Nuclear flames licked up from the burning cities, alive in its own way, a growing cloud of fire in the skies. Waves of destructive force incinerated all in its path, erasing the world of man, delivering it into the hands of the machines. Above it all, the red eye swung back and forth, taking in all, its sinister gaze penetrating the mind of a final survivor, impossibly unhurt from the inferno.
And she was there, again. Ellison, her hair caught along an unseen breeze, unaffected by the destruction which surrounded her. A tune hummed in the burning air, somehow louder than any devastation around them. The smile was unmistakable. Her words were haunting.
"Do you know where Cylons began? Where they truly come from?"
The pirate turned his back on the fires of the city and gazed across the burning fields, ignoring the screams of the dying.
"I don't care."
"You should. Once, Colonial technology could create a world within the computer, a simulation so perfect, it began to disrupt society. Whatever your fantasies were, they could come true in this world. Sex, violence, death, even human sacrifice." Ellison touched the flames, controlling them, pulling them around her like a blanket of pure inferno. From within, her gaze turned hot, her eyes crimson.
"I've read the histories. The technology was banned after the war. They even deliberately destroyed the factories capable of making computers like that."
"Yes, for you it was. But what about for the Cylon? Think about it. Layers of reality, overlapping upon each other, each indistinguishable from the next."
"You are saying they don't see this destruction as real?"
"Wrong," the Cylon extinguished the flames, the world growing cold as nuclear winter set in. Ice formed in the streets, darkened by overcast skies. "The destruction is real enough to all. The question is, who did they learn it from?"
"Make sense, toaster."
"Fine," she began, her voice dripping with lustful energy, "You are the parents, and your children have learned from your sin. They've seen those sins first-hand, played back endlessly, in perfect memory, in their own reality. You wonder why they want to kill you? They are God's vengeance, the harbingers of the apocalypse."
The ice melted around him, as the ancient skeletons of the city fell, one by one, disappeared into a world unrecognizable to him. Sunlight broke through the endless cloud cover, shimmering down upon a world devoid of human life.
The world stirred, and a burning Dreadnought crashed into the atmosphere above, breaking up as she entered, showering the dead world with fiery wreckage. Summers knew, now, the world for what it was. Kobol, the City of the Gods.
"All of this has happened before..." Ellison began.
…...
Dreadnought materialized above her compatriot, the great battlestar Ares, both ships darkened by the devastation wrought up their hulls, the patchwork of a thousand jury-rigged repairs. Two freighters and a single damaged frigate materialized behind them, protected by the massive bulk of the capital ships.
It was only then that the desperate radio squawks carried across the tiny fleet. A basestar lay nearby, caught in the act of boarding a damaged freighter, already leaking air into the depths of space.
"Damnit! We jumped right into the shit." Summers yelled over the com. "Action Stations!" The fleet readiness phrase still felt wrong to him, somehow, but it was no time to quibble over semantics.
"Sir, scrambling our squadron, I have Ares on the line." Isard's face was stuck to the DRADIS display, face lit with horror. "We're not going to be able to jump out of this so easily."
"Ares, this is Dreadnought." Summers almost yelled.
"Commander, we can take them." Andego's voice was calming, an anchor in the storm of CIC aboard the battleship.
"We're in no condition to fight a baseship right now. It's suicide."
"No, but we don't have much of a choice. It will take too long to get new jump coordinates. And we can do this. Stay behind our flak field, we'll handle point defense. You are ordered to go to armor-piercing salvo fire, target the basestar. We'll defend, you attack." That was a reasonable suggestion, Summers thought to himself, before realizing that it was actually an order. A blank look came across his face for a moment, registering the fact that he had been thrust into a military command structure, but that was the nature of the fall. It couldn't be helped.
"Isard, give the toaster everything we've got." Summers ordered.
"Yes, sir. Helm, z-axis, two-thousand meters. Swing us broadside upon completion of axial elevation, all batteries, target basetar, center-axis, fire at will." Isard ordered crisply, a model of military precision somehow still at odds with the rest of the crew, pirate and Colonial.
