Author's Note:
This story is a departure from typical BSG fanfiction. This isn't about some grand ship that escaped the colony with a huge fleet. These are ordinary people, some good, some bad, and most drunken pirates. This is about a less-than-reputable bunch that survives the initial attack mostly by blind luck and a bit of low-brow innovation. Their ship makes Galactica look state-of-the-art by comparison, their crew is borderline piratical and they spend a fair amount of the story drunk. They have their encounters with Galactica, Pegasus and, of course, the Cylons on their way, much to everyone's disdain.
Also, I'm still working on the next chapter for A Colonial Sunset, so no worries that it won't continue :).
Dreadnought's Revenge
4 Days before the attack, in orbit around Caprica's moon.
Ships littered the boneyard, ancient vessels floating in the cold blackness, devoid of life. Civilian and military craft alike were stranded here, unlikely companions united in neglect. Imprecise orbits abounded, with the lifeless vessels drifting into each other, scarring pockmarked surfaces. Only one vessel remained lit with any form of power, drifting lazily through the center of the ghostly formation, her massive, armored bulk giving her worn hull a sense of barely restrained menace.
Blackened metal, pitted and worn, gave way to the ship's nameplate, missing a single letter but otherwise as glorious as she always had been. Dreadnought, the letters read. Her prow was covered with ribbing and armor, her long form similar to the battlestars that rendered her obsolete even in the first war.
This once-mighty vessel represented the first Colonial capital ships, the ancestor to the twelve battlestars which were better equipped, faster and stronger. Dreadnought was a pre-battlestar, or as they were once called, battleships. They were built to engage capital ships with little thought to fighter defense or long-range capability. Only later was the need for large-scale carrier capability, ammunition production ability and long-duration water recycling realized. Almost immediately relegated to secondary roles as the battlestars replaced them on the front lines, the pre-battlestars were run down in the conflict that followed, and finally retired after the end of the war. Dreadnought alone survived the scrapper's torch, transformed into the floating headquarters for the lonely salvage yard.
Her crew was in little better shape. Drunken roughnecks, political exiles and ex-military profiteers abounded. These were a hardy breed, well acquainted with the realities of grey salvage operations. They were only a step above pirates, and it showed in their cavalier attitudes.
Captain Thomas Summers thought briefly about his life, just how he had ended up living on the ass-end of deep space. He sloshed the lukewarm ale in his tankard before drowning his melancholy in the unpalatable stuff. Fighting had broken out on the command deck, a pair of crewmen slogging it out over a woman. Life aboard Dreadnought had never been appealing to the feminine sorts, and so even in these days of supposed equality, women were always in short supply aboard. His hands latched upon a discarded wrench and he tossed it lazily at the embattled crewmen, chuckling to himself as it struck with a satisfying thud.
"Knock it the frak off. There's customers coming today." His voice boomed out across the bridge as the men stopped fighting, their drunken quarrel forgotten with the prospect of easy money. Money, fights and women were about the only way to get anyone's attention anymore.
"Ya? What do they want Cap'n?" A short balding man stood from the former weapons console, chomping on an unlit cigar. Despite his age and appearance, the other crewmen seemed to take notice and give the man a wide, respectful distance. Jack Stanton's temper and lack of restraint was legendary even in the military that had, in a fit of rare intelligent insight, decided they wanted nothing to do with the man.
"Boss men. Some military types. Need some spares for some of the older battlestars and some old fighters. This is big money, so don't frak it up over a woman." Summers answered. The woman in question cracked a sardonic smile, and the crewmen glared at each other once more. They made another pass at trying to fight, until the bald man's shotgun made a timely appearance, firmly ending the struggle with a booming warning shot that knocked out one of the bridge lights. Some ale spilled on his jacked, but he didn't care.
"Ya. You heard the Cap'n. Godsdamn frakwit sons'a'bitches. Clear the deck." The bald man echoed. His obvious military training shown through the old, weathered exterior.
