IC: So Say We All

Erik rolled the smoke of the cigar around in hims mouth before blowing a ring towards the top of the cabin. Life support wouldn't handle the smoke well, but there were so few joys in life and he had a flight suit if things started to malfunction. The deep aroma of the cigar hit his nostrils and he let it waft around him. Fine wine, money, and cigars. This was the life.

The Proximity alarm caught Erik off guard as blared from the cockpit. Quickly the color started to drain from his face. The little joys of life had quickly faded with the possibility of being captured. He had checked dradis not three minutes ago and found nothing on sensors, only possibility would be long range or a jump, both of which were very very bad.

Erik quickly bolted back up to the cockpit and threw himself into the pilot's seat, trying to get an idea of what was going on.

Fuller nodded again and the barest smile crossed his pursed lips. Working with men and women who took pride in their position, no matter how mundane or overlooked it was, made it difficult to look like a hard ass young officer.

"Excellent," Sampson added quietly, "We understand one another. Sgt Adama, make sure I have a copy of the duty rosters and training records asap. I want to familiarize myself with the routine. I'll also want to confer with you about any concerns you may have so we can hit the ground running."

Sampson scratched his chin a moment before adding. "Also, assuming the Major won't have much for me in the way of in processing classes, slate me for 2 days with each watch so that I can get to know the routine first hand from the people who do it."

"If anyone has business for the new MCO I should be in my office in about 30 mikes." He raised his voice to address the marines directly again. It shouldn't take him long to get squared away, assuming he was able to navigate the waters with his new CO anyway, "give or take. Marines dismissed. Sergeant Adama, they're all yours."

Sampson waited for Sgt Adama to take charge of the Marines again before turning halfway to SSGt Burke. He wanted to watch the Marines as they broke apart and moved to take assignments for this watch, "I should stow my gear before I report to Major Deering. Anything else important on the day's docket?"

As Charon begins looking around, he realizes that a very specific warning--hardwired into all Colonial sensor systems forty-some-odd years ago--is displying on his screen. Before he can switch his DRADIS to 'Active', several flashes of light indicating numerous vessels 'Jumping In' reach him through the heavily-tinted glass of his cockpit window.


Charon had time to think on his next course of action, but not too long...

Staff Sergeant Burke looks at his platoon leader with a neutral expression. "Ser, Sar'nt Adama will serve as your link t' the platoon. I haft t' post the Alpha Shift Duty Marines and take over as Sar'nt at Arms, Ser. You know t' Fleet, Ser: t'er own M-Az cann't keep things in order without Marines t' hold t'er hands." Burke smiles at the old joke, forms his face into its usual neutral mask as he snaps a sharp salute to the young Third, and then performs a sharp about face. Staff Sergeant Burke exchanges salutes with Sergeant Adama, and then assumes the positon of command as Sergeant Adama and Corporal Crane fall out of formation and fall in beside their new platoon leader.

"Sar'nt Ivarshun, I have the Guard; you stand relieved. You, a'long with Red and Orange squads are dismissed." Sergeant Iversion and Staff Sergeant Burke exchange salutes before Burke looks to Sergeant Velern as Sergeant Iversion turns to his squads and hurries them through stowing their gear. "Sar'nt Valarn, you a'long with Indigo and Violet Squads are t' train as scheduled until your shift. Fall out." Sergeant Velern falls her squads out to the conference room across the passageway where--like they have been all week in celebration of Galactica's retirement--she begins quizzing her Marines on all of the Cylon War history that the Meleager's nominal flagship was involved in. "Yellow and Blue Squads are t' go on Guard. Corporals Aramakee and Kennison, are your squads ready for Guard?" Both Corporals Aramaki and Kennyson (the wife) nodded in the affirmative. "Guard Squads, POST." Both Corporals salute Staff Sergeant Burke, then lead the other three members of each of their squads to the Guard positions (CIC and the Hangar, respectively) as Staff Sergeant Burke heads to find The Skipper and report in.