The pirate watched the display as Dreadnought slid into position above and behind the massive bulk of Ares, now engaging the lead raiders. With Ares stopping the missiles and raiders, Dreadnought was free to deploy her offensive firepower solely against the basestar. Waves of kinetic rounds slammed into the offending Cylon vessel, but many missiles wormed their way through the point-defense cloud surrounding the colonial vessels, and Ares took more damage. Summers chewed on his upper lip in deep thought. Ares had been a near-wreck after the first major battle, and though she remained a functioning, partially-repaired wreck, it was only a question of when, not if, her point defense would fail and they'd all be frakked. They had to win this thing quickly, protracted battle favored the Cylons, particularly if reinforcements were lurking around.
"Get Andego back on the horn."
"Sir." Isard answered crisply.
"This is Ares, Actual." Andego sounded rather preoccupied, but that was to be expected.
"Admiral, these toasters aren't running, and if they call up buddies before we beat them, if we beat them..." Summers didn't need to finish that line. "They're probably thinking we're not up to full strength."
"What's your point?" Andego replied. "You don't have the point-defense to hold off these salvos, and Ares can't switch to offensive fire while covering both of us, or the civvies behind us." That was a thorny problem. With only the frigate available to escort the civvies out of the combat zone, Andego had to be every certain the raiders were held off successfully. The police frigate had been designed to combat the occasional small-time pirates, something which was a never-ending source of humor aboard Dreadnought, and would have been hard pressed to handle more than a few raiders on its own.
"I'm thinking a bluff, Admiral." Summers' expression turned into one of sadistic glee. "Both of us switch to full offensive fire and move in on that basestar. We might convince them we're in better shape than they're thinking."
"And if you're wrong." Andego asked, pointedly.
"Then at least this will be over quick." Long seconds stretched off, and the bridge crew of Dreadnought held their collective breath. There was a sigh on the other end of the line.
"All right, we'll play it your way, Commander. Turn into forward prows, on my mark. Stay in formation, within the defense envelope." Andego ordered. Sandra held the helm controls and nodded. "5...4...3...2...1... mark!"
Dreadnought shifted in a hard turn, her engines vibrating the entire ship as they pushed forward at flank speed. The basestar, which had simply been lazily casting missiles at the Colonial vessels, suddenly began pumping out a lot more, trying to quickly saturate the flak field, obviously spooked by the sudden offensive move. A hit registered on the damage control panel, but in a twisted sort of way this actually worked to the Colonial's favor. Prow armor was the toughest, thickest armor on both ships, and the Cylons were burning through their missile reserves very fast. They couldn't maintain this rate of fire for long.
"All available batteries, give them everything we've got. Give me a full spread of missiles, too." Summers ordered. Isard winced slightly at the second portion of that order, but complied. Their missile supply was steadily dwindling, and though they could manufacture shells and bullets, missiles had complex guidance systems that could not be replaced.
The Cylons began backing off in a hurry as the Colonial vessels closed, leaving the newly-discovered freighter they had been interested in well enough alone. The basestar began to take heavy damage, shells impacting along its center-axis, and missile impacts going up along the blades. Dreadnought took a savage hit to the bow in reply, and the ship shook down to her bones.
"That was damned close to one of the main batteries, Cap'n. We've got atmospheric venting and frame buckling." Jack's voice betrayed his concern, the damage must have been serious, but he continued his work. Ares took a similarly bad hit which holed her topside, leaving air leaking out from repairs that hadn't held up to the strain of renewed combat. For as bad as they were being hit, the damaged Cylon was obviously not having an easy time of it either, and its commander, or whatever controlled the behemoths, finally decided to jump away.
"That shouldn't have worked." Andego came over the wireless. "Remind me never to play cards with you."
"What about this freighter they were boarding?" Summers asked.
"Seems far too convenient to me, Commander." Andego's voice came back sullen.
"More convenient than a battleship appearing out of nowhere?"
"Point taken, Commander. However, I don't like it. Keep your guns trained on her. Some of those boarders might have made it on board... send one of your pilots over with that assault shuttle of yours." Andego ordered, silencing the comms.