"You heard Jack, get off my bridge, frakwits." Summers continued, taking a large gulp from his tankard before sitting back down on his plush recliner, a thing that looked terribly out of place on the bridge of a capital ship. Beneath the weathered deck plating of CIC, the engines coughed, shaking the entire ship, as the core shutdown for the fifth time in a week. Summers didn't even care.
"Damn women, they just frak it up. Just enough women on board to start fights. Not enough to stop 'em." Jack continued, lighting his cigar and taking a long puff.
"Don't really give a damn, Jack, as long as we get paid. This ain't fleet command, and these sure aren't model officers." Summers replied. Then again, Jack himself wasn't much of a model officer either, Summers thought. Kicked out of the Colonial fleet for some unknown reason, former Major Jack Stanton wound up here, which was about as far from polite society as one could get while still maintaining at least the fiction of legality. When Summers had pried a bit into the reason for his speedy departure from the Colonial Fleet, Jack had simply replied "I was just looking for some fun." That was how a lot of people wound up here, he knew.
"Yeah, what did 'I' frak up this time, huh?" An irritated feminine voice began. Long, flowing red hair flipped around from the form of a very attractive woman as she swayed her hips seductively. At least the woman in question seemed worth fighting over. Her eyes were almost grey, her body slim and curvaceous at the same time, echoing the ideal form of Aphrodite. Summers felt himself mentally undressing her for a moment as she put her hands on her hips and frowned. He felt that familiar ache. It had been far too long.
"Godsdamn it if you're not all a bunch of pigs here. Look, the core is frakked up, we need some higher grade tylium, not this cheap badly refined junk you keep sending me." She continued.
"We make this sale today, and you can have the best grade fuel in this system, hun." Summers winked at her as she smiled seductively for a moment before reaching for the bloodied wrench still sitting on the deck. She tossed the tool with expert marksmanship, knocking the tankard from Summers' hand and spilling the ale everywhere. He picked up the tankard from the deck, smiling as he found a few sips still remaining, ignoring the explosion of beer that had landed all over him and his recliner.
"Don't call me hun, okay? My name is Jamie. But don't call me that either. I'm miss Ellison to you frakwits. And what the hell is that smell? You promised me a clean ship." She laughed and turned around as the Captain stared at his First Mate.
"Still think it was a good idea to bring her on board?" Jack replied. There was something devious in the man's expression, though.
"At least she can take care of herself." Summers belched loudly, as if to punctuate the statement.
3 Days before the attack, Battlestar Galactica, approaching the salvage yard.
Commander Adama stood in CIC, as professional as ever as he surveyed the DRADIS console with an expression of distaste. Saul Tigh stood opposite of him, obviously hungover and tired but still at least tolerably competent today. The DRADIS console above them was littered with readings from the salvage yard, pieces of many vessels scattered about the large decommissioned battleship hovering in the center of the ghostly formation.
"So refresh my memory, Bill. Why are we dealing with these parasites?" Tigh began.
"The conversion for the museum includes a requirement for a squadron of mark II fighters. This is the only salvage yard with enough of them in working condition. The Admirals want us to ferry some parts too." The commander replied with an expression of mild annoyance. "I'd still rather not. Turning this ship into a museum and hauling cargo isn't my idea of a worthy mission for Galactica."
"Well, we get to retire soon, I suppose." Tigh replied in a moment of clarity. There was a touch of maudlin to his voice, and Adama knew that feeling well. When retirement came, what was left to do? He and the old Colonel were as much museum pieces as the ship herself.
"Sir, getting a message from the salvage yard, they are requesting to speak to you." Gaeta spoke out with quick efficiency.
"Salvage Vessel Dreadnought this is Galactica, Actual." Adama began.
"Uh. Hi. We're ready for you. We've got your stuff." An obviously drunk man began, belching mid-sentence. "You can come on over anytime and pick 'em up. Use Docking ring 2, ring 1 is broken."
"Saul, you deal with them. I'm going to my quarters. I have better things to do." Adama answered as he handed the phone to his XO. "Remember, you're on duty." The commander added with a touch of sarcasm.
