Earth, 2172
Sixty years ago, the wreckage of a fleet of ships, preserved by lack of air and the freezing temperatures of space, was discovered on Mars. Navigational data recovered from the data drives of several computers say that they were supposed to fly into the sun, when they suddenly bypassed the sun, and began heading for Mars, causing them to crash when caught by the planet's gravity. Data recovered from the largest ship, called Galactica, revealed that humanity once thrived on several planets known as the Twelve Colonies of Kobol. However, it also tells of a war against the Cylons, their own robotic creations. The fear of this common enemy leads to an unprecedented event. The unification of the majority of governments on Earth under a U.S-led coalition with one goal in mind: prepare for battle against any remaining Cylon menace. The data onboard Galactica contained everything from weapon, fighter, and technology schematics, history files, and ship designs, and strategies and tactics used by the Colonial fleet, allowing the people of Earth to reinvent the largest ships, known to the Colonies as "Battlestars", massive, armored battleship/carrier hybrids capable of FTL (faster-than-light) travel, to combat the threat. Other ships were also built, and humans began to go out amongst the stars, colonizing habitable worlds, although they are few and far between. By 2160, humanity has begun slowly expanding outward, establishing colonies, unknowingly on the path to the worlds of their origin, which harbor a dangerous secret, one that would unleash a terrible threat, both outside, and from within…
Chapter One
"Incoming enemy fighters, starboard side!" the DRADIS officer shouted.
"Order Blue Squadron to intercept. Batteries one through six concentrate fire on the nearest baseship! All others, continue flak barrage!" Commander Ryan Holt ordered. Multiple dots streaked across the DRADIS (Direction, RAnge, and DIStance) screen, representing the fighters moving to engage the enemy. Multiple signatures representing missiles appeared, moving in the opposite direction. Many flashed signaling their deaths in the void between the ships… but not all of them. As they struck the hull, reports came up on the main display, with severe damage along the bow's starboard side. Explosive decompression warnings came up on 3 different decks for at least a dozen different sections, as well as the port flight pod.
We can't take much more of this, the commander thought. Just then, radiological alarms blared all throughout the Combat Information Center (CIC).
"Incoming nuclear ordinance!" the DRADIS officer shouted. "We won't intercept all of them, sir!" Suddenly all screens went black on impact.
"End simulation!" Holt ordered. Dammit!
"Sir, we have yet to be able to fight off more than two baseships in our simulations. As you know, we could take on one rather easily and destroy or heavily damage two with moderate damage to our ship. However, when engaging three or more, they overwhelm our flak and triple-A defenses using both their missiles and heavy fighter numbers."
"Thank you, lieutenant. Analyze the data and send me the report, I'll be in my quarters. XO, you have the con," he said to Lieutenant Colonel Raven Beresford, his executive officer.
"Yes sir."
Holt walked out of the CIC, Meanwhile, going over every detail of the simulation in his head. The baseships jumping in. Their gun batteries establishing a secure flak perimeter. It stopped the enemy's missiles from getting through. Stopped three baseships' worth of missiles. Three. That was a record in itself. But that wasn't good enough. He knew how the Cylons overwhelmed his flak perimeter. Fighters. The Cylon fighters, referred to as Raiders, had far superior numbers, and were a basestar's true strength. This was discovered through battle data retrieved during the discovery of the original Galactica. No one had come up with a way to neutralize this yet, short of nuking the entire space between the ship and the basestar. Everyone at the officer academy said it was impossible, that if they were ever facing down that many enemies they should retreat. But what if they couldn't? What if the Cylons outnumbered them three to one in an attack on Earth? Ryan Holt was the top of his class at the Naval Academy, demolishing every opponent he faced in war games, becoming the youngest person to command a battlestar, but he still couldn't quite figure it out. The ship he commanded wasn't just any battlestar either, but the very one named after the legend. Galactica. The ship responsible for the continuation of the human race. Holt studied history well, it was how he chose to join the Fleet, he knew their race's exodus well, and he wasn't about to tarnish the ship's namesake. He was determined for his ship, his crew, and above all else himself, to show they were worthy of carrying on the name's legacy. So he had to figure out the question on his mind: how could he overcome the Cylon's numerical superiority? His thoughts were interrupted by the growler phone in his quarters. He reached to answer.
"This is the Commander."
"Sir, we just received communication from the Pentagon."
"Very well, send it through."
"Yes, sir"
The telex message printed out onto his desk. The message read:
Commander Holt,
Reports have reached us of your crew's excellent training and drilling. Considering this, along with your excellent record, we are promoting you to the rank of Rear Admiral. Now, make all haste to Earth to demonstrate your ship's refits, so we can prove their worth to the Defense Committee and begin upgrading the rest of the fleet. It'll be good to see you again.
Congratulations,
Fleet Admiral Deacon
Holt's brow furrowed, then he began typing the response.
