| Message in a Raptor Computer |
| Summary: | Bannik reports to Cidra on what he learned from the Gemenon recon raptor's computer. |
| Date: | 23 Oct 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | None. |
| Players: |
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| CAG's Office - Deck 10 - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| Though it's not much bigger than the average ship supply closet, the office of the commander of Cerberus' air group has as much luxury as one can hope for aboard a battlestar: a hatch that locks. It is dominated by a blocky gray metal desk straight out of standard Navy supply. Behind it is the room's single indulgence, a high-backed rolling chair of almost comfortable-looking brown leather. That one, the CAG probably had to import herself. A few other chairs are shoved against the wall, able to be rolled over should visitors to the lair require one, though those are of the standard not-terribly-comfortable Navy offices variety. |
| The aforementioned desk contains a computer that looks rarely touched and an ashtray of greenish glass that is obviously frequently used, as well as the standard office supplies. The surface is usually cluttered with files, squadron reports, flight schedules and other aerial bureaucratic sundry of the day. A metal carafe, filled with water or coffee or tea depending on the CAG's whim, is usually at hand on the desk's corner. The rest of the office is packed with filing cabinets and wall shelves, the latter of which hold various flight manuals and military and historical books. |
| Any decorations on the walls are limited to professional awards and mementos from Major Hahn's past tours of service. It is largely devoid of the personal, save for one item: upon the shelf just behind and above her desk, serving as one side of a bookend to a collection of Raptor manuals, is a wooden statue of a small brown owl with very large eyes. A person might get the feeling of those eyes following him around this confined space. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #239 |
Cidra is seated at her desk, in the flight suit. Hair mussed and sweaty in that way that suggests she's back from CAP and hasn't bothered to change. She is surrounded by a veritable mountain of paperwork. All of it old, some dated months ago, and all of it related to what at first glance seems to be mind-numbingly boring aircraft bureaucracy. Old maintenance reports mostly, and duty logs from the hangar Deck. She's presently bent over said desk and is going through one such aged document with narrowed blue eyes, highlighting names and dates with an intensity that is probably surprising given the document in question. Her hatch is closed.
"Major Hahn?" Specialist Tyr Bannik appears at the door of the CAG's office, rapping lightly at the door as he does. He's got a clipboard under his arm with a stack of papers clipped onto it. It looks like some sort of report and computer print outs below it. "I have that report you asked for? On the Gemanon recon?"
"Ah. Yes. Do come in," comes Cidra's alto from beyond the hatch. Though she has to rise to unlock it and let him in properly. There's a cigarette burning in her ashtray, on which she's obviously been puffing liberally. The small space is not particularly comfortable for a non-smoker when she's got one going.
Bannik steps forward to the chair in front of her desk. He slips into the seat and places the clipboard in front of him. "It's really, really weird, sir." He takes the papers, flipping through them to one of the computer print-outs. "The file is definitely Cylon origin."
"Much weird in what is left of the worlds right now, Specialist," Cidra says, going to sit back down once Bannik's been let in. After she closes the hatch again, of course. She crosses her long legs and slips her cigarette between her fingers. Taking a long drag and letting it out slow. "Sit. Please. Did it do any damage to the Raptor it imbedded itself in?"
Bannik shakes his head. "Not that I can tell, sir. The clean and reset seemed to have gone perfectly." He underlines something on his papers with a pencil. "But none of the decryption methods I know can crack the file. But I do know it happened during the recon — looking at the logs, there was an authorized transmission received by the Raptor, and then the file appeared in the bird's hard drive."
Cidra shoves those papers she was so intent on a moment ago to one side of her desk. Smoking, slim frown lining her lips, cloudy blue eyes somber. "I have not heard any word from Intelligence that they have had any better luck with it. Cylon mysteries, I do not like, Specialist. Particularly not when they relate to those abominations crawling like ants over my homeworld." She can't suppress a shudder. "Why in the seven hells would the enemy send us a missive like that if not to sabotage us somehow…?" The question is asked half more to herself than of Bannik.
Bannik wrinkles his nose at the smell of the smoke that wafts through the room. Ew. But he presses on. "My conclusion, sir?" He glances up from his report. "The Cylons on Gemenon are sending us a message and they know only another Cylon can crack it." He lets out a sigh. "What does that mean? I don't know."
"Perhaps we should show it to Admiral Abbot, eh?" Cidra says with a slight smirk. It's half a joke and half not. "The Eleven said there were more of them aboard. Among us. Watching us. Doings gods only know what to us." Her head tilts at the young man and she asks, out of the blue, "How well did you know Lauren Coll?"
Bannik takes a deep breath, thrown off by the question. "Oh. Uh. Not on a personal level or anything. We just worked on the Deck together." A pause. "Why do you ask? You think she was a Cylon, like those other people do? Like the guy who shot her?"
"I do not know what she was…" Cidra murmurs, holding her cigarette between her fingertips. Eyeing those papers she was so intent upon highlighting. "I do not know a good many things, Specialist Tyr Bannik. I have been trying to line them up in my mind of late, but I cannot put them together for a clear picture."
"I don't know either, sir," admits the Specialist. "But — I don't know if the message is for us and they expect us to find a Cylon to decode it for us, or, you know, if it was meant for a Cylon that's on board. I just —" Tyr shakes his head. "But. That's what I got from the Raptor."
"Do you remember Ryan Shaker?" The question, again, comes out of nowhere. It's asked by Cidra in an introspective sort of way, her focus not on Bannik but on the wall behind him. And beyond it at some point perhaps only she can see. "Pilot that flew with the Knights. Died in the attacks. Threw his Viper alongside so many of my good men and women against the Cylons to defend his brothers and sisters. Defend us all. And yet, he was an abomination. He was the enemy." A pause. "And then there was the Morgenfield creature." No introspection there, just a twisted sneer of scorn. "Sabotaged us for months. Put poison in our breathing solutions. They were of the same ilk, Specialist. And yet…so far apart, no?"
A pause, as Bannik attempts to digest what this means. "Well. Maybe it just shows that all Cylons aren't alike. I mean — there are different models, aren't there?" He glances down at his reports, not quite meeting Cidra's eyes.
Cidra doesn't meet Bannik's eyes either. She's still half off in her own head. "That is not such a wise thing to say openly in many quarters, Specialist." A long drag off her cigarette, and longer, slow exhale of smoke. "But perhaps…" Gaze eventually does roll back to him. A shrug of her shoulders. "Well. In any case. I do thank you for your work upon this. You always do very good work, Specialist Tyr Bannik. I am not certain I have ever told you such before. You have been a good hand on the birds and buses for my pilots, and I trust the Deck better for it." That, also, comes out of nowhere. The woman isn't exactly one to give praise often.
"A lot of things aren't wise to say openly in many quarters, Major. It doesn't make them less true, though." Bannik detaches his stack of papers from his clipboard and passes them across to Cidra. "Here's my report, sir, and the supporting documents." He then pauses: "But thank you very much. I just — want to help. The ship's — all I've got left, you know?"
"All we have left. So say we all," Cidra intones soft, on that last note. She takes the report, putting out her near-smoked cigarette and rising languidly from her desk. "Clear eyes and steady hands to you, Specialist. Dismissed."