The Hand of Fate (WIP)

Librarian Note:

We have tried to reach De Engi, but her e-mail address is bouncing. This 'work in progress' has been rescued. Since LAL was already hosting her other completed stories, we assumed implied permission to host her WIPs as well. If you know how to reach the author, please ask her to contact LAL. If anyone gets inspired to finish the story, let us know... She has given permission to play in the universe in her notes so, we'll assume permission to continue where she left off until we hear otherwise :)

Disclaimers and Notes

The Standard Disclaimer (Because ownership may change hands frequently and without notice but the Creator is forever, I usually try to give credit to them). Battlestar Galactica was created by Glen Larson. The Magnificent Seven is owned by CBS, MGM, Mirisch, and/or Trilogy Entertainment (and probably others, too, for all I know). SeaQuest DSV: I perused several sites, but I couldn't tell who owns or created it, but I think it was created by Rockne S. O'Bannon (I could be wrong about that), and at some point it was owned by MCA/Universal Television & Amblin Television, although Sci-Fi channel had it for awhile, too (whew!). The Sentinel was created by Danny Bilson and Paul De Meo. Star Trek was created by Gene Roddenberry & is owned by Paramount. Dr. Daniel Jackson and Colonel Jack O'Neill are from Stargate: SG-1, which is owned by Double Secret Productions, Gekko Film Corp. and MGM. (And Sci-Fi channel, too?)

I make no claims upon any of these characters or situations, nor am I making any money off this story.

Authors Notes: Yes, this really is a cross-over of The Sentinel, Star Trek (the original series), The Magnificent Seven, seaQuest DSV, and Battlestar Galactica, with a mention of a couple of Stargate: SG-1 characters thrown in, too. I originally started writing it to explain the Viper fighter on the cover of the Star Trek novel "The Romulan Way", and the upside-down Battlestar on the cover of the novel "The Trellisane Confrontation". The real life explanation I heard is something about foreign book-cover-painters being given a box of models and just kind of grabbing some to use. However, I've never read any stories attempting to explain it within the context of the Universes (although there are probably fanfic stories out there that I haven't encountered yet). So I decided, what the heck, I'll do it myself. And, being a Sentinel fan, I just couldn't resist putting them in, too. Besides, I quickly found a really logical reason for them to be there! As far as Mag-7 and seaQuest, well, I needed/wanted the characters, and Daniel and Jack are the result of a Startling Revelation I had one afternoon, so there!

For anyone unfamiliar with any of these series, here is a brief description of each:

The Sentinel: Detective James Ellison of the Cascade, Washington police department discovers that he is different from most people: he is a Sentinel, someone with substantially enhanced senses (all six of them), and a strong protective instinct. Lacking information on Sentinels, Ellison teams up with brilliant, creative anthropologist/graduate student Blair Sandburg, who helps Ellison control and focus his abilities.

Star Trek: Earth is a member of the United Federation of Planets. Her chief military arm is Starfleet. It's flagship, the U.S.S. Enterprise, NCC-1701, is a heavy cruiser charged with deep-space exploration as well as peace-keeping missions. The crew is ethnically varied, intelligent, and capable, and headed by Captain James T. Kirk, the youngest Captain in Starfleet.

Battlestar Galactica: Originally from the world Kobol, which was destroyed in an ecological disaster, thirteen tribes of humans settled new colonies. Twelve of these were together, and ended up losing a millennium-long war against the Cylon Empire. Fleeing the Cylon destruction of the Twelve Colonies, the Battlestar Galactica, commanded originally by Commander Adama, then by his surviving children, Apollo and Athena, along with a fleet of survivors traveling in any ship that would carry them, set off in the direction of the now-mythical, missing thirteenth tribe, which supposedly colonized a far-distant planet known as Earth.

The Magnificient Seven: Seven men with different talents and hard-luck backgrounds come together to protect a town in the Old West. Their common goals and lack of any other family (in most cases) brings them together in a bond of brotherhood.

SeaQuest: The United Earth/Oceans organization, forced by circumstance and Captain Nathan Hale Bridger to see the need for a state-of-the-art exploration and peace-keeping sub, rents from the US Navy the seaQuest DSV to patrol the oceans of the world. The crew is a mix of seasoned old salts and energetic and brilliant young people.

Series Chronology:

For Star Trek, this is an AU in which Sentinel/Guide pairs are well known, but otherwise the Universe is pretty much the same as the original. This story takes place during the first season, just after the events in "Balance of Terror", and is also an explanation for the long, "blank" period between "Balance of Terror", which takes place beginning on Stardate 1709.2, and "Squire of Gothos" which takes place starting on Stardate 2124.5 (of course, these are not airdate order, but Stardate order).

For The Magnificent Seven, seaQuest DSV, and The Sentinel, this is an AU taking place in the above Star Trek AU and timeline.

For Battlestar Galactica, this takes place after Richard Hatch's trilogy of "Armegeddon", "Warhawk", and "Resurrection", (about twenty years [yahren] after the original series). I didn't know about the fourth novel, "Rebellion", when I started this story, and have not yet read it at the time of this writing. Richard Hatch, like many, ignores "Galactica: 1980", which seems to be universally hated. Personally, there were a few things I liked about it. Only a few. Like Barry Van Dyke (oh, baby!).

Final note: This story is still in progress, and has not yet been beta-read.

The Hand of Fate

By De Engi

I

They weren’t going to make it.

To have come so far, and to fail, was bitter ambrosia to swallow, but they were low on everything: food, fuel, spare parts...morale. They’d given everything they had, and more, but there was nothing left to give.

Dark-haired, dark-eyed Commander Athena looked around the bridge for what she figured would be the last time. There was Flight Officer Omega, frantically trying to repair a shattered panel. And to her left and in front of Athena was Communications Officer Rigel, absently pushing a strand of sweat-dampened hair out of her face as she tried to keep despair out of her voice while she took damage reports from all over the Galactica.

But they weren’t going to make it.

Athena locked eyes through the comm screen with Colonel Boomer, aboard the Daedelus, and he shook his head slightly. She knew what he meant. Much as she hated to admit it - or would have hated to admit it even as little as a secton ago - they had nothing left to throw at the Cylons. The numbers didn’t lie, and she finally, finally despaired of survival. She pounded on a panel in frustration.

“Oh, gods!” She cried to any deity, to every deity, that would listen. “It’s not fair! We’ve come so far, endured so much. This can’t be the end, Boomer, it just can’t be!” But Boomer looked away, as another panel exploded behind him, and the once-mighty Battlestar shook with another blow.

“I’m sorry, Commander, but we have nothing left!” Boomer answered her unwillingly.

“But what about Apollo and Starbuck?” She asked, “Surely they...“ Despite the dire situation, Boomer smiled. He and Athena, like so many others, always placed their first and last hopes on the legendary team of Apollo and Starbuck, still, after all these yahrens, the hottest Viper pilots in the fleet.

What was left of the fleet.

