Hello all. I've been thinking about this story for a while. I've also been considering writing a fanfic for a while. I didn't think this would be my first attempt. The scope of what I am hoping to do is pretty vast, perhaps too large for a first effort, but I got the itch and ideas just started to pop, so I thought, what the hell.

As this is my first effort, I would appreciate any feedback, good or bad. However, please bare in mind that while I appreciate your feedback, I may not always agree with it, much less use it.

This is a Babylon 5 tale. I will try to keep the feel of the shows, but I will be drawing on the EU materials a good deal. You will see aspects of the new Battlestar Galactica, because the theme I am exploring is the question of what would have happened if the Battle of the Line had gone poorly and the Earth Alliance's evacuation plans had been executed. However, the timeline has been altered to allow for many friendly faces to participate.

I'm not sure if I need a disclaimer or not. Many of the fics here don't have them, but some of the best do. I figure, might as well try to emulate the best, so here goes.

Disclaimers:
Title: THE FINAL CIRCLE
Author: Sufficient Velocity
Rating: K+
Summary: Due to a tiny alteration in the timeline, the path of the Vorlon's Circle is altered, leading to the downfall of the Earth Alliance and the launching of an Exodus fleet, launched into space in the hopes that what remains of humanity can escape the Minbari and find their way to a refuge and new home.

-COPYRIGHT/DISCLAIMER NOTICE-
I own nothing. The rights to the Babylon 5 setting and a majority of the characters in this work of fiction are owned by others. Only certain characters, locations, and technologies are mine and these are the creation of the author who is solely responsible for them as such. The author is solely responsible for the content of this story.

Note:
I would like to thank Tarellen, who has been acting as a beta for me, focusing on accuracy to the setting. He has been a massive help. I hope he has enjoyed getting the initial peak at what I have been working on. I would also like to thank Kalvasflam, who came in as a beta about midway through. His grasp of grammar and story flow have been invaluable. Thanks, guys!

Dedication:
To my kids, who inspire me every day with their creativity. I love you guys.
Ok, enough sappy stuff. On to the story.

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The Final Circle
Prologue

Earth - April, 2248

The rattle of the spinning cylinder, followed by the ratcheting click of the hammer being fully drawn back, briefly drowned out the sound of his own near silent weeping. Michael Jankowski, former Captain in the Earth Force Fleet, set the cocked Colt Model 1917 revolver down on the table next to the several shot glasses of Kentucky Bourbon he had poured for himself. The pearl handle on the .45 caliber revolver reflected dully on the sides of the glasses. He stared at the reflection, an excuse not to look again at the muted video screen. His distant ancestor had been issued the revolver while serving in the United States Navy during World War 1. It had stayed in the family ever since, and been passed down to whomever happened to be the ranking Navy or Fleet member ever since. It had acquired the pearl handle somewhere along the line, but that event was lost to history.

These days it was difficult to get permission to carry a slug thrower as a sidearm, rather than the standard issue PPG. He had had to fight long and hard, filing numerous petitions and even utilizing family influence, in order to get the special dispensation. Now he almost wished that he hadn't. It would make this little ritual he had fallen into so much simpler. It would have been over long ago, on the very first night.

Without looking at the vidscreen, he picked up a shot glass and tossed the drink down his throat. Embracing the fire inside, he reached out, picked up the gun, pressed it under his jaw, and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked on a dry chamber. Again. It had been the same for months, maybe even a year. Once a month, when the pain became too great, he would sit down watching the unending news of lost battles and destroyed ships, and take out his gun and play Russian Roulette. Six chambers, one bullet. Spin, cock, fire. The first time he had even written a note for whoever might find his body. It had read simply "On my head." But the hammer had landed on a dry chamber. And it had been the same the next month. And the next. After the sixth or seventh time, he had even taken the gun to the range, to make sure it was in working order. He had fired six rounds dead center into the silhouette, and left, wondering what the purpose of it all was.

And as the months had passed by, despair and unending debriefings, interspersed with the occasional dry fire under his chin, he began cursing that gun. If he had had the standard issue PPG, it would have all ended that first night. But no, he had to embrace his fraggin' family's fraggin' history.

