CCS-Battlecruiser Undoubting Faith/Colonial Marines/Fireteam Achilles
Fireteam Achilles had begun to make their way into a large hall. Hunks of metal hung from the ceiling, and streams of blue fluid leaked from various sections of badly damaged piping that lined the interior of the walls. The halls themselves were the color of violet, which gave the ship a beautiful yet deadly appearance. The alien craft groaned in pain as metal within the ship bent and cracked.
Sergeant Nex, the leader of Fireteam Achilles, was armed with a standard issued Colonial Marine shotgun. Loaded with explosive slugs normally used on heavily armored Cylon Centurions, the weapon felt ideal for this type of predicament. Facing an unknown enemy of unknown origin who possibly possessed some form of energy based weaponry never before seen required the strongest (yet lightest) weapons that could be carried. Only Nex held a weapon loaded with HE ammunition, as the ammunition type was exceptionally rare, and was only issued to Colonial Marines if a battlestar was boarded by enemy forces.
"Eyes up. Watch those corners people." Nex whispered over the tactical comm.
At the front was Nex, while at the rear sat Corporal Baker, a skilled sharpshooter armed with an assault rifle that fired in three-round bursts. She was rather silent, and enjoyed letting her actions speak louder than her words. Private Scape and Specialist Mar, both riflemen, sat in the middle.
The team hit a right, and were suddenly introduced to a score of dead bodies of various shapes and sizes—and from the looks of it—species.
Private Scape whistled. "Looks like we found who we're messing with."
Sergeant Nex slung his shotun over his shoulder and knelt down beside one of the larger creatures. He retrieved a small camera from his pack, and snapped some pictures for the brass to gawk at. Private Scape joined Sergeant Nex in his photography run, while Specialist Mar and Corporal Baker kept watch for an hostiles. When they were done gathering photos, the team went to work on any objects the otherworldly beings possessed. Some held what looked like weapons, while others held various tools of unknown functionality. These were seized and stuffed into plastic bags. One of the weapons was field tested by Private Scape.
Sergeant Nex snatched the hot weapon from Scape's hands. "What the frak are you doing? Quit fooling around!"
Scape, completely oblivious to what his superior was telling him, stared wide-eyed at the gaping hole he had just made using his pilfered weapon. The weapon itself was large and blue, and fired blue objects that held a white nucleus. It was amazing.
Sergeant Nex zipped up his pack. "Move out people, we've still got a lot of ground to cover, and at least an hour and a half to do it."
Battlestar Survival Group 1/Civilian Ship Hope
"Gods, first Bezerk goes AWOL from the frakking fleet, now this. Damn thing blew a hole as wide as six Vipers through Thrace's left pod. It'll take at least a month to fix, and that's just patch work."
Six individuals sat at a large table forged from steel. The mess hall they sat it in belonged to a small interstellar liner that was just as old as its captain was. The captain had given the battlestar captains permission to conduct a quick and formal meeting there. It was the least she could do to thank them for their defense of the fleet.
In the middle sat Captain Lee Adama, a middle aged veteran Viper pilot who suffered an injury while conducting a routine scouting mission near Cylon controlled space two years prior to the attack on the Colonies. Some say he was the cause of Humanity's plight. Lee held Galactica in his hand, and ran the ship with a cold and incredibly stern mentality.
To the right of Lee sat Captain Hawk, a seasoned officer of the Colonial Fleet. He was a man of solitude, and preferred to tinker away at the numerous models of cars and ships he hoarded in his office. Little about Hawk was known, but Columbia's crew did not love him for who he is, but for what he is: A captain.
Seated across the table was Admiral Nea, a woman who preferred to be addressed by her first name for unknown reasons. When questioned about this, she would often change the subject instantly. The secrets she held often kept her crew on edge, and had cast Battlestar Erasmus into an age of uncertainty and secrecy. It was an eerie ship to be aboard; paranoia infested its halls like roaches. Some say the battlestar turned good men into scoundrels, and women into harlots.