But now, through attrition and lack of fuel and spare parts, the fleet was down to just over half its original size. Their Colonial Pilots now few - and half-trained youngsters, at that - flying what amounted to death-traps - their Viper fighters half-repaired and half-functioning due to a lack of parts and time between attacks. Even Starbuck and Apollo couldn’t do much in such a situation.

But Starbuck was determined to go down fighting, if nothing else. He, too, realized that this was probably their last battle, and he wasn’t happy about it, either. He was just as frustrated, and at least as vocal about it, as his on-again-off-again lover, Athena. Starbuck had always hoped to die old, and in bed - preferably with a beautiful woman. But he’d always figured he’d die in the cockpit of his Viper. Ah, well, not a bad way to go. But, felgercarb, he really didn’t want to go at all!

Starbuck sighed, wishing for a fumerello, grabbed the navi-hilt, and decided to make one last stand.

“Alright, you drunken first orbit cadets, let’s try this again, shall we? And next time, try to hit a couple of Cylons while you’re at it, ok?” Starbuck rallied the few fighters left in his squadron, and turned in to the next wave of Cylons.

Commander Apollo, Strike Commander during battle while his sister Athena held the bridge of the Galactica, silently applauded Starbuck’s attitude even as he knew how hopeless it was. He knew as well as Athena and Boomer just how bad their situation was. He knew Starbuck knew it, as well, even as they tried to keep it from the rest of the pilots. Hope had kept them going this far - sometimes it was all that kept them going, and he certainly wasn’t going to take it away from them now. Better to go down fighting than to give up in despair like a beaten and broken bova awaiting slaughter.

And so, he pushed aside his own feelings and let instinct take over, diving down and slightly to port to rescue Cadet Dael from the Raider on his tail. Ordinarily, Starbuck would be his wingman - together the two of them were unbeatable - however, the large proportion of inexperienced pilots had forced Apollo to decide to assign cadets as wingmen to the more seasoned Warriors in an attempt to raise said cadets’ chances of survival - they couldn’t afford to lose any more pilots than they could get away with. Therefore, Starbuck was paired with a Cadet named Thalia, while Dael (if he’d just stay there!) was Apollo’s wingman. Jolly, now in command of Green Squadron, had done the same with his pilots, as well, and the tactic was working, to some extent. They at least weren’t losing as many cadets as they might have.

Troy, to the right of and several millimicrons behind Captain Starbuck and Cadet Thalia, reluctantly realized what Uncle Starbuck and his father, Apollo, and Aunt Athena had already, just as unwillingly, admitted.

They weren’t going to make it. The young, dark-haired pilot banged his console with one hand, even as he hit the turbo-boost button of his navi-hilt with the other, and followed his father’s beloved friend into what he didn’t want to admit was probably his last battle.

‘I’m too young to die!’ Troy railed; he was not much past his majority, fully twenty yahren younger than Starbuck, but still several yahren older than many of his fellow pilots.

Including his lover and Starbuck’s daughter, Dalton. Dalton was, as usual, flying at his side. They were so in sync that they usually ended up wingmen, and Apollo had decided not to break them up. They weren’t very experienced, but more so than cadets, and unusually talented, too. And their usual ship, the double-fighter called the Viper Duet, was out of service, cannibalized for parts, since even the Duet couldn’t equal what two Vipers flying seperately could do (and that was besides the fact that only Troy and Dalton could fly it to best advantage and if one of them was unable to fly...). Still, Troy would have been somewhat comforted with the thought of dying beside his lover and her father, if he wasn’t resentful of having to admit they were going to die in the first place. He glanced across space at her.

Feeling his eyes on her, Dalton looked over at him. No words were exchanged; none were needed. Everything that needed to be said was said with their eyes. Troy looked resolutely ahead, then. Ready to look death right in the face - and maybe spit in its eye, if possible, before he succumbed.

Starbuck fought like one possessed. He was everywhere, swooping up to shoot a Raider off Greenbean's tail, banking to starboard to intercept another Cylon going after a cadet named Gerre. Thalia tried to keep up, but no one in the fleet - with the possible exception of Apollo, and even Apollo admitted he wasn’t Starbuck’s equal in pure seat-of-the-pants flying - could really match him. The quiet red-head did her best, however, and managed to flame a Raider coming up on their port side.

Starbuck wished Deitra and Sheba were here, but they were patrolling farther back in the fleet with a squadron of cadets, protecting the unarmed vessels strung out between the Galactica and the Daedelus.

Troy flew towards a formation of three Cylons in their well-known triangle formation: One Raider above, two below. The head-to-head maneuver was the most dangerous, but it gave Troy all three targets equally. As soon as his targeting display showed the uppermost Raider locked, he fired his turbolasers. It took four shots that tracked from port to starboard due to Troy’s own evasive juking, but the result was still one vaporized Raider. To port and slightly behind him, Dalton copied his moves, but managed to vaporize the left lowermost Raider with only two shots.

“Lucky shot!” Troy teased in a moment of lightness. Then he was all business again as he nudged his Viper slightly to starboard to go after the third Raider. Before he could target-lock the Cylon, however, the enemy fired, hitting Dalton’s portside energon transfer relay. The resulting power surge shorted out all her Viper’s systems. Dalton’s Viper ceased accelerating and began to drift quickly towards the Galactica, but many metrons from it, thereby presenting no danger for the time being. Troy desperately wanted to go back to see if she was alright, but knew in the same instant that the third Raider presented too much of a danger and had to be dealt with immediately. He hit his turbo-boost, wanting to close with and destroy the Cylon as far away from Dalton’s drifting Viper as possible before going back to guard her. But as he closed on the enemy ship, that ship managed to fire more accurately. Troy’s ship lurched violently as a blast of light energy exploded his port pulse generator. A second shot shredded his upper pulse generator and sent uncontrolled energy surging through his systems. All his systems were fried an instant before shrapnel riddled his ship. As various panels exploded all around him, Troy did the only thing he could to save himself: He fired the explosive bolts of his ejection pod and flew free of his disintegrating Viper.

Then, it happened. Cadet Thalia’s ship was holed by a Raider from behind, and Starbuck made what he knew was his final, fatal mistake...for he was only human, and too many patrols, too many deaths, and not enough rest had taken their toll.

Starbuck found himself caught in a pinwheel attack. Twelve Cylon Raiders swirled around him, setting up at equidistant points in order to take him out. And there was no one free to save him. Everyone else was dealing with their own problems: He caught a glimpse of Troy drifting in his ejection pod. Dalton was also drifting - although not just in an ejection pod - all her systems fried. Starbuck knew he was dead, but his eyes were on his daughter’s fighter.

"I'm sorry, Dalton," Starbuck transmitted, although he knew she might not be receiving, "I love you..."

