Different Flames

[WarMachine]

Greetings All!

I am temporarily stalled on "Fields", so I am temporarily turning to another story, "Different Flames".

Unlike "Fields", "Flames" is a crossover story that developed from a role-plying game run by myself several years ago with my then-roommate as the solo player.

Needless to say, things got pretty convoluted, and as things wound down in the first part of the game, I threw him a left hook -- and the game took off in a completely different direction.

This story incorporates CBSG, Stargate: SG-1, and characters and elements of W.E.B. Griffin's series "The Corps"...

...Be careful, incidentally: Griffin's characters are considerably more lethal than anyone in the other shows.

[WarMachine]

DIFFERENT FLAMES
A Battlestar Galactica - Stargate: SG-1 Crossover
By Michael A. Cessna

This is a work of "fan-fiction". Many of the characters and situations in this work are copyrighted to various agencies and people, including but not limited to: Glen Larsen, Universal Studios, W.E.B. Griffin, Tri-Tac Games, BTRC, Inc. and STEVE JACKSON GAMES, Inc.

This work may not be sold or used, in whole or in part, for profit without the express written consent of the above agencies.



AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Normally, you wouldn't see an acknowledgments section this extensive in a fanfic that will likely never be published in a conventional sense, but I feel it necessary to highlight those who made this story possible.

Firstly, I would like to thank Glen Larsen, Universal Studios and the cast and crew of the 'Gator for bringing us the majic of Galactica in 1978.

I would also like to thank Roland Emmerich and company for their excellent motion picture introducing Stargate in [1996], as well as Showtime and the cast and crew of Stargate: SG-1 for season after season of great stories.

Sincere thanks as well goes out to world-reknowned best-selling author W.E.B. Griffin, for twenty years of some of the finest military fiction on the market. I apologize for borrowing some of his charactors and situations, and hope that I haven't bent reality too far.

Thanks to the CBSG fans at Colonial Fleets, for keeping the Dream alive.

Special thanks go to two people, Rich Tcholka of Tri-Tac Games, the staff of BTRC, Inc. and Steve Jackson, of STEVE JACKSON GAMES, Inc. for over 70 years between them of innovative game universes, both of which contributed to this story -- Rich, you should have gotten the credit you deserve for Stargate.

Extra-special credit goes to my fiancee, Leah, who tolerates my weirder moments and flights of fantasy with charm, and to my long-time player, Sean K., who put up with my neurotic GM'ing style for well-on 10 years, and in the process produced some of the finest games I've ever seen recorded in RPG-dom -- Long Live the Ugandan Navy!

Finally, I would like to thank the Allied veterans of WW2: for Evil to triumph, it really is true that good men only need do nothing.

To their opponents, I will say only this: You deserved both better leaders, and a better cause.


DIFFERENT FLAMES
Prologue

From the Journals of Commander Adama:

It has been a full sectar since the destruction of the Cylon Baseship by my son, Captian Apollo, and Lieutenant Starbuck. The political fallout that resulted from my decision to maroon Baltar per our agreement has hampered my efforts with the Council, but I doubt we will have any more incidents like the disaster with the Eastern Alliance Enforcers; in this totally unexplored region of space, we have no idea of the dangers that may - in fact, may likely - lay ahead.

I say this, only because we have passed well beyond the areas covered by our star charts, and those of Robber and the Proteus prison colony. We are, in fact, beyond the range of any probe known to have been dispatched by the Colonies. I can only hope and pray that the coordinates given to Apollo, Sheba and Starbuck by the Beings of Light were accurate, and that we will reach our goal soon.

Our people, and yes, myself as well, are tired. We need to rest.....


VIPER RECON PROBE

"Hey, Apollo? Apollo? Are you awake?" Starbuck said into his communicator.

"Uhh...Yeah, Starbuck...I'm here - what's up?" Apollo replied sleepily.

"I've got a contact, bearing point 225 by 15 by 80, near that small gas giant world."

A pause. "Okay, Starbuck, I've got it too...I'm getting a reading of refined metal and a latent heat signiture, but no active power or comm signal that we can pick up You get that, too?"

"Copy that, Apollo. Do we check it out?"

"Sure. Who knows, they might even be friendly. Contact the Galactica and follow me in."

"Copy that..."

*****

The sleek Vipers slowed as they neared their target. The craft was unlike anything they had ever seen before.

It was about the size of one of the Galactica's shuttlecraft, or perhaps a bit larger. It was pyramidal in shape, with slightly elongated stub wings; the cockpit, jutting forward from the body, was completely dark. Although there were no weapons visible, the ship showed considerable damage from weapon's fire.

Apollo came up to the derelict vessel's right side. "Hey, Starbuck," he said, "do you see that hole?"

Starbuck, who was following behind Apollo's left side, said "Wait one." he edged his fighter over to the right, and brought it above his wingmate and friend; presently, he looked down into the gaping hole on the craft's right side.

"The edges are too regular to be an accidental blow-out. It's near the rear of the ship. Their power plant must have been damaged, and they ejected it, rather than let it destroy the ship."