To the left of Admiral Nea sat Kara Thrace. Out of all of the captains seated at the table, she was the most misunderstood. Like Hawk, background information on her was scarce, but her battlestar was well-known throughout the fleet. It was armed to the teeth, harboring over thirty-two nuclear missiles and millions of rounds of point defense turret ammunition. Her ship had the smallest crew, barely passing the six hundred line, but managed to remain operating throughout the previous months. Kara Thrace's eyes reflected that of an individual who had not seen too much, but of an individual who had seen too little. Her appearance was that of a crow: strangely attractive, yet exceptionally dark and dreary—and extremely intelligent. Athena's crew viewed their leader as strange and distant, but respected her nonetheless.
Beside Kara sat Executive Officer Michel Kane. He was the ex-XO of Captain Fenrir, captain of Battlestar Bezerk. When the warship abandoned the fleet to pursue its own agenda, Michel Kane joined the crew of Athena. Her captain, William Anchorsten, had instructed him to take his place while he tended to other matters.
To the right of Kane was Captain Saul Tigh, an aging individual whose anger only intensified if something wasn't done right. By far one of the oldest captains, he was the unofficial "leader" of any operations that pertained to the safety of the fleet, or any attack on Cylon forces. Gladius was Saul's ship, and it had seen its fair share of action during the First Cylon War.
Normally, all the captains would have to be present for a meeting as important as this, but Saul deemed it necessary to get it underway. The other two captains would be filled in at a later date.
Hawk buried his forehead into his right hand. "Where there is one ship, there's more. What if that craft was a part of a line of experimental Cylon warships? You've seen what it did to Athena. If there's more than one lurking out there…Gods, I can't even manage the destruction…"
"Frak that, they aren't Cylon. Too damn odd looking to be Cylon, and there's no way the Cylons would be able to manufacture weapons of that quality in this amount of time. They've only just attacked the Colonies." Saul said. "Besides, it doesn't matter how many of them are out there, our mission remains the same: Find that safe haven—find the fortress world. We'll worry about what those ships can do another time. There's no denying it: They're powerful frakkers, but we can't let one simple engagement tangle up our entire agenda. We've got to stick to the plan."
"But we can't blow it off this one engagement either," Lee interrupted. "We made it out of there alive because there were eight of us. We had a good response time, and whoever was captaining that thing made a fatal error in judgment when sizing up our ships. That ship lasted exactly two-hundred and forty seconds, and that's without nukes. You can do a lot of damage in four minutes without nukes, but what if there are more of them? If more of those ships come to find out where their lost pack mate went and run into us again, I don't know if we can swing the same miracle twice."
"And patch ups won't last forever people." Captain Nea added on.
"What if their ships come in different models? What if we cross paths with something with even more teeth?" Lee asked.
Saul leaned forward in his chair. "Weapons don't mean anything if we can outrun them. It's obvious they have some sort of FTL capabilities. Civilian ships are fast, with battlestars kicking up more dust than they could. A lot of you have newer ships that leave the Originals in the dust."
"But there's no way for us to measure—"
"We didn't measure the Cylon's FTL speeds when they were bearing down on us with that basestar armada either," Saul cut in. "We just act. No thinking. Just action. When you're dealing with something as dangerous as that…thing, you don't have time to think."
Kara stood up and retrieved a glass of water, then sat back down.
"But what's their motive? Why'd they fire anyway? You'd think they were on a genocidal campaign just like the Cylons…" Hawk asked.
Saul rubbed his chin.
He did not have any answers for a question like that.
No one did.
CCS-Battlecruiser Undoubting Faith/Colonial Marines/Fireteam Achilles
"Frak me, what is it?" Private Scape asked.
"Hell if I know." Sergeant Nex answered. "But it's big as hell. It's at least twelve feet tall…"
"Gods, look at that armor…" Specialist Mar whispered, snapping a picture with his camera.