"Just what the hell was that supposed to mean..." Tigh muttered under his breath, bringing the phone to his ear. "We're coming over now."
The Raptor flight was relatively uneventful, though Tigh was impressed by the immense bulk of the retired battleship. His memory of the war included a number of fleet actions with the Dreadnoughts, and as baseship killers they were as effective as any battlestar, but their reduced range, small fighter complement and inability to operate for long away from supply bases had relegated them to a secondary role. He felt a wave of nostalgia and a number of painful memories simultaneously with bittersweet emotion as his Raptor approached old warship. Sometimes he wondered if he was the same man who had fought in that war so long ago. Retirement, as terrible as it might be, was preferable to the sort of life these salvagers had made for themselves. Adama has rescued him from that fate, and he was grateful.
As if in reply, the docking bay opened, allowing the Raptor inside. Helo slowed the ship down to a crawl, gently approaching the bay on minimum power. Unlike a battlestar, this old ship had no flight pods, just a small docking bay that allowed for only a few fighter craft and no "combat" landings. This made them completely useless as fighter carriers. The armored door to the bay seemed to jam up for a moment before finally managing to clamp shut. Some of the lights flickered, others didn't turn on at all, angering the old Colonel. He hoped Galactica would be spared this kind of dishonorable fate. Even a conversion to a museum was better than life as a pirate mothership. As pressure returned to the docking bay, Tigh cautiously exited the Raptor, worried that the defective door would pop open to space at any moment. An obviously drunk man stumbled into the bay, followed by another older man... with a face the Colonel recognized. His breath caught in his throat and he felt the rage burning within him.
"Major Jack Stanton... I ought to beat the crap out of you for what you pulled."
"Saul? They didn't tell me it was you coming." Jack replied, backing up towards the door as Summers looked on with confusion.
"Hey hey, we're all friends here, right?" Summers added. "We have your stuff."
"This godsdamn piece of garbage tried to frak my wife..." Tigh began, his face turning scarlet with anger.
Seemingly fishing for any excuse to rid himself of a problem, Summers hastily replied. "Okay... Jack, how about you check in on miss Ellison." Jack hesitated a moment before wisely deciding on a quick retreat.
"That's the best idea I've heard all day." Tigh answered, his glare following Jack out the door like a missile. He was on duty, as Adama had reminded him. With difficulty, he suppressed his anger. "Now where's the Vipers and equipment we're supposed to pick up?"
"You have the credits? I was promised 260,000." The pirate captain answered.
"You'll get your godsdamn money when I get my godsdamn Vipers. Now go, get them ready for transport to my ship before I order her to start blowing holes in this flying cesspit." Saul rattled off impatiently.
"Okay, we can do that." Summers replied simply, tapping the comlink near the hatch to the rest of the ship. "Hey look. Get those shipping containers out of the cargo bay. Transfer by wire to their ship..."
"What ship?" A crewman responded over the comlink.
"What the frak ship do you think I'm talking about? Do you not see the giant frakkin' battlestar hovering over us?" The Captain answered in frustration.
"Oh that ship. Okay, Cap'n." The voice replied.
"Real nice operation you got here." Tigh laughed, his anger receding finally.
"Yeah well this is what happens when you spend most of your profits on beer and women." Summers answered in a rare moment of lucidity.
"Don't I know it." Tigh answered with a tone of understanding. He knew he owed Adama for sparing him this fate, for in the face of the pirate captain, Tigh saw himself years before. Gods only knew how paths crossed and changed. There was something else in it too, and for a moment he felt his mind on the cusp of something of great importance. But the haze set in again, and it vanished, leaving only a feeling of emptiness.
The cargo bay door opened to reveal a large number of support parts for the Vipers, obviously salvaged from non-functional fighters. The sight brought back painful memories from the war, memories that, at times, seemed as if they were not his own. He had been almost as much a machine as the metal monsters he had battled. Kill, and kill again. Outside, the first of the Vipers were ferried over to Galactica and a part of the old Colonel wondered was saddened that they would never fly again, but then all good things came to an end, even a thing as mighty and majestic as Galactica herself.