Sergeant Adama takes up position next to the left of Third Lieutenant Sampson as Corporal Crane falls in to Adama's left. Adama leans over and begans narrating the events quickly, clearly, and quietly enough that only the Third and Crane can hear him. "Sergeant Iversion--despite looking man-pretty--is a hardass veteran of service as part of Battlestar Pegasus' Marine Complement and is our Boarding Operations Instructor; he has Red Squad--under Corporal Clarence, that hardass Aquarian 'chica', our Close Quarters Battle Instructor, and on your far left, Sir--and Orange Squad--Under Corporal Vickers, that humorless-looking female, our Infiltration Instructor, second from left--with him when he is Sergeant at Arms on Constellation Shift. Sergeant Velern--she of the model's figure and noted service on the Battlestar Talos and its Opfor assignments, who is also our Counter-Terrorism Instructor--has Indigo Squad--under Corporal Kennyson, the husband, our demolition expert, second from your far right--and Violet Squad--under Corporal Malachi, she of the legendarily Leonid paleness, our Space Operations Instructor, your far right, Sir--under her when she is Sergeant at Arms on Bravo Shift. Staff Sergeant Burke you have met, Sir; he is our Sniper Instructor. He takes Sergeant at Arms on Alpha Shift, taking Yellow Squad--led by Corporal Aramaki, our Intelligence Instructor, that Libran male center-left--and Blue Sqaud--ably led by Corporal Kennyson, the wife, our Weapons Instructor, and your center-right, Sir--with him. To my left is Corporal Crane, our very cute Medic--" Humor enters his voice as Crane glares at Adama. "--who none of us try to date because she is the entire Platoon's 'sister', Petty Officer Third Goshan is currently courting her and we are all afraid of Goshan-" Adama's voice peaks a little as Crane socks him in the arm as the last of the Platoon (Red Squad) heads out the doors to their racks. "-and, most importantly, it would likely destory unit trust and cohesion. She teaches Buddy Aid, and I teach Communications Basics, Sir." He pauses for a long moment, then nods at the question.

"Red Squad took care of that for you, Sir." Adama indicates the now-open door on the wall opposite the two hatches leading to the passageway outside the Marine Ready Bay; looking through it, Sampson can see the Platoon Leader's Office and Quarters (about the size of a small apartment bedroom with attached private head/shower)...and all of Sampson's bags, already neatly stowed in the appropriate lockers, save only the bag marked as containing Sampson's combat gear (which was sitting to the immediate right his quarters' door). "If we were up to a full platoon, Sir, we would have a full three-squad section on each of the three shifts, rotating with the one three-squad section that is off Guard every week. That would give us each three-squad section getting one week out of every month 'off'; during that time they would perform skills training, perform depot matienance, and each squad would get rotated by Raptor-flight to Caprica for two days out of that week on shore leave. It worked quite well; Morale was high. And then, of course, the accident-" A cloud passes over the faces of both Crane and Adama."-anyway, Sir, we had to readjust. Our Marines have been shipboard, due to Fleet manpower regulations, for the last three months." Adama looks like he is about to speak, but a phone rings from inside the office to their left--the one with "OPERATIONS SERGEANT: Sgt. Adama" to the right of the door--and Adama nods to Crane as he quickly strides into his office (also his living space) and picks up the phone. He can be faintly heard to say "CIC, Marine, send it." as Corporal Crane picks up the briefing.

"We have rotated one person from half of the squads 'off' but even with that, our people are really showing the strain, Sir. All of them need to rotate planetside for a couple of weeks and just grieve, Sir...but the XO has refused all request to do so, and as the XO is responsible for overseeing all Departments in the Regs, Sir, Staff Sergeant Burke will not bypass Fenq to take it up with the Skipper. Staff says such things are 'Officer's Business', and that he is not an Officer. Fenq also denied our request--backed up by my opinion as Senior Marine Medical Professional and Marine Chaplain-" Those last three words said in a rush, as if Crane was embarassed; granted, while Chaplains were required to be an 'ordained' priest of a recognized religious temple and have passed the Chaplain's Course, very few enlisted personnel met that first requirement. None--since the Cylon War--that Sampson had every heard about or met, before today, anyway. "-to stand only one squad on each watch and rotate the dutes every two days between the 'on' and 'off' squads. He is requiring we follow the 'Fleet Manning Standards', and since those--in 'Peacetime'--don't allow for such massive casualties..." The petite Marine shook her head.