The team had taken cover behind one of many metallic pillars that supported several levels of the ship. They were in a hanger, where smaller vessels resided. Prowling around the hanger were many live versions of the aliens the team had taken photographs of moments before. Just like their dead counterparts, these creatures looked like fierce warriors. Some were small, while others were scrawny and bird-like. Others were hulking beasts with four mandibles hanging from the upper part of their skull, while others simply floated along the corridors, repairing anything that was broken with little difficulty.
The team was eyeing a Hunter. By far the biggest and strongest enemy in the entire hanger, the living tank had a colossal plasma cannon attached to its arm with a thick shield strapped to the other. There were at least thirty soldiers in the hanger. Fifteen of them were small, stocky creatures that wielded numerous versions of the pistol-like weapon that sat in Sergeant Nex's pack. Ten aliens held a weapon that none of the Colonial Marines had come into contact with. Pink shards protruded from several holes on its surface. Three of the aliens were eight foot tall giants who wielded the same weapon Private Scape had used to blow a hole in one of the ship's walls. Two of the aliens were the living tanks.
The floating aliens were not paid attention to because they seemed relatively harmless.
The chances of the fireteam engaging the enemy and emerging victorious was zero all across the board.
"This is just one hanger and it's got more frakkers than our entire force." Specialist Mars said.
"Damn straight. Let's get the hell out of here. Maybe we can get CIC to nuke this joint once—"
An explosion was heard in the distance—somewhere deeper in the ship. Massive amounts of gun fire could be picked up as well.
"I thought command said no anti-armor weaponry?" Private Scape asked as another boom echoed throughout the ship's halls.
"That must be fireteam Apollo. Bunch of trigger-happy greenies. Gods damn it, they'll hang for this." Mumbled Nex.
The team moved out. Activity in the hanger had intensified. The hornet's nest had been disturbed.
CCS-Battlecruiser Undoubting Faith/Colonial Marines/Fireteam Apollo and Fireteam Sunder
"Grenade!"
An orb fashioned from metal and packed full of explosive soared through the air towards a mass of hunched over creatures. Most of them dived out of the way, but some of them were less fortunate.
"Hold those big bastards back! Don't let'em get through! Where's that godsdamn launcher!"
The sergeant did not receive an answer; the man he was addressing was dead. A private unleashed an entire clip of bullets into an advancing soldier. They harmlessly bounced off of some sort of field, thudding into a hapless marine who was about to be skewered by one of the larger aliens. Another man, devoid of clips, withdrew his sidearm and opened fire, the rounds puncturing the skull of one of the smaller aliens.
"Everyone pull back! Get back to the Raptors!"
Bolts of hot plasma screamed through the air as the fireteams retreated deeper into the ship. The crew of the enemy craft pursued them relentlessly, firing their weapons with deadly precession. The teams hit a corner and ran straight down the hall. A marine who went by the name of Grey was hit in the back, her body paralyzed from the waist down. Using her arms, she turned herself around and withdrew her pistol. For several seconds, she fired into the heathen ranks of the oncoming enemy in an effort to buy her allies some time. Some merely walked over her, while others took the full brunt of her rounds.
Out of ammunition, the downed soldier threw down her pistol and withdrew something from her belt.
"Here's my will you frakkers."
An explosion could be heard from her direction. She had detonated a grenade.
The Colonial Marines were slowly being boxed in from all sides. The teams had been cut off from one another. Unable to fight as one, the situation was crumbling fast. The survivors had already lost contact with at least three teams—twelve good men lost.
By way of a miracle from the Gods themselves, Fireteam Sunder and half of Fireteam Apollo had managed to arrive at the Raptors. Fireteam Achilles was nowhere in sight.
"Where the hell is Achilles!" one of the Raptor pilots asked.
The only surviving sergeant present threw his pack into the craft. "We don't know. They last checked in about twelve minutes ago. Said something about a hanger or something. I didn't get a good listen in."
"We got jumped," a soldier said, leaning forwards in his seat to project his voice better. "This entire ship is swarming with mongrels. If we don't leave now we're dead. They're right on our heels!"
Alien voices could be heard. They were getting louder with each passing second.
And there was gunfire.
