Fic Update: Book of Jason - Interlude, Part 6 (end)
Yup. I'm done spamming everyone's flist. But as I haven't posted anything since October, I guess I was due. This is the last part of this section. It'll be a while before anything more is ready. See you then!
Memories of all posted parts.
Disclaimers here or here.
6.
The military universe is a microcosm of the civilian. It has its leaders and followers, its users and suppliers, its language and culture and literature and entertainment, its rules and regulations both written and un, its geography and its transportation, its hot spots and prime locales and its rural backwaters.
Battlestar Galactica was a prime locale.
It hadn’t always been that way, of course. Prime locales aren’t specially made. They happen. Even the best, most modern, most essential piece of real estate needs more to become a prime locale than luxury or time. ‘Location, location, location’ is relative in the expanse of ever-spiraling space between planets and stars and pulsars and black holes, but when a particular ship with a particular crew finally proves itself in battle and wins accolades and envy even for its janitorial staff, well, that particular ship gains an aura of desirability and respect.
Of course, all ships, even those crewed by the particularly skilful or lucky, require regular infusions of new staff, routine upgrades to its systems and protocols, repeated safety and readiness drills, and so can never be allowed to lose its enviable reputation. Battlestar Galactica has never lost that reputation.
Much of the original battlestar had been rebuilt, of course. There was no sense in retiring a battlestar with Galactica’s reputation. At least half of the two thousand warriors and technicians, mechanics and medical personnel onboard had joined the military with the express wish of one day serving aboard the most famous ship in the fleet, and for the most famous commander. They lived comfortably enough, under virtually constant threat of attack. Of course, the hope was that one day, it would be through their efforts that the war would end and they could live out their days in the comfort of their families and loved ones, secure in the knowledge they had made a positive difference to future generations.
To these two thousand or so warriors, and especially to Adama, life on Galactica meant constant readiness and the hope of a peaceful life to come.
But to untried Sergeant Starbuck, the battlestar Galactica was paradise. Elysium. A divine reparation. Payback for every bad thing that had ever happened to him. More than a reward, a Galactica assignment was an honor. Ennobling. A gold star on an otherwise unpromising record. (Unpromising, of course, because of the untried thing.)
So what was he doing there?
The transport captain who delivered him to the battlestar hadn’t a clue. “You’re an orphan?” he asked.
Yup.
“But you got the commander’s attention?”
Yup.
“You really that good?”
Yup.
“At piloting?”
Yup.
“Commander owe you money?”
Yup.
“But you say you’re here because you earned it?”
Yup.
“Well, good luck.”
Well beyond Picon’s orbit, it took the oversized troop transport two centars at full speed to reach Galactica. As Starbuck watched the battlestar’s approach in the front window of the huge transport, he reflected that he’d never been so close to home before, nor so close to where he most wanted to be and the person he thought he might one day become. That person needed to be out here, flying and fighting and risking his life with his fellow warriors. Battlestar Galactica was the equivalent to getting Daddy’s approval.
And Starbuck couldn’t remember his daddy.
There were dozens of reasons Starbuck had made it to Galactica. He’d earned it, first of all. Had he been left in the rosters with the other graduates, he’d have been sent directly to Galactica and put on the fast track to promotion. As it was, his fellow graduates had seven sectars’ flight experience on him by the time he mustered for his first patrol. When he returned from his first combat mission, he had proved himself worthy of the commander’s confidence, having saved a fellow pilot who’d ejected from his burning Viper, and taken out half again as many Cylons as Galactica’s current hotshot pilot. By then, he’d also charmed his way into two beds and four supply closets (each time with willing participants), and found the floating craps game, started his own betting pool, and been short-listed for lieutenant.
Starbuck had taken control of his life. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do to keep it.
[end for now]
Thanks for reading!
Memories of all posted parts.
Disclaimers here or here.
6.
The military universe is a microcosm of the civilian. It has its leaders and followers, its users and suppliers, its language and culture and literature and entertainment, its rules and regulations both written and un, its geography and its transportation, its hot spots and prime locales and its rural backwaters.
Battlestar Galactica was a prime locale.
It hadn’t always been that way, of course. Prime locales aren’t specially made. They happen. Even the best, most modern, most essential piece of real estate needs more to become a prime locale than luxury or time. ‘Location, location, location’ is relative in the expanse of ever-spiraling space between planets and stars and pulsars and black holes, but when a particular ship with a particular crew finally proves itself in battle and wins accolades and envy even for its janitorial staff, well, that particular ship gains an aura of desirability and respect.
Of course, all ships, even those crewed by the particularly skilful or lucky, require regular infusions of new staff, routine upgrades to its systems and protocols, repeated safety and readiness drills, and so can never be allowed to lose its enviable reputation. Battlestar Galactica has never lost that reputation.
Much of the original battlestar had been rebuilt, of course. There was no sense in retiring a battlestar with Galactica’s reputation. At least half of the two thousand warriors and technicians, mechanics and medical personnel onboard had joined the military with the express wish of one day serving aboard the most famous ship in the fleet, and for the most famous commander. They lived comfortably enough, under virtually constant threat of attack. Of course, the hope was that one day, it would be through their efforts that the war would end and they could live out their days in the comfort of their families and loved ones, secure in the knowledge they had made a positive difference to future generations.
To these two thousand or so warriors, and especially to Adama, life on Galactica meant constant readiness and the hope of a peaceful life to come.
But to untried Sergeant Starbuck, the battlestar Galactica was paradise. Elysium. A divine reparation. Payback for every bad thing that had ever happened to him. More than a reward, a Galactica assignment was an honor. Ennobling. A gold star on an otherwise unpromising record. (Unpromising, of course, because of the untried thing.)
So what was he doing there?
The transport captain who delivered him to the battlestar hadn’t a clue. “You’re an orphan?” he asked.
Yup.
“But you got the commander’s attention?”
Yup.
“You really that good?”
Yup.
“At piloting?”
Yup.
“Commander owe you money?”
Yup.
“But you say you’re here because you earned it?”
Yup.
“Well, good luck.”
Well beyond Picon’s orbit, it took the oversized troop transport two centars at full speed to reach Galactica. As Starbuck watched the battlestar’s approach in the front window of the huge transport, he reflected that he’d never been so close to home before, nor so close to where he most wanted to be and the person he thought he might one day become. That person needed to be out here, flying and fighting and risking his life with his fellow warriors. Battlestar Galactica was the equivalent to getting Daddy’s approval.
And Starbuck couldn’t remember his daddy.
There were dozens of reasons Starbuck had made it to Galactica. He’d earned it, first of all. Had he been left in the rosters with the other graduates, he’d have been sent directly to Galactica and put on the fast track to promotion. As it was, his fellow graduates had seven sectars’ flight experience on him by the time he mustered for his first patrol. When he returned from his first combat mission, he had proved himself worthy of the commander’s confidence, having saved a fellow pilot who’d ejected from his burning Viper, and taken out half again as many Cylons as Galactica’s current hotshot pilot. By then, he’d also charmed his way into two beds and four supply closets (each time with willing participants), and found the floating craps game, started his own betting pool, and been short-listed for lieutenant.
Starbuck had taken control of his life. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do to keep it.
[end for now]
Thanks for reading!