Light flooded the frigid space above Caprica, the brilliance of nuclear reaction impacting against the hull of the old battleship. Too late, point defense guns opened up, creating a small field of relative safety as the ship powered up. The missiles from the second salvo were quickly eliminated. Batteries opened fire for the first time in over 40 years, sending a steady stream of armor-piercing shells into the nearest baseship, damaging one of her spines with the deadly fire. Raiders were released by the hundreds, approaching the damaged battleship as her point defense guns struggled to find their mark. Missiles flew out from the ship, a spread spiraling into the nearest baseship, temporarily slowing its inexorable advance. Space was alive with death as the battle played out through the burned-out wrecks of the once-mighty Colonial armadas.
"FTL jump, get us out here now, anywhere, just turn the key." Summers screamed above the din of the one-sided battle. His ship was beginning to fall apart, as much from age as enemy fire, succumbing rapidly to the onslaught of three capital ships. A coolant line in the corridor blew open, flooding superheated gas into the corridor. Isard slammed the hatch shut just in time, puffs of steam vanishing around the seals. Alarms blared to life in CIC, even as the endless thud-thud of devestating impacts echoed throughout the ship. Sandra wasted no time, grabbing the key and twisting it with forcefulness. Dreadnought vanished into the unknown.
In that moment between life and death, disappearance from one point in space and reappearance elsewhere in the universe, Summers' mind began to fall into the void. Whether brought on by age combined with drink, or simple exhaustion, he felt himself spinning as the bridge stretched impossibly thin, like taffy. It was her. Ellison. As if she were alive again, here, in this very room. He saw the woman standing before him, smiling seductively. She spoke in that same voice, that manufactured sound he knew now to be artificial, something that came off an assembly line of flesh, bone and sex.
"You have your part to play in God's plan." The voice claimed with absolute assurance.
"No God controls my reality." Summers replied. The figure vanished without reply, but as reality began to compose around him again, the old captain felt the hollowness of his answer, the wrongness of it. Who was he to understand the Gods?
"Damage Report!" Isard yelled at no one in particular, falling into his military routine. For his part, Summers merely retrieved his tankard and refilled it from the ale keg, now laying on its side against the command console. Drink was a part of him, how would he survive when it was gone? "Now is hardly the time for drink. We have to figure out how much we were able to salvage, and how much was damaged."
"Heh. Well I'm not about to face it sober, that's for certain." Summers replied as a weary Jack found his way into CIC, Elena not far behind.
"What's going on, Cap'n, I don't..." Then he saw the bloodstains on the deck and met Summers gaze with an intensity the captain had never seen before. "You... killed her?"
"It, Jack. It." Summers answered. "It was a Cylon."
"You can't know that. That's blood, not hydraulic fluid there." Jack protested, his expression alternating between anger and shock. The old military man's thoughts juggled back and forth. He had just barely survived, and many of his men had perished. The airlock had closed only seconds before the nuke had gone off. Mixed emotions played in his mind, gratitude to the Gods that he breathed, anger for seeing the woman of his desire reduced to bloodstains etched in the metal by booted feet. But above it all, the nagging question... was she a Cylon? How could that even be possible?
"We know it." Isard added. "She killed one of my marines, right here, snapped his neck like it was made of paper, ripped my service pistol from my hand as if I were a child, a plaything."
"You have proof of this." Jack replied darkly.
"See for yourself," Summers began, pointing to the body of the dead marine as one of the officers dragged it off the bridge. "I have suspected something was wrong about her for awhile."
It was Elena who replied, incredulous. "This Cylon was a member of YOUR crew. How do we know you aren't in league with them?"
"Shut your frakking mouth." Isard answered. "The Captain here saved my life, and probably yours too, again."
"This is a military ship now. We have weapons. We need to strike back. These salvagers almost got us killed!"
"That's sir to you, frakwit. Get out of my sight." Isard replied.
"No. You're unfit for command. We don't take orders from civvies and Cylon pussy lickers." Elena's voice had acquired a terrible edge, and even as her words echoed in CIC, still punctuated by alarms, men stood from their stations, tempers rising.
"You have once chance to retract that statement." Isard's voice was in earnest, and his fingers flexed.
"Never, SIR." She emphasized the last word with heavy sarcasm. A few of her supporters gathered behind her as Isard glared at her with rage. Summers felt a headache coming on.
