PHD #248: Making Plans in the Absence of a Plan
Making Plans in the Absence of a Plan
Summary: In the absence of a known Plan for the future of humanity, Cidra and Trask make plans of their own for the Air Wing and the Fleet.
Date: 01 Nov 2041 AE
Related Logs: Canceron and Beyond (tylium); Understanding That Which Is Unknown (the Million Cubits Question); Men and Machines (spooning and sleeping); Inferences and Insinuations (Hammockgate)
Cidra Trask 
Map Room - Deck 7 - Battlestar Cerberus
Post-Holocaust Day: #248
The one object that dominates this room is the one it is named for: the giant plotting table in the center of the room. Bottom-lit like the plot in CIC, this one is twenty feet across and about the same distance wide. The maps, which are rolled and kept in a locker at the side of the room, provide much more detail than most of the charts in CIC and are especially useful in planning tactical operations. Unscaled models of ships are available to be situated on the surface of the table and risers on each side of the room allow for a small audience to watch or be briefed. A single large LCD screen is built into the wall at the far end to display reconnaissance or other supplemental material.
Condition Level: 3 - All Clear

The problem with juggling a bunch of eggs is that, sooner or later, some of them are going to crack or end up in the entirely wrong basket. Mixed metaphors aside, Trask is in no real mood for pieces of shell to end up in any frittata the Fleet may be cooking. All of which is why he's here in the Map Room, laptop queued, charts of Canceron displayed on the planning table, and assorted notes arranged within hand's reach. Currently, he's placing unscaled models of basestars and Raiders in key areas.

Cidra strides into the Map Room, in her blues, looking recently showered and reasonably pressed. And rather tired. Not that that's anything particularly unusual these days, though perhaps she's a bit moreso since she started bunking in her… well, bunk, again. "Boots," she greets him simply, joining him at the plotting table.

"Toast," is the simple reply, formed around a piece of hard mint. Smoking and drinking in the Map Room is a Bad Idea, which means Kal is currently sans tobacco and coffee. As is par for the course, he looks like he normally does ten hours into the workday, ever dressed in those Duty Greens. "So, I've been goin' over the data," he continues, still plotting, "and unless Command feels like frakkin' up some mining operations in true 'if I can't have it, no one can' glory, not much to be done about it. I still maintain we need to up security on our fuel stocks and see what we can find outside of Colonial space."

"Contingency on our fuel reserves would certainly be a fine thing to have, I do not disagree," Cidra says. "And I do wish Lieutenant Aydin the best of luck in pinpointing locations we might restock if worse came to worst. We have over a decade supply at our disposal, however, and will likely get our energies directed elsewhere soon. We shall not linger over Aerilon forever."

"We can't keep lingerin' period, Cid." Brown eyes flick from the configurations to the CAG. "I have an inkling that if you had an inkling as to what the Plan is," said in audible caps, "you'd clue me in, if only so you could go back to the Brass with a list of the dumb ideas that need to be made less dumb." The comment is spoken with as much self-deprecation about his nature as it is about the likelihood that there undoubtedly would be dumbness. "I'm guessin' we're gonna be lingerin' over Tauron, soon enough."

"I have not yet had the plan revealed to me," Cidra admits. "Though right now we are mainly involved in mop-up efforts here. When the civilian ship is properly ready to go and that population relocated, I am told we shall be moving on. Likely to Tauron, yes. The Cylons appear to have abandoned it in a similar fashion as they have this planet, and Sagittaron before it." And, as ever when she reflects on this, she sounds more troubled than anything else. She does give him a look over the table as talk turns to Tauron, however. Concern is there. Moderated, but it's present.

In all honesty, Trask seems no more upset about Tauron than he has over any of the other Colonies. Perhaps it's because he's a Lifer. Maybe it's just that stoicism Taurians are culturally renowned for. Whatever the reason, he remains pragmatic and focused on functionality, relaying, "We should hit Wreath-of-Roses. I bet a lot of the wreckage that recon found came from those frakkers tryin' to flee." Wry, that, but no less likely. It's where the uber rich 1% of the Colony tended to live in the kind of lush extravagance that would make even an ostentatious Caprican pause and go 'dayum'. "Still might be some useful goods and supplies to salvage up there." Seeing how it's located on one of Tauron's moons, 'up there' is apt.

"The wreckage I find interesting," Cidra says. "Given how they picked Sagittaron in particular clean and seem to be harvesting resources and space debris from the other colonies. In any case, I concur it shall be valuable salvage. Speaking of fuel stores, we may even be able to stock from some of the wreckage. A little tylium does go a long way. But. We shall have to see what we can see there."

"Sagittaron was their own scrap. Makes sense. Not sure what fuel we'll find, though." On Tauron, that is. "I imagine most of what could be of use would've exploded. Some diesel could probably be scrounged…" Which might be of some small benefit, but it certainly isn't tylium. There is a quiet clacking sound of the mint hitting Trask's teeth while his tongue lolls the treat around in his mouth.

"Well, we shall find what we shall find," Cidra says fatalistically. "For my part, I shall not be sorry to leave this planet. It has been quiet." A pause. "Too quiet." Which obviously creeps her. "And we still have no more answers about why the Cylons deserted these planets. Oh, they are consolidating their forces. That much is clear. Perhaps Aydin was right, though. The Areion is clearly capable of dealing them sharp damage, and we know not how many times that crew has encountered the Cylons before. Perhaps they are preparing a strike against that ship. And against us, by association."