His eyes were pulled again to the vidscreen, where he witnessed another group of ships cut to ribbons under the guns of those untouchable Minbari monsters. Thousands more dead, on his head. All on his head. Just waiting for them to get to Earth and then the death of billions would crush him, eradicate his sanity once and for all.

Still weeping, he downed another shot, and then looked again at the pistol bitterly. A knock sounded dimly at the door, but he ignored it. What the hell are the odds that I'm still alive after all these tries? he thought to himself. His booze soaked mind was incapable of that level of math though. To hell with it, he thought. He picked up the gun again, and again spun the cylinder. He pulled back the hammer, pointed it at his head, and squeezed. Click. He pulled back the hammer again and squeezed. Click. Again. Click. Again. Click. AGAIN. Click.

The knocking became more insistent. Still ignoring it, he pulled back the gun and stared at it in disbelief. Five empty chambers. Five. He knew for a fact that the next chamber contained the live round, but the rules of the game didn't allow him to pull the trigger now. Frag this, he thought, glancing again at the screen. The knocking had turned into a pounding. And frag you, whoever you are. He tossed back two more shots, then pulled out four more rounds and fed them into the revolver. Technically it wasn't cheating as long as he left one chamber empty. He finally smiled to himself, took one more drink, spun the cylinder, cocked the revolver, pointed and squeezed. The quiet click was deafening. His arms began to shake violently, and the gun dropped to the floor, as his sobs overwhelmed him.

"Well isn't this a pathetic display," said a voice from the doorway.

"Gen...General Lefcourt?" asked Jankowski. "How….how did you get in?" Not waiting for a response as he now noticed the splintered door frame, he simply said, "get out."

"Sorry, Jankowski, no can do. Pull yourself together, you sorry piece of shit. It would appear that the man upstairs has plans for you."

Jankowski looked down at the gun. "Yes, it would appear that God wants me to live."

"God? Who the hell said anything about God? What could God possibly want with your sorry, stupid, worthless ass? No, I'm talking about the Commander of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. It is with the greatest disgust that I am here to inform you that you are being recalled. You are being reinstated at the rank of Lieutenant. The man upstairs seems to want to send some kind of message to the public, all hands on deck, all humans united, that kind of crap. And I am being burdened with reclaiming you. You are still qualified on Starfuries. You are to report for retraining and to take your position as 2nd in command of a squadron. Apparently we need all of the experienced pilots we can get. So you get a chance to redeem yourself, Jankowski, for whatever good it will do you. Your orders," Lefcourt stated, stepping forward and handing over a sealed envelope. When Jankowski took the envelope, he bent over and picked up the gun. "I'll be taking this. You don't get to take the easy way out. In the unlikely event that the human race and both of us survive, you can ask for it back." With those words, the general turned and exited the room.

Jankowski walked over and attempted to close the door, but it was well and truly busted. Not really caring, he turned and flopped onto the bed in exhaustion. Perhaps someone upstairs really did have plans for him.
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Earth Orbit - May, 2248

"Break right! BREAK RIGHT!" the voice in Jankowski's ear screamed. It was his Squadron Leader, Lieutenant Commander Jeffrey Sinclair. "Damnit, Jankowski. Your job is to cover Mitchell! Showboating like that is going to get yourself and your wingman killed! Squadron! Form up. Let's do it again."

Jankowski swore to himself, as the squadron formed back up to practice the combat maneuvers again. Sinclair was a hard ass, and nothing but a jumped up Lieutenant Commander, but he was Jankowski's CO, and he represented Jankowski's only shot at redemption, so he would follow orders and do his best. Besides, his piloting skills were really starting to come back. Maybe it was time to show these young pups what flying really meant.

The squadron resumed a nominal patrol pattern, flying near the L2 Lagrangian point. After several minutes the scenario resumed when their "sensors" picked up an anomalous reading ahead. In this case, those "sensors" were actually a radio channel to a nearby Hyperion running the exercise. Their actual sensor suite was turned off, as were their actual weapons, so as to simulate their inability to detect and lock onto Minbari vessels. The opposing force was made up of modified high performance stunt craft, which were able to closely emulate the observed performance of Minbari fighters. However, those modifications were unable to replicate Minbari stealth or weapons systems, so the scenario had to be manually adjusted to take those into account.

