The 13th Tribe: Encore Une Fois

[fnord]

Like others, I've been jonesing for more 13th Tribe for quite a few years now.

Unlike others, I was foolish/smart enough to gripe about said lack to EternalFreedom. Boiled down in my words, his reply was "write it yourself or STFU". Like hell I was going to shut up.

I had intended to land this on the 10th anniversary of EF's initial posting (Anzac Day 2016), but life intervened.
I've badgered EF into helping me, and his contributions - as the Source Of All Good Bits (ie, 13T canon), pre-reading, and catching cock-ups on my part - merit, I feel, co-author status. Whether this fic is still merely Recursive Fanfiction is up to people who aren't me.

Whether this results in more canon 13T is entirely up to EF.

---

Mit EternalFreedom geschrieben.

Emergence

Barham CIC, 4 hours after the fall of Terra, unknown location

—-

“Husker, Sharpshooter, Battleaxe was under that strike and is incommunicado, probably dead.”

“... All ships, Husker, I’m taking command of the fleet. White Knight, Breakdance, execute your escape jumps. Sharpshooter, how badly off are you?”

“We can’t jump, can’t maneuver, can’t launch or recover fighters from the port hangar. I’ve ordered non-essential crew and wounded to abandon.”

—-

“Warspite is breaking up in the upper atmosphere, debris will impact Lemuria.”

—-

“White Knight, Husker, stand rea… “

—-

“Bad Wolf, White Knight, come in”

—-

“That’s Pegasus and Excalibur gone, sir - you’re it.”

“What the hell have I got left to command?”

—-

“That big pyramidal bastard, the one with overblown delusions of adequacy - collision course, blind jump on impact.”

—-

Well, this is unexpected, thought Captain Franklin North as he hauled himself to his feet, the events of the past few hours playing through his mind.

“Injuries, casualties, damage?”

North, a slim, somewhat bookish-looking man with prominent eyebrows and thinning, receding, greying hair, cast his eye around CIC. Shtarker looked worryingly unmoving, sprawled on the deck, Wallace looked distinctly rattled, but Henderson looked unaffected.
Looked being the key word there.

The CIC corpsman was already en route towards Shtarker before North’s query.

“Main and aux sensors aren’t responding, sir. Intercom seems to be working intermittently.”

Why is Mainwaring reporting? What happened to… oh… North’s question about his sensor officer was answered when he spotted Walker unsteadily climbing to his feet. North had addressed the chief as “Chief Mane-wearing” - once. Shtarker had immediately, but gently, corrected him - Mainwaring himself pronounced his name as “Mannering”. North had made a point of apologising - loudly.

“Comms aren’t responding either, sir.”

So we’re blind, deaf and dumb. Will the list of what’s working end up shorter?

“Commander Shtarker’s alive but unconscious, sir, with possible head injury. I’m going to have to backboard him and move him to sickbay.”

“Wallace? You’re XO.”

“... Aye, sir.”

As the corpsman looked for volunteers (“you, you and you”) to move Shtarker, more reports came in.

“Shield control reports shields not responding, presumed down.”

“Main fire control reports megalasers not responding.”

Blind, deaf, dumb and defenceless. Marvellous, bloody marvellous.

“Helm not responding, sir.”

“.... Bloody hell, what does work?”

“CIC artificial gravity and life support are both on aux, looks to be the same for nearby areas, sir.”

“That’s a relief. Further afield?”

“Life support and gravity for the central section of the ship seems to be on auxiliary as well. Further forward, sir, some sections are on backup life support and some others have lost artificial gravity. Aft of the central section, life support and gravity seems to be on mains.”

“Hmm…. let’s try the intercom” Suiting actions to words, North stepped over to the nearest intercom and keyed it. “Strike group, conn, where are you up to?”

The voice that eventually replied, after the moments stretched, wasn’t the one he was expecting.

“Conn, strike group, go ahead.”

For starters, North had been expecting a man to answer.

“What happened to Three-Pete?”

“... Commander Tyler didn’t recover before you did … whatever the hell it was. Commander ‘Ace’ McShane, sir”

In other words, killed in action.

“Well, Ace, I wish the circumstances of your gaining an independent command were… less wearing on personnel.”

“Makes two of us, sir.”

“How many airframes do you have in total, and how many are flyable?”

“Current count is five Cobras, possibly two flyable, a full squadron of sixteen Raptors, roughly ten flyable, and two Scimitars, both flyable.”