2 Days before the attack, Salvage Vessel Dreadnought, in orbit over Caprica.
"Well, we finally got paid. Now for some decent grade fuel." Summers smiled, rolling a keg onto the CIC. "Tylium for the boat, and Ale for her crew." He continued, to a resounding cheer.
"That should keep them happy for awhile, Cap'n." Jack replied as crewmen lined up to tap the keg. "But for us, how about some of that Ambrosia?"
"Beats this swill. But I have a price." Summers expression turned grave.
"Yeah? What's that?"
"What was that business with you and... what was his name... Sligh? Tigh?"
"Yeah, Tigh. Saul Tigh."
"Yeah, right... so what was that about? You nearly queered our deal." Summers continued, his voice beginning to sour with frustration. If there was anything the pirate captain didn't like, it was losing out on money.
"I didn't know it was Galactica coming to pickup the goods. There's not much of a story, though. His wife has frakked something like half the fleet over the years. I partook too, but had the misfortune of getting caught. By him. In the act."
"Is that why you were booted out?" Summers asked, sliding over a shot of ambrosia to the old colonial.
"Nah. But can't imagine it helped." Jack replied, gulping down the ale with an expression of momentary disgust, before smiling. "Harsh stuff. Where'd you get it?"
"Buddy of mine runs a still down on Caprica... Not exactly legal, but better than the government-issued stuff. You're not going to tell me, are you?" Summers poured another round of the amber beverage as the crew continued to banter, joke and attempt to otherwise get frakked.
"I already did. I was just looking for some fun." Jack answered, downing the shot with a quick pound before spying the gorgeous red-head enter the old CIC. "Man, if she isn't a looker."
"Dangerous bitch man," Summers replied. "Space is cold. That one's colder." But Jack wasn't listening any more, his eyes traveling up and down miss Ellison's lithe body with obvious interest. Surprisingly, the woman seemed to accept his mental undressing with delight. Odd, Summers thought, never figured she'd go for the bald guy.
"Captain, we're getting a hail from the surface. They are telling us that our orbital permit has expired and to clear the departure lane immediately." One of the crewmen spoke up, her voice slurring slightly as she struggled to enunciate each word. She was a rather plain woman, not particularly stunning but still mildly attractive in a nerdy sort of way. Summers had kept an eye on her for quite sometime, wondering why a well-trained physicist would be hanging around this bunch. But years of experience told him to avoid prying too much into a woman's past. Truthfully, sometimes you really just didn't want to know. She had an obvious affinity for alcohol, but was very intelligent, which was quite useful in figuring out clever ways to salvage otherwise impossible hulks.
"Sandra, tell them we are having some uh... mechanical difficulties, and need a day to look into them." Summers sat back in his chair and contemplated that. Staying in orbit over Caprica for awhile had its share of advantages. The pirate knew he couldn't leave the boneyard in the hands of his subordinates for long, but a few more days of women and cigars would be nice.
"They say if we don't get that frakking pile of antiquated crap out from their departure lane, they will have our salvage license revoked and send a battlestar to blow us all to space." Sandra answered, punctuating that statement with a hiccup.
"Frakkin colonials... no offense Jack... think they can do as they damn well please. Fine, bring us about as slow as you can manage, lets make a big show of limping out of here. It ought to piss them off a bit." Summers winked at her.
"Okay. One-quarter engine power. Yay. Woohoo. Off we go." Sandra answered sarcastically, rubbing her head slightly. "I'm gonna be hung over tomorrow. Thought you said this beer was good?"
