PHD #071: EVENT - Get Some
Get Some
Summary: MV Eidolon lands on the surface of Leonis.
Date: 8 May 2041 AE
Related Logs: Continued in Lambs to the Slaughter.
Barto Oberlin Kulko Polaris 
Bridge — MV Eidolon
The Eidolon's bridge is both small and cramped. It might hold a dozen crew at peak capacity, with all of them elbow-to-elbow, but primary operations can be managed with a much smaller complement. The captain's console and three navigators' banks seem the most-used, though the cargo bay monitor is equally worn: it's crucial, after all, to keeping control over fragile or otherwise fussy loads. Much of the bridge's technology is deserving of finger-quotes — if the Eidolon was commissioned almost four decades ago, her last major refit probably took place some thirty-five years back. However, loving modifications and careful jury-rigs are everywhere to be found: improvements only reluctantly tacked on when the 'soldiering-on' option proved no longer feasible. Dangling from the lamp above the captain's chair is a pair of fuzzy red dice.
Post-Holocaust Day: #71

The dials are set. The clock is running. All systems are green, all personnel are aboard, all equipment is present and accounted for. All that remains is for the word to be given — and then, like an arrow into the distance, MV Eidolon will activate her faster-than-light engines for what very well may be her final voyage.

[TAC1] "Crash" Michael says, "Eidolon Actual, Cerberus Actual. CIC has confirmed IFF activation: you are now chirping Cylon, say again, you are now chirping Cylon."

Barto is sitting in the command chair with her gear, the earpiece back in. With the radio call over the speakers above them, Michelle looks to the other two. "Best of luck, gentlemen. And Godsspeed." She taps the earpiece.

[TAC1] "Cobra Actual" Michelle says, "Copy that, Cerberus. We are spinning up the FTL's now. Beginning the jump clock for thirty seconds." A pause. "See you in forty-eight hours, sir."

"Come on, baby." Oberlin says, smirking a bit as he continues to secure his gear, staring over at the ship's vital systems. His mouth flickers sideways.

"Here's hopin' the CAP have their fingers off the trigger," Kulko quips darkly, flicking some ash into the nearby ceramic tray. He leans over the tactical console, nervously twirling the pale blue FTL key in his fingers. "Clock set and counting at Thirty. Twenty nine. Twenty eight…"

[TAC1] "Crash" Michael says, "Thirty seconds, Eidolon Actual. Our clock is running." A slightly longer pause — because there's no way Abbot will be outdone by a mere Major. "Forty-eight hours, aye. Gods speed."

[TAC1] "Cobra Actual" Michelle says, "Thank you, sir. Eidolon, out."

[TAC1] "Crash" Michael says, "Oh, and — the men and women in CIC have requested that I tell you to 'Get some.' Verbatim. Cerberus out."

Three. Two. One.

The hulking freighter quivers, shakes, and screams as her ancient FTL whirs to life, her bulkheads quivering under the strain. The ship herself seems to turn inside-out as the jump field forms, expands — and explodes; then, with one last shriek of protest, she emerges into the shadow of Leonis-at-night: a familiar sight turned unfamiliar by the fact that the surface is completely devoid of lights of any sort. And inching over the horizon is Leonis Spacedock itself. A pair of bone-white basestars have taken up patrol position around it, surrounded by veritable clouds of Raiders that soar in impossibly precise formations around the yards from which Cerberus so recently departed.

Through the swarms of Cylon fighters are visible the dormant carcasses of a potpourri of civilian Colonial craft bearing an equally diverse array of markings: the spoils of war, no doubt, being now repurposed for incomprehensible Cylon ends. Ships and Spacedock alike have been slathered with what appears to be a coating of red paint — but paint really isn't supposed to glow and pulse in the darkness of space, and it really isn't supposed to be able to hold together the various perforated spaceframes in the distance.