“Scimitars?”

“They beat me onboard, sir.”

“Since you’ve got barely a flyable squadron in total, how many ground crew will you need to support ops at your current scale?”

“A quarter of them, at most.”

“Right. I’m going to have to snag the rest to check damage and set up an eyeball skywatch.”

“Visual?”

“Right now, I’ve got nothing, and I doubt you know if you can even launch anything yet. If you’ve got a better idea, Ace, let’s hear it.”

“No… I don’t have any better ideas until I know whether I can launch anything, sir. I’ll let you know when I know more.”

“Thank you, Ace. Wait one.”

Keying off the intercom, North called Walker over. After the latter somewhat-unsteadily made his way over, “How tight do you want that eyeball skywatch, Cap?”

North bit back on the impulse to correct Walker - the latter only addressed him as such privately, and Walker was a good enough officer that North permitted him the foible.

“I don’t know exactly where I am.”

“Hmm…. heel-an’-toe?”

“How many people will that need?”

“Binox… telescopes… ship of this size… call it two hundred and fifty actually standing watch at any one time. How many ground crew are you poachin’ from the strike group?”

“They’re mine to begin with, Walker, I’m not poaching them. Six-fifty in total.”

“A thousand would be barely enough to maintain heel-an’-toe, with none left over for checking for damage. An even split with damage checking, five hundred each, would still give you a fairly tight skywatch for anything much bigger than an un-stealthed Scimitar right on the hull, while not getting in the way of findin’ out what’s broken. Three-twenty each will still be a pant load better than nuffin’.”

“I see Chief Mainwaring’s been busy. Will you have any problems co-ordinating the skywatch?”

“None that I can see at the moment, sir.”

As Walker turned to return to the sensor desks, North pulled him up. “Wait here, Lieutenant.”

Let’s see if this still works.
North keyed the intercom again. “Engineering, conn, damage?”

This time, the other end responded immediately.

“Conn, engineering, we’re still figuring that out, sir. Looks like we’re still on main life support and gravity back here.”

“Very good. Strike group, conn, still there?”

“I’m here, sir.”

“Right - Commander Reynolds, Lieutenant Walker, this is Commander McShane, the new strike group commander.”

North let the three exchange hellos and congratulations before continuing, “After that damned slaughter, we’re a little light on for a strike group. As a result, I’m reassigning six hundred and fifty ground crew from the strike group. They’ll both set up an eyeball skywatch and, because vacuum doesn’t care which organisation you’re a part of, to help check the ship for damage, split evenly. Will that cause any insuperable problems?”

Reynolds spoke up. “No, sir, the extra three hundred odd people won’t go astray.”

“Can’t see any insuperable problems, sir.”

In the background, the CIC corpsman had finished backboarding Shtarker and, with her “volunteers”, began to move him.


Barham CIC, 6 hours after the fall of Terra, unknown location

The past two hours had North counting himself and his ship damned lucky indeed - a blind suicide jump wasn’t usually expected to be survivable, at the very least without severe, if not critical, damage.

Yet severe damage was exactly what Barham hadn’t sustained - he had expected the hull to have been penetrated in multiple locations from the high yield antiship missiles the Cylons had thrown around with apparently gleeful abandon, with the resultant casualties and damaged/destroyed systems, but apparently not.

Likewise, it seemed that from Reynolds’ reports, the problems with the shields were control-related - in extremis, the shields could be managed locally. The current lack of helm control also seemed to be control-related, but Reynolds hadn’t been as certain about that as he had with the shields. Reynolds had also suspected a bunch of the other problems were control-related.

“Conn, engineering, megalasers are not, repeat, not, safely fireable.”

Think his name in vain and he will appear.

“Engineering, conn, aye. What do you mean, “safely” ?”

“If you want to scuttle the ship, sir, fire megas two and three.”

“Marvellous. Any more good news?”

“Megas one and four are going to need a solid week of work each.”

“Can you see any reason to not lock them out?”

“I can’t see any reason, sir, but I’m not a weapons engineering officer. Um… wait one, sir.”

Apparently Reynolds was chasing up someone known as “Oily”, who presumably was a weapons engineering officer.

Whoever Oily was, when he came on the intercom, he sounded a fair bit younger than Reynolds. “Captain, unless you’re planning to accidentally scuttle the ship, my recommendation is to lock out the megas and spend the skilled time elsewhere.”

“Right… Commander Reynolds, lock the megalasers out. Oily, what sort of time will it take to make megas two and three good?”