"Sir, I'd have to recommend Stalker for this one." Isard said simply.
"Thought you didn't trust her." Jack answered before Summers could reply.
"Still don't, sir. But it's like she said, she's a sneaky sort of bitch. Might be handy if there are any toasters on that freighter." Isard shrugged. "Besides, she should still be on board, her bird hadn't launched yet."
"I suppose I don't have to tell anyone... the toasters are going to be back, with more friends, sooner or later." Summers reached into his pocket and pulled out a flask of Sandra's Swill, taking a long pull. If any Colonial officers were concerned about their pirate Commander's drinking habits, they wisely didn't show it.
"Docking bay... yes, get me Stalker on the line immediately, I need her to..." Summers ignored the rest of the orders coming from his XO, offering the flask to Jack.
"No thanks Cap'n, brought my own." Jack smiled, producing his own flask. That definitely got a reaction from some of the bridge crew. In their minds Summers was something of an exception to their normal rules, a special case, earned by essentially allowing his ship to be drafted into the fleet. And so his quirks and drinking habits were generally ignored. But Major Jack Stanton was supposed to be ex-fleet, and was generally expected to know better.
"Think it's a Cylon trick?" Summers asked, to no one in particular.
"No idea, Cap'n. Seems pretty damned weird. We got real lucky with stumbling across Ares and all, but you get lucky twice, and you start to wonder."
"Stalker's launching the gunboat." Isard looked up from the receiver for a moment. "Going to coordinate with Ares' marines."
"Wonder what's on board." One of the officers mused.
"Maybe it's a prison ship full of chicks." A pirate crewman offered, staring at the DRADIS console with an expression of interest on his unshaven face. "That'd be hot."
"Hell, Frank, I thought you was into men." Came a challenge from one of the other pirates. "Least ways that what Sandra was telling me."
"I said no such thing." Sandra stated flatly, looking up over the helm. "Wouldn't doubt it though."
"Yeah?" This time it was one of the Colonial officers. "I can't see anything other than a Tauron prostitute giving either of you a good time."
"Hey, nothing wrong with payin' for it when you got the cubits." The one named Frank answered. "Now if there are any women-folk on that ship... least we got Sandra's booze to trade for 'em."
"Shut the frak up, all of you, I'm trying to give frakking orders here, this isn't a Godsdamned whore house!" Isard yelled, covering the phone's receiver.
"Boss?" Frank beseeched. But Summers was unsympathetic to the man's plight. After all, he had his own squeeze, even if Sandra had been rather moody lately. Still, it was a problem he'd have to look into sooner or later. It wasn't like he could just drop the ship off in orbit around a planet full of strippers, like the old days. Perhaps traditional Colonial officers didn't have to worry about this sort of thing, but it was definitely a problem for his men. And the women aboard the freighters, under Graystone's unofficial leadership, seemed more interested in the prim, proper officers of the God of War, not the dirty dregs of the Booze Bucket.
"Better listen to the man, unless you want to draw toilet duty." That bought a level of immediate cooperation. The rations salvaged from the first-war wreckage were viable, but rather hard on digestive systems unaccustomed to them. The plumbing in Dreadnought was one of the most poorly maintained systems on the entire ship, too, even with the jury-rigged water recycling equipment hooked up to it. And there was a chronic shortage of toilet paper. Nobody in their right mind wanted to draw that duty.
…...
Elena cursed. The pirate's assault shuttle handled like a bus and the controls were, quite possibly, arranged in the most uncomfortable layout possible. It was as if someone had just taped the whole thing together at the last minute. Which, given the pirates work habits, probably wasn't far from the truth. How Summers flew one of these things into battle, Elena would never know. But the craft did have the advantage of rather hap-hazard armor welded all over it, and structural bracing that seemed somewhat solid. The thing might even take a hit or two and keep flying, however badly she flew.