"We are simply being run ragged. Our 'edge'--without the time to perform proper training--is starting to slip, even with the squads training before they go on-shift. Staff and Adama have pulled miracles out of their asses, I've been leading prayer services, memorials, vigils for the Ferryman, and even plattoon, section, squad, and individual counseling as well as keeping a close eye on their physical health, but..." Crane snorts. "Even with the incredibly-smoking-hot and legendarily-physically-talented Corpsman-Third Goshan frakking everyone but me and Staff at least once a month, plus the training and faith consoling/counseling, they are still going to pack in soon. That they have not packed it in yet also has a fair deal to due to the fact that First Lieutenant Buckley would have personally kicked the ass of every last one of them so hard that their fathers would have felt it before they frakked their mothers for failing to do their 'Duty'. Lieutenant Buckley was-" Crane was interrupted by a shout from Sergeant Adama's office.

"FENQ DID WHAT?! AND HE IS GOING WHERE ALL?" Several pungent oaths followed, then the sound of a mumbled thanks before the phone slammed back into its cradle. Striding out of his office, Sergeant Adama motions for both Crane and Third Lieutenant Sampson to follow him as he strides out into the passageway. "SET CONDITION FENQ-RED! LOCK IT DOWN! LOCK IT DOWN NOW! " As his shoute echoes throughout 'Marine Country', the Marines in training quickly begin training on all of the engagements Galactica fought that involved large quantities of tylium or tylium explosions, the Marines in their bunks quickly lock and seal the two doors to the half-empty Marine Berthing, and Sergeant Adama seals the hatches to the Ready Bay after Crane and the Lieutenant have exited into the passageway.

For the love of the Lords of Kobol. Only a few minutes in and the one eligible interesting woman with a modicum of intelligence was in fact off limits. Truth was there were several attractive women within eyesight one moment ago, and all of them sadly off limit. Perhaps not even his type. Frak. Fraternization and standards were ruining his down time already.

Add to that nearly a thousand questions and comments running through his mind as the Understrength Marine Platoon exploded into action and he was flustered before he had a chance to get his footing. He had questions about accessing the platoon training officers for more intense training of his own, weapons certification runs on the range and more importantly he wanted to deal with morale issues now if not sooner. Internalize, redirect, refocus . . . Focus. For a bare moment he poured all his energy into a black void until it flared deep inside him, but didn't show outside. It rarely paid to allow your men see anything except that you had their backs.

"I have some ideas for dealing with morale and stress on at least one level. Ever heard of 'the dance'?" Fuller asked as the Marines dissolved into what anyone else would have called chaos. What the frak was going on? It was controlled chaos, to be certain, but he had to take a moment to find his center all the same, "Get me a copy of the incident report on that accident Crane, as soon as you can. It sounds like I'm going to need to deal with this immediately. And let me worry about Fenk. I don't care what his rank is, he is frakking with my Marines. It's a mistake. I can be very persuasive, and his stance is affecting Marine morale and readiness. We'll work together to see they don't pack in."

He wanted to ask who Goshan was. He couldn't tell if Crane sounded disappointed that Goshan was not sharing a bed with her and for some reason he wanted to know. He wanted to preemptively apologize for any flirting, perceived or real, that he might direct at Cpl Crane now or in the future. He wanted to tell her it wasn't really personal, to shrug it off and know it really was a sign of respect - more than he'd give a sister anyway. But he didn't. It was too soon for that cr@p.