Admiral Deacon
Sir, you honor me with this promotion. We have been working hard as to be ready for any threat to come our way. We hope this has lived up to the Fleet's standards.
With all gratitude,
Commander Holt
He'd never wanted to become an admiral in peacetime. That rank should be earned, through battle, showing honor, mastery of tactics, and care for one's troops. Holt never agreed with the Admiralty's policies, and never believed they'd take him seriously without some serious brown-nosing, which was something he could not bring himself to do. Even then, he wanted to earn his rank the right way, not rotting out in space, patrolling the empty void.
Colonel Beresford was studying the simulation data after Holt had left CIC. Every crew member aboard absolutely adored him, but some worried that he'd one day work or worry himself to death trying to keep them prepared. Beresford was more concerned than any of them. She was gazing at the door long after he'd gone. They'd known each other since junior high school, and knew each other very well. He'd joined the fleet two years before her, both of them joining after college, but he'd excelled through officer academies to the point he was almost always her instructing officer. When he was given his own command he'd requested that she be the executive officer. The Admiralty would've refused had it not been for their excellent performance records together. However everyone on the committee who approved the request (although they'd never openly admit it) would say they never regretted the decision. If they'd known about how close they were, however…
No. It was the right decision to keep it private. If it was out in the open, they'd never be allowed to be in the same squadron, let alone serve aboard the same ship. Besides, the crew loved him, and gave her much respect as well, and they both returned it. Galactica was the most sought after position in the Fleet, commanded by the most brilliant, energetic, honorable officer in Earth's defense fleet. He was also the most junior commander, which garnered much in the way of resentment among the more senior admirals, of whom a few were passed over in favor of Ryan. It didn't exactly help that at the last time the commanders of the fleet gathered together, he'd called out Vice Fleet Admiral Grayson, basically the 3rd in command of Earth's space forces, saying he didn't belong in command rank where action was required, not bullshitting behind a desk. Many thought he'd be discharged after that incident. Several commanders already scoffed at his constant nagging for training cycles to keep the Fleet prepared in case of Cylon attack. Attack from an enemy that most believed to be gone. An attack most believed will never happen. Fleet Admiral Deacon, however, saw it differently. He gave him command of the ship named for the battlestar that was responsible for the survival of humanity. The command was passed with a stern warning that Holt had best play nice with the other officers, so as not to cause more trouble, whether Deacon agreed with his comments or not. Everyone knew he'd had a soft spot for Holt during his officer training. However, she supposed her opinion on everything involving Ryan may be a bit biased, with the relationship they've always had.
Raven smiled to herself. She'd go see him later and calm him down. The crew wanted to make him happy, but he never took it out on them when his expectations weren't met, as they knew he only wanted to push them to be the best. Never had she met a man aside from Ryan Holt who, despite his great ambition, still cared for those around as he did.
It was late. Captain Benjamin Russel was just about to head back for Galactica as soon as his relief patrol came in. He was the commander of the recon squadron, whose ship of choice was the Raptor, a small transport/support ship built by the original Twelve Colonies, but improved upon by Earth's engineers.
"One more jump, then get some sweet, sweet sleep," Russel thought to himself as he punched in the coordinates for his final FTL jump. With a bright flash he came out into seemingly empty space, when suddenly something appeared on DRADIS.
"What the hell?"
He moved in for a closer look, thinking it must be an abnormally shaped asteroid to have allowed the DRADIS to pick it up, being far enough away that a normal asteroid wouldn't register as a danger to his ship. As he closed to within a few miles, his ELINT, electronic intelligence, gear started giving him signals it was picking up. From the object.
Just then, he detected another Raptor jumping in. His relief patrol. Russel had a channel open before they could find his Raptor on DRADIS.
"Patrol, hold position around object bearing two-nine-zero, six klicks from your current position. I'm going to report back to Galactica and let them know we've got something for pickup.
"Aye sir, any idea what it is, sir?"
"Well, I'm not paid to speculate, but it's broadcasting a message. I'd say it's a beacon," Russel said as he found the frequency of the broadcast. He felt his heart drop to his stomach, and his hair on his neck prickled up.
"Belay my previous orders, Corporal, get back to Galactica, now. The Admiralty's going to want to hear this."
Russel was partly right. It was a beacon, but not just that. It was equipped with sensors… sensors that used the broadcast to mask their transmission home. This beacon's home, light years away, was also home to a vast force: some were mere heads with curved blades for wings, floating in orbit above a dark, wasteland of a planet, along with huge ships, two Y-shaped prongs on a center axis, and others, with humanoid-looking bodies, standing in perfect formation in a desolate, artificial cavern. A signal came from the beacon, traveling to an orbital satellite, then down to receivers placed planet-wide. On cue, red slits of light started appearing from their heads, then more, and yet more still, and the cavern, and hundreds of others like it, and the sky above were all soon filled with a blood-red glow. Machines: precise, deadly, cold... perfect articles of death and destruction. Cylons.