"That's my thinking, too," Apollo said. "Let's see if we can tow it..."

"Uhh, Apollo...."

"What? We're not in Home Space, anymore, Starbuck; it's not like we can call Search and Rescue. Besides, Dr. Wilker will want to look it over."

"And if it's another Paradeen?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there..."

*****

Adama's office was crowded, with Apollo, Starbuck, Boomer, Lt Mace from Red Squadron, Sheba from Silver Spar, Doctors Wilker and Salik, and Councillors Tinia and Domra; the last two were Adama's concession to the Council on the matter of civilian oversight...that, and the fact that he and Tinia were to have dinner later.

When Apollo and Starbuck had finished their explanation of how they had found the derelict, Adama nodded to Doctor Wilker and said "Doctor, what have you learned of the craft itself?"

Doctor Wilker said from his chair, "The ship shows clear signs of battle damage: there are serious carbon-scourings all over its fuselage. The power source is a complete mystery, since it was ejected clear at some point, but I can tell you the the following: that the control system and information storage and retrieval is more advanced than anything I have ever seen, read or heard about -- it utilizes a form of removable, rewritable crystal storage."

The people in the room shifted; the Colonies had never perfected anything beyond two-dimensional optical storage.

"Additionally," Wilker continued "the craft appears to utilize a form of faster-than-light propulsion significantly different from anything we have previously encountered. There is no evidence whatsoever of Tylium, Solium or their residues; nor is there anything remotely resembling a Jump Drive unit. What I believe to be the FTL drive is a unit not much larger than the Commander's desk."

Apollo cleared his throat nervously. "Uhhh...Doctor? What kind of maneurverability are we looking at?"

"Actually," Wilker replied, "that's one of the good points. I did locate their intertial compensator. It's a different design than ours, obviously, but it is no more advanced; in fact, I would say that it is somewhat more crude in design. I think that your Vipers should be able to outmaneuver them, if it comes to that."

"Were there any indications of weapons aboard?" asked Siress Tinia.

"No, Siress. There were no weapons organic to the ship, and nothing that we can identify as a weapon anywhere within."

Sire Domra spoke for the first time. "What was the ship made of, Dcotor? Materially speaking - anything we have not seen before?" Both Adama and Tinia were surprised at the question; then Adama recalled that Domra had shipped on a freighter as an Engineering technician many yahren before.

"Interesting that you should ask that, Sire. Mostly, no; most of the vessel is unremarkable, materially. However, there are a range of devices on board which are made of a material we have never seen before. It appears to be denser than Tylium, but has resisted our best efforts at scans.

"The point of major concern lies in a massive array of rings stored below the deck in the cargo hold. They serve no purpose that we can fathom, have no access to the hold itself, and without power we have no way of testing it..."

"What cargo was she carrying?" asked Lt Mace.

Wilker shook his head. "Nothing special. Basic foodstuffs, primaries, in plasteel containers. Nothing out of the ordinary for a shipment to a small outpost."

Adama nodded absently. "Doctor Salik?"

Salik rose from his chair and began to pace in the tiny space left in the room. Wilker immediately sat upright: his old friend and collegue never paced unless he was greatly disturbed.

"The pilot," Dr. Salik began, "was 'remarkably unremarkable': he would have been lost amid any crowd of humans almost anywhere. The cause of death was explosive decompression." The rest of the room winced instinctvely; unless shrapnel killed you, the decompression was a slow, painful way to die.

Boomer looked at the doctor who had saved his life. "I hear a 'but' in there, Doctor," he said, trying to be flippant.

Salik looked through Boomer woodenly; Adama caught that look and sat forward. "Doctor," he said, "what did you find?"

Salik turned his wooden gaze on Adama. "The pilot appeared to suffer from a parasitical infection. A parasite, nearly as long as my arm, was wound around the top of his spinal column. It had extended tendrils resembling human nerves into the pilots' brain..."

The room was completely silent as the stars slid past the porthole.

[WarMachine]

CHAPTER 1


March 13, 1947, 0945hrs
Standardville Run Lake
Standardville, Virgina, USA


The man sat in the boat, slightly hunched over. He was tanned and weatherbeaten, muscled yet lean, and nearly bald. Any trace of the fat he had carried as a young man had long ago been worn away by years of hardship and battle.

Behind him, on the shore, sat his cabin. Within were memento's of the last war, baubles and trinkets he kept to show to the curious...well, when the curious decided to brave the long drive to get to him. The centerpiece, however, was a small triangular box; within it was a small red flag with a single white star.

The other...thing...was in a mason jar, buried precisely forty feet from the cabin's back door.

Beneath his fishing hat, he scowled darkly, ignoring his line. He missed Min. The affair had been hideously dangerous for both of them, but the Emperor had tolerated it, first because they were discreet about it and second, because he had won the Emperor's wars for him.

It no longer bothered him that history was nothing like what he had remembered...or that he kept bouncing around to alternate lines.