Lieutenant Fuller was irritated, but he didn't allow it to show. Only calm, clear, confident purpose of mind. And a slight smile. It didn't hurt to let them see you smile occasionally. Burke's hasty hand off had thrown him for a moment, and then Adama's similar hand off coupled with the declaration that Crane was a sister threw him a moment more. His chance to integrate with his people in a smooth manner while winning their trust and (hopefully) respect had been shattered in those same moments. Time to do things the hard way. As Adama joined them and headed into the passageway, Sampson tapped the bulkhead for luck. "Sit rep Sergeant?" he asked in even tones.

Charon slowly picked up the glass of fine wine from the console's dash and downed its contents. The fine wine poured down his throat in a pair of drops and he fought to ignore the taste and waste of such a fine vintage. Right now he just wanted the stiff drink.

That was a Cylon Fleet. Not a single vessel, but many. His little detour had brought him pretty close to the armistice line but he never expected to run into anything as no sighting had been seen of the Cylons in over forty years.

"Well, I gotta hand it to the gods, this was not part of the plan."

Charon knew he had little time, but he was somewhat fascinated with the ships in front of them, especially that big one. He slowly tapped away on the controls, shutting down everything he could get away with and adjusting his course. He wanted to drift by the larger ship and perhaps then head to the safety of a Colonial military base, but first he wanted to get a closer look at that ship.

Colonial Shuttle 7C9853N is a forty-five year old ZIS 400 Medium-Lift In-System Transport. The ZIS 400 shuttles are rated for 120 tons of cargo, 30 passengers, a flight crew of four, three days' life-support under normal operation, five jumps before refueling, and is normally considered about as stealthly as a Temple of Dionysus. Official records indicated 221 of these shuttles were destroyed by the Cylons in the first war when a marauding Basestar would hit merchant convoys or resupply operations. Crew and cargo casualties were total in all but three cases.

All of this flashes through Charon's mind--courtesy of his photographic memory and a lack of any other entertainment except government reports and AARs from the Cylon War--as he drifts towads the 'big one'...especially as he realizes that he is going to drift much closer than he intended to the 'big one'.

The Lords of Kobol are said to have a wicked sense of humor. The rest of the Gods, to varying degrees. But cutting irony is the trademark of The Fates, and they displayed it now. Charon's steed, an old shuttle crewed by one man on the run and packed with 165 tons of prime military hardware with barely even life support active, appeared to the well-informed Cylons to be a shuttle drifting, left over from the last war. After all, any living human would have attempted to flee or--as the shuttle has a Jump Drive installed--Jump away, thus earning themselves a Cylon missile. But the intelligence coordinating the 'big ship' and its escorts, in consultation with the 'significant' personnel aboard, decided not to risk attracting Colonial attention with the signature of a detonating Jump Drive. Their operations were encountering delays as it was, and their already-thin margin of error didn't need any more 'thinning'. So Shuttle 7C9853N was left alone, even when path was determined--after an erroneous initial assessment--to be passing quite close to the 'big ship'. After all, twenty meters of clearance between the shuttle that was soon to 'fly-by' and its hull was plenty to the coordinating intelligence; it was well aware dead objects such as the Colonial Shuttle do not alter path unless acted on by an outside force.

Charon realized that there was a current-generation field surveillance camera somewhere near the cockpit that he could probably reach and start recording with in the twelve minutes before he skimmed by the 'big one' twenty meters off the hull.

Corporal Crane smiles tightly at her Lieutenant as she momentarily steps into the office behind them--the one labelled "MEDIC AND CHAPLAIN: Cpl. Crane", and in smaller letters below that, "One Stop Shop: She'll either Heal your Body or Save your Soul!"--and steps back out with a 72-page report with a prominent label of "COMMAND OFFICERS, INTELLIGENCE, MEDICAL ACCESS ONLY; CLASSIFICATION: SECRET"...and then promptly hands the hefty red folder to Third Fuller. "There you go, Sir. Full report and everything." She looks away for a moment, either immensely saddened or greatly amused, and then looks back at Fuller with her eyes notably more lively.