Ever one to cut through the crap, Kal simply remarks, "So, ask 'em." Not that he expects the Areion to be forthcoming, but nothing ventured nothing gained. Then, in a sequence of thoughts that make perfect sense in his mind, "I wanna return to Leonis. Wanna scope out the dockyards, see if they're still buildin' over there or if they've entirely pulled out."

"As I do understand it they have entirely pulled out," Cidra says. "But if you do wish to send another recon Raptor in that direction, you may."

"See," the SL determines, "/that/ doesn't make sense. It's one thing to close their chopshops and another to abandon Spacedock Leonis. They're buildin' elsewhere. That we know. What kind of resources they're still utilizing there, though, will help us assess how badly we've been hitting 'em." It's a numbers game. One of allocation.

"Go to it, then," Cidra says with a wave of her hand. "We should also concentrate our planning efforts on our incursion into Tauron, however. And on what we already know of the Cylons' rebuilding efforts. Well, you have the data. And we have, it seems, some time to make sense of it. Is there anything else, Boots?"

Permission granted garners a nod. The duo goes back long enough that Cidra surely must know that he's slating himself for the mission when he says, "I'll grab cotton-tail an' hop back down the Cylon trail." Fair enough, Bunny and Boots were the ones who did the initial recon of Leonis. As for anything else, "Don't think so, Toast. Canceron is getting combed over; Sweet Pea an' Co. are scourin' for possible fuel sites way out in the black; Flasher is gettin' crackin' on the facilities foo — which, by the by, unless there's some reason she's unqualified or her Cee-Oh-Cee puts on the kibosh, I'm fine with wifey-poo bein' put to work." Those big brown eyes glance aside as is common when a person is combing their memory. "I think that's pretty much it about Wing matters." The phrasing suggestive that there maybe be something else on his mind. "You ever find what you were lookin' for?" The question is casual, but his gaze is somewhat assessing behind the nonchalant surface.

"The more communication between our various parts of the ship the better, so far as I am concerned," Cidra says with another wave of her hand. His last question gives her pause. It's a beat before she replies. "I…" In fact, she doesn't answer. Instead, she asks, "Why does Sawyer Averies think you will come at night to try and spoon in her hammock?" The question is more wry than casual.

Without missing a beat or a single feather seemingly ruffled, Kal quips, "My guess is that it's 'cuz she's a woman." As if that somehow explains everything. Only after he says that, though, does what Cidra asked really register. "Wait… she said she's expecting me to come by to spoon?" Evidently, Sawyer never bothered to let him know that little tidbit, nor does he at all come across as someone who had any intention of doing such a thing. In fact, his eyes vaguely roll as his head faintly shakes, annoyed at idiocy revisited. Even so, he manages to fire back, with some measure of seriousness tinged to the cheek, "And what the frak is goin' on with you and Averies, anyway?" It is not jealousy or salacious curiosity, by any means. The man is merely trying to navigate all the 'wtf?' to something that makes some semblance of sense.

Cidra gives Trask an inscrutable look at his thoughts on spooning. Tired and somewhat haggard-looking though she may be these days, she can still do inscrutable with the best of them. "Going on?" An arch of her brow. "Is that what this ship has come to believe?" The barest hint of a smirk. "Well. It is better than some alternatives, I must admit."

"As if /I/ give a frak about who you may or may not be frakkin'." A leveled look of 'seriously, you know better than that' is shot at Cidra, whereas his tone delivers the audible eyeroll. "Last I was aware, you weren't lettin' subordinates dock in your hangar— " is there something he knows and isn't telling? "— and that's all that matters." Irreverent as he can be, there are some rules for which Bootstrap is a stickler. "Also, you should know by now that this is /not/ the way to get me to drop a line of questioning." The man is more than capable of simultaneously fighting verbal battles on multiple fronts. "And the sheer fact that you seemingly think it is, frankly, is insulting." Tsk-tsk, Toast.

"I am not, indeed," Cidra answers flatly, as to the docking of subordinates in her hangar. At his (repeated) question, she sighs. "There is nothing so interesting as you are likely imagining. Sawyer offered me a spot in her Newsroom when I was having… difficulty sleeping in the berthings. That is resolved now." That last is said firmly. Almost as if she's trying to convince herself of it. But she has been back in her bunk these last couple nights.

"Yeeeah… /that's/ not gonna work, /either/, Cid… but better." An attempt, that is. Cheekily, he smiles full of boyish charm — and then goes right back to the Million Cubits Question. "So." Beat for emphasis. "You find what you were lookin' for?" When she was pseudo-freaking out in her office.

Another pause, and Cidra does admit, "Not yet." She clears her throat. "In any case. I should be… I have matters to attend to. Clear eyes and steady hands, Boots." Those 'matters' may take her back to her office, hatch locked, for several hours.

The question he wanted answered has now been answered. Really, though, that was simply his roundabout way of checking up on Cidra's well-being. Whether or not he's satisfied with the answer, though, isn't evident. His manner of being inscrutable is not that of careful schooling but that of so many sentiments at play at once that the resulting amalgam is somewhat nebulous. At the very least, he seems vaguely pensive, nodding faintly before brushing it off with, "Well, good hunting, Toast."

"Thank you, Kal," Cidra says simply. Though with a sincerity behind it. Whether for letting it lie or for his concern in the first place is unclear, but something in that does seem to have meant much to her. With an inclination of her head to him, she strides out of the Map Room.

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