He smiled grimly, thinking of a raggedy fleet of junks, landing on the Japanese coast, and of his troops marching up the rail line from Odessa; more darkly, he thought of the Hell they had found in Omsk...

Strangely, he didn't think much about this last war, even though it was fresh. He put that down to the fact that he had spent three months being debriefed and interviewed by the Historical Research Branch, before Vandegrift had released him from active duty.

The thought, however did bring a smile to his face, as he recalled the look on poor Flem Pickering's face that day in Sydney, when he told him just how much of the Chinese Lend-Lease gear he had "appropriated" for the Detachment...

He scowled again at the sound of a car transmission downshifting. He did not look up. It wasn't McCoy's LaSalle; Ernie wasn't due for three days, yet, and Zimm was still in LA with Jake Dillon.

The car downshifted again...the brakes squealed as the car rounded the bend. The man sighed, reeled in his line, and began working the oars to bring him to shore.

The car was a Packard staff vehicle, still in its drab, OD-green paint scheme. As he walked around to the cabin's front, the car rolled to a stop. A very young man in the uniform of a Navy Lieutenant climbed out of the back. The grizzled man in the battered fishing hat instantly pegged the boy as suffering from "corncob-up-the-rear" syndrome. A young, pimply-faced Navy rating stepped from behind the wheel.

Rather like "poor" Macklin, he thought -- a comparison that did not bode well for the continued life of the boy dressed in officer-clothes standing in front of him.

"General Blake?" Corncob said. "Sir," he said, unconsciously primping himself, "I am Lieutenant, JG, Steven Peters, United States Navy, and I have been sent here to collect you, Sir."

My God, the man known here as Roger Blake thought, he even talks like Macklin. "I see, Lieutenant. To?"

The youngster looked confused only for a moment. "To the Mall, General."

"I see. I'll be a moment or three. I have to shower and change, and get my overnighter. And make a call," he said, turning to...

"I'm sorry, Sir, but that's not permitted..."

Blake turned, very slowly, until he again faced Lieutenant Corncob. "Am I under arrest?" he said evenly.

"Well, n-no Sir, but General Donovan was quite spe-" Corncob stammered.

General Blake brutally cut the young officer off. "The first rule, Lieutenant, is to never directly question the actions of an officer more than one grade above you in rank, unless a) your life is in immediate threat of ending prematurely, or b) you have him in custody. You may wait with the car; if you desire to do so, you may make a report to Mister Donovan that I made several telephone calls prior to our departure; if so, you will send carbon copies of those reports to my office at Headquarters Marine Corps, and I will reply via the appropriate channels. Should you decide to make that report and not copy me in a timely manner, my report will be handed directly to both Admiral King and SECNAV. Seaman?"

"Sir!?" the youngster barked, trying desperately to hide the smile on his face.

"Step inside, and and have some coffee."

"Aye, aye Sir!" the young man barked.

Blake turned, and left the young Lieutenant standing in the chill morning air.

*****

March 13, 1947, 1940hrs
Headquarters Marine Corps
8th & I Barracks
Washington, D.C.


General Alexander Vandegrift, Eighteenth Commandant of the United States Marine Corps, watched from his study window as the Brigadier General exchanged salutes with the guards at the gate, then proceed into the Barracks.

Vandegrift wondered what had brought Blake down from his well-deserved retirement. Vandegrift knew he hated the District with a passion. Presently, he watched Blake enter the Main Building.

Vandegrift thought about it a moment, and headed over to the main building. Mildred was still down on the Farm with their son, and he could use the company of someone who was not impressed by his rank.

He found Blake about to be escorted to the General Officer's Guest Quarters by a young - but scarred - Sergeant. "I don't think that will necessary, Sergeant. The General will be sleeping in my spare room. Have his bags brought around."

"Aye, aye, Sir," the young man said.

"Blake," he asked, extending his hand, "how are you?"

Blake looked at him with very tired eyes. "Beat down, Sir. I could use a chair."

"Well, come on over," he said, turning. "You can tell me about it on the way."

As they walked, Blake remained silent. Vandegrift looked at him out of the corner of his eye. "What is it?" he asked.

"I just got handed something "DP"," he said. Direction of the President.

"Strange," Vandegrift said, "no one said anything to me about this."

"I am under the impression that no one is quite sure what the situation is. They called me down - thank Donovan for that - and basically told me to stand by, as film has just been souped and is being sent from New Mexico."

"New Mexico?"

Blake shrugged. "I think Donovan isn't telling me anything because he still hates Flem's guts."

"You're kidding, right?" Vandegrift said in surprise. "He carries a grudge for that long?"

Blake shrugged. "What do you expect? It's not like Flem exactly tries to bury the hatchet..."

"...Except in Donovan's head," Vandegrift laughed in reply.

They entered the Commandant's residence. Blake thought it appropriately martial, but clearly saw the influence of Mildred; she was such a nice woman - she never failed to have something to snack on. Tonight, however, looked to be bread and whiskey.

Oh well, Blake thought. He'd had far worse.