...The headache was worse than expected, and One felt his control slipping. Anger welled up within him, not just the mere annoyance which had been all too common since the attack began. There were others surrounding his birthing tank, but he paid no attention to their pithy words of comfort. Shoving a Six out of the way, he gathered himself to his feet, dripping organic ooze all over the polished floor of the resurrection ship.
Alarms sounded in his mind, sudden worry interrupting his angry thoughts. He hadn't escaped the humans after all, he'd simply been shot by that upstart pilot aboard the freighter, and had been transplanted to the other front of the same war.
"Frak." It was all he could think of to describe this singular moment of insanity. The windows of the resurrection ship offered a pristine view of two battlestars launching fighters. It could only be Galactica and Pegasus. The others around him began to panic as the FTL drive aboard ship suddenly detonated out of nowhere, stranding them there.
One's mind interfaced with the ship's computer, taking command of the basestars assigned to guard the vessel. He was no military tactician, none of the Cylons were, really, except for the older models still staffing the Colony. Without overwhelming superiority in numbers, he could not be confident of victory. Not like this. It was the entire reason the attack on the Colonies required so much subterfuge, the Colonial military had become truly gigantic relative to its population. In the first war there had been a mere twelve battlestars, some obsolescent battleships and that bizarre hybrid Atlantia. And that small fleet had fought the Cylons to draw. By the time the Cylons had infiltrated the Colonial fleet it had become apparent that the humans had built over 120 battlestars and numerous smaller vessels. But it had also become apparent that they had failed to learn the most critical lesson from the first war... over-automation would be the death of them.
Now it appeared the Humans had learned enough to survive, and One felt the fear of death, true, final death overtake him. He interfaced with the computer, ordering the basestars to covering positions, keeping their flanks secure.
"Where the frak are my raiders?" One demanded. The interface told him even before the others replied, and he cringed. The humans with Galactica had lured them out of position.
It was a Six who replied. "There were some colonial civilian ships and..."
"You bungling morons." One answered. It was true he was no tactician, but he inherited the role because his 'brothers and sisters' were so frakking terrible at it he got the role by default. That was a thing he blamed on the Final Five, his creators. They had been so obsessed with the concept of peace with humanity that they didn't think to program in some kind of tactical genius to go along with them. There weren't enough Ones to go around, for some reason it was far more economical to grow Sixes and Eights in vast numbers, something about the programming matrix. In any event, he found himself as the only One in this small fleet, which was fortunate. It would turn a complete rout into...
...well, a complete rout, One thought. Pegasus and Galactica were tearing one of the basestars to pieces with their heavy guns. Interference was ridiculous out there as Pegasus' EM pulse generators misguided his missile attacks, sending them flying into space.
"Turn the missile guidance computers off. Pre-program coordinates." One ordered. The missiles, like all Cylons, were a form of intelligence in their own. To seek and destroy targets was their only purpose, and they actually wanted to die. But their sensors were prone to interference. They could be fooled, sent off target. With pre-programmed detonation points, Pegasus' advanced pulse generators could be counteracted. He smiled with satisfaction as missiles began to impact the larger battlestar, but even so, the move came too late. Screams flooded the interface as the first basestar began to break apart. Vipers were streaming through the shattered defense net as the basestar's launchers, ordinarily able to easily screen against fighter attack, fell silent.
"There are too many fighters." Six stated, perspiration forming on that soft face.
"We've lost almost half our launchers." A Five followed up, but there was no need for talking now. One was connected directly to the baseship's hybrid, and he felt her pain as her ship, an extension of her body, was torn to pieces around her.
Death was reaching for them all, and with it, something far worse than a mere headache. This was non-existence knocking. The changes to the missile salvos had produced some damage to Pegasus, but Galactica was too far away, and the basestar was still falling apart. Heavy, timed salvos from Galactica began to tear apart the baseship more methodically. Alarms sounded in his mind, Cylons screaming as they died, only to be downloaded here, just in time for a second, more permanent death.
"My God." A Five said as the first basestar exploded. The defense net was now wide open. One basestar could not guard against this many. Vipers streamed through the gaping hole in their missile net, heading straight for the resurrection ship.
"Evacuate!" One ordered, running towards the docking bay. There was a heavy raider there, perhaps he could reach it in time to...
Alarms blared as bullets tore into the hull of the vessel, but One paid no attention to them, caught in the sprint. If a human had seen a supposedly old man run so fast, it would have provoked incredulity, but he was a Cylon, a superior species. That he should have been even more superior unnerved him. If his creators hadn't been so obsessed with being human, maybe they could have given him legs that ran faster, sensors that saw more, anything other than this fleshy construct.
The heavy raider was there, but his compatriots who had been running beside him were no where to be seen. Dead or dying as the ship began to break apart, no doubt. He had to escape, of all the Ones, he was the most experienced battlefield commander, and they would need him now. He knew the truth of his situation: the humans were done being fooled by sabotage and infiltration. Now, they would need brute force to get the job done, but applied cleverly. It would take weeks, maybe months, to get another resurrection ship prepped and jumped out this far.
The heavy raider shot out of the docking bay just as the resurrection ship exploded into flesh and metal wreckage. Thousands of Cylons died, and he felt the sudden cries of terror in his mind.
"All survivors, JUMP!" One ordered into the heavy