“At least two weeks at Olympus, sir.”

“Problematic at best. One last question. Oily?”

“I’m an engineering officer, and my last name is Wragg, sir.”

“That’d do it.”

Reynolds cut in. “I’ve ordered the megalasers locked out, sir. Do you have anything more for Oily?”

“No, nothing more.”

“Right. Oily, carry on.”

“Sirs.” Oily turned back to whatever he had been doing beforehand.

“Sir, how do you want to prioritise repairs? I’m assuming you do want to keep breathing.”

“Strangely, yes. First get life support/gravity off backups, then sensors, comms, realspace engines, shields, jump drives and then guns. Where and when you can, get life support and gravity off aux.”

Reynolds repeated the ordering back to him, waited for confirmation, then signed off.


Barham Port Hangar, same time

One of the flyable Raptors that remained was being prepped for launch - aboard were Junior Lieutenants Jeffrey “Mutt” Walker and Tamsin “Jeff” West, Colonial Fleet, each running through their own checklists, occasionally cross-checking with the other. Eventually, both were satisfied that their checklists were complete.

Both were also eager to do something - although they intellectually understood that Raptors had little place in the full-on barney that had been the Fall of Terra, intellect wasn’t emotion. That the entirety of the Twelve Colonies were now reduced to sixteen two-seat small craft also had something to do with it.

“Ready, Jeff?”

“Yah, ready Mutt.”

Walker signalled readiness by turning the boat’s lights on, and keyed the radio to the air boss. “Control, Raptor 119 ready for launch.”

“Affirmative, 119. Let’s see how the hangar doors go.”

“How the hangar doors went” turned out to be about two-thirds open, splitting vertically, before the doors stalled.

“Jeff, any concerns about the doors?”

“You planning to take this thing through sideways, Mutt?”

“No…”

“Then get on with it.”

The radio crackled. “Looks like that’s as far as the doors will go. 119, clear for launch at your discretion.”

Walker replied. “Control, 119, clear for launch at my discretion.”

Suiting actions to words, Walker powered up the maneuvering thrusters, sending the boat creeping towards the hangar’s portal. When he was satisfied the Raptor was moving freely, he cut in the main engines, hurling it forwards by comparison.

The boat sailed through the opening with room to spare, then Walker smoothly took it into a rough spiral around Barham’s long axis, West keeping up a running commentary of any damage she could see.

The radio crackled again. “119, Good work on the damage reporting. Ship comms are still reported down. Your next task is to ground on the port side of the port hangar and translate out 1500 metres abeam of the ship and check comms, then translate out another 500 metres each time and continue checking comms, until you either lose us or you reach forty kilometres.”

Walker repeated the order back, then suited actions to words. Out to twenty kilometres was fine. On the second comm check, West cursed as she hit the wrong radio. What surprised Walker was the lack of audible follow-up.

“Problem, Jeff?”

“Hang on, Mutt.”

From experience, Walker knew he would just have to wait.

Eventually, West responded. “Mutt, you gotta hear this.”

“Pipe it through….. what the?”


Barham CIC, same time

“Captain, eyeball skywatch reports closest star is a spectrographic match for Helios Alpha.”

North bit back his initial reaction of “What?”, preferring “Very well, Walker. The next two closest stars?” Wallace sort-of managed to hide his reaction, Henderson didn’t bother hiding hers, and the rest of the CIC crew were a mixed bag.

“Still working those, sir.”

“Sing out when you have something more.”

“Aye, sir.”


Raptor 119, 5 minutes later

“Alright, Jeff, how in blazes do I report this one without coming off as a complete nutter?”

“Umm… we’ve picked up something, you want to rule out equipment failure and not prejudice the follow-up report?”

Walker bounced West’s suggestion around in his head, found he didn’t have anything he liked better, took a breath, and keyed the radio. “Control, 119, we’re picking up something a little, well.. more than a little weird.”

“119, weird how?”

“Control, weird enough that I want to rule out our kit playing up, and I don’t want to prejudice the second report. How long until something other than a Raptor can be up?”

“119, stand by.”

While waiting, Walker asked West, “What else would all that merchant…”

She interrupted him. “Nav beacons!”

Suiting actions to words, West started tuning one of the boat’s radios to Terran nav beacon frequencies. “Bugger, no luck.”

“What were you tuning to?”

“Terran nav frequencies.”

“Try Colonial.”

