Chapter 13: The Lost Pilot
The search and rescue launched at 1600, and by 1800 the entire fleet knew Starbuck's name.
Not because of the official communications — those were clipped, military, stripped of emotion. CAP Viper down. Pilot: Lieutenant Thrace. SAR operations in progress. Standard language for a standard emergency. But the wireless chatter that leaked through civilian frequencies painted a different picture. Pilot quarters on Galactica had gone silent. The ready room was full. People who should have been sleeping stood in corridors, waiting for the wireless to tell them their best pilot was coming home.
I sat in the Cybele's cargo office and listened to a fleet hold its breath.
"You're monitoring military frequencies," Dunn said from her workstation. Not a question.
"Civilian relays pick up bleed-through. Everyone with a wireless receiver is hearing this."
"And you're listening because...?"
"Because the fleet's emotional state affects supply demand, morale, and cooperation patterns. If Thrace dies, Galactica's crew takes a hit that ripples through every interaction we have with military personnel for weeks."
True. Also incomplete. I was listening because Kara Thrace — Starbuck — was real now. Not a character on a screen, not a plot point in a show I'd binged between microwaved dinners. A woman stranded on a hostile moon with a busted Viper and limited oxygen, and the fact that I knew she'd survive didn't stop my hands from gripping the desk hard enough to whiten the knuckles.
She comes back. She flies the Cylon raider home. This is where the legend starts.
The knowledge should have been comforting. It wasn't. Because the water crisis had been two days early, and every deviation from the timeline I remembered was a reminder that my meta-knowledge was a map drawn from memory, not gospel.
The wireless murmured updates through the night. SAR Raptors returning empty. DRADIS sweeps negative. Weather conditions on the moon deteriorating. Each report landing in the cargo office like a stone dropped in still water, sending ripples through a fleet that was learning — again — that survival was never guaranteed.
[Cybele Cargo Bay — Day 21, 0600]
Montoya found me at the coffee station. The retired schoolteacher moved with the quiet precision of a man who'd spent decades navigating institutional corridors, and he carried a data pad with the careful grip of someone transporting something fragile.
"The names checked out," he said. "Three former Quorum staffers alive in the fleet. Yari Demos on the Rising Star — she was senior policy aide to the Gemenon delegation. Ran their trade committee for six years before she retired."
"Retired to what?"
"Teaching. Like me." A dry smile. "Colonial politics has a way of burning through people. The ones who survive it go teach children or drink themselves quiet."
"And Demos chose teaching."
"She chose both, from what I remember. But she was sharp. Connected. The kind of woman who knew everyone's name and everyone's weakness." Montoya adjusted his data pad. "She's also the person who sent the anonymous inquiry about our logistics program three weeks ago."
I set down my coffee.
"You confirmed that?"
"I reached out through the old network. Casual — just two retired educators catching up. She mentioned hearing about a civilian logistics operation on the Cybele that was 'impressively efficient.' Her words. She wanted to know who was running it."
The Rising Star inquiry. Not a threat — an opportunity. But opportunities in politics were traps wearing better shoes.
"What did you tell her?"
"That the Cybele's cargo master had implemented some improvements. Nothing more."
"Good. Keep the channel open. Don't commit to anything."
Montoya nodded and left with the measured pace of a man who understood that patience was the most valuable currency in politics. I added Yari Demos to the organizational priority list and returned to monitoring the SAR operation.
[Cybele, Observation Porthole — Day 21, 1430]
The fleet wireless had been running a low-grade fever of anxiety for eighteen hours when the transmission cut through like a blade.
"Galactica, Starbuck. I'm coming in hot. Clear the deck."
Not a Raptor. Not a standard Colonial signal. Something else — something that made every wireless operator in the fleet pause, because the transponder code didn't match anything in the Colonial registry.
I stood at the observation porthole on Deck 2 and watched Galactica's landing bay through the narrow frame of reinforced glass. At this distance, individual craft were barely visible — running lights against the battlestar's grey hull, the firefly dance of approach vectors and landing clearances.
But I could see the shape that came screaming in from the void. Wrong proportions. Wrong configuration. A swept-wing silhouette that belonged to nightmares and war footage, not a Colonial landing pattern.
A Cylon raider. Flying toward Galactica's open bay. With a Colonial transponder broadcasting Starbuck's call sign.
She did it. She actually did it. Crashed on a moon, killed a raider, gutted its cockpit, and flew the frakking thing home.
The fleet wireless exploded. Cross-chatter from every civilian channel — confusion, fear, someone screaming about a Cylon attack before calmer voices explained. Galactica's traffic control, broadcasting on open frequency for the first time in the crisis: "All ships, this is Galactica. Be advised — incoming craft is a captured enemy vessel under Colonial control. Lieutenant Thrace is aboard. Repeat — friendly. Stand down."
The Cybele's mess hall erupted. I could hear the cheering from two decks away — a sound that carried through bulkheads and ventilation ducts, the raw, unfiltered joy of people who'd been given permission to believe that miracles still happened.
And I stood at the porthole with a smile on my face that surprised me.
Not the controlled expression of a man running calculations. Not the mask of Marcus Cole, logistics officer. A genuine, unguarded smile from Wade Hargrove, who was watching a fictional character become the most real person he'd ever admired.
You're not characters anymore. You haven't been since Day Zero.
The system flickered in my peripheral vision:
[PERSONNEL SCAN: THRACE, KARA "STARBUCK" — BEYOND RANGE]
[ESTIMATED PROFILE FROM FLEET RECORDS:]
[PILOTING: EXCEPTIONAL (EST. 92+/100)]
[CONVICTION: EXTREME (EST. 88+/100)]
[NOTE: DIRECT SCAN REQUIRED FOR ACCURATE ASSESSMENT]
I dismissed the display. Starbuck wasn't a recruitment target — she was beyond my reach, beyond my scale, and frankly beyond anyone's ability to manage. But her return changed the fleet's mood in ways that mattered for the organization. People who'd been tightening their fists around fear were loosening their grip. The celebration would last hours, maybe days. And during celebrations, guards dropped and conversations opened.
"Dunn."
The earpiece crackled. "I'm here. Watching from the cargo bay. The refugees are dancing."
"Let them. And while they're happy, have Montoya map the connections between our civilian contacts and Galactica's crew. Starbuck's return is going to create a window — military personnel will be more open to civilian interaction for the next few days. I want to know who our people can reach."
"Already started." A pause. "You're smiling. I can hear it."
"She flew a Cylon raider, Petra."
"I know. It's insane."
"It's magnificent."
Another pause. Longer.
"You're starting to care about these people," Dunn said. "Not as assets. As people."
"I've always cared about them as people."
"Mmm. Keep telling yourself that."
The channel clicked off. I stayed at the porthole until Galactica's landing bay sealed and the running lights returned to standard pattern. Somewhere inside that ship, Kara Thrace was climbing out of a Cylon cockpit and into a legend.
I need access to that world. Pilots, deck crew, CIC officers. The military is where the real power lives in this fleet, and right now I'm pressing my face against the glass.
The thought wasn't new. But Starbuck's return sharpened it, turned it from a vague long-term goal into an operational priority. The civilian network was solid — seven people, six ships in various levels of contact, intelligence capability proven. But the civilian fleet was the tail. Galactica was the dog.
I needed a way in.
The wireless crackled with celebration chatter. Someone on the Rising Star was playing music over an open channel — pre-war colonial pop, tinny and distant and impossibly human.
I listened for a while. Let the smile stay. Then I went back to work.
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