Kulko withdraws and secures the FTL key, giving the freighter's systems a quick once-over. "Everything shows green, Major. FTL powering down." Finally he allows himself a glance up to the porthole, eyeing the remnants of Colonial might in abject silence.

In turn, Oberlin stands watching, openmouthed as he stares out the viewport. "Note to self — what are they /doing/ with our ships?" He steps forth, his head arcing about, as if taking visual notes of every sign of odd wrongness he can take in. "We'll hold." He amends.

Barto doesn't move from the chair. She's a stone. Once the jump is completed, she looks to Kulko. "Thank you. Input jump coordinates to a known safe location. Do not spin up the FTL." Yet. Then, to Oberlin: "Lieutenant, begin our descent." Her eyes move to the porthole then and look to the yards. She shiwpers something under her breath but its too quiet to carry beyond her lips.

Steady and true those Cylons fly, ignoring entirely the newest member of the tremendous battle fleet they've gathered above the planet. If any machines notice something off, they certainly don't show it: the Raiders proceed along their designated lanes; the basestars stay blessedly dormant; even Spacedock itself doesn't stop glowing that odd red-orange glow.

"Let's get our hands in the cookie jar, already. I feel like the stairs are creakin'." Kulko pulls anxiously on his cigarette, wearing down the cherry more quickly than usual.

"Understood." Oberlin states, as he enters a few strokes in the keypad at his station, leaning a little forth as he peers outside the viewport. "Entering coordinates three three nine, carom one nine. So far they're not doing /shit/. This is good." He says, with a slight gleam of his teeth as he smirks.

Nosing into the atmosphere like a gigantic wingless bird, MV Eidolon nearly flips end-to-end as wind catches the gap carved into her port cargo pod. Only her overworked thrusters keep her level as her fuselage grows warmer and warmer. Condensation forms on the ceilings, the bulkheads, the floor; analog instrument panels become nigh-on unreadable as their glass coverings grow opaque with fog. Murky clouds rush past the overheating cockpit, sickening brown-black cumuli clutching at her onrushing hull before slipping ever away, ever away —

And then, finally, the surface comes into view. Snow-capped peaks, wheat-covered fields, forests eternal: Aspasia's natural magnificence has miraculously remained untouched by the Cylon attack, and if not for the cratered cities and villages scattered about the landscape, the whole province looks as peaceful and bucolic as ever. The rust-red ridge that houses Colonial Fleet Air Station Anadyomene juts out from the Bethel Mountains to the west, forty kilometers from the River Elpeus and forty more to the very outskirts of the City of Kythera. The station's remains are just barely visible through the thinning morning mist.

Michelle just glances to Oberlin and Kulko as the ship begins its descent. When it starts shaking, she closes her eyes and says a quick prayer, fingers curling around some kind of pendent under her battle blouse. When it slows, she opens them and looks out the viewscreen. "My Gods," she breathes, rising carefully from the chair. "But for the cities, you'd never know. What's the rad count at this altitude?"

"Not so bad up here, but still. Hope you took your shots." Kulko taps at the gauge, as if to make sure it's functioning properly. "Reckon it'll be a lot worse once we hit dirt."

"You don't want to know." Oberlin says casually as he glances at the readout. "About what you'd expect, really." He continues pressing buttons. How exciting. With a glance at Kulko, he shrugs his shoulders slightly, which has a slightly comic effect in his body armor. "Now's probably a horrible time to ask why they've spared what they have."

It's fortunate that MV Eidolon doesn't require anything remotely resembling landing gear to take off. The heavy bulk freighter crashes down on the runway with a powerful and spine-shattering screech, skidding forward until forward thrusters and friction — applied over the course of a few hundred meters — bring the ship to a halt. Clouds of dust and pulverized concrete billow into the air when she lands, obscuring the view for as long as it takes for those old engines to spin down. A minute later, though, and everybody's Mark One Eyeball can confirm what the freighter's unreliable DRADIS is reporting: no Cylons. The coast is clear.

Let the disembarkation commence.

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