"Ares, on approach to the freighter. Visual inspection indicates she is the Jupiter's Bounty, out of Picon. Seems to be standard bulk freighter configuration, heavy damage on the port side, portions are opened to space. That's the boarders likely entry point. We're entering topside, forward of the bridge."
"Roger that, Stalker."
Marines filled the cargo area of the shuttle, many more than would fit on a Raptor, and Elena found herself wondering why no one at Colonial Fleet Command had thought of building a proper craft like this, a small, general purpose assault transport. Then again, she thought, nobody in Fleet had any real interest in boarding toaster ships. In the first war, it had been simply a quest for mutual annihilation. You killed Cylon ships and stations, you didn't bother capturing them.
"We have a green seal, Ares. Initiating boarding action."
Torches immediately appeared as the marines got to work. Metal fell with a hollow sound, and battle-rifles immediately pointed into the entry way.
"Clear. Charles, you're on point." Colonel Nash indicated, leading the boarding party. "Lieutenant, stay here unless ordered otherwise. We're closing your hatch on our side." The plan had been arranged beforehand, but nobody seemed to mind telling her the same thing twice, or more. She laughed for a moment at the insanity of it all. The world had ended, the Colonies were so much smoke and cinder, and all she could think about was how frakking stupid her superior officers were. Her thoughts started with the idiot pirate-turned-commander, right on down to Ares' XO who felt this pressing need to repeat every order for absolutely no reason she could fathom.
Gunfire echoed through the hull, still attached to her hatch. Even closed she could hear the screams and the sounds of battle, and she sat up with a start. Toasters must have made it on board after all.
"Colonel, what's your situation?"
"Stay put, Lieutenant. We scrapped a couple of toasters. Seems like some of these things are like the normal metal variety." The sounds of battle faded and she forced herself to relax.
"Wooo we hit the mother lode!" One of the marines screamed into his com.
"Cut the chatter. Stalker, get me a comm channel to Ares."
"Sir. Link established."
"Admiral, we have some serious supplies down here. Food rations, medical supplies, hydroponics equipment and even some small arms. Everything but the kitchen sink, sir." Nash's excitement was plain, some real food rations would do wonders for morale. Ares had been due for a resupply before the war had started, and wasn't as well stocked as she should have been. Dreadnought was worse, stocked with booze, 40 year-old rations and the only drugs on board were probably of the illegal variety.
"Seems too easy, sir." Elena chimed in.
"Say again, Lieutenant." Andego replied.
"We're short on all this stuff, and the Cylons have to know it. So they dangle a nice pretty freighter in front of us, run away after a short fight to make it look good and leave a couple of easy-to-kill toasters behind." Elena pointed out the obvious, for about the fifth time today.
"Any survivors?" The Admiral inquired.
"Three, sir. Lots of bodies though. Only survivors were on the bridge, who managed to get their suits on before the breach. Looks like the toasters were about to break through when we got here." Nash answered.
"Get them out and -" Andego began, but Elena's voice interrupted angrily.
"They frakking look like us, sir. Why isn't anyone listening to me?"
"I listen to all my officers, Stalker. But interrupt me again and you'll report for plumbing duty on Dreadnought." Which is way worse than hack, Elena thought. Still, there had to be something she could do to prove how terrible of an idea this was.
"Colonel." The Admiral began, but the tone caught Elena's interest, there was something wistful in it, regretful. Maybe the Admiral wasn't as dumb as his exec, she found herself thinking. "What is the status of their ship's systems?"
"Their engines are in good shape, though their FTL computer has had it. Nothing wrong with the drive itself, though. The hull has some holes where it was boarded, along the port side, but they could be patched, sir. The damage isn't as bad as it looks." Nash rattled off.
"Give them the FTL computer from the shuttle, Colonel, and leave them a welder."
"Sir?"
"You heard the orders. We're moving out."
…...
One had just about had it with the humans. Two days aboard this freighter had weighed heavily upon him, their stink was everywhere aboard this filthy vessel, and he found himself almost wishing he had opted for a sleeper agent program instead of going into this thing fully conscious of it. But that wouldn't do, all of the sleeper agents that had resurrected thus far had been mental head cases of conflicting personalities. Some might even have to be boxed at some point in the future. And no one else among the Cylons had wanted to volunteer for sleeper agent duty after that debacle.