West didn’t bother suppressing her whoop of delight after she tried Colonial frequencies. “Bingo, Mutt! Let me dig out more info.”

Walker let her work - rushing her would at best gain nothing, at worst would be counter-productive.

Before West could report her next findings, Control chimed in.

“119, we can have a Cobra up in five minutes.”

“Control, 119, that’ll have to do. Can you have them join on me?”

“119, yes. Until then, back to comms ranging.”

“Control, 119, understood.”

Walker snagged another of the boat’s radios, Control readily accepting his explanation that West was too busy.

Shortly after twenty-three kilometres, West piped up. “Paydirt. I’m picking up a bunch of nav beacons, Mutt - at least twenty. Even better, the nav receiver is warning they’re unauthenticated.”

“Dates, Jeff?”

“Times vary, but it looks to be about five days before all hell broke loose.”

“Well, damn.”


Barham CIC, same time

“Sir, eyeball skywatch reports second-closest star is a spectrographic match for Helios Beta. Helios Delta and Helios Gamma are third and fourth closest.”

“That would put us in or very near the Cyrannus cluster, wouldn’t it?”

“I believe so, sir - Lieutenant Ellis would be able to tell you more.”

“Right, Ellis, Walker, put your heads together, compare whatever notes you need to, and locate us more precisely than ‘in or near the Cyrannus cluster’.”


Barham Starboard Hangar, 5 minutes later

In a near-replay of the Raptor launch earlier, one of the flyable Cobras was departing the starboard hangar - its door had opened smoothly and fully. At the controls was Lieutenant Mike “Reef” Knott.

“Control, Cobra 203 ready for launch.”

“Affirmative, 203. Once clear of the hangar, join on Raptor 119 and follow their instructions - they want to rule out equipment glitches. Clear to launch at your discretion.”

“Control, 203, clear for launch at my discretion.”

With the actual departure almost perfectly mirroring the Raptor launch, Knott flew a conservative path from the hangar to Raptor 119’s wing, staying well clear of the ship.

Switching to the briefed tactical frequency, Knott contacted them. “Mutt, Reef, what’s this equipment glitch you want ruled out?”

“Reef, Mutt, how many radios do you have?”

“Four.”

“Okay, here’s what I want you to do….”


Raptor 119, same time

“Reef, humour me.”

“This better not be a bloody windup, Mutt.”

“I’ll be happy if it is.”

Walker could hear Knott groan. “All right, let’s see what happens.”

The silence from the other end stretched out. Walker could easily guess why.

“I’ll… be… buggered…”

“Still skeptical, Reef?”

“No comment.”

“Any news on round two?”

“Haven’t tried it yet, Mutt.”

“Reef, Jeff, I take it you were picking up a lot of civilian traffic, primarily outbound from/inbound to some combination of Picon, Caprica, Gemenon and Tauron?”

“Ho.. how did you know?”

“Well, you didn’t tell me, Reef. Round two?”

“Hang on…”
Yet again, the silence stretched.

“Alright, Jeff, what did I see this time?”

“At least twenty nav beacons, all of which your nav receiver is warning are unauthenticated. Further, it looks to be about five days before all hell broke loose.”

“... Damn. Mutt, I gotta call this in.”


Barham Strike Group Command, same time

“Control, 203, turns out 119 isn’t having an equipment malfunction - I’ve picked up the same stuff they have.”

“203, what have you both picked up?”

McShane could hear the deep breath. “Oodles of merchant traffic, and at least twenty Colonial nav beacons. Date is a little over five days before the Cylon attack.”

She bit back her instinctive response. Cobras and Raptors had different radios and nav receivers - the odds against this being a simultaneous fault, let alone across two systems, were… long. And from what she knew, Knott wasn’t the type to play along with a mere prank. “119, did you pick that up?”

“Control, 119, yes.”

“119, I can see why you didn’t report that immediately - I wouldn’t have believed you. I know it might take a bit, but, the both of you, see what position you end up with.”

Both boats acknowledged.

McShane switched over to the ship-wide intercom. “Conn, strike group, I can launch small craft, and I’ll soon have a rough position for us.”

“Strike group, conn, good work.”

“Conn, those small craft also picked up lots of merchant traffic, and Colonial nav beacons - we’re a little over five days before the Cylons attack.”

McShane was more than half-expecting a similar “WHAT?” to the one she had bit back.

“Strike group, that might not be the weirdest thing I’ve heard today. Hmm… that’d be difficult to fake, but not impossible.”