But then, suddenly, out of nowhere, it seemed, streaks of green light filled space around him, unerringly striking the Cylon Raiders twice each, once to penetrate their shields, and a second time to destroy the ships. The shots were frighteningly precise - the second shot seemed to strike the Raider in exactly the same spot as the first shot - but when Starbuck looked around trying to locate their source, he could find nothing, at first. Then, after a surprisingly long time, two squadrons of fighters showed on Starbuck's scanners. Starbuck stared at the approaching fighters. He'd never seen anything like them; they were longer than the Vipers, and wider, with two pulsars at the ends of two extensions flaring out from each side, like the spread wings of an avion. His ship's Warbook tried and failed to identify them.

One of the new squadrons blasted past, traveling toward the rest of the fleet, while the other squadron swirled about in the vicinity of the Galactica and what remained of Starbuck's squadron. They swooped and dove, banked and looped in tandem, four groups of three fighters each, dodging and firing, destroying the Cylons even more efficiently than Apollo, Starbuck, and Boomer at their best, for never had the Colonial Warriors killed with such precision.

”Waa-hoo!” Starbuck cheered, finally recovering from his amazement. He grabbed his navi-hilt, and swung around to enter the fray again. Unfortunately, his Viper's over-stressed control systems chose that moment to short out. They sparked and failed, the blond pilot batting at his legs to extinguish the sparks that sprayed out of the panels. He quickly punched the buttons deactivating the systems, and then he, too, was left drifting. Unlike Dalton's fighter, though, a couple of Starbuck's systems remained functional, and as he frantically began by-passing systems, called Sheba at the far end of the fleet.

"Hey, Sheba, we seem to have help here."

"What?" Sheba said warily, "Who? Everybody who could sit in a cockpit is in every cockpit we had."

"I dunno, but we just had two full squadrons blast past us shooting Cylons as they went."

"Who are they?" Dietra cut in.

"Search me, but seeing as how I was just about to be the victim of a pinwheel attack when these guys showed up, I don't much care. Tell you what, though, whoever these guys are, they're fantastic shots. You should see them, two shots per Cylon. No misses."

"You're not serious." Sheba said.

"Serious as a Cylon basestar. Which is a good thing for me, since my control systems are gone. Also, Troy's drifting in an ejection pod, and Dalton's completely dark."

“Well, I hope they get back here to give us some help, Starbuck ‘cause we sure could – what?” Sheba blurted, startled, as the unidentified squadron reached them and started destroying Cylons left and right. She watched in open-mouthed amazement at verification of what Starbuck had been telling her. She didn’t know who these guys were, either, but man, could they shoot!

Recovering quickly, Sheba banked to port, hit her turbo-boost, and dove down towards a Raider that was attempting to come from above at Bo jay. The instant she got a good target lock, Sheba fired. Her first two shots missed to the stern of the Raider, but her third shot hit the center rear of the ship. It lurched and broke off it’s run. Sheba fired again, and put it out of action permanently.

In the meantime, Dalton was frantically trying to get her ship’s systems back on line. First she tried by-passing the pulsar controls. Even if she couldn’t move, the ability to shoot would help immensely. Unfortunately, all power was out. She wasn’t receiving anything from the pulse generators at all.

“Frack!” She exclaimed in disgust. The hit she took had been just behind and beneath her Viper, which, although she was loathe to admit it, most certainly meant that the energon transfer relays were gone. Which meant only one thing: no power from the pulse generators to the cockpit controls until the relays could be replaced. And that could only be done from the outside of the Viper, and with parts she didn’t have on board. She was effectively dead in space. And if the others couldn’t keep the Cylons off her, she would probably shortly be just plain dead.

She looked ahead and to starboard. She was still drifting at a good rate of speed towards the distant battlestar, but it would take a long while to reach it. Closer to her, however, and just above, she spotted Troy’s ejection pod. It was drifting forward, too, but also “up”. It was also traveling about the same speed she was. Inside, Dalton thought she could see her lover moving about, but at this distance, she couldn’t be sure. She could only hope, as it would mean Troy was alive.

And then, as her gaze tracked back towards the Galactica, she saw something that chilled her, and made her mouth go dry.

An entire phalanx of Raiders was coming straight at her and Troy.

Dalton frantically tried system after system, but nothing worked. She was still completely without power. She pounded the panel in frustration.

“You gallmongering snitrat, WORK!!” She cried, to no avail.

Troy could see the Cylons coming, too, but there was so obviously nothing he could do in the bare ejection pod that he simply sat there, waiting for them to come, and hoping they’d miss his little pod in the vastness of space. He held out no such hope for Dalton, however, and could only pray for a miracle. However, there was one thing he could do, and that was to turn off his homing beacon. No sense making it easy for the Cylons to find him. Knowing his own forces couldn’t find him, either, he switched the signal off. Maybe the battle would be over before his air ran out and he’d be able to turn it back on again. Providing, of course, that his own forces weren’t entirely destroyed, that is. Troy prayed harder.

Aboard the Galactica, Athena also saw what Starbuck had meant about the newcomers. They were firing with incredible accuracy. Two shots each, that was all. ‘Those’re some targeting computers they must have.’ She thought, impressed.

“Commander!” Rigel cried suddenly. “There’s something on the long range scanners.”

“Cylon Basestar?” Athena asked.

“No, Ma’am,” She replied, staring, puzzled, at her read-out. “Two objects, smaller than we are, but much bigger than a Viper.”

“Two phalanxes of Raiders flying close enough together to show up as one object each?” Athena wondered aloud.

“No, Ma’am, I’m getting really strange energy readings from them. Warbook doesn’t recognize their configuration, either.”

“Someone connected to our newcomers, perhaps? Their base ship, maybe.” Athena speculated.

“Transferring image to comm screen now.” Rigel told her without being asked.

Yes, Athena figured, these two new ships had to be related to the fighters that were even now routing the Cylon attack, for the approaching ships had a configuration similar to the fighters - they looked vaguely like avions in flight. Both of these ships, however, had round saucer sections with a strut on the bottom rear, which ran downward and rearward. At the end of the strut was a cylindrical section mounted horizontally and longwise, with the strut attached to the top, near one end. Towards the other end, two more struts rose upward and outward, and attached to the tops of those struts, also horizontally and longwise, were another, smaller-diameter cylinder.

A feeling of relief swept through Apollo at the sight. He’d been flying guard duty close to Starbuck and wondering, just like Starbuck, if these people would kill off the refugees as soon as they had dealt with the Cylons. After all, these people had a right to defend their own territory, if that’s what this was. And just because they weren’t already just destroying everybody, but only going after the Cylons, that didn’t mean the refugee fleet was safe. There could be something going on here that Apollo didn’t know about. There just wasn’t enough information. Strangely, however, Apollo had a hunch these people were no threat to the Colonials.

Meanwhile, Starbuck had contacted Wing Command aboard the Galactica, and was talking to Lt. Brie, who was attempting to talk him through systems by-pass procedures. They were having no luck, however; too many of the Viper’s systems were burned out, and there were no spare parts aboard to replace them.

“Sorry, Brie,” Starbuck told the woman. “But it looks like I’m stuck here until somebody can rescue me.”