"It is good to hear you say that, Sir, it has been too long since a Marine stood up to Fenq-" Just then, Sergeant Adama could be heard swearing about Fenq. As the Sergeant issued the Fenq warning and then shooed her and the Fuller out of the bay, Crane smiled tightly with an obvious joy as she spoke to her CO. "And yes, Sir, I know 'the dance' quite well; I enjoy it--despite my well-known moral 'training'--and am more-or-less tied with Corporals Aramaki, Clarence, Kennyson, and Kennyson, as well as Sergeant Velern and Staff, for hand-to-hand skill." Her voice took on a clearly amused note as she finished speaking right before Fuller spoke. "Of course, when we want to learn something about hand-to-hand mayhem, we invite Goshan around for some 'lessons'." She shuts up, and then realizes Fuller will have no idea who that is.

Sergeant Adama stops as soon as Fuller requests the SitRep, dead in his tracks for a few seconds, and then wheels around to stare at his Third with a combination of incredulity (at someone not the Third, but somehow connected to him) and pity (completely for the Third). His voice carries controlled anger (again, at someone that failed his Third) and mostly-surpressed pity (it is clear he is really trying to keep his bearing). "Did no one brief you, Sir? I mean, I was worried about that when you seemed not to know about the accident, but the final report was just delivered two days ago." The Sergeant's pause in speech is--to say the least--'pregnant'. "But if no one warned you about Fenq, or told stories of Goshan, or mentioned Crane--who almost every other Marine in the Squadron plus Fifth, Sixth, Seventh, and Eighth Fleet wish to 'knock boots with'--or even explained that if you are here more than six months, you will likely get to transfer with everyone but Fenk to the Spatha, Skipper's incoming command....none of it." He mutters to himself, then turns to resume walking as Crane and Fuller clearly him state (although her probably thought too quietly to heard by others) with great vehemence his next line. "Someone--or someones--screwed over my Third...bad enough to screw my LT, but they go picking on the innocent...I'll have someone's balls delivered on a silver plate to in the next forty-eight or I'm calling in all the overdue loans...Screwed my Third..." The sound of running feet from behind them causes both Crane and Adama to whirl around, making sure to keep their Third to the sides of the passageway.

A Petty Officer First Class--oddly dulled rank--in a flight suit--with an odd looking pair of wings where is right collar rank should be--stops short of them. He is carrying a hard-used--and well-maintained--CAL Mark 10 sidearm that looks like it actually is from the Cylon War, and his unit patches are odd; where it should say either "RAPTOR" or "VIPER", his says "ELINT/ELSEC"...and where he should have a ship or unit patch, he bears a patch based around the Sphinx, Cereberus, Charon, the symbols of the Moirai, and the symbols of Hermes. It took until after the man had spoken for the patch to 'click' in Fuller's head as the seal of Fleet Intelligence. (FI also fully supported the Marines, and had marines assigned to it.) The Fleet Intelligence Petty Officer was, however, rather short and wiry.

"Adama, Fenq is loose and on the warpath." Looking at the lack of surprise on their faces, the man just shook his head. "CIC called. Well, then, I am on my way." As the PO1 moved out at a brisk walk in the general direction of the CIC, both Crane and Adama shook their heads, and then Adama spoke to Fuller.

