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A collection of stories exploring the BSG miniseries and first season. Previous stories can be found here.

Title: Storm Coming In
Author: voleuse
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Character: Cally
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Every bridge we build, we burn.
Notes: Spoilers for the miniseries

Somehow, Chief Tyrol sneaks a Viper Mark II onto the Galactica.

There are others, of course. Cally's seen them transported into the museum, polished, empty, and ancient-looking.

This one, though, is sitting on the hangar deck, and the chief stares at it with something like awe in his eyes.

"What's up, Chief?" Cally asks.

"Another bird for the museum," Socinus guesses from behind her.

"Not exactly," the chief says, elongating the vowels as he strides around it.

Cally steps forward, runs her fingers over the callsign stenciled on the side. The paint is scratched, but she can read the outline. Husker. "This was the commander's Viper?"

"One and the same." The chief claps his hand on the wing, grins. "We're going to put her back together again."

"What?" Socinus laughs. "We don't even have parts this old."

Tyrol turns to stare at Socinus, who stops laughing. "Prosna," he calls.

"Chief?" Prosna strolls up, wiping his hands on a rag.

"Do we have the parts to get a Mark II up and running?"

Prosna gazes at the ship for a moment. "The biggest difference is the operational system. The basic parts should be the same."

"We'll probably have to improvise a little," Cally cuts in. "A couple of the ship's routines might be inefficient after forty years."

The chief smirks. "Got that, Socinus?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." The chief looks at Cally, at Prosna, at Socinus in turn. "Let's get to work."


Condition one is something Cally's only ever read about. Since she's been posted to the Galactica, they've only had one drill, and a half-hearted one at that. There hasn't been need for it since the war ended, and that was a lifetime ago. The odd incidents with smugglers, or more frequent shipping accidents, are left to the handling of newer, faster ships.

The chief has them trained better than she realized, though, because she and Prosna dump their cleaning gear and have the equipment readied in less than five minutes.

When they line up, breathless and halfway to frenzied, Tyrol scans their handiwork, nods. "Good work," he says as he strides away.

Pride wells up in her at the rare compliment, and she begins to smile.

Then Commander Adama's voice rings over the comms.


A deck gang doesn't have anything to do when there aren't any ships in the hangar. When their squadron is out there, somewhere, fighting the frakking Cylons.

Then one of the pilots, Starbuck, bursts onto the hangar, jaw set and arms swinging. She spots Tyrol. "We've got work to do, Chief."

"Lieutenant?" He unfolds his arms.

She jerks her head. "We've got a museum to rob."

Tyrol blinks, then grins, follows Starbuck out of the hangar. "Come on," he shouts back, and the crew follows, too.

It's a long walk to the museum, and Cally takes a deep breath as she enters. It doesn't smell like a hangar anymore. Instead, it's overlaid with the smell of carpet and new paint.

The chief is saying something about rad buffers, about refueling and ordnance, but Cally tunes it out for a second, focuses on the ship in front of her.

She opens a panel, runs her fingers over the wiring. No deterioration, though she's less sure of the engine conditions.

"Hey." Starbuck braces her hands next to the panel, catches her eye. "What's your name?"

"Cally." She closes the panel up, fingers trembling.

"All right, Cally." Starbuck smiles, though her eyes are wide. "Let's get this bird in the air."


After the bombs hit, she lets out a long, shaky breath. Rests her head against hands, tastes blood in her mouth where she bit her tongue during impact.

The chief hangs up a phone. "D.C. teams are at the stern thrusters. We've got fires on the port flight pod. Get your suits on, help evacuate, get those fires out." He looks around at the deck gang. "Now!"

Cally's body jerks into action before she processes the order. She's already in her suit, helmet in hand, when Tyrol grabs her arm.

"Are we ready for the Vipers?" He's not looking at her, but at the empty hangar.

She tallies in her head, nods. "Yeah, Chief. We're ready."

He releases her elbow. "Go." And he's already walking out of the hangar.

She runs in the other direction, runs until she's got stiches in her side, and seals her suit as she crosses the threshold.

She grabs an extinguisher as she gets to the fires, lets her emergency training guide her hands.

Somewhere behind her, Prosna curses, slams a phone back into its cradle. "Cally, get out."

She spins. "What?"

"They're going to vent." He shoves her out of the hold, through the doorway. "Go!"

She stumbles on her feet, out and away, and when her ears pop, signaling the decompression, she grabs onto a hatch door, screams as the wind rips through the chamber.

And then, silence.

Cally lets go of the hatch, finger by finger. Her entire body feels crushed, bruised, and she realizes she's sobbing, loudly.

She looks around, sees a few others in the room, all shaky. Except--


He's not there. She makes her way backwards, backwards, and sees him, lying facedown on the deck.

"Gods. Gods." She sinks to the ground, touches his collar. Pulls his body into her lap, clutches his shoulders.

The entire chamber is filled with smoke, she can hear screams in the background, and Prosna is dead.

She isn't sure how long she sits there, clutching his body to her chest.

She comes back into herself when the weight is lifted off her, and the chief is there.

He pulls Prosna into an embrace, gives her space to stand before he sets the body down.

She can't stop crying, and the chief pulls her into his arms, lets her sob into his shoulder for a minute, before the medics reach them.

He cups her face in his hands. He says her name, repeats it.

She blinks, looks up. "Chief?"

"You'll be okay." It isn't a question. He says it with conviction, with surety.

She nods, lets his confidence become hers. "I'll be okay."

"All right." He squeezes her shoulder. "I've got to go to CIC. Can you handle the deck until I get back?"

She nods again, takes a breath. "You got it, Chief."

"Okay." He steps back. "So, go."

She salutes, manages to smile. "I won't let you down, Chief."

He's already walking away, but he turns back to smile at her.

"You never do."


A/N: Title and summary taken from Tom McRae's "Walking 2 Hawaii."

Originally linked here.


( 8 comments — Leave a comment )
(Deleted comment)
Apr. 17th, 2005 07:20 am (UTC)
DUDE. I posted, like, two seconds ago. How'd you do that?
(Deleted comment)
Apr. 20th, 2005 05:24 pm (UTC)
*g* Thank you! ::hearts Cally::
Apr. 17th, 2005 07:59 am (UTC)
WOW. Really, wow.
Apr. 20th, 2005 05:25 pm (UTC)
Thank you!
Apr. 17th, 2005 03:18 pm (UTC)
Ugh. *That is the sound of a knife to the gut.* Oh migod! Amazing. You captured it perfectly. I'm just stunned at how you caught the feel of it. Extraordinary. *hugs Voleuse* Thank you for contributing to the Callyfic in the universe.
Apr. 20th, 2005 05:26 pm (UTC)
Thanks! *hugs back* Cally's such a great character, and she goes through the wringer in the miniseries. Poor thing.
Apr. 22nd, 2005 04:48 am (UTC)
So very well written. And, Cally!fic! You really know how to put a story together.

Apr. 25th, 2005 07:35 pm (UTC)
Thank you! I'm glad you liked it.
( 8 comments — Leave a comment )

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