Then, he watched in horror as an entire squadron of Cylon Raiders started firing on Dalton’s darkened Viper.

“Oh, no!” He breathed. “Dalton!”

Just when Dalton thought she was about to die, green streaks of light flashed up at the Cylons from below and to her bow. Looking down - rather farther down than she thought she should’ve had to look - a four-wing group of unfamiliar fighters was sweeping upward from below and in front of her, straight up towards the Cylons. It was a direction not usually used, and probably added to the machines’ confusion. Not that they were mental giants to begin with, which was the main reason the Colonials won as many engagements as they did.

“Woo-yeah!” Dalton whooped. “Blow the pogees outta them!”

The four foreign fighters accounted for six Raiders before the Cylons figured out what was going on and scattered. The newcomers peeled off in pairs to engage the Cylons, flying with an admirable display of teamwork. One pair continued up and over the Cylons, then looped back down to hit a grouping of three Raiders from above. Dalton noticed the two-shot accuracy of the strangers, and was impressed.

The three Cylons were blown into debris fields in short order. The other two new fighters had come up to the same level the Cylons had been flying at, and had inverted and banked sharply to port in order to come around on the Raiders’ tails. They’d dropped in behind a pair of Cylons, and made short work of them, but Dalton watched three more Cylons come in behind the strangers and start firing.

The fighters, however, had good shields, and stopped the lasers neatly. Then the strangers peeled off, one up, the other down. The Cylons dove and followed the one going down, but that just allowed the one going up to pull out of its climb, invert, and dive down again, now on the tail of the Cylons. The tail stranger fired as the lead stranger pulled out of its dive by inverting and going upside down to Dalton’s starboard, rather than pulling out right-side up and going to her port side as she would have figured. It served to confuse the Cylons, too, and allowed the stranger to loop back up and around to cut in behind the Raiders, while also coming back beside his wingman. The two fighters fired rapidly, hulling the Raiders and leaving them drifting wrecks.

Then the strangers banked and flew straight towards where Dalton and Troy drifted.

Although Dalton was worried about the strangers’ intentions, she had to admit, they were damn good pilots.

Soon, however, Dalton’s fears were allayed, for, while the four unfamiliar fighters swirled around her and Troy, they didn’t make any threatening moves.

Except toward any Cylons that made the mistake of coming their way.

“We have been engaged by two unidentified squadrons.” The highest-ranking Cylon survivor reported in from the rear seat of its three-person fighter. “They are fully equipped and destroying our fighters. There are also two capital ships accompanying them. Should we continue the attack on the Colonial fleet?” The Cylon continued in it’s mechanical monotone.

“No.” The answer, in the same monotone, came back after several seconds, from the Cylon Base Star just outside the range of the human fleet’s scanners. “Return to the Base Star. We will analyze their strategy before resuming our attacks.”

All of the Cylon Raiders that were left - only one squadron out of the original six that had staged this attack - immediately retreated.

“Should we go after them?” Captain Jolly asked the Galactica.

“No.” Athena ordered after a second’s internal debate. “Much as I wish you could, we have too many pilots disabled out there, and no telling what the strangers will do now. They may have destroyed the Cylons only to come after us next!”

II

Captain’s Log: Stardate 1812.4. We are on patrol with the Escort Carrier U.S.S. Cermenho, commanded by Captain Nathan Bridger. Our assignment: to patrol the Romulan Neutral Zone in an attempt to hunt down any Romulan vessels attempting to penetrate into Federation Space in the wake of the events of Stardate 1709.2, sometimes called the “Balance of Terror” incident. So far, we’ve found nothing of interest. Until now. We have come upon a fleet of ships traveling slowly through space and under attack. Per Starfleet regulations, we will offer all possible aid.”

Captain James T. Kirk, the youngest captain in Starfleet and in command of the heavy cruiser U.S.S. Enterprise, flagship of the fleet, clicked off his log recorder and studied the fleet of ships hanging in space before them. It was a relatively large fleet, some hundred smaller ships strung out between two larger ones. Their formation was not standard military task force formation, which would have consisted of the carriers in the middle, surrounded by destroyers, cruisers and the like, acting as a defensive screen. This fleet looked more like a bunch of cargo or passenger ships being protected by the two larger ones. A puzzle indeed.

“Captain,” Lt. Uhura, the beautiful dark-skinned woman at the communications console called. “I’ve been monitoring their communications, and it looks like they’re all encoded.” Kirk leaned sideways in his chair, and rubbed his chin with one hand.

“That sounds like a military action.” He mused to no one in particular.

“Possible, Captain.” The Vulcan Science Officer, Commander Spock, said. The tall, slender, pointy-eared man in the blue science shirt continued to study the newcomers in his small viewer. “They appear to be of many different types and functions. However, all of them have two things in common: They are all in a high state of disrepair, and many have obvious signs of battle damage. Also, they are all moving with unusual slowness given the sizes of the engines I’m seeing. Most peculiar.” Spock stated with his usual Vulcan precision.

“Battle damage.” Kirk murmured speculatively. “How old is the damage, Mr. Spock?”

“As far as I can tell, the damage varies in age, from several decades old to just minutes.” Spock replied after a moment’s analysis.

“They’ve been fighting a protracted war, then.” Kirk stated.

“Correct, sir, but not from worlds in this area. By back-tracking their course, I have determined that they have come from outside Federation space. Nor are they from Romulan territory, either.” Spock told him.

“Completely foreign?”

“So it would seem.”

“Uhura, see if you can hail them.”

The U.S.S. Cermenho was a ship of the “Coronado” class of shuttle carriers. She had been converted to an escort carrier (known in World War II as “Jeep Carriers”), in an experiment designed to bring more numerous and flexible firepower out into the large region of space along the Romulan Neutral Zone. The Cermenho carried two squadrons of F/A-23 Yellow-jacket Attack/Fighters, a multi-role attack and fighter ship just out of experimental stage, each of which carried a Sentinel/Guide pair - the Sentinel, a human with substantially enhanced senses, did the actual flying and fighting, while the Guide not only performed the ancient role of anchoring and focusing the Sentinel and watching his back as of old, but also acted as a co-pilot/“RIO” (Radar Intercept Officer): monitoring all the other fighter’s systems, working auxiliary controls, etc. While on patrol, half of one squadron - six fighters - was on patrol and recon at all times. The fighters rotated out on six-hour patrols. In practice, this left six fighters out, twelve fighters on call (six on the first half of their shift overlapping with six on the second half of their shift) in case of need, and six fighters off-duty. The U.S.S. Enterprise was the best - and only - available ship to accompany her, as Starfleet was too thinly spread to provide the destroyers, battleships, and others that usually made up a task force. Which was why the small escort carrier existed in the first place, rather than a full-sized one. It was hoped this small “hunter/killer” mode would, as it was in World War II, be as effective as it was efficient.