"Sorry about that, Sir. I just can't believe no one gave you a head's up about the local situation. No excuse, though, for essentially ignoring your question while I 'cooled off', Sir. The short version is that the XO, Captain Fenq, is a motherfrakker of epic proportions. He is the worst combination of micromanagement, entitled 'officer caste', and thinking all enlisted are the 'riff-raff and scum' they had crop up during the early parts of the War, Sir. He also lords his authority over those below him, although he appears to have no intentions to use it for money or sex; he just seems to enjoy 'being the officer'. Sadly, he is also a very talented astrogator and is by-the-book at all times...so the Fleet can't just kick him out. Skipper and the CAG have been working on him for the last seven months...and he is still as big a prick as when they started. And, No, Sir, we do not normally talk about any officer in such terms. It is only the courtesy due the rank and the respect we have for the Skipper that keep most from saying to his face. 'Morpheus'-" Adama nods to the direction the PO1 headed. "-tells Fenq exactly what he thinks of using fancy words and the same tone he delivers intelligence breifings in; then again, Mundy is a law unto himself. Other than our 'tame' Fleet Spook, only Senior Chief Sternjekcz and Medical are blunt to his face; Senior Chief is also the acting Bosun, along with Ship's Armorer and LSO, and Medical is outside Fenq's authority by fiat of the Skipper. What else do I need to fill you in on, Sir?" The sergeant had notably calmed down, although it was clear that he liked communicating large amounts of information in as little time as possible.

Right then, the radios that both Corporal Crane and Sergeant Adama were carrying started urgently beeping. Adama simply pulled out a headset, plugged it in, and settled it on his head; Corporal Crane began speaking openly into hers. "Crane, go ahead."

"Crane, this Goshan. I need assistance and someone with detachment over here. You anywhere near Passage Four-Delta-Seven-Seven-Green? This is a Critical...and it's Deckhand Goshan."

"Yes, Goshan, I wil be right there; four minutes tops." Turning to her CO, Crane looked quite apologetic. "Sorry, Sir, but I really need to get over there now!" Crane snaps a quick salute to the Third, then ducks around him and starts sprinting down the passage way. Adama catches part of that conversation, replays it in his mind, and then his face goes ashen. "Sir, would you care to join myself, Corporal Malachi, and Violet Squad as we go respond to the Request for Assistance from a pair of Master-at-Arms over in the same passage our medic is sprinting towards? Apparently the two MAs don't think they can keep either the new Deck Chief or Goshan from tearing the XO apart sometime in the next ten minutes...and the other eight on-duty MAs are twenty minutes away, dealing with a brawl in Nugget Berthing. Up for some 'law enforcement, Sir?" Adama grins as he headed towards the conference room.

Staring down the fuming officer in the corridor - one who incidentally was ignoring the medical needs of a severely injured and seizing crewman - Joran bristled.

"Viola- WHAT?! Fraternization? Are you kidding me?!" As Joran realized the other sub-paragraphs that the officer had quoted, he blushes slightly at the thought but quickly recovers, his anger even worse. "I have been on this ship for less than an HOUR - I have not even had time to stow my Gods forsaken GEAR, much less try to FRAK someone. Not that I would frak one of my own deck crew in the first place, and I REFUSE to believe that Chief Patrick would have done so either!"

Realizing that his mouth was quickly starting to run ahead of his common sense, Joran tried to put the brakes on his tirade, but found that there was still a little bit on the way out.

"What kind of shit-for-brains kind of officer are you, barreling down the passageway, plowing down deckhands and accusing the brand-frakking-new Deck Chief of screwing his subordinates just because he calls you out on your crap?!"

Things were still moving a lot faster than he was expecting in his first 15 minutes shipboard. He hadn't even reported in yet, and now Lt. Fuller realized he had been shooed out of Marine country while his gear was still sitting there. A radio and his side arm might have been nice, but he was traveling with armed Marines. And besides, at the academy he'd prided himself on the ability to resolve many issues without force.

"By all means," Sampson responded with a curious look to his face, "Law-enforcement gets me going in the morning. Radio ahead if you can and send a "stay calm" message. Cavalry is coming. You cna bring me up to speed at a much later time."

The wry smile he held as he jogged down the passageway behind his new sergeant didn't tell the full story. He tucked the file under his arm protectively and shook his head. "This is going to be bad isn't it. If push comes to shove, and we can't sort through the flak, let me try to redirect Fenq. Either way it's a good chance to see how the platoon works. If he's as bad as you say . . ."

Sampson Fuller allowed the thought to trail off. Straight into the furball wasn't the way he would have chosen, but that was what he had.