"Mitchell, Jankowski," came the order, " pull ahead and investigate." Jankowski took the lead as he and his wingman darted forward to attempt to visually identify the anomaly. The Hyperion would notify them by radio if their "sensors" picked up anything additional, but Jankowski wasn't holding his breath. He was, therefore, surprised when the radio crackled and informed him of a sensor contact of a flight of Minbari fighters, 50 kilometers to his 6 o'clock.

"That's directly between us and the squadron," he advised Mitchell, then switched to the full squadron channel. "Alpha Leader, this is Alpha 2. You are about to have company, coming in dead ahead. We're returning to you, maximum burn."

"Acknowledged, Alpha 2," came Sinclair's response, just seconds before the squadron went head-to-head with the "Minbari" flight, and a major furball erupted.

Jankowski switched back to the frequency he shared with his wingman. "Mitchell, stay on my wing. We're going in hot. The enemy has made a tactical mistake, leaving us to their rear. We'll come up on their 6 and punch through at max thrust. They shouldn't be able to respond to us at that speed, and we should get in a free weapons pass. Go in firing everything you've got."

"You sure about that, Lieutenant? With that heading we'll also be flying right down the guns of our own ships. Pretty good chance of blue-on-blue casualties, for them and for us."

"The formation will break under the Minbari assault. It always does, given their speed and our inability to lock onto them. The squadron will be pushed out of formation, which will lessen that problem. Besides, this might be our first chance to get a decent kill ratio. We need to take it, in practice or the real thing."

"Aye, sir," Mitchell confirmed resignedly. He declined to share his opinion of Jankowski's reasoning, or of Jankowski himself. No point in antagonizing a superior officer; or rather, he mused, a higher ranking one.

The power of the enemy attack was pushing the squadron away from them, but at maximum thrust they closed the distance rapidly. The rate of closure rapidly approached and then exceeded a kilometer per second, and the moment they gained visual contact with the furball Jankowski and Mitchell both opened fire with their Pulse cannons. The stream of Pulser fire, despite being set to training level power output, was still quite visible, and they attempted to drag it into the enemy fighters. In the barely three seconds between spotting and bursting through the enemy formation, Jankowski realized several things. First, upon seeing the bulk of the squadron spread outward, their formation broken, and the tails of the enemy driving them apart, Jankowski realized that he had been entirely correct, and had set up a perfect attack run. A second after that he saw and visually locked onto a specific enemy fighter, and realized that his stream of Pulse cannon bursts would be on target for at least a couple of seconds, which should be sufficient to deal with the "Minbari" armor and get him a kill. It was in the final second that he realized something was wrong, and saw Alpha Leader and three other Starfuries punching a counter attack directly through the center of the enemy formation….and therefore heading directly at Jankowski and Mitchell. He heard himself start to scream, "BREAK LEFT!" and yank the flight stick over, but at those closure speeds it was far too late.

Jankowski in Alpha 2 clipped Sinclair in Alpha Leader. Fortunately, it was not a direct hit, which saved both of their lives. The tip of Sinclair's ventral starboard wing sheared through Jankowski's dorsal port wing, mere centimeters from the wing mount. Jankowski's craft jerked violently and went into a spin, warning lights and alarms screaming for his attention. The wing was gone, but Starfuries were built to last, and it stayed together. Losing the wing so close the cockpit was bad, but it also meant that much of the force acted upon the craft in a somewhat balanced way, ensuring the ensuing spin was not too serious, and Jankowski was quickly able to regain control and kill the spin, and then the engines, despite the now unbalanced thrust due to the missing engine.

Sinclair wasn't nearly so lucky. It had been the very tip of his wing, the engine itself, which had punched into Jankowski's Starfury. And the entire length of that wing had acted as a giant lever, tossing the craft into a violent spinning tumble. Even Sinclair, near the center of that tumble, was experiencing over 20 Gs, having hit nearly 40 during the impact itself, and blacked out almost immediately. The wings and engines further out experienced far higher G loading because of the crash and tumble. Starfuries were built to last, but even they weren't built to take those kinds of loads. Bits and pieces began to break off of the craft, and then entire wings and engines went spinning off into space. A failsafe was tripped, and the central pod ejected before the entire remaining craft broke up. Automatic Reaction Control Systems on the pod kicked into life, and the tumble eventually stopped. Jankowski heard the order go out to launch the rescue shuttles. He cursed himself. Good God. I've thrown away my career twice in as many years.

Still he was an officer, and now he was the commanding officer of the squadron, with Sinclair incapacitated. He needed to do his duty. He needed to bring order out of the chaos the squad had fallen into. "Squadron, return to base. Mitchell, form up on my wing. Sanders, park yourself next to Sinclair's pod until the rescue shuttle shows up. Then the two of you head back to base and await further orders. Understood?"

He heard the confirmations he needed, and though he knew without a doubt that those pilots were cursing him silently, that was all he really needed. Now it was time for him to sit tight and wait to face the music…again.
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Jankowski sat and stared at the gunmetal grey bulkhead in front of him. There really wasn't anything else to do. He had been ordered into the room to sit and wait which, he mused, was almost exactly the orders he had given to the squadron. Of course, they weren't facing court martial...again. He had taken the opportunity to fill out and submit his After Action and Incident reports. But, that was completed hours ago, and since then he had simply nothing to do. Not that he was bored. He was too busy wallowing for that. He also needed to go to the head, but he'd be damned if he opened that door before someone came for him.

And, eventually, someone did. Jankowski was shocked to see General Lefcourt himself walk into the room, carrying a small case. Bolting to his feet, he snapped off his best salute. Lefcourt walked behind Jankowski and picked up the chair in which he had been sitting, the only one in the room, then returned and set the chair down a few feet in front of the Lieutenant. Only then did he return Jankowski's salute, allowing him to drop into a position of attention.

Lefcourt sat, and set the case on the floor next to him, then stared at Jankowski darkly for several seconds, leaned forward and growled, "You just can't stop fraggin' the pooch, can you Jankowski? That was a hell of an attack maneuver you just pulled. Tracking confirms that you achieved three solid kills from your fly-through, which is a new record. Of course, you also managed to destroy 2 of your own Starfuries and put your Squadron Commander in the hospital, which is also a new record! That was an incredibly skillful thing you just did out there. What you should have done was ensure the safety of your craft and your squadron mates. We can't afford the loss of those craft! You don't own that Starfury, Earthforce does! Your ego is running credit your body ain't good for. It was your idiot actions that got this war started in the first place, and you've already been drummed out of the service once." The reminder caused Jankowski to glance sideways with remembered anguish, causing the General to snap, "Pay attention, asshole! You're lucky to be here!"

"Thank you, sir!" Jankowski blurted, snapping to ramrod straight attention.

"In case you haven't figured it out, your name ain't the best in the fleet. You need to be doing it better and cleaner than the next guy. Now, what is it with you?"

"Just want to serve my species. Be the best pilot in the Fleet."

"Don't screw around with me, Jankowski. You're a hell of an experienced and talented pilot. Maybe too good. I'd like to bust you, but I can't. I got another problem here. We've got the Minbari bearing down on us, and I've got a now understaffed and uncommanded squadron. I've got to put somebody in command. I've got to do something here, I still can't believe it. I've got to give you your dream shot. You get to assume command. You were number two, Sinclair was number one. You put Sinclair in the hospital with more broken bones than I can count on both hands. You're number one. But you remember one thing," he said drawing a breath. "You screw up just this much," he continued, holding his thumb and forefinger barely a millimeter apart, "and I'll have your own men frag you. And they'll be happy to do it, you piece of dog shit."

"Yes, sir!"

"One more thing, Jankowski," Lefcourt said grimly, "The other squadron commanders from your wing have elected to assign you a new call-sign." He bent over and picked up the case, unzipping it to reveal Jankowski's own helmet, upon which his new call-sign had been emblazoned in large letters...BONEHEAD. He tossed the helmet to Jankowski. "Out of respect for the man you just hospitalized, you will use this call-sign rather than Alpha Leader in all communications. At least until after the Minbari have been beaten back. Do I make myself clear, Lieutenant Bonehead?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

"That is all."

Bonehead did an about face and began to walk out, when Lefcourt called softly, "Jankowski?"

Bonehead stopped, and looked over his shoulder, "Yes, sir?"

"Good luck, Jankowski."

"Thank you, sir. Sir, if I may ask, what will happen to Lieutenant Commander Sinclair?"

"He's being pulled into Operation Exodus, with me."

"Thank you, sir."