When their patrol had picked up the signals from the battle, both squadrons had been scrambled. While generally they would reserve at least one-half squadron for close-in patrol, no other activity in the area, combined with the large number of “enemy” fighters, and large number of ships in the beleaguered fleet had induced Cermenho’s captain to send all his fighters out, while following close behind in order to bring his own and Enterprise’s firepower to bear, if need be.

Fortunately, it hadn’t been necessary. The other craft, which, according to sensors contained only three small, weak life signs each, had been mostly destroyed, with the rest retreating out of sensor range.

“Captain.” Communications Officer Lt. j.g. Timothy O’Neill announced from his position in the round room at the second console to the right of the elevator doors, “Commander Ellison and Commander Larabee are requesting permission to tow the disabled pilots back to their ships.”

Captain Nathan Bridger, a stern and upright but compassionate and fair man, rubbed his lined face as he thought the situation through. Usually, fighters wouldn’t act as an away team, however, with the highly-educated and diplomatic Guides, this was probably as good a method as any to find out who these people were and what they wanted. As well as generating a little good will by rescuing the pilots.

He turned to the right and faced his dark-haired linguistic genius.

“Tell them ok, and be on their best behavior.” Bridger told the Comm Officer.

“Ellison and Larabee? Best behavior?” O’Neill snorted. “Yeah, that’ll be the day.”

“Well, you never know.” Bridger responded lightly. “Blair and Vin can usually control them. To some extent.”

“Control them?” O’Neill scoffed, eyebrows raised. “Manipulate them, maybe...” Bridger chuckled once, drily, in response.

*********************************************

“Uh, excuse me.” An unfamiliar voice in a foreign language put in over an open comm channel that the Galactica, the Daedelus, and the Viper pilots could hear. “Could you use a little help?”

One of the newcomers swept around in front of Starbuck’s drifting ship. Apollo watched it warily, ready to fire at the least threatening move. It made no such move. Instead, it came close enough for Starbuck to see right into the clear material of the cockpit. Inside the ship were two men: One was almost too tall and bulky to fit into a small fighter cockpit, with short, thinning brown hair and pale blue eyes. The other, younger man was a little shorter and more slightly built, with darker blue eyes, and brown hair longer than any regulation Starbuck knew of, although it was neatly tied back.

“Uh, hi.” Starbuck said, figuring the newcomers probably couldn’t understand them - yet - but hoping they had something like a Languatron, and that the two devices could figure out each other’s languages. To do that, however, they needed samplings of the language. So Starbuck just kind of chattered away for a few moments, confident the newcomers would indicate when the language translated clearly. “The name’s Lieutenant Starbuck, and I hope you guys are friendly, cause I’d kinda hate to die now, after surviving so much felgercarb. And, oh, by the way, where’d you guys learn to shoot like that, anyway? Can we maybe get a look at your targeting computers, cause, man, we sure could use ‘em...”

“...think we’ve got it!” The shorter man said, as much to his older companion as to Starbuck. “Can you understand me now?”

“Uh, yeah, we’re good.” Starbuck replied.

“Uh, don’t get me wrong,” Apollo broke in, trying for a diplomatic way to say ‘Who the frack are you?’ “We’re grateful for your assistance, but may I ask who you are and what you’re doing here?”

“Oh, uh, sorry, man.” The shorter man said. “I’m Guide Lieutenant Commander Blair Sandburg of Spirit Squadron, call-sign Wolf. My partner here is Sentinel Commander Jim Ellison, Squadron Leader, call-sign Panther.” Blair indicated his bulkier companion in the fighter.

‘What’s a “Sentinel” and “Guide”?’ Starbuck wondered. ‘For that matter, what are a Wolf and a Panther and why do they have call-signs?

“And as for what we’re doing here, this is our space.” The shorter man continued. “So we really should be asking you what your business here is. At the moment, though, looks like you’ve got bigger fish to fry, man. Looks like a bunch of your control systems are out. Do you need a tow?”

“A bunch of my–? How do you know that from there?” Starbuck asked, startled, and dismayed. The Galactica’s flight control knew that, of course, but that was because it’s telemetry was monitoring Starbuck’s onboard computer. Had this Guide Lt. Cmdr. Blair Sandburg somehow gotten into Starbuck’s ship’s computer, too? Just how advanced were these people, anyway?

“My sensors can pick up systems damage, although I can’t tell exactly what’s wrong. The amount of damage doesn’t look good, though.” Blair told the blond fighter jock.

“Oh.” Starbuck said. “Well, yeah, my thruster controls are gone, among other things, so I have no motive power. Can you do something that’ll get me back to the Galactica?”

Blair pushed buttons for a moment, and scanned some sort of readout.

“The Galactica, is that the big ship in front of all the little ones?”

“Yes.”

“Gottcha. One free ride back, coming up.”

In the meantime, Commander Athena had been monitoring all communications. The strangers had offered tows back to the Galactica or the Daedelus for all the stranded pilots, and on Athena’s advice, had all accepted. The strangers seemed friendly enough, and it wasn’t like they had a lot of choice in the matter. They couldn’t abandon the ships to rescue the pilots by shuttle - they needed the ships too badly, for parts if nothing else.

Starbuck watched as Troy, Dalton, and a cadet named Brier, among others, were caught by some sort of magnetic beam, and hauled away in the direction of the Fleet. Then Panther took his own flight yoke in hand as Wolf pushed some more buttons. A blue beam of light shot out of the strange fighter and connected to the Viper. Starbuck’s ship rocked, then was wrested around and pulled toward home.

Ellison cruised slowly toward the huge ship. It was easily ten times the size of the Cermenho, and was of a design completely unlike anything he’d seen before. It was a huge, slightly streamlined rectangle with two smaller but similarly-shaped pods, one on each of the long sides of the main body and attached to it by downward-curving arms. All in all, it looked rather like an old Hawaiian outrigger canoe with extensions on both sides instead of only one side, rather than the bird-like shapes common to the Federation, Klingons and Romulans.

“Ah, Commander.” Starbuck hailed Apollo on Fleet Comline Alpha, “Have you been monitoring all my communications?”

“Yes, Captain, I have.” Apollo answered in kind. However, because he had no idea as to the capabilities of these strangers, he decided to risk a different type of communication. Telepathy.

Athena?

Yes, Apollo? Athena answered in kind.

Starbuck just contacted me on fleet comline alpha. I’m assuming he has information that shouldn’t be trusted to an open channel, but I don’t know what these people can do, so I want to make this an even more private conversation. I want you in on it, though.

Sure, big brother. Apollo grinned at her through the comm screen.

Go ahead, Starbuck. Athena’s listening, too.

In his cockpit, Starbuck started at the voice in his head. When Apollo had first told him about his and Athena’s mental abilities, he hadn’t believed it - until Apollo had demonstrated by speaking to him directly mind to mind. Starbuck had been stunned speechless. And he’d remained stunned throughout Apollo’s explanation of the “acceleration” of Kobollians upon death, and his theory that Starbuck himself was of Kobollian descent. Since then, Apollo and even Athena had occasionally found the need to contact Starbuck mind to mind. But, he thought, there was no way he was ever gonna get used to that, that was for sure! Putting everything he could into it, knowing Apollo and Athena would be able to hear him only through their own abilities because he didn’t have any (as far as could be told), he simply asked them what they wanted to do.