McShane suspected the captain was using a different definition of “difficult” than she was.


Barham CIC, same time

Walker and Ellis had managed to refine the ship’s position to “somewhere outside Caprican orbit, in orbit of Helios Alpha” - a damn sight better than “in or near the Cyrannus cluster”, to be sure.

McShane’s blunt report crystallised a suggestion that had been nagging at North. Both junior officers were semi-staring at his “difficult, but not impossible to fake” comment.

“I’m not that photogenic, you two. Lieutenant Ellis, what would be a way of determining current time that doesn’t rely on transmissions?”

Ellis caught herself in time to take in the tail end of North’s question. “Celestial navigation, sir. With sensors as they currently are, it won’t be that precise.”

“I’ll take whatever precision you can give me - a month, a week, a day, an hour.”

Unlike Ellis, Walker didn’t catch himself.

“Are you quite finished, Lieutenant Walker?”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Support Ellis in… I’d never thought I’d be saying this… figuring out when we are.”

“Aye, sir.”


Barham CIC, 10 minutes later

Wallace stepped over to North and quietly asked, “How long have you been on watch, sir?”

“... Hmmm.. at least since the fleet formed up…”

“So at least ten hours?”

“Something like that.”

“So why not hand over the ship to me, sir, go check on Commander Shtarker, get a bite to eat, and put your head down?”

North’s face summarised what he thought of that suggestion.
“Sir, part of the point of having a crew is, out of sheer novelty value, they occasionally do things on your behalf.”

That got a smirk.

“More seriously, sir, how will the dignity of command be maintained by you passing out in the middle of CIC because you were too stubborn to admit fatigue?”

“I take your point, Wallace. But you’ve been on watch as long.”

“Apart from the past three hours, I haven’t had to worry about the whole situation. Are you really going to be able to keep your head down and stay away for twelve full hours, sir?”

“Probably not. However, that’s still going to leave you on watch for sixteen-plus hours in a stretch.”

“Who else do you have to stand watch over the ship, sir?”

“Me.” At Wallace’s raised eyebrow, North continued, “I follow your argument, but I’m way too wired to sleep - you report to sickbay and put your head down for two, maybe three hours, with their help if needed, then take over watch. You’ll be a lot fresher than I will be then. If you’ve got a better idea, let’s hear it.”

“No, nothing, sir.”

“Bugger off, then.”


Barham Main Sickbay, 3 minutes later

“Ah, Commander, welcome.” Wallace looked up at the speaker as he entered main sickbay. Looking around, he couldn’t see Commander Shtarker, but that didn’t mean much.

Surgeon Commander Lyle Fairley was of a medium, unassuming build, with a posture somewhat more academic than authoritative. His hair was short, and light brown threaded with grey at the temples. He had a long, narrow face, with fair skin, a prominent nose and fine lines that said “yes, I am well into my medical career” - given the past twelve hours, Wallace really couldn’t fault him for his measured expression.

“Where’s Doctor Ferrel?”

“Asleep. According to the captain, you should be joining him shortly. There’s an exam room you can use for your nap - number three, please. Go on in and start getting comfortable - I’ll be in shortly.”

Wallace entered the indicated exam room, to find an ordinary overstuffed armchair - it looked like one of the ones from Ferrel’s office, actually - had been dragged in.

Fairley suited actions to words, joining Wallace in the exam room as the latter sat down, carrying a bag in his hands. He withdrew a filigree hairnet from the bag shortly before a soft snore started.

Shrugging to himself, Fairley placed the hairnet over Wallace’s scalp, extracted a remote control for it from the same bag, set it to induce mainly theta brainwaves, and to run for three hours.

Fairly then slipped out of the exam room - Wallace had a heck of a responsibility when he woke up.


Barham CIC, 20 minutes later

Ellis piped up. “Captain, rough time from celestial navigation is the day of the Fall of the Colonies, good to one week.”

“Good work.”

Two independent lines of evidence turn out consilient - I don’t have to like it, just live with it.

North’s thoughts flashed back to the .. well… last time he had lived this day. Then, his biggest worry had been becoming a grandfather for the first time.

Oh bloody buggering hell, Mason was born the exact hour the Cylons attacked.

The numbness hit him. Mason North may be due in five days, but his grandson was ash, along with the rest of the Thirteen Tribes of Kobol. Any logical argument about that not having happened yet didn’t even scratch the numb feeling.

---

Updates will be irregular, as life will no doubt continue getting in the way.