Admiral's Starlog, Battlestar Peripatetica, Day 227, Year 3652.
Location: NGC 4414, or so we hope.
Mother! Did you have to drop the bomb?
I am the fleet commander, Supreme Grand Admiral Adam Dalgliesh. It has been two years since the holocaust. We escaped with a rag-tag fleet of survivors, numbering 117 ships, and 48,965 survivors. We are in search of the legendary colony of Capsicum located somewhere in the direction of the constellation of Coma Berenices. After two hundred and twenty jumps through hyper-space we are completely and totally lost. I think we are in the vicinity of NGC 4414 in the constellation Coma Berenices, but I am not sure. Space looks the same in every direction. I am pissed. I had Lt. Faelix Gaeta ejected into deep space as punishment. We watched his eyeballs eject from their sockets and float past the main deck. They stared sorrowfully at us as they swept past. I am remorseless.
I remember that horrific time on Earth, just before we got nuked. The Peripatetica was undergoing repairs on Mars and we watched in helpless horror, on interstellar microwave transmission, as earth was obliterated (I was bonking the chief petty officer at that time, a rather pert little thing. It was pleasure mixed with pain). And then I saw the news item, and I saw the picture of Muzzer. I was stunned! Muzzer! Responsible for the holocaust? This was hard to believe. Was she in the pay of the Cylons? Or was she a Cylon?
I had seen her just two months before in Chennai in Southern India. I stood on the neat doorstep surrounded by blooming cannas and anthuriums, and rang the bell. The door opened, "Hello Son!" she said, smiling at me. I stooped to give Muzzer a hug as she was a small woman, and she led me in. She was dressed in a silk Kanchipuram Sari, and her hair was tied up into a neat bun. She wore the traditional red bindi on her forehead, a modest sized dot. She was the epitome of the average Indian home maker. She bustled about preparing lunch. I partook of a sumptuous meal - a multi-course traditional South Indian meal, chock full of flavors. She ladled the rice and other savory dishes onto the banana leaf and watched me eat. After I had finished she made me steaming Mysore coffee. Then she picked up her brolly, called for a rickshaw and announced "I must be off for my petite-point class, and then our round of Bridge!"
Everyday, at 1 PM she would disappear for petite-point and Bridge, returning at 6 PM. I watched the news in horror. Muzzer was not indulging in petite-point or Bridge! She was a top-ranking thermonuclear weapons designer at a national laboratory. In one afternoon she could effortlessly turn out a new design for a fifty Megaton thermonuclear weapon. And just to amuse her friends over evening tiffin, she would design a 100 Kt conventional fission weapon on a napkin. It was easy for her. The rest of us had to struggle to balance our check books, but Muzzer could knock out a new hydrogen bomb design every afternoon.
I stared at the screen, my mouth wide open, my petty officer pouting at me, naked and unattended. Muzzer! Who would have thought! Apparently she had gone berserk. She had wired all the thermonuclear weapons to simultaneously detonate across earth and moon. Just as the weapons detonated her voice came through. She said one word "Wahey!" Then she died. More violently than she had pretended to live.
Now as Admiral I have to pick up the pieces and move the last remains of the human race to a safe planet that we can call home. I must find Capsicum. The fate of the human race rests on the discovery of our muzzer planet. But, Muzzer! Really! I am appalled! Did you have to drop the bomb? What am I going to tell the rest of the fleet? That my own Muzzer wiped out the planet earth and made us refugees? Thanks Mum! I owe you for this. No wonder Dad left you.
I am preparing for our 221st jump through hyper space. My crew is not terribly reliable. My petty officer is pretty good in bed, but she is awful at navigation. We could end up inside a black hole. It is time to eject another officer into the cold void of deep space as a warning. My chief petty officer? Oh well! All good things must come to an end. And I did notice that the refitting engineer is pretty hot... Nice legs.
I hope that I do not see the CPO's eyeballs drifting past the flight deck.
This is Admiral Dalgliesh signing off on behalf of the remainder of the human race.