Let them come aboard. Apollo decided. We need to know who they are and what they want, anyway. But we’ll put security in the hangar bay, just in case.

Sounds good to me, Apollo. I’d like to get a look at their fighters, anyway. Especially their targeting computers. Man, they must be yahrens ahead of us to be able to fire with that kind of accuracy! Do you think maybe these people might be the kind of allies we need to finally defeat the Cylons?

I don’t know, Starbuck. Apollo replied after thinking about it a moment. I hope so.

It would be wonderful if they were. Athena added. Maybe we can even get supplies and information about Earth.

I hope so, too, sis. I have a better feeling about these people than I have had of anyone else in a very long time. Apollo said hopefully.

Me, too. Starbuck told him. That’s a good sign, right? That neither of us has a bad feeling about these guys?

Yeah, buddy, I think so. Apollo answered.

*******************************************************

“On screen, Captain.” Lt. Uhura said. Kirk straightened up in his chair as a large, badly battle-damaged bridge appeared on the viewscreen. In the foreground was a dark-haired woman who looked no older than Kirk, and who was dressed in a dark blue uniform with gold and black trim at mid-neck and around the cuffs of the sleeves.

“I’m Captain James T. Kirk of the Federation Starship Enterprise. You are currently in territory claimed by the United Federation of Planets. Please state your intentions.”

“I’m Commander Athena of the Colonial Fleet. We are refugees fleeing the destruction of our homes.”

“You’re in search of new worlds to colonize?” Kirk asked.

Athena thought for a second. Somehow, she had the feeling she could tell these people the truth. Perhaps they could help.

Apollo, are you monitoring this?

Yes. He answered. What are you going to tell them?

The truth.

I have a feeling it’ll be alright. Maybe they can help us.

Well, they certainly took care of the Cylon attack pretty well, didn’t they?

Yes, they did. Apollo grinned inwardly.

“Captain,” Athena continued smoothly, “millennia ago, our ancestors came from a world called Kobol. After an ecological disaster, they fled, thirteen tribes of them. Twelve of those tribes founded our own twelve colony worlds. But the thirteenth tribe went somewhere else. After the destruction of our worlds, those of us who survived plotted a course that would, hopefully, lead to that thirteenth tribe.”

Kirk was surprised as well as curious. A long-lost thirteenth tribe, eh? He glanced over to Spock, who raised both eyebrows.

“Fascinating.” He commented.

“Well, perhaps we can help. Do you have a name for this Thirteenth Tribe, or a navigational vector?”

Athena tried to hide her relief at Kirk’s offer. She had no idea how much territory this Federation encompassed, but maybe...

“The Thirteenth Tribe went to a planet called “Earth”. It is a planet of one sun and nine planets --“ But she got no farther.

“Earth!?” Kirk said, startled.

“Yes, do you know where it is? Can you help us? Please!” Athena tried not to let her desperation show - or to let her hopes be raised. The last time they thought they’d found Earth, it had turned out to be only a colony called “Terra”, not the Earth they sought.

**********************************************

Guide Commander Chris “Blackie” Larabee, squadron leader of “Gunslinger” squadron, needed only half of his attention to monitor the fighter’s systems. This left him with enough attention to devote to getting a good look at the newcomer’s fleet. He hadn’t been able to do that during the furball they’d been in, but now he took stock of the stranger’s ships.

And was appalled.

Not only were they a hodge-podge of obviously wildly different types and functions, but they were in shockingly bad shape. They’d been shot up and badly patched, and were limping along in space at what Chris hoped was an unusually slow speed for these ships. He was loathe to think that the ships were this slow under optimal conditions. It would indicate a lower technology than they’d first thought, and might even classify them as too primitive to assist under the Prime Directive. That, he didn’t want, because it was obvious that these people were in dire need of help, and his protective instincts rebelled against leaving them to die just because they weren’t up to some pencil-pusher’s standards. On the other hand, Captain Kirk of the Enterprise was known to bend the rules in cases like this, and he doubted that his own Captain would refuse to help, either.

“Willya take a look at these hunks-a-junk?” Sentinel Lt. J.g. John “J.D.” Dunne said on the squadron’s private frequency from the cockpit of Gunslinger Two.

“Lt. Dunne, that is an unkind thing to say about these people’s abodes. I am sure that, were they able, they would have effected far superior repairs than what we are seeing. Obviously, their conflict has left them in dire straits, indeed.” Sentinel Lt. Ezra “Conman” Standish, in Gunslinger Three, replied.

As they conversed, Gunslinger One approached a battered fighter which drifted, missing its starboard wing along with the accompanying engine and laser array. It also had a long, deep furrow in its underside, which explained why it was no longer under power. Carefully, Chris’ Sentinel partner, Commander Vin “Sharpshooter” Tanner positioned their Yellow-jacket in front of the other ship as his Guide hailed the pilot.

“Hey, there, you with us over there?” Chris asked.

“Hey,” Bo jay replied weakly. “Afraid I’m -cough- only partly with you -cough, cough-. Life support -wheeze- unable to -pant- compensate for the -cough- smoke.”

“That’s ok, pard.” Vin told the man as Chris activated the tractor beam. “We’ll git you home right quick and git you looked at.”

“Thanks -wheeze- for the assistance.”

“No problem, pardner.”

One by one, fighters of Gunslinger Squadron and Spirit Squadron rescued the foreign pilots and returned them to their ships. Starbuck, Troy, and Dalton from Blue Squadron, and Cadets Oriane and Dael from Green Squadron were towed back to the Galactica. Lt. Bo jay and Cadet Melponene from Silver Spar Squadron, and Lt. Iapetus and Cadet Rhea from Orange Squadron were towed back to the Daedelus, the Cermenho’s squadrons bringing them in after the rest of the pilots of the foreign squadrons had landed. That way, if there were any crashes, the still-mobile pilots wouldn’t have to deal with a fouled deck while running on fumes.

The Cermenhos’ pilots had already reported good fuel status.

Jolly and Greenbean of the Colonial pilots watched, amazed, as one of the unfamiliar fighters eased in through the magcon field that kept atmosphere in the hangar deck, and, with incredible accuracy, maneuvered in, cutting the tractor to Dalton’s damaged fighter so that it dropped gently onto the deck as far back as possible in order to made room for subsequent landings. The new fighter itself landed beside the shot-up one.

Next came another of the Federation fighters, towing Cadet Dael’s Viper. It, too, maneuvered with startling precision. One by one, the damaged Vipers were brought on board the battlestars and eased to the deck. Soon, all the survivors were back aboard their ships, and Commander Apollo approached the Federation pilots, Captain Starbuck beside and slightly behind him. Captain Jolly and Greenbean followed at a greater distance, with Troy and Dalton, finally able to escape their respective “prisons” bringing up the rear.

