| Touching Base |
| Summary: | Cidra and Trask touch base on matters of analysis and command. |
| Date: | 04 Aug 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | It Lies in Odd Numbers, Part I |
| Players: |
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| Ready Room - Deck 7 - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| Post-Holocaust Day: #159 |
| With the hatches at the rear of the room, the walkways on both sides slope down towards the dais at the front of the room. The stadium seating forms a partial semi-circle around the speaking podium and provides enough seats for all three hundred members of the Air Wing. The walls are adorned with the patches of each squadron aboard and their mottos stenciled in white lettering above each one. Behind the podium is a set of large LCD screens that can display any matter of material from reconnaissance to maps to gun camera footage. |
| Condition Level: 3 - All Clear |
Cidra is out of the offices today, but she's still engaged in more bureaucracy than actual flight. A meeting with the Harriers SL is among the tasks on her docket today. She's a little early, as she tends to be, and is settled into a chair in the front row. Smoking and reviewing a file folder in her lap. She handles the cigarette artfully to avoid dropping any ash on the octagonal paper.
Said SL may have been summoned to meet with the CAG, but that doesn't mean Trask has bothered to swap his duty greens for his duty blues. Even so, he's respectful enough, to announce himself with a, "Sir." Held in one hand is a file folder of his own. In the other, a thermos full of Deck coffee.
"Lieutenant Trask." Cidra's in blues, for her part, but that's not a sign of the unusual for her. The more brass one acquires, the more time one spends trapped in them. She doesn't bother to stand. Offering thermos a little nod of approval. "Refreshments. Excellent. Have a seat, Bootstrap. I shall not keep you long. I am endeavoring to touch base with my personnel while we have some breathing room to do it. On certain matters more than others. I understand you have had time to work over the black box from the Raptor we used over Sagittaron?" Where the Eleven crisped itself. That one.
Bootstrap might well be bucking that trend, wearing those blues as infrequently as he can manage. If it's not a mission briefing, wherein /everyone/ is required to don them, good luck finding him on-duty in a color other than green. "Yep," he replies, although that could be in response to the coffee, the data, or both. *thup* Down unto the table goes the folder. "I'd offer you some, but I'm not sure you wanna risk catching my cooties." Taking a swig, he sits down and flips open to the first page of his documents. "The short version: I'm not certain we can reproduce what she… it… whatever did."
Cidra eyes Trask, slim brows arching at him. "A gentleman would have brought along a cup. But I have lived a good many years among pilots. My standards for sanitation have… moderated. Still, keep it. I shall pop in on Chief Atreus later. He is a far more generous soul." For her part, she just smokes and settles in to hear whatever there is to hear. A slim frown at the short of it, but she's not surprised. "Do you have any notion of how it was… interfacing with our systems? Through its body? I had understood these creatures to be near-indistinguishable from humans, but no human could plug itself into an ECM unit like that."
"My gentlemanliness starts and stops at kissing but not telling." To answer the question, however, Trask relays, "I'd guess is that is has something to do with all that biomechanical goop… except, as I hear it, these skinjobs don't contain any. Has Medical checked the blood for nanites? Maybe there's something that seems ordinary but somehow delivers current. We're mostly comprised of water, and water is conductive…" That really is his best guess. He even kind of shrugs to emphasize that. "What I can tell you is what she appeared to have done."
Cidra snorts at that. While puffing. The smoke comes out of her nostrils to rather dragon-ish effect. Further debate of Trask's gentleman status is allowed to pass with merely that. "Nanites? Not to my knowledge, but all of that sort of thing goes rather over my head, I am the first to admit. I presume they are studying the abominations in great depth, but it has been some time since I have been apprised of how that is proceeding." She shakes her head slightly. "The more I see of those creatures, the more unnerved I am. Even if that thing did appear to give us aid over Sagittaron." She still clearly knows not what to make of that.
Whatever she may think of his gentleman status, his personal life has remained highly private. Beyond his close ties to Bunny and Jugs, his relationships have never been a point of gossip. "You're the CAG. Request a status update." It's said in a 'duh' tone of voice. What Cidra next says makes him realize that this is not going to be a simple data dump. And while Trask may all too frequently forego tact, he's not lacking insightfulness. For a moment, he's quiet, assessing, and then finally outright asks, "You wanna discuss what's troubling you, Cid?"
Cidra may well have no personal life, so far as most in the Wing are concerned. Which is a perception she generally encourages. "I shall have to, clearly. All of us, the department heads that is, very much need to touch base while we have some breathing room here. Get a handle on where we stand, and where we shall go from it." Cigarette is idly tapped on an ashtray she likely brought along from her office. The last question earns a shrug. "Many matters trouble my mind these days, Boots. But you must admit, the creature that died in our Raptor…" She seems to have trouble calling it 'the abomination' now. Not that 'creature' is a much warmer moniker. "…I do not understand why it did what it did. And things I do not understand… they make me nervous."
"Why the frak does anyone do anything?" Whatever philosophic tendencies the Taurian may have, a poet, he is not. "Look," he begins, blunt as ever, "the way I figure it, at some point or another, whatever the frak they are, they were created by some of the biggest jagoffs to ever jagoff. It was at the prompting of many of the worst traits people can possibly possess that they were designed and built. Humans, by and large, are cruel, sick fraks. Maybe, though…" And here he is a touch too animated, his eyes a little too bright for it to be him just be running his mouth, "maybe just like some people can rebel against what they were groomed to be, maybe some of those skinjobs can decide to take another path when they realize that there are alternatives. Maybe some of them have developed that human trait, too."
