| Recon Of Canceron |
| Summary: | Pretty much what the log title says. |
| Date: | 03 Mar 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | Warday & post-Warday logs |
| Players: |
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It has been 5 days since the Cylons' assault on Picon and 2 days since Trask was sent to the wasteland that is now Virgon. Between now and then, he has kept himself occupied and little seen around the berthings. With his helmet on and attention on all the pre-flight checks, his face doesn't offer much insight into his mood.
Temperance is a ball of nerves, flipping through everything she needs to do to get up in the air. The news of the other colonies they've checked on has obviously reached her, and her feet beat out a tap-tap-tap rhythm underneath her while she chews on her bottom lip. "Got family on Canceron, sir?" she finally manages out, craning her head to look back at him.
"Nope," is the simple reply. "This'll be my first time there. Such a pity we've missed the yachting season." Even now, in light of all that's happened, Trask seemingly remains his usual sardonic self. "Nice of you to show up sober, Ensign," is casually added. "Here's hopin' you won't feel the need to get totally hammered after this little jaunt." Not a very promising forecast as to what they'll find, it would appear.
"Iffn I do," Temperance shoots back, "Ain't likely ta show up fer duty affected, sir." Done with her flight precheck, she turns the ship to full power and lifts them up, guiding them out of the bay and into the black. "Command, O'Sullivan. Launched and ready to jump on your say-so." She reaches out to ready the ship for the jump, and looks behind her once more. "Alright, boyos, 'ere we go. Pray fer better skies an' worried, happy, safe people when we get there."
Butcher, the unfortunately named medic, nods a little to the pilot's words and murmurs, "Gods willing."
With Command giving the green light to launch, the ECO quietly remarks about affected duty, "Not by liquor, anyhow."
At that comment, the CIC-appointed analyst peers at Trask but remains silent, for now.
Now in the black, and with the coordinates entered and the FTL spooled, Bootstrap relays, "Jump on my count, in… five… four… three… two… one…"
JUMP!
Temperance opens her mouth, and then bites down on her tongue, hard. Doesn't look like Trask is going to get a rise out of her this turn around. Command pipes in with her clearance, and she's off, waiting for Trask to push the coordinates through before the familiar space-bending gut-wrenching happens, and they blink out of the current location and into the new.
What meets the crew upon arriving in Canceron space is enough to make Jung, the aforementioned analyst, exclaim with soft-spoken horror, "By the Gods…" For a long moment, her jaw just kind of hangs there. Butcher is wide-eyed and dead silent.
The devastated site sprawls out in all directions, going well beyond what the eye can see. With DRADIS off-line, it is up to Temperance to navigate a stream of metal debris. Her ECO isn't being all that helpful in that department and just notes, "Watch out for roadkill and explodey bits. I won't at all be a happy camper if the infrared camera gets frakked up, yet again."
"Sonnuva frakkin' bitch, Ares!" Temperance calls out, immediately dodging pieces parts flying her way. "Take yer frakkin' scans!" she yells back, weaving this way and that, her eyes huge. "Iffn they've been 'ere, chances are they migh' still be 'ere, an' I'm flyin' blind."
Trask sarcastically points-out, "Yeah. That's kinda how it works when DRADIS isn't on-line." Truth be told, he's somewhat freaked-out, but that has more to do with the redhead in the pilot's seat not being his redhead of choice. Quinn isn't here, though, so he has to make do. "Find a carcass of a hull," he instructs the rook, "and pull along it. Can't avoid the carnage, so ya gotta work it to your advantage." The man's not even being condescending. "I'll leave it to you to figure out how to wield the shield." So, while Sully takes her pick of sunken battleships, the ECO starts to scan the atmosphere, the water and radiation levels, and so on and so forth.
With the difference in Trask's demeanor, everything changes for Temperance. It's good advice, which is seen at once, and she follows it. Spying a dead battlestar to their left, she veers towards that and hangs alongside. "What's th'news?" she asks wearily, not even sure if she wants to hear the answer. "Tell me someone's 'live down there. Go' five left till we backjump, so's ya better get i' all."
It takes a while to capture all the data but the preliminary findings can't be good if Kal's reply is a dull, "I'm no liar, O'Sullivan." True to the Taurian stereotype, he's otherwise being stoic, save for a faint frown that is mirrored in his brow. Without shifting focus from his console, he inquires of Butcher and Jung, "Y'alright back there? Relatively speaking, I mean."
"Was Virgon this bad?" the medic asks.
"Worse," Trask impassively tells.
"Frak me…" is whispered by the analyst.