"I hear there's a cure for that." Summers smiled, gesturing toward his quarters. He turned to watch Jack attempt to pickup Ellison, expecting a bit of humor. Instead, his brow furled in concentration. Despite his drunken haze and obvious need to frak something, the captain swore he had seen her before, somewhere on Caprica. But her hair was supposed to be blonde, wasn't it? Sandra sauntered over and simply started kissing all over him with definite inexperience, breaking Summers' train of thought. As he escorted the physicist to his quarters, he felt an unease deep in his gut, like the kind he had when he was a child and Cylons descended upon his homeworld of Tauron, like the feeling he had before his first salvage vessel had been destroyed by Zarek's "freedom fighters." It was not a pleasant feeling and it almost spoiled his evening with Sandra. Almost.
1 Day before the attack, Battlestar Pegasus, fleet shipyards
Standing perfectly erect, Admiral Helena Cain made an imposing sight, even more so in the hangar bay of the great battlestar Pegasus. As a salvage operator, Summers had seen his share of battlestars, but these newer Mercury-class ships were something else to behold. It was hard to imagine that his ancient Dreadnought was once a frontline warship of the same fleet which now held these powerful behemoths. Cain clicked her heels in annoyance, staring at the Captain with an expression of utter disdain. Even though she was shorter than the salvage captain, one wouldn't know it by the expression of complete and utter domination the woman held.
"Admiral Cain, I am Captain Summers."
"I don't need to know your name. You have the parts we need?"
"Yes."
"Then that's all I need from you. You have the requisition list, I assume?"
"Yeah, all of the invoices are in there. Fourteen class-D armor plates refitted for colonial battlestar use, three type-42 I-beam structural ribs and... whatever that other stuff is." Summers replied, offering the printed invoices to the domineering admiral. Why she had even bothered to come down from CIC for this supply run of salvaged parts, Summers couldn't fathom.
"Good. Colonel Fisk will provide you with your... compensation, scavenger."
"Our work is legal." Summers replied defensively.
"So is prostitution, on Tauron." Cain quipped without blinking an eye, turning on her heels as Colonel Fisk walked over, careful to maintain perfect military decorum, saluting his superior and coming to a halt as he gazed on the unshaven, unkempt captain offending the otherwise clean, military nature of Pegasus.
"Colonel Belzen is busy, so I get to deal with you." The Colonel's perfect military stature relaxed somewhat as Helena Cain vanished from the hangar deck. "That's a Dreadnought-class battleship you've converted, isn't it?"
"Yeah, found her about to be broken up by a Tauron scrapping company. It's hard to maintain a ship like that with my small crew, but we manage." Summers answered.
"I'm surprised she's still flying. Tough ship though. But enough of that, on to business." Fisk continued, his expression slightly less demeaning than Cain's had been. He quickly signed the forms as Summers' crew tractored out the armor plates and ribbing from Dreadnought's transport shuttle. Some of the ribbing as almost as long as the transport itself, it was hard to imagine these parts as tiny replacements for similar pieces on Pegasus.
"Colonel, not that I mind the business, but why us?" Summers asked, slightly annoyed at being sober. But it wouldn't do to be trashed on meeting with an Admiral on one of these new battlestars.
"Beancounters at headquarters decided that buying salvaged parts was a cheaper alternative to fabricating new ones. I might ask you where you found armor and ribbing of colonial fleet spec." Fisk asked darkly, his eyes squinting slightly in suspicion.
"We discovered some wrecks from the Cylon war that had gone unnoticed. Some of the wreckage was from a battlestar, though we don't know which one. Will these parts still work on your ship?"
"Yes, armor and ribbing is pretty standard stuff, it's in good shape. Standard overhaul procedures often discover over-stressed components; it's a pretty easy swap." Fisk gazed at the forms for a moment, running the numbers in his head. "You're not getting much for these parts, 52,000 credits is a bargain, and you don't strike me as the charitable sort."
"Your beancounters determined that any battlestar wreckage from the Cylon War was still technically colonial property since it was never decommisioned and assigned to a scrap yard. They paid us a finders fee only. Better that than the black market and a possible firing squad, I say." Summers laughed for a moment before realizing he was in polite company.