Cidra listens to that in silence. And, for a time after Trask is done, silence is the only answer he gets. She's clearly thinking on it. Perhaps not liking it very much, or even agreeing with it, but it burrows into her brain. Along with whatever other thoughts about the skinjobs are currently making her 'nervous.' She does some constructively deep smoking before going on. "Well, it did what it did. We are all still here to talk after it, and none of our own lost, so I shall count that as a win. Anyhow. Has anyone been able to make anything of that… whatever it was it was babbling as it manipulated our systems? It appeared to be half in a trance at times, and I understood not a word coming from it."
Silence suits Boots just fine. What he just spouted hits closer to home than he likes, and he'd rather not revisit his familial issues, even if his refusal to turn into his father is what is prompting what at least one person has told him is a highly uncharacteristic benefit of the doubt. So, instead, he digs into a pocket, fishes out a cigarette, lights it, and breaks Toast's monopoly on smoking.
After absorbing a fair share of nicotine, he informs her, "What the black box recorded has been transcribed," which he flips to and slides Cidra's way, "but that is more a matter for Intel to analyze. What she did to our ship systems, though, appears to be a hardcore data overload of conflicting commands that burned out the enemy and herself. I have no idea how she managed it. This kind of thing isn't something our technology is normally capable of. I'm not talking just the programmers and the operators, but actual Colonial computer systems."
"Cylon technology has advanced far beyond ours in a number of ways. I suppose it should not surprise that they are capable of something like this as well. But that it was capable of pushing our own systems beyond what they were built for… neither machines nor man…" Cidra gives her head a small shake. "I am no technician but it is another thing that chills my marrow. I will not deny." She gives her head a small shake. "In any case, is there anything more you think relevant recorded of the skinjob's final moments? If not, I can just take the file and let you get back to business."
"S'all in the report. I /could/ stay and regale you in my dulcet tones, but I suspect we both have more important things to do. Speaking of which, since it seems you're already assigning nuggets to pipelines, I call dibs on Cameo." Trask may not be a pilot, but he knows someone who flies freighters is better suited for Raptors than Vipers. "I'm still trying to suss out who's suitable for EW."
"Countermeasures officers should, in some ways, be easier to recruit. It is not a position that demands previous flight experience," Cidra says. "Though it is as much sifting for grains to find one with suitable technical expertise as those who have flown before. Well, at least we are getting some new blood in. We shall yet see what can be made of them. Speaking of training, how is that project in the simulators coming? Programming for what we have learned of the enemy?"
Reaching over to tap some ash into the tray, the man smirks, "Momentarily derailed. I'll speak with Shiv about getting Money Shot back on track. She's crunching the numbers for my code monkey." Aka, Marko. On the subject of that JiG, "Any word on the date for Flasher's nuptials? I'd appreciate some heads-up so I can schedule the flight roster, as needed."
"Ah. Yes. Money Shot's little escapade is, fortunately, settled. She is flying again. She should be able to be of assistance to you once her time in the Galley is served. The JAG has been quite accommodating about working it around her flight schedule, but I would not test their courtesy. Shiv was considering some new training ideas of his own, I think, though I know not yet the details. You gentleman can put together something intriguing, I trust." As for Marko, Cidra shrugs. "He has yet to get back to me on a date. Last I was told, he was consulting with the chaplain. I do not think it will interrupt his flight schedule much, save perhaps for the day. It is not as if any have time to take a proper honeymoon. Still, we should accommodate those close to him if they would like to attend. Flasher is very well-liked." An actual smile, if a small one. She's fond of the boy herself.
The SL's reply is a simple nod. Oh, and a tacked on, "Well, I thought about maybe throwing him a small bachelor party." The strippers, thus far, remain unmentioned.
"Ah." That is Cidra's only immediate response. "I think that would be… nice." She likely has visions of bachelor party debauchery dancing through her head that would be thoroughly banned on Gemenon. Blink, blink. "Do keep it legal, please. We have given the MPs enough to worry for lately."
"Last I checked, having strippers wasn't against the law. The MPs will still need to give the girls clearance. I suspect that won't be enough to keep people from bitching about the lack of booze, though. I guess if attendees wanna tap their stash, they can. Within reason." Boots has no problem brigging a drunkard's ass.
"All things within reason." A pause and Cidra adds, "Have fun." It's deadpanned, but it can be taken as approval of a sort.
With an exhalation of smoke through his nostrils, Kal smirks. "I'll be sure to hand-deliver your invite." That said, he eases off the chair, nudges it back into place with his hip, grabs his thermos, and concludes with, "If there's nothing further, I'm gonna salute and skeedaddle."
"I would not miss it," Cidra says, rising. The remains of her cigarette are put out. "No, that is all. You are dismissed. My thanks, Bootstrap. I am not sure we have made anything clearer of what the Eleven did, but perhaps we can find no more clarity right now. To your work."
Without a word, the cigarette is back in Trask's mouth, the salute perhaps a bit jauntily executed, and then he moseys, just like he promised.