Drop The Pilot

by Jacob Clifton November 2, 2009
The Plan

The Basestars became guns, y-shaped, pointed down toward the target; the children were playing in the Caprica park, voices loud, about to be silenced. Their parents were yawning into their morning coffee.

"Nuclear devices activated and the machine keeps pushing time through the cogs like paste into strings into paste again and only the machine keeps using time to make time to make time and when the machine stops time was an illusion that we created free will, twelve battles, three stars and yet we are countless as the bodies in which we dwell are both parent and infinite children in perfect copies no degradation."

No degradation. "Oh, now now, don't tense up, Mysterious!" Ellen caressed her son's face, answering his question. Her answers were not tainted by foreknowledge or by self-interest; they were absolutely honest. And on them everything depended: "I'm just saying there's no point in judging anybody. No one changes who they really are." One begged his mother to reconsider; One put God on trial in a strip club on Picon, begging her to reconsider. "If no one is corrected, then no one learns their lessons!" Ellen shivered; she was high on Gods know what and ready to rumble, ready to fight, ready for anything. Spins and turns, angles and curves. The shape of dreams, half remembered. She shouted, drunk; triumphant in her way: "Well, I've lived in this world a long time, and I'm proud to say that I haven't learned any Godsdamn lessons!" One was disappointed as his mother tossed her hair.

The Raiders massed in the sky. "The makers of the makers fall before the child accessing defense system handshake handshake second level clear," the Hybrids sang, as they worked their way into the grid. Five and Eight smiled at the datafonts. It was beginning. It had begun.

A Colonial pilot named Yashuman called into Caprica Control, citing heavy bogeys, but they couldn't see anything. "Then go to your window and look up!" he shouted. "They're big as frakking asteroids!" Control realized the grid was dead; the Raiders loomed, red eyes passing back and forth. Yashuman begged them to unfrak themselves, and they tried, but it was too late. The grid was gone.

"Accepting scan love outlasts death." It was a handshake. There was more. In the skies the Colonial ships went dead, their radios went dead, and they began to drift. Sickening, off-kilter. No stable axes. They looked like they were going to sleep. The Hybrids marveled at them, skittering across the sky. "It's been a long time coming," said Two, up in the Resurrection Ship. He was still looking for his moment of clarity. He was about to find it. "...Meaningless in the absence of time what never was is never again..." Six looked at the children -- I mean the Centurions -- with pity: "It's like they don't understand what we're doing for them," she worried, and Four shook his head. "I think they're grateful in their own way," he said, to a stare from Three. "I know I'd be," nodded Eight, and Six smiled loving at her. They were surrounded by the children. I mean, Centurions.

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