A hail of bullet and shell casings littered the floor as Fireteam Achilles rounded a corner and dived into the nearest Raptor without any consent for safety. Bolts of hot plasma struck the door of the craft, creating singed craters in its hull.
"CLOSE THE FRAKKING HATCH!"
With the surviving teams collected, the Raptors peeled themselves off of the skin of the enemy ship. The Raptors did not bother using their sublight engines to thrust themselves towards the battlestars—they simply jumped—all six of them simultaneously. This jump created a massive disruption that pounded a colossal dent in the already dented ship's hull. The Vipers, unequipped with FTL Drives, roughed it to their nests.
Battlestar Recon Detachment/ Battlestar Alexandria CIC
"Sir, we've got multiple DRADIS contacts popping up all around us. Thirteen ships with dimensions matching the ship's our troops just exited from; two ships over three times the size of Alexandria. They're closing in fast captain. Orders?"
"That broken bird must have squawked," captain McArthur growled. "Spin up the FTL Drives."
Battlestar Alexandria, her cargo collected, vanished in a brilliant flash of light. However her sister ship, Battlestar Triton, did not jump. She was arming nukes—twelve of them. The enemy ships appeared, their massive bulks tearing through space and time itself. It only took them half a second to realize who was responsible for their fallen comrade's plight: They opened fire.
Plasma lances and laser fire soared towards Triton.
The battlestar unleashed her nukes, and then jumped.
CCS-Battlecruiser Undoubting Faith
Ortas'Ortum was dumbstruck. These uniforms were not of "Human" make. These warriors did not fight like the other warriors he had bested before. Their weapons were different.
Everything was different. Their ships were different; their language was slightly warped. It was as though Humanity had produced an entirely different breed of human that they had chosen to abandon. Were there more of them? There could very well be hundreds of these "battlestars" prowling the farthest reaches of space. Was it possible they harbored undocumented Demon spawn?
The SPARTANS were by far the most dangerous faction of soldiers he had come into contact with. Ortas could not imagine contending with more of them.
But enough worrying and wondering, he had defended his ship! While it was a small victory against a small force consisting of small creatures, it was a victory nonetheless! Casualties on his part were small. None of his brothers had been lost, only a handful of Unggoy. Even the cowardly and dishonest Kig-yar had managed to escape death and none of these "Colonial Marines" managed to bring down any of the Mgalekgolo pairs.
His crew stood before him, cheering loudly in a chorus of differing tongues. The Prophet of Truth, while searching for Earth, had heeded their call for help. Ortas thrust into his fist into the air, his hand covered by the glove of an atmospheric suit. His crew's cheers grew louder.
Ortas turned his head.
A star's light had somehow entered his ship. It was odd, because they were not near a star at all.
Perhaps one of Truth's ships had pulled up alongside his ship and was going to—
Battlestar Recon Detachment/ Battlestar Alexandria/Captain Richard's Private Quarters
"It was a close call. We managed to pop off twelve nukes before we jumped—sort of like a little goodbye present from the Twelve Colonies."
Captain Silv Mide and Captain Richard McArthur were holding a private conference over the radio. They had little time to speak however; thirteen minutes remained until the next scheduled jump. Radio contact was impossible while a jump was in progress.
Captain Richard McArthur chuckled. "Well, we're safe now. The surviving Colonial Marines are being debriefed as we speak. We made them take a run in a Decon Shower. You never know what kind of viruses could have been breeding in that thing."
Captain Silv nodded, agreeing with Richard's choice. "So what's the plan now eh?"
"Wait until we complete this series of jumps. We've got about three more before we can rendezvous with the fleet," Richards began. "We gather the other captains and have a sit down with those Colonial Marines—maybe take a peek at the objects they've brought along with them. This'll probably give us a clue of what we're dealing with."
"Sounds good I guess." Silv initiated a long pause, then said, "I honestly felt like my crew and I were goners back there Richards. Two of the ships looked like they could swallow Triton up in one gulp."
"I know how you feel Silv," Richard said.
The radio contact was cut. The time for the scheduled jump had arrived.