"Report to the Brig." Isard replied, with a few officers and most of the salvagers behind him.
Rather than continue to debate the subject, Elena simply punched him in the mouth. The fight degenerated quickly into a brawl with several of the colonial officers in CIC attacking each other in support of one or the other, though by some miracle no one started shooting. Jack jumped into the fray with obvious relish, releasing the pent-up rage for what had just transpired, a way of avoiding his terrifying thoughts. For his part, Summers simply refilled his ale and began to drink, dodging one officer as he was forcibly thrown over the weapons console. Sandra stared up from the communications console as she waved for attention, trying to stop the melee and get everyone's attention.
"I'm receiving a transmission from another ship." She yelled to no effect. "Excuse me, I'M TALKING TO ALL OF YOU." She screamed to deaf ears. Elena punched Isard in the gut and shoved him over the FTL console, nearly knocking the key loose as she dove over the console with delight, screaming a variety of obscenities. Jack grabbed her collar and flung her back as the Colonial Captain struggled to his feet. One of Elena's supporters leaped onto the ex-officer's back, clambering about, arms flailing everywhere, knocking the older man over. Isard reached for a sidearm that wasn't there, dislodged somehow during the initial moments of the fray. Seeing little choice, he ripped the offending officer from Jack's back, overpowered him and body slammed him onto the deck. As he stood over him, a singular blast echoed across the bridge.
The noise stunned everyone into inaction. Sandra stood in the middle of CIC, holding Jack's shotgun against her waist. "Now that I have your attention, we are receiving a transmission from nearby colonial ships." Summers just gulped his ale, belching loudly with obvious disrespect. "Wonderful." Sandra continued, sarcasm lacing her words.
"See what I'm talking about? Drinking on duty?" Elena replied as she stood, dusting herself off, glaring at Isard. "These salvagers are scum, mental deficients. We should toss them out the nearest frakking airlock."
"You mean, the captain drinking is any worse than mutiny?" Isard answered, pointing to the groaning men and women scattered about CIC. "That's what you just committed."
"Whatever, SIR." Elena replied with obvious hostility.
"Do I have to shoot one of you to get your attention?" Sandra wondered out loud. "I'm receiving a transmission from a ship calling itself the Scylla."
This finally roused Summers from dormancy. He struggled to his feet, staggering a bit with obvious intoxication. "Put them on the speakers."
"...unidentified warship. You are warned to stay back..."
"What?" Summers replied. "I must be drunker than I thought." He reached for the phone as Isard and Jack brushed themselves off. "Look, Scylla, I'm in no mood for more frakwits. If you'd prefer we leave you alone with the Cylons, that's your business."
"Wait."
"Oh, NOW you want to talk. Just what were you planning to warn us with anyway? Your ships aren't even armed." Summers added with satisfaction. There was silence on the other end for several moments before the voice returned.
"We were armed. Then came the Pegasus to save the day. Admiral Cain stripped us of people, parts and weapons. We would appreciate help, but only if you're not military."
"We have some military personnel on board, but this is an independent salvage ship. How many people do you have in total?" Isard chimed in, still glaring at Elena.
"Over 2,500 survivors, Cain took some, murdered others, left us for dead."
"I love how Colonials treat the people they are sworn to protect." Sandra added dryly, staring at Elena, who wisely kept silent. Some of the pilot's supporters visibly distanced themselves from her.
"We can accommodate that many, but only if you can earn your keep." Summers added. "And only if you can squeeze them into tight quarters."
"What are you doing?" Jack asked. "We can't feed, house and handle that many people."
"I'm thinking of salvage. Those ships still have structural components we can use to repair Dreadnought, and we could use the labor to salvage." Summers replied, covering the receiver.
"It's a gamble." Isard added, wiping some blood from the corner of his mouth.
"Yeah, I know. We took a nuke in that exchange, and our damage control console doesn't even work. There's no telling how bad it is." Summers replied, releasing the receiver. "We are sending a representative over to speak with you."
"Say what?" The voice replied.
"Parley, Negotiate, Talk... whatever. You want to or not?" The old captain continued.
"Okay. Two men only. No weapons."
"Fine." Summers replied, hanging up the line.
"Certainly a paranoid lot, aren't they?" Jack added. His expression changed again as he stared at the bloodstains on the deck, further proof of the Cylon he had frakked. "Wouldn't mind if you handled this Cap'n, I need some of that Ambrosia."