As they approached, the Sentinels began shifting uneasily.

“Panther, what’s wrong, man?” Blair asked worriedly. Was there something in the atmosphere of this ship that was affecting the Sentinels? Their sensors hadn’t registered any such thing, but maybe they’d missed something previously unknown to their science... Panther glanced at his Guide, shaking his head as if to clear it.

“I don’t know, Wolf. There’s something...I’m sensing something...from those two men in the front, and from the two pilots in the rear. Kinda like the sense I get of other Sentinels and Guides...but not the same. It’s...weak and...distorted or something. I dunno...”

“I’m Commander Apollo.” The dark-haired man in front told the Federation people. “Supreme commander of the Colonial Fleet. My thanks to you for rescuing our pilots. Any help you can give us is greatly appreciated.”

“Commander Apollo,” Panther stepped forward, “we’re glad we could help.” He gestured behind him, indicating the other Federation pilots. “This is my squadron. Sentinel Lieutenant Commander Joel Taggart, and his Guide, Lieutenant Commander Megan Connor.” Another man who was almost too big to fit in the cockpit of a fighter - this one dark-skinned - nodded acknowledgment along with a small but tough-looking red-haired woman. “Sentinel Lieutenant Brian Rafe and Guide Lieutenant Henri Brown.” This time a neat-looking man took one step forward while his partner, another dark-skinned man who managed to look sloppy, even in a flight-suit, grinned and gave a mock-salute. “Guide Lieutenant Serena Chang and Sentinel Lieutenant Suzanne Tomacki, Sentinel Lieutenant Danny Choi and his Guide, Lieutenant jg Earl Gaines, and Sentinel Lieutenant jg Alex Barnes and Guide Lieutenant jg Veronica Serris.” Jim finished the introductions uneasily.

He still felt the peculiar...energy that some of the Colonial pilots emitted, and wondered at the fact that they felt a bit like Sentinels and Guides - but not quite. He’d never encountered anything like it before, and that only added to his agitation.

Aboard the Daedelus, Sharpshooter and the other Sentinels had encountered the same thing from Captain Sheba. Not understanding it, however, they’d said nothing to the Colonials, but Sharpshooter had quickly mentioned it to Blackie, who had no answer for him. Guide Lieutenant Josiah “Preacher” Sanchez, however, had thought a moment, then said,

“Could they have something similar to a Sentinel, only maybe weaker, among their race? It would go with their claims of common ancestry.”

“Hmm. Maybe. Might have to investigate this.” Blackie had replied softly. He did notice, however, that Captain Sheba seemed not to have heard their conversation. Either that, or she was as good at hiding her reactions as Conman, and was also choosing not to say anything.

***********************************************************

The blond-haired woman made her way down the long, crowded corridor of the Daedelus, unnoticed among dispirited people who paid no attention to the woman dressed as maintenance personnel. Casually, she strode along, until she came to a door clearly meant to keep people out. It was an unusually big, thick door, with symbols in several languages that warned all but authorized personnel to stay out.

The woman walked right up to the door as if she belonged there, and punched a stolen access code into the reader that was attached to the wall beside the door. She waited a tense second while the machine chewed on the code, deciding whether or not to accept it. Evidently, it did, because the door slid smoothly open, and the woman quickly slipped through. The room was tiny - barely closet sized - but full of equipment along the walls. There was also one console standing in the middle of the room, upon which sat a spherical object. It was this object that the woman was here for. She approached it slowly, and with great loathing. She stood a moment, staring at it; watching it as if she expected it to do something. However, it just sat there, looking innocuous. The QSE, Quantum Shift Effect device, a handy little gadget that could “shift” space, creating a “shorter” route through it. It had taken them back to Kobol to learn more about themselves and their ancestors, then it had brought them this far - much farther than they’d ever been before, and far faster than ever before possible. But it was not Colonial technology, and it wasn’t Kobollian technology. Nor was it from the Light Beings, or even alien technology.  No, this object; this abominable thing had been obtained from their hated enemy.

This was Cylon technology. A Cylon device inside a Colonial ship.

It was intolerable.

Those in charge tried to say that it was necessary. That without it, they hadn’t a chance of escaping their enemy. That it was even “fair game”, to steal the device from their enemy to use against them.

But they were wrong. It was unjustifiable and indefensible for this thing to be here, contaminating the very air around it. Not to mention the fact that they were no better off than before they’d acquired it. They hadn’t escaped the Cylons, nor had they found a way to use it to defeat them. In fact, they were, if anything, even worse off than before. They were just farther away from familiar territory.

And it was unacceptable. And the only way to rid them of the taint, as far as Terese and her brother, Petras, was concerned, was to get rid of it. To return it whence it came, and hope the gods forgave them their mistake in bringing it aboard.

Terese set about planting false readings in the computer. This would indicate to the system that the device was still active and functioning properly - even in stand-by mode - while, in fact, the object wasn’t even there.

Finished with this phase, Terese withdrew an item from her toolbag. An item Petras had made. It looked exactly like the QSE, except that it didn’t function. Oh, it had a power source and lights and other things that made it look like a properly-functioning QSE, but, in reality, Petras had assured her, it really did nothing at all. And by the time anyone discovered the switch, the real device would be gone. Safely back in the hands of the filthy Cylons, where it belonged.

Terese finished hooking up the fake QSE device, put the real one into her toolbag, and left as nonchalantly as she’d arrived.

No one noticed the blond-haired woman as she moved down the corridor, and away.

III

“Captain, I’m receiving the information you requested.” Lt. Uhura reported.

“Pipe it down to Spock, Lieutenant McGivers, and Doctor McCoy in Sickbay, and over to Doctors Westphalen and Levin, and Lieutenant Wolenczak aboard the Cermenhos.” Kirk told her. Even before he finished the order, the dark-skinned woman was implementing it, pushing the requisite buttons to route the transmissions where they needed to go.

They’d asked for information that would corroborate what the Colonials had told them about their search for Earth. Included were religious texts about the last days of Kobol and the Thirteenth Tribe, along with personal log reports by Commander Adama detailing his research, plus sensor and other logs pertaining to the Ship of Light and their involvement in the search, and genetic information that would help verify a distant, common, ancestry. The information would be studied by Mr. Spock, the Enterprise’s head of Science, Lt. McGivers from Archives and History, and Dr. McCoy, the Chief Medical Officer. However, they also wanted to double-check their findings, so they gave the information to Dr. Stephanie Wesphalen, who was both Chief Science Officer and Chief Medical Officer aboard the Cermenhos, Lt. Lucas Wolenczak, her second-in-command in the Science Dept, and Dr. Joshua Levin, their History and Mythology expert.