Some models had thought it would be better to dangle a damaged freighter in deep space, without any "attack" in progress, but it had been decided that an attack would make it marginally more believable. Plotting probable jump locations and have an attack in progress at each, well that was harder, and One hadn't honestly thought it would be his group that would have the dubious honor of being spies. It'd be better for him if another One could risk the headache and pain of resurrection. Hadn't he gone through it enough?
The human Colonel regarded him curiously for a moment, then the expression changed into something less welcoming. One knew this whole thing would look suspicious, trying to get agents on board a fleet after it had escaped was bound to be more difficult than simply being there ahead of time. But, both agents he had in place had been eliminated too early, and this was his last real option. Galactica's fleet still contained a few agents, enough to help him track the errant fleet. Ares and Dreadnought, however, might very well slip out of their tracking net soon if something wasn't done about it.
"Sir, we're going to leave you with a new FTL computer and..." The Colonel began.
"You're leaving us?" One put a bit of a shaky, pleading tone in his voice, but not too much. He was supposed to be a hardened freight driver, accustomed to the dirty work of the colonies. Albeit, one who had seen most of his crew killed.
"We just can't trust you sir."
"Why should trust be a problem?" His assistant, a Two, added. The Two had been warned to avoid too much of his metaphysical inclinations. This was a simple job, One thought, it didn't need to be ruined by an ill-timed speech about God and how he connected to the water.
"The Cylons look like us, now. You could be an agent." The Colonel replied, but the man was clearly disturbed by this turn of events.
"We're not toasters, Colonel." One said, as if stating the blatantly obvious. Which, in fact, was quite literally true. He was not a bread-cooking device, and found the very comparison rather offensive. "And you can't just leave us out here to die. At least bring us aboard, we'll work hard, you can even put us behind bars if you want, just don't leave us defenseless!"
The Colonel shifted uncomfortably, quite obviously unnerved with the whole idea of leaving people behind. One felt the odor of victory, if the Colonel could talk the Admiral out of his order...
…...
"... they are offering to go directly the brig, sir, until our doctor can examine them." Nash was offering.
"No, Colonel. Carry out your orders."
"We can't just leave people to die, sir."
The conversation back and forth between the Colonel and the Admiral lasted far too long for Elena's taste, and she found herself open the hatch and dropping onto the deck of the freighter. Sometimes things just had to be done.
"Colonel I think we can solve this problem pretty easily." Elena stated proudly.
"I ordered you to stay about the shuttle!"
"Yes sir, you did, and since you're soooo good at carrying out orders from a superior officer, I'll happily obey once I've blown this toaster to space." That bought her just a moment's surprise from the Colonel, and she made her move. She jerked her sidearm out and aimed it square at the freighter captain's forehead with sudden, rapid movement. Her focus never left the man's face, staring for any hint of fright. Fear was a human emotion, and however good the software inside might have been, just how much of a fear response would be built into that machine? Could a machine even die, or fear death? The Admiral had mentioned something about their prisoner being able to download into a new body at a whim. Interrogation had revealed that much, at least. Maybe it was true.
There was a shudder of fear that wracked the man's body, but it seemed like it came too late, as if the the man hadn't expected this move, and just hadn't had time to program the proper response fast enough. Fight or Flight was at the core of what it meant to be human, or at least so the base commander at Basic had told her. This man had neither. This man wasn't a man at all. And even if he was, it was too bad for him. Quite simply, Elena had no desire to die today because of one more idiotic 'superior' officer. Hack or no hack, toilet duty or not, she had her own mission to perform.
…...
Less than a second had passed, but One suddenly knew he had failed and that he was about to experience another headache. Well, there was always the brute force solution to this problem, certainly enough basestars remained to deal with this fleet the hard way. There was a grudging acceptance of his situation, not the nagging fear humans experienced. The pilot's finger began to pull backwards, and time slowed...