"Want this back?" Sandra asked, handing the shotgun back to its owner, none the worse for wear. As Jack walked off, Sandra fell into deep thought, her brow furrowing as she frowned. What were the odds that a blind jump would take them straight into a fleet of colonial ships? As she glanced up, her eyes met the Captain's gaze, the moment of understanding passing between them. This was no coincidence, either it was the Gods, or something far worse. For all his ale, it was obvious the Captain's mind was just as frakked with worry.
Day 2, Scylla, Deep Space Near The Colonies
Dimly lit corridors stretched across the passenger liner, fluorescent lighting flickering randomly in the darkness. Wreckage littered the ship, carelessly strewn about without any discernible pattern. Wires dangled from the ceiling, sparking and flashing, briefly illuminating the dejected people who lined the ship, dirty and hopeless. By comparison, even Dreadnought was luxurious.
"Welcome Aboard." The words were spoken without emotion, the balding man's civilian uniform stained with blood and oil. "I was the Navigator. They took the Pilots. Useful for flying, I suppose. Didn't find the rest of us worth anything. What use is a Navigator out past the Red Line, right?"
"Admiral Cain did this?" Isard asked as Summers just shook his head without comment.
"Yeah. Shot some of our people too. I'd show you the recordings, but she took our cameras too." The man continued. "I suppose I've neglected my manners," he continued with sarcasm "I'm Paul Graystone."
"Any relation to THE Graystones?" Isard asked.
"Yeah, distantly. Not too closely, else I'd be rich... and dead like the rest of them." Paul added. "Look I don't feel like a family reunion or a chit chat. I need to do something here, these people have no food, water, or any hope of survival."
"Yeah, about that." Summers began. "We aren't exactly well off, but we have some provisions and a functioning ship."
"What's your price." Paul asked dryly. "There's always a price."
"A small one. We'll share what we have, you can come on board. But we need labor to help us salvage equipment and materials. And we need structural components from your ship to repair ours." Summers continued. "Oh, and we have ale. For now, anyway."
"So you're just going to strip us too, eh?" Paul just shook his head. "Not that we have much anymore."
"Not strip. Save. Salvage. You live. You work like the rest of us. We don't shoot anybody. Not a bad deal, I think." The Captain didn't have much patience for this lot, and what little he had was wearing thin, fast. "Take it, or we bail and leave you to whatever else you find out here. Your choice."
"Fine. But we go over first, no salvagers come on board our ships until all of our people are safe." Paul sighed in resignation. "And we won't be your slaves. Normal working shifts."
"What is this, a frakking labor union?" Summers replied as Isard's eyes widened. "You want some vacation time? Sick pay?"
"How about our dignity, frakwit." Paul answered angrily.
"Fine. Dignity too. Lets get this started." Isard replied hurriedly. Summers merely laughed in reply and started back towards the shuttle docked with Scylla.
"Odd one, that guy." Paul stated as he gestured to a few of the passengers.
"Yeah, but decent enough. So far." Isard replied. "These pirates have their own sense of right and wrong, curious though it is."
"Better than some of you Colonials." Paul glared at the officer with pent-up hostility and anguish. Graystone had obviously seen a great many things he couldn't unsee. To see your world destroyed was bad enough. To then be betrayed by your own defenders was beyond imagination.
"I'm not Admiral Cain." Came the simple reply. Isard couldn't imagine colonial troops firing on unarmed civilians, but Elena's comments came to mind again, along with the pain from one too many blows to the head. It was all too possible, he realized, and he was all that stood in the way of it happening again. Children lay huddled with their parents, dejected passengers sniffed back tears that had long since ceased flowing. The air stunk with sweat and ozone, the misery hovering like a blanket over a civilization that had, in its death throes, turned upon itself to survive. Like a dog gnawing off its own leg, men had turned on one another, leaving the remnants to the coldness of space.
Outside the viewport, the armored prow of Dreadnought came into view, gaping holes leaking atmosphere, scattered about the massive scorch mark which lay neatly at the center of the damage. Her batteries remained intact and her engines still pulsed with life. Two such impacts might have destroyed her, but one simply scarred her surface, giving her a fearsome visage. Isard knew in that moment that vengeance would come one day. Humanity had taken an immense blow, but it would survive to exact a price in blood, or oil, whichever the Cylons preferred these days.