“Hello, what have we here?” Westphalen said, surprised. She was examining a genetic profile of Captain Starbuck. It was generally your basic human DNA, which she was comparing to DNA from various members of the crew, in an attempt to find common referents that would indicate common ancestry. Several millennia of separation had caused quite a bit of genetic drift. Such genetic drift could be the result of planetary environmental conditions, solar radiation exposure, space radiation exposure; there were many causes, and, considering the amount of time involved - not much on an evolutionary scale, but it was enough to cause some change, at least. However, upon close comparison, Westphalen had discovered something extraordinary - and completely unexpected.

“Lucas, take a look at this.” The red-haired older woman told the blond young man, stepping back from the monitor to make room. Lucas was very young - the youngest human ever allowed at the academy. He’d entered under Captain Bridger’s sponsorship, and the young man, who looked up to Bridger like a father due to the absence of his own dad, had justified Bridger’s expectations. Though, not without problems; Lucas had a tendency to clash a bit with authority figures - even Bridger, from time to time - and sometimes approached things in a bit more...creative a manner than most. However, the problem with authority had only once reached disciplinary stage, and the “creativity” had been actively encouraged by all of Lucas’s teachers. Now serving under his mentor, Lucas was often sought after for his expert opinion and resourceful solutions to problems. Like now, when Westphalen needed confirmation of what she thought she’d found. For, if she was correct, one of humanity’s more puzzling mysteries had just been solved.

“Computer, assign letters and a legend to the genetic profiles shown.” Dr. Westphalen instructed the computer so that Lucas, who was not a geneticist, would understand what he was seeing.

“Working.” The computer replied in its feminine monotone. “Conversion complete.”

Lucas stepped up to the viewer and peered in. The computer had assigned letters based on common or popular knowledge of what those particular alleles do or how they manifested. Most of the alleles were pretty ordinary. However, as Lucas scanned farther down, he saw what Dr. Westphalen had seen. And the computer itself confirmed it with the letters it assigned. That section of Captain Starbuck’s genetic profile read:

-------

Ns Ns

Nn Nn

Nn Nn

Ng Ng

Nn Nn

-------

“Um, those are the recessive Sentinel alleles.” Lucas said, amazed. “But those a couple down are the recessive Guide alleles.” Then he moved over to the other display, which held Captain Jolly’s genetic profile. He studied it a moment, then glanced at the doctor. “This one is pretty much normal human DNA, but that one has both Sentinel and Guide genes! Is this right? I didn’t think this was possible. How would that work, anyway?” Westphalen shook her head in amazement.

“Evidently, it is possible.” She stated. “And I have no idea how this would work. Do they cancel each other out or what? But, however it ends up, what we have here, my dear boy, would seem to be not only confirmation of common ancestry between Earth humans and the Colonials, but also the origins of both Sentinels and Guides.”

“Oh, ho, man!” Lucas exclaimed, excited, “This is so incredible! So, what do we do now?”

“Well,” Westphalen thought it through, a huge grin on her face, “first, we examine several more of the Colonials to see which ones have these alleles, and which ones don’t. Then we get verification from the scientists aboard the Enterprise, then we notify both Starfleet, and the Vulcan Science Academy. They’ll be able to make it official. Then, we can petition Starfleet and the Federation to help the Colonials with their Cylon problem and finding someplace to settle.”

“Yeah!” Lucas grinned back at the older woman.

Lucas opened a channel to the Enterprise. As he waited for Doctor McCoy, however, Dr. Westphalen continued to scan through the genetic profiles of several other Colonials that had been sent. She found the same alleles in Commander Apollo’s and Commander Athena’s records, as well as Captain Sheba’s and Med-Tech Cassiopeia’s. Everyone else’s was “normal”.

“Yes,” Doctor Leonard McCoy confirmed. “The records check out. I’ve found Sentinel and Guide genes in several of the Colonials. However, I haven’t seen the dominant ones that result in the full-out five- or six-sense Sentinels and stronger psychic Guides we’re used to. Only the recessive genes that manifest as the weaker three- or four-sense Sentinels and general ESP-talented Guides. And, in the Colonials, the Sentinel and Guide genes always appear together. They aren’t separated and therefore reinforced, like what we have on Earth.”

“So, how would the genes manifest?” Lucas wondered. Dr. Joshua Levin, silent until now, thought about it for a moment. One of his minors had been parapsychology - especially where it related to Guides, which was why he was aboard the Cermenhos.

“It might manifest in one of several ways. It might not manifest at all. Or, maybe, as slightly better than average senses and a very weak ESP talent. Or, even, as one or two enhanced senses and one weak ESP talent. ” McCoy nodded his agreement at the possibilities Levin ran down.

“Doctor Westphalen, what do you think...?” Lucas started to ask, but Stephanie was staring, fascinated, into her viewer. “Stephanie?” Lucas called.

“What?” The older woman said, startled out of her concentration. She visibly shook herself. “Sorry, I keep thinking I’ve seen this profile before, but I can’t figure out where.” Dr. McCoy harrumphed.

“Yeah, you’ve seen this before.” He said to the woman on his screen. “So have I.” At that, Spock raised one eyebrow. As far as he’d known, this genetic profile was unique.

“We have?” Westphalen said, also surprised. “Where?”

“In medical school.” McCoy replied. “At least, that’s where I saw it. It took me awhile to figure it out, too. When I took my honors course in Sentinel and Guide medicine there was a section on the genetics of Sentinels and Guides. And there were examples of the different combinations of dominant and recessive genes and how some of them would manifest. The ones we’re seeing in these Colonials are the same as the ones for a Doctor Daniel Jackson and a Colonel Jack O’Neill way back in the Twentieth Century. I don’t remember any records or discussion of how it would manifest. Remember, a lot of records were lost during World War Three, but I seem to recall there were stories about O’Neill’s unique genetic profile making him a target for experimentation or something.” Memory jogged, Stephanie continued enthusiastically.

“Yes, and there were stories of Doctor Jackson, too. Something about his death, or something that happened after his death. There were rumors or such that he was “assumed bodily into heaven” or ascended or something. But those were only stories.”

“Well,” McCoy admitted, crossing his arms over his chest, “they may have been only stories, but the genetic records are pretty solid. What we do know is that they both shared the double-recessive Sentinel and Guide gene combo we’re seeing in some of the Colonials. Either way, it’s pretty solid proof of a common ancestry.”

“True.” Westphalen confirmed. “So what now?”

“Now,” McCoy said, “we contact the Colonials and confirm common ancestry. Then we contact Starfleet with our findings.”

“This is going to cause quite a row, you know.” Westphalen said, grinning in anticipation.

“Yeah, it is.” McCoy said. “But I’m just an old country doctor. My concern is less academic, and more practical.”

“As in, what do we do with the Colonials in the meantime.” Westphalen continued his thought.

“First off, we see if they need any medical supplies. From the looks of things, they’re probably pretty bad off.”

“You’re right.”

While the two doctors began running down the things they figured the Colonials needed, Lucas and Levin contacted Captain Bridger, knowing that Spock was briefing Kirk at the same time.

To be continued