Temperance frowns, keeping her eyes forward and focusing on the battlestar she's hugging. "Liar, sir?" she asks, confusion clear in her voice. And then she realizes what he means. "Frakkin' ridiculous," she murmurs, gritting her teeth and pulling away from the big ship the moment she sees a clear line of sight. "Jump when ready," she calls back to Trask, squeezing her eyes shut for a quick moment before popping them open again. "Go' whole new set'a people ta tell their families're gone."
People may not like what Bootstrap has to say, but they can't rightfully deny that he tells it like it is. In this instance, that includes an observation that is far more an oxidized copper lining than the traditional silver. "There's still the underground caverns of the tylium mines." If people managed to get there in time, perhaps they escaped most of the fallout. The odds of people being there are not particularly high, though. Trask keeps that to himself, however. Much like he doesn't mention that any people currently alive on the surface are most likely goners from radiation sickness and dehydration. No, he leaves it at the mines and permits Temperance some semblance of hope, however ephemeral he believes it to be.
"Hold on," is then said, the jump coordinates entered and the FTL starting to spool. When jump capability is ready to go, the ECO fires-up the DRADIS and takes a snapshot reading for Tactical to review. It's quick and dirty, and he's already commencing the countdown while the scan is running, timing the departure down to the second. "Three… two… one…"
"Jump!" Tempe shouts along with him, bracing herself for the move, and then they blink back to Cerberus. "Command, O'Sullivan," she calls out sadly, not wasting any time. "Same as th' others. Dead ships everywhere, no signs o' life. Snapped our pictures an' came 'ome." She waits for them to respond that she's clear to land, and guides them back into the bay. "Can't keep goin' this way," she calls out lowly. "Can't keep bein' jus' us. Somethin's go' ta give."
On point, the ECO jumps on the comm. "Command, Bootstrap. Please inform Captain Tillman and Lieutenant Oberlin that we have the data they require to make a determination about the state of Canceron. By the blind eye, the orbit is a bunch of scrap, but we have no way of knowing how bad it is on the surface. As is to be expected, we'll leave the assessment to Tactical." Thus ends the damage control portion of the man's duties.
"Ensign," Trask then addresses Temperance, speaking in a tone weighted with experience, relayed with a certain weariness, and marked by disapproval tinged with annoyance, "in the future, do keep in mind that sensitive information should not be broadcasted over the airwaves. A junior communications officer on monitoring duty shouldn't be hearing any such news from an overly eager pilot. More importantly, it's not your place to give an unsolicited opinion. Tactical requires this data so that /Tactical/ can analyze it. Yeah, the preliminary output is lookin' downright horrible, but I'm not about to make any claims based on readings that I've had no time to really read — which means that you, sure as frak, have even less of an idea."
The look on Jung's face reinforces the sentiment.
Even so, Trask attempts to teach the young'un. "Next time, just tell 'em we achieved the mission's objective. That's it." Which is said in a 'yeah, you frakked up but n00bs make mistakes, so just make a point of not doing it again, k' sort of way.
Temperance's face falls as he speaks, from even further than it already was, and she gulpnods. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir," she intones, looking down at her feet and then back to her afterflight. "Meant nothin' by i'", she continues, punching buttons and hitting switches till the hatch pops open. "Jus' thought they should get th'news fast's possible. Yer righ'." She rips her helmet off viciously, and turns in her seat, waiting for the other two backseaters to clear out.
"Thanks, guys," the ECO vaguely waves to the departing passengers, "Next time: pachisi." Even now, he's being blithe. He's also running down his post-flight checks. Once Butcher and Jung have departed, Trask goes back to the lesson at hand, because he can multitask like that. "I'm not sayin' that you /did/ mean somethin' by it, Ensign. Just sayin' that it wasn't your place to say what you said, and that faster isn't necessarily better. A hair trigger mouth can cause a lotta damage. Things can't be unseen or unheard, which is why you need to be more careful." Yes. Advice about what NOT to say is coming from /this/ man.
Temperance nods, and then turns away from him entirely. "I understand," she says with a very strained, choked up voice. Her shoulders shake for a moment, and then she gets them under control. "Flight check's done. Should I, uhh… run wi' ya ta take th'information up, or jus' stay outta th'way?"
Finishing up, Bootstrap starts to burn the data files for CIC. "You should take a shower, maybe have a cup of tea, and just chill out for a bit. It's been a long day in a short amount of time. Tactical should have a gopher already on deck, waitin' for my shadow." For a moment then, he looks up and simply says, "Good job out there. Just don't gimme a reason for Hair Trigger to be your callsign." Wryly, he smirks. Then, going back to his flippant ways, he starts to wave her off. "Go on, now, like a good li'l rook. I'll see ya later."
Temperance cringes at the suggestion for callsign, and quickly wipes her eyes, still facing away from him. "Understood," she replies, snagging her helmet and making her way out of the plane as fast as humanely possible. Whether it's because of what she just went through, or her proximity to Trask, well. She'll never tell.