A woman with a technician's uniform scurried across the deck, obviously in some kind of hurry. She tripped over a carelessly discarded wrench, spilling her clipboard everywhere. Summers bent down and helped her collect the scattered paperwork, leaning upward again to look into her face.
"Ellison?" He asked, incredulously. The technician merely shook her head, collected her forms and quickly departed for some unknown task. Nonetheless, the ominous feeling Summers had earlier returned. The woman looked so much like his engineer, it was uncanny. What were the odds? Did the woman have a twin?
"Something wrong?" Fisk asked, good naturedly.
"A bit of deja vu. It's not the first time either."
"Right... She's a nice looking girl, but I wouldn't try anything." Fisk continued, his eyes following the attractive woman's departing ass with obvious interest.
"Why's that?" The Captain asked, his eyes glued to the same person, but for slightly different reasons. The unease was still there.
"Heh. She doesn't care for men. Believe me, I tried. Even Thorne couldn't get a go with that one." Fisk laughed, rumbling basso echoing across the hangar deck as his eyes flicked briefly in the direction Cain had taken earlier. "Look, I'm about to go off duty, how about you join me for a drink, on our tab. Call it a little extra finders fee."
"Better than watching these guys unload cargo. Whattya got?" Summers answered, happy for a drink to take the edge off. Dealing with the abrasive admiral had been somewhat tiring. That bad feeling in the pit of his stomach was still there. It would be easier to drown it in booze, and the Captain was never one to decline a drink in any event.
"Only the finest." Fisk stated proudly. Summers knew the Colonel wasn't giving away his 'finest' without some other agenda, but the pirate captain knew a good connection when he saw one. Some Colonial officers knew how to do a bit of side business, and Summers wasn't one to turn such opportunities down. He tried to force down his unease about the woman with deliberate effort.
Zero-Day, Salvage Vessel Dreadnought, returning to salvage yard
Silence covered the bridge of the old battleship, leaving Summers alone on deck as the ship glided across space on sublight, only the humming of the ship and the gentle waves of the lone remaining DRADIS console keeping him company. He rubbed his temples slightly, trying to banish the headache from his hangover. Colonel Fisk certainly hadn't been idly boasting about Pegasus' stores of alcohol. Unlike a military vessel, most of the crew slept on a regular schedule, leaving the ship almost entirely unmanned for long periods of time. His company could only afford around a hundred crewmen anyway, leaving Dreadnought horrendously understaffed at all times.
The captain enjoyed such time alone with his ship, a vessel so old and battered only he could love her. How many battles had that once-mighty warship seen? Summers had seen the scorch marks on her hull plating, the clean areas where entire armor panels had been replaced and even a few stress points in her ribbing that belied serious battle damage at one point in time. Dreadnought's gun batteries still dotted the outside of her hull, but the barrels had been filled, welded shut and rendered useless upon decommission. Only a handful of civilian-legal short range missiles remained, and even then only because Sagitarron pirate and terrorist activity had convinced the government to allow civilians limited defensive armaments. Not that any of them bothered Dreadnought, the vessel's armor and sheer bulk had convinced most would-be pirates to steer clear.
The DRADIS console beeped, indicating a new inbound contact, snapping the captain from his moment of introspection. Space was vast, but shipping accidents still happened from time to time. Summers forced himself to his feet, dragging himself to the helm and adjusting course to steer clear of the incoming vessel. Oddly enough, the vessel, by now recognizable as an extremely large ship, battlestar-size, changed course to match his.
"Does this guy want a collision?" The captain muttered to himself as he adjusted course again.
Insurance fraud in shipping "accidents" was common enough, but why use such a large ship? Pirates generally preferred fast, smaller craft, and certainly none operated anything the size of a battlestar. Even then, they rarely operated in Caprican space. For a moment, Summers wondered darkly if the ship might be a Cylon basestar. But that couldn't be right, they were long gone. The DRADIS continued beeping as he stared at the "unknown contact" with rapt interest. Deciding the situation didn't sit right, he grabbed the CIC phone.
"Wake up. I need bridge crew now." Summers spoke loudly.
It was only a few minutes before the first of his groggy crewmen showed up on the bridge, and of course it was Jack. Did the man ever sleep?
"What's going on, Tom?"
"Look at that. It's been chasing us for awhile. Thought it might be pirates.. but..."
"No... Course, speed... approximate size and configuration..." Jack furrowed his brow for a moment as he studied the DRADIS and computer readouts. "Oh.. FRAK. Jump. Now."
"What's going on Jack."
"That thing has a center axis, dual primary hull design. It's a basestar. I recognize the general configuration from flight school."
"That's not possible."
"Don't argue with me. Jump. Now!" Jack said, staring at the DRADIS.
"Okay okay. I need a few minutes to do the calculations." Summers vaulted over the FTL console, wiping off the dust and grime.
"We don't have that much time. They are launching fighters... probably raiders. Baseship is turning away, going to let the raiders do the dirty work. I'm arming our missiles." Jack yelled, falling back into military routine out of ingrained habit. His fingers worked the weapons console rapidly, sending commands to the ships handful of missile batteries.
"We only have a few."
"Yeah, I know. I'll make them count." The ex-military man replied quickly. "Look, if this gets nasty, just jump us, blind, anywhere."
"This can't be that bad. Are you sure that's a basestar?"
"Sir, with all due respect, shut the FRAK up if you want to live through this." Jack said angrily, finally reaching the salvage captain.
Summers maneuvered the ship expertly, throttling the ship up to flank speed, trying desperately to reach the relative safety of the salvage yard as he ran through the calculations. Vibrations echoed throughout the ship as missile impacts hit the armor plating, shaking the old battleship as she trudged through the growing battle. Jack waited until the last possible moment before launching a missile spread that claimed four of the attacking raiders in quick succession.
"Whatever this is, we're not a priority target. They will be attacking colonial fleet installations with their main attack waves. We're just an interesting sideshow. Hopefully." Jack added, firing off another wave of missiles. This time the raiders were expecting the attack, and quickly eliminated most of the missiles. Still, another raider vanished from the DRADIS console. "We don't have much time. Another wave is inbound."
"I'm steering us into the salvage yard, that should make things more difficult for them." Summers replied. He didn't have much combat experience, and even that was limited to fighting off pirate attacks, but he knew how to fly his ship better than anyone. Dreadnought glided through the haphazard wreckage, forcing the raiders to dodge the ruined hulks and floating debris. Summers twisted the old battleship on her long axis, diving underneath a particularly large wreck, nearly scraping the bottom of the derelict. Jack took advantage of the situation and launched his final spread of missiles, destroying several raiders and forcing the others back temporarily.
"That's it for our missiles. We need to get out of here before they send more." Jack continued as other crewmen ran up to the bridge. Sandra was there, her unkempt hair frizzled and ragged, her body still wrapped up in a blanket, worry and puzzlement drawn across her face. Summers looked around for Ellison, but the attractive engineer was nowhere to be found. Where was she?
"What's happening?" The scientist asked quickly,.
"We're under Cylon attack." Summers answered, his voice a deadpan.
"Impossible!"
"Nothing is impossible." Jack replied. "How are we on the calculations, Cap'n."
"Almost ready."
"Good. Because the radiological alarm just went off. We have inbound nuclear missiles."
"What?" Sandra gasped as other crewmen dove for their stations with fear.
"Almost there..." Sweat dripped from Summers' brow as the missiles closed on Dreadnought, like the specter of death coming for them. Space was cold, merciless and unforgiving. Every salvager knew this, it was an axiom as old as spaceflight. Flying ever-closer, the missiles approached the old battleship as time seemed to slow for the captain. With the last number in place, he twisted the FTL key immediately, and for one agonizing moment he thought they weren't going to make it. Then the world faded, stretching impossibly long and incredibly short at the same time, like the very essence of existence was being torn and reformed like putty.