the offence- yes, that one, that I caused. Please don’t kill me or humiliate me further.”
“Good enough for now.” Iella grumbled, “I’m going to go strap in, I think Tycho and Winter have had enough ‘alone time.’ Well, don’t just stand there Wedge, fly the ship. She cocked her head, “I know you want to, you’ve been planetside for two weeks, and mosgoth riding just doesn’t cut it.” With that, she walked into the rear cabin, leaving Wedge to the questionable mercy of his fellow, single pilots.
SHUTTLE PHANAN’S INTELLECT
TWO JUMPS FROM PANTOLOMIN
While Wedge was busy enough navigating a shuttle, sorting out the chaos that was Wes and Hobbie left him with a warm feeling that he had trouble placing. He had either missed them, or the urge to kill them was rising again. This was about par for his interactions with the duo.
After laying in a shorter course used by the military for the next to last leg of the trip, wedge turned to Tycho, who had joined him in the cabin,
“I’m confused, Tych, Why bring Gate along?”
Tycho’s aristocratic features contorted themselves into a smile, a rare occurrence for the solemn Alderaanian.
“Did you want the official reason, or the actual reason?”
“Official first please,”
“Officially, he’s here to keep an eye on the new Hyperspace Motivator Emtrey ‘found’ and to repair it if needed”
“And the actual reason?”
“Actually, he’s going along because Whistler hasn’t been there yet, and wants to rub it in his er…”
“Photoreceptors?” Wedge offered.
“Yeah,” said Tycho, “Let’s go with that. Course plotted?”
“Just about…”
The sensor board lit up, and the dagger shape of an Interdictor cruiser resolved in front of them.
This can’t be good.
Without bothering to verify ID, Wedge sent the shuttle into a stomach-straining turn-loop to port, narrowly avoiding the Ion Cannon blast that passed through the space that Phanan’s Intellect had just occupied. His eyes flicked over to the Navicomputer, numbers still ticking down to a precise course, and a quick check of sensors reported increased mass anomalies as the Cruiser powered up its Gravity Well Generators.
No Choice.
“Close enough- punch it, Tycho!”
As the blond man pushed the Hyperspace Activation lever, a near miss from the Interdictor Cruiser’s Ion cannon fried part of the heavily modified Hyperspace Motivator acquired by Rogue Squadron’s rogue quartermaster. Instead of the normal white streaks, the stars turned red-
And everything else went black.
COCKPIT, PHANAN’S INTELLECT
LOCATION UNKNOWN
As Wedge came to, he noticed several things. First, he noticed that most of the cockpit systems were offline, even the backups, the exceptions being inertial compensators and environmental systems, the most redundant of all. Secondly, he noticed that the Intellect was in a lateral clockwise spin, judged by staring out the viewport, and observing a red moon and a gas giant.
Third, he saw Tycho come to.
“Tych. Status?”
“Green boss. What in the Seven Hells was that?”
Wedge shook his head to clear the cobwebs before checking the other occupants of the shuttle. As he did, he noticed several bright glints out the viewport. Eight, to be precise. As they grew closer, Wedge could see them in detail. They were silver-gray in color, fighter sized, and comprised of what looked like a central control area extending to curved wings swept forward into points.
He pointed towards them,
“Better question: What in the Seven Hells are those?”
The ships grew larger, and Wedge felt a sense of foreboding as he was able to make out cannon in the wing roots, and an oscillating red light coming from the center of each craft.
He glanced at Tycho, who was shaking his head.
Don’t say it, don’t you dare-
“Boss, I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
Chapter 2: Gift from the Gods
Vipers - Space
Starbuck: All right, listen up, nuggets: stay together and keep your throttles firewalled until you hit that deck. Now go.
Galactica - Command
Adama: What is she doing?
Tigh: Starbuck's gonna take o*n all eight... and get herself killed.
-Battlestar Galactica Season One, “Act Of Contrition” Final Scene
UNKNOWN SYSTEM, NEAR A GAS GIANT AND RED MOON
DURING THE FINAL MINUTES OF BATTLESTAR GALACTICA SEASON 1 EPISODE:
“ACT OF CONTRITION”
No more Nuggets are gonna die because of me.
That thought drove Kara “Starbuck” Thrace as she sped toward the enemy.
To death. To Zak.
As she watched the hostile DRADIS blips grow closer, Kara continually tried to justify her choice. She was doing this to save the Nuggets, so they could get trained up to protect the fleet.
And four lives were definitely worth hers. Lee could teach them. He wasn’t a failure as a teacher, as a leader. And she couldn’t look them in the eyes, neither him nor his father.
Hard enough after she told Lee-After she told the Old Man-
He looked at her with pain in his eyes. Pain and anger. “Walk out of this cabin,” He had said, in a voice choked with emotion, “While you still can.”
The –beep- of the DRADIS board brought her back to herself.
Focus, Starbuck, wouldn’t do to die just yet.
She glanced at it out of the corner of her eye, noticing a blip where there wasn’t one before, relative down, between her and the raiders. No ID, Colonial or Cylon. And she was minutes away from a visual.
“Galactica, Starbuck, unknown contact appeared between me and the Raider force. Contact is shuttle sized or better, no velocity readings. Request instructions.”
Three minutes to visual range. The wireless crackled.
**Starbuck, Galactica Actual. We see it too. Wait for the CAP…**
The board pinged again, and Starbuck observed the raiders change heading with an inhuman coordination. Directly for the new contact, and they weren’t stopping.
Two minutes, thirty seconds.
“Galactica, Starbuck. Negative. Bandits have oriented on the Bogey and have assumed an attack profile. It could be one of ours.”
**It could be a trap** Adama’s voice responded.
“Sometimes you’ve got to roll the hard six, sir.”
**Proceed,** he sighed
She switched the wireless frequency,
“CAP, Starbuck, Status?”
“Catman and Hex, Four minutes out…”
“Hotdog, one minute out. Never leave your leader.”
Two minutes
“Frak. Hotdog, firewall your throttle, link up with me, we’re gonna punch a hole through their formation, reorient, and cover our mystery ship. Catman, Hex, you boys got our six?”
“Just yours Starbuck,” Hex responded, “it’s prettier.”
“Damn straight, Hex. Tighten up, we got toasters to frag.”
One minute
Starbuck flexed her hand on the joystick a couple of times, loosening up. Saw Hotdog off her port side. Kid had balls.
“Hotdog, stay with me, and don’t get cocky.”
“Sir.”
She took a deep breath, relaxing into the fake leather of her seat, watched the numbers scroll down on the readouts. Saw a gray blur as she passed the Bogey and watched the deadly silver shapes of the Raiders begin to grow larger.
“All Vipers, weapons free.”
She oriented on the closest Raider, and opened fire.
SHUTTLE PHANAN’S INTELLECT
COCKPIT
“Boss, I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
Wedge looked at his friend, “Tych, can you give me shields, engines…” The blond man shook his head.
Wedge thumped the control console, “Get me something. Emergency restart, now!” As Tycho bent to the task, he glanced back to the cabin. “Everyone all right back there?”
“All except Hobbie.”
Iella’s voice, thank the Force
“Clipped his head on something, he’s out cold.”
Wedge gave a wry grin, “Wouldn’t be a proper mission if Hobbie didn’t get injured somehow. Strap yourselves in. It’s gonna get bumpy.”
The shuttle’s cabin lights flickered once, twice, and stayed lit. “Got it, Boss, engines at fifty percent, thrusters online, environmental controls and dampers at eighty…”
Wedge immediately evened out the ship, and began to plot a limping course away from the menacing fighters, which had just opened fire.
“Tych- Weapons? Comms? Sensors?”
“No to the first, yes on the second, short range only on the third.” Tycho glanced at the sensor board. “Two more contacts, higher thrust ratio. Detecting radio waves. Quaint. They don’t look like the ones chasing us. They’ll be on us in a minute, no time like the present for some Diplomacy.”
Wedge nodded, pulling the Intellect into a double barrel roll, and made a decision that would alter the course of Galactic history, “I think we’ve stumbled into someone else’s war. I don’t think the newcomers are planning on shooting us first, and there are only two of them. If we help them…”
“They might not decide to blow us away when it’s over?” Asked Tycho.
“Precisely. Pity we haven’t any weapons- Wait a minute, Tych, can you set the comms to transmit only to our rear, narrow band, high frequency?”
“Planning to ask them nicely not to shoot us?”
“More like tell ‘em. Set for our rear arc. Don’t want our new friends to get caught. Now to set them up for a nice large target…”
The shuttle’s movements grew less erratic, and the silver fighters closed in for the kill.
Wedge thumbed the Transmit button. As he did, he noticed the sensor readings of the fighters go erratic as two red and white blurs speed ever closer. When they passed over the cockpit, he ended the ‘transmission.’
Right, he thought to the newcomers, I’ve done all I can. Finish it.
Starbuck flew through the silent explosion of the first Raider, tiny bits of its hull pinged and clanked off of hers. She checked six, and saw Hotdog, still alive, still on her tail. In fact, she noticed that several of the remaining raiders were moving erratically, or not at all.
Sounds like what Boomer said the Cylons did to our guys.
She and her wingman reoriented for another pass on the three Raiders still moving, just as the CAP Vipers moved in on them.
Keying the wireless, she spoke, “I’ve got the middle one. Hotdog, pick up the one relative right, you guys got the other one.”
**Yessir.**
**Confirmed**
**Acknowledged**
Hotdog opened fire, shredding his Raider, just as Starbuck’s target, moving erratically, opened fire on him, shredding the tail section of his ‘plane.
Static resolved into frantic words; **Krypter, krypter, Controls unresponsive, and I’m venting fuel, Punching out!**
She poured shells into the Raider, cursing herself for lethargy. Saw his cockpit canopy blow off, watched the boost of the ejection seat begin to ignite the leaked fuel. She could only hope he made it far enough away from the fight.
“All vipers, Starbuck. Finish ‘em.”
After the last Raider was blown to scrap, She saw the bogey begin to turn towards Hotdog’s last position. Despite the fact that it had helped her, it still made her nervous. She keyed her wireless, transmitting in the clear,
“Unidentified vessel, unidentified vessel, this is Lieutenant Thrace, callsign ‘Starbuck,’ Colonial Fleet. Transmit ID now, and state your intentions, or you will be fired upon.” Under her breath, she muttered,
“It’d be a shame, too, as you left a good first impression.”
As she awaited the reply, Kara took another glance at the mystery ship. Flat rectangular shape, small cockpit at the front, large stabilizer, and a smaller wing on each side, blocky engines glowing with a blue light completed the ensemble. Was it some kind of Colonial secret weapon?
A male voice, oddly accented in Colonial Standard, hit her speakers,
**This is General Wedge Antilles, New Republic Starfighter Command, I am a human in a coalition of over eleven thousand worlds and four thousand sentient species, currently piloting the Shuttle Phanan’s Intellect. We encountered engine difficulties, and ended up here, wherever here is…”
New Republic Starfighter Command? Didn’t sound like any loony cult she was aware of. Sounded like a military organization.
The voice continued, amused, **Glad we made such a good impression, ‘Starbuck.’ Our weapons systems suffered a failure, and we had to improvise.**
That was improvisation? Oh frak me.
**As far as intentions go, we request permission to rescue your extravehicular pilot. What were those hostile fighters, anyway?**
Her eyebrows shot up. Not Colonial, not Cylon, and not hostile.
She deferred to the First Contact Protocol learned by rote so many years ago at Fleet Academy. She returned in a formal, polite tone.
“Ah, General Antilles, sir, as your organization is presently unknown to us and not a member of the Twelve Colonies, I must decline your offer of aid at this moment.”
She checked her board.
“A Raptor Recovery vessel is currently en route to our pilot. This would appear to be a First Contact Situation, and as such, I am obligated to pass your request to my commanding officer. It’s above pay grade, sir.”
**Understood, Starbuck. Cutting thrust. Best be quick about your pilot though, it’s a bit cold out there.**
She flipped frequencies. “Galactica Actual, Did you receive all that?”
Adama’s voice came over the line. **Affirmative, Starbuck. I have it from here. General Antilles, this is Commander Adama, of the Colonial Fleet Battlestar Galactica. I am transmitting a coded frequency to your vessel. Please switch to it. **
Antilles’ voice again, **Confirmed Commander. Switching now.**
**General Antilles, you have entered a war zone between the Cylon, a race of machines, and the humans of the Colonial Fleet. My pilots will be escorting your craft to ensure you make no hostile moves, or come to any danger. Please do not deviate from your present course. We have much to discuss. Specifically, the word ‘human,’ and your eleven thousand member worlds.**
Chapter Three: Prelude to Diplomacy
“Presumably an escort,” Wedge said. “Stay loose, Red Flight. Diplomacy first.”
Leader, Three. Diplomacy means saying something soothing as you squeeze the trigger, right?”
“Quiet, Three.”
- Starfighters of Adumar,
By Aaron Allston
SHUTTLE PHANAN’S INTELLECT
COCKPIT
Wedge listened to Adama’s voice, noticing the strange accent in Basic, and hearing the calm, steady tones. In his gut, he knew the man was a seasoned combat leader. That was a good thing. Seasoned combat leaders didn’t usually shoot first, and the fact that they spoke a dialect of Basic, as well as referring to themselves as ‘The Colonies’ with a protocol for a First Contact Situation gave the indication that they may be a lost human colony from the bygone Republic days.
A brief message from Adama requested that they hold position while he talked to the President. The four pilots, (Hobbie having returned to consciousness,) Iella, and Winter crowded the cockpit to discuss options and get a better look at the three fighters that had formed up on them. As they got closer, Wedge noticed something-
They looked like-“X-Wings,” muttered Janson, “Emperor’s fluffy pink bathrobe-they look like X-Wings.”
“Yeah.” Hobbie drawled, rubbing his injured head, “If you hacked off the nosecone, s-foils and an engine, and added a couple of smaller wings and a stabilizer, they would kinda look like X-Wings.”
“There’s the paint job too,” said Iella, “White and red stripes-classic Rouge Squadron.”
Wedge keyed his comm, “Starbuck, what do you call those ships of yours? I’m curious, because we’ve got something similar.”
“I don’t know what those are,” said Janson, “but I want one…”
Tycho chuckled. “It doesn’t matter what they’re called, I think Incom’s got a major patent infringement suit on its hands if they find out about these.”
The response came almost immediately, **They’re called the Viper, General. I am not currently at liberty to divulge additional technical data because-**
“You don’t trust us.” He said, evenly.
**Yes, Sir. You’ll have to persuade Commander Adama and President Roslin that your intentions are benign.** A teasing note entered her voice, **Are you a fighter pilot, Sir? You pulled some nice maneuvers, and sound a bit young to be flying a desk.**
Wedge snorted, amused, “Finally someone who agrees with me. Yeah, you’re talking to a snub jockey. There’s four of us and a couple of analysts on what was supposed to be a vacation.”
**Some vacation. **
“You said it. Is your President here yet? I don’t know how long my systems will hold out.”
**I’ll check-just a minute, General. In the meantime, the Commander has cleared you to approach the Port Flight Pod of Galactica-The largest ship in the fleet.**
“Acknowledged, Starbuck, See you on the deck
Wedge looked at the other occupants of the Shuttle, and throttled up slowly, engines juddering in protest.
“Alright people, I’ve got no choice, We’ve gotta put this thing down before we lose engines altogether-opinions?”
“They don’t like droids, they’re twitchy and very good at shooting things they don’t like?” suggested Hobbie, as the Intellect moved through the fleet, towards the indicated vessel.
Wedge nodded, “All right, Gate stays on board, then, and we make no sudden moves. Tycho, passive scan. What kind of armament are we looking at?”
As Tycho bent to work, Wedge took a glance at the Battlestar, By looks alone, it was impressive, a kilometer long, divided into three distinct sections, a central core with engines, resembling a misshapen Dreadnaught, and two outriggers, which he assumed were the Flight Pods. As he lined up on the port one, proceeding at a crawl so as to not antagonize the Commander and to give his people more time to prepare, he saw a battery of eight immense, double turreted guns on the ship’s spine.
“Mass Drivers,” muttered Tycho, giving a running commentary, “Thick armor, unknown composition, and I think the doors on the hangar bay are either missile tubes or a launch mechanism of some sort.”
“The shape,” said Iella, knowledgeable about many ship classes due to her service in Corellian Security Force, “The symmetrical layout-it looks nearly Corellian,”
Wedge didn’t miss it either as he compared it to the other warships of similar size he was familiar with. It lacked the organic alien randomness of the Mon Calamari Cruisers and Battleships, and did not inspire the stomach-clenching terror of the daggerlike Imperial warships, a shape for rending and tearing.
Instead, Galactica’s construction evoked feelings of a home he hadn’t been inside of yet-The design had many similarities to the ships he grew up with, yet its differences, blunt bow, heavy armor, and slight curves suggested a reassuring solidity, and the heavy guns gave it more punch than just a simple Carrier or Missile Ship. It was a juggernaut built to protect and defend, to strike and stand, while taking one hell of a pounding in the process.
Wedge had just decided he liked it, when Winter dragged him back to reality with a voice so soft it was barely heard-
“It’s worse than that.”
“Hey!” exclaimed Janson, “That’s my forecast of impending doom!”
“Pipe down Wes, you can come up with another one if we survive this.” He gestured to the white-haired spy, “You were saying, Winter?”
She pointed out the window,
“The ships, Wedge, look at the ships. Widely varying size and shape, few to no weapons mounts, and makeshift repairs on some-This is no fleet group, these are refugees. I’d wager that aside from the Galactica, there aren’t any purpose-built warships in the fleet. Those droids, the ‘Cylons’ they’re fighting, I think they lost to them-badly.”
Wedge nodded.
“Here’s the plan. We board. We do not antagonize them. We offer an alliance and complete honesty if they can get us back to the Republic. Dress Uniforms. Change quickly.”
Wedge ignored the groans of Hobbie and Janson, suppressed his own, and pressed on.
“We had them for the Vanda, and we’re going to use them to make an impression as Soldiers on the Colonials-I think they’ll need them.”
He stared at the two women, who were in upscale dresses, and frantically thought about how to survive the next few seconds without a smack to the head. Figuring that they wouldn’t do it while he was flying the ship, he went ahead.
“Iella, Winter, you ladies already look lovely, check the survival kit, get me an inventory, then stow it. It’s a Wraith special, so there should be plenty of weapons and other exciting things that go ‘boom.’ Draw holdouts, and hide them. We need to lay out all our cards on the table, but in case something goes wrong, you’re our skifters in the deck. Janson, draw blasters and vibroblades, hand ‘em out-Rogues, arm yourselves and make it obvious.”
His voice shifted to a lower register, “Surrender your weapons if, and only if I tell you to. They are going to treat us as equals, not potential hostages, and I’m going to make that very clear to them.”
The comm. system crackled as the primitive wireless broadcast was transmitted to the shuttle.
**Phanan’s Intellect, Phannan’s Intellect, this is Captain Kelly, Landing Signals Officer of Galactica, I am directing you to approach with constant velocity, your designated landing area is marked with blue checkers. A soft seal airlock hose will be extended after touchdown. Please acknowledge.**
“Antilles here,” Wedge replied, “Instructions received and acknowledged. Request a private channel with Commander Adama.”
**This is Galactica Actual,** said the gravelly voice, **Proceed.**
“Commander, allow me to be blunt. My men and I are uniformed military officers, We will be boarding your ship as an envoy of military officers of an independent government, with our sidearms, We will leave the ship the same way. While we very much hope to make a peaceful contact, I must warn you, any attempt to take us prisoner or coerce us in any way will be interpreted as an act of war, and be treated accordingly. My people will make no aggressive moves. Is this acceptable to you?”
Wedge sat back to await the reply. He was not kept waiting long.
**It is acceptable under our current Rules Of Engagement. Be advised that armed Marines will be-escorting you for the protection of my crew and the President.**
Wedge nodded, aware of the necessity, “Understood Commander, I look forward to meeting you in person.”
**Likewise, General, likewise.**
He heard someone clearing their throat, and glanced behind him. It was Tycho, clad in the loathed white v-neck jacket and black bodystocking of the New Republic Dress Uniform. The left hem of the jacket was red, holding his rank insignia, and displaying numerous awards and battle tabs, just like the one in his luggage. Wedge made a go-ahead gesture to Tycho who then slipped into the co-pilot’s seat and took up the controls.
By the numbers, thought Wedge.
“Switching over, do you have the stick?”
“I have the stick. Taking us in, blue checkers.” Tycho’s lips quirked into a smile, “Best dress to impress, Boss.”
“And Wes said you couldn’t rhyme.” Wedge groaned, “See you in five.” He unsnapped form the seat, stretched, and headed into the main cabin to the refresher alcove, passed Winter on her way to the cockpit. As he saw Iella and going through the luggage, his heart skipped a beat- In the short time since the plan was decided, she had done her hair onto an elegant but serviceable bun, with a few strands left free to frame her face. If possible, she looked more beautiful than ever, and nothing like a trained Intelligence operative. As he moved toward her, Iella gave Wedge a wink, and tossed a small duffel at him. Unlike the pillow earlier in the day, and what felt like years ago-
He caught it, opened it, and confirmed the contents: Dress Uniform, datapad, comlink, belt and holster with a ‘Solo Special’ DL-44 and power packs, Wedge then sealed and slung it over his shoulder, looking again at his wife.
“You look great, are you all set?” he asked.
She tossed him a mocking salute. “Yes sir, General Antilles, Sir!”
Wedge grabbed her around the shoulders and pulled her closer.
“Hey, no salutes until they need to know what you do for a living.” She raised an eyebrow, and he continued, “Besides, you’re not in my chain of command anyway. Got the blaster? I didn’t see it.”
Iella took a quick glance around the cabin area, and made sure they were alone. Her brown eyes took on a seductive gaze, and her voice dropped an octave.
“Wanna?” She asked, reaching for the hem of her dress.
“Force yes,” he replied enthusiastically-until he took a glance at his chrono. “But later,” he said, as they kissed passionately, “Later.”
He entered the ‘fresher, and four minutes, several splashes of cold water, and a change of clothes later, emerged into the cabin in time for landing, and a spectacle.
With Tycho and Winter in the cockpit landing the ship, the occupants of the cabin were limited to Wedge, an uncomfortable-looking Hobbie in his Dress Uniform slouched against the bulkhead, and Iella, looking lovely in a simple blue dress with flared sleeves, while currently attempting to attack the third occupant of the cabin- Major Wes Janson standing at an absurdly preening position of attention while trying to fend off Iella, wearing his Dress Uniform-with a few additions.
As Wedge stepped closer, he took it all in. white naval officer’s hat with a gleaming black brim? Check. Holo-Vid star eyeshades? Check. Absurdly tiny and pointed mustachios obtained from one of Face’s little disguise kits? Check. Hand-tooled blaster belt with massive, Shreen-Pearl handled blaster? Check. All of it, down to the massive, unlit cigarillo clamped firmly between his teeth lent him the air of a self-satisfied prima-donna commander right out of a war-drama holo.
“Hey,” said Wes a dung-eating grin on his face, while somehow managing to keep the cigarillo in his mouth, “One of us has to look good.”
As Wedge attempted to suppress his laughter, and Janson stared at him expectantly waiting for him to fail, Iella took the opportunity to rip off his offending facial adornments and ‘shades in one fell swoop. As Wes yelped in pain, and backed up, Wedge lost his control, and Hobbie stole the hat, beginning a spirited game of “Keep Away.”
Wedge shook his head. “Nine year-olds,” He commented ruefully, “I’m going on a diplomatic mission with nine year-olds.”
“Yet you still want kids someday,” Iella, a smile on her face, triumphantly brandishing Janson’s shades and mustache, “You must have the patience of a Jedi.”
“Not as much as Luke, actually. Poor guy has to sign autographs everywhere he goes, even on a dinner date.”
“No.” said Iella.
“Yes,” replied Wes, looking morose and rubbing the raw skin where the mustache had been, “It got so bad he had to get Face to disguise him if we wanted to hit a Cantina or tapcaf together. What with all the senators wanting a piece of him, the poor soul only has us to keep him honest.”
During the performance, the shuttle set down to a smooth landing, Wes abandoned his battle with the cigarillo, placing it in his pocket, and Iella raised an eyebrow.
“By ‘Keeping him honest,’ you of course mean insulting and pranking him mercilessly?”
Wes grinned, “Something like that.”
They heard the gentle ‘thud’ of a universal coupling settled over their airlock.
Wedge. “All right, I’ll get Tycho and Winter, you assemble and prepare for introductions.”
He and Iella headed forward to the cockpit, and opened the hatch, just in time to see Tycho and Winter step away from each other and the console they were both leaning into.
Wedge cleared his throat to get their attention,
“Did we miss anything?” Iella asked impishly.
“Nope,” said Tycho, slightly red-faced, “we’re checking the guidance leads. Controls went sticky just before landing.”
“Riiiiiight.” Wedge drawled, as Winter gave him an appraising stare, which on her was more intimidating than your average ‘death glare,’ “Guidance leads. Uh Huh, I’ll remember that one. C’mon, it’s showtime.”
They left the cockpit, moved through the cabin, and stepped into the large airlock, initially designed to debark large numbers of troops. The sensors registered positive atmosphere mix and pressure, so Wedge opened the hatch, coming face to face with another, this one sealed with a manual valve, only accessible from the opposite side, and was consequently equipped with an intercom set into the door. Wedge hit what he hoped was the Transmit button.
“This is General Antilles and party. Do we have permission to come aboard?”
The Commander’s voice came through the intercom,
**Adama here-permission granted.**
Various clanking resounded through the hatch, and as it finally swung wide, Wedge caught sight of several human soldiers with unfamiliar weapons clad in black uniforms and helmets. One was holding the hatch open, while seven others were keeping guard on the hallway’s other occupants.
No one spoke for a few seconds as the two groups evaluated each other. Wedge took the time to examine the people before him
The first of these occupants was an attractive young woman with short blond hair, wearing a tank top drenched in sweat, a chain around her neck with what were probably ID markers, and some sort of flight suit tied off around her waist. Her face, which looked shaped for a devilish grin, was surprisingly somber. This was probably the Lieutenant Thrace he spoken with over the comm.
He glanced at three other men, clad in gray uniforms with a leather sash over the shoulder, obviously their version of a Dress Uniform. It didn’t look much more comfortable than theirs.
One was tall, and with his height, suspicious glower, and fringe of white hair, bore more than a passing resemblance to Booster Terrik-the only thing missing was the fact that this man had two eyes to Booster’s one.
The other two had some sort of family resemblance. The younger man was taller than his-his Father? Wedge guessed, and had a determined look in his blue eyes, yet his face was smooth and unlined, lending him the earnest look of a young man determined to make his mark on the universe.
The earnesty and determination of the younger man were nothing compared to the elder.
Steel-haired and stocky, his craggy features spoke of decades of experience and leadership-the man exuded a quiet strength and competence that Wedge could not hope to imitate.
This, concluded Wedge after a second’s observation, was Adama. He stepped forward and saluted.
“Commander Adama.”
“General Antilles.”-A statement, not a question-The older man took a similar pace forward, returned the salute and, as Wedge dropped his own, looked him in the eyes, seeming to measure him in an instant, with the look one warrior, one commander gave another.
Adama walked up to Wedge, and shook his hand.
“Welcome to Galactica, General.” The soldiers seemed to relax a bit, and Adama released his hand, stepping closer, speaking more quietly.
“Forgive me,” He rasped. “Kara said you would be young, but I didn’t know how young. Doesn’t matter though-you’ve obviously seen your share of action.”
Wedge gave a wry grin. “You as well, Commander, unless I miss my guess. But we can share war stories later. Let’s make the introductions, you and I, and find somewhere to sit and compare notes.”
Adama nodded. “My thoughts exactly.”
*********************
Please let me know if I got the characters right, if the story has potential, and how I can integrate the humor of the Wraiths with the GRIMDARK (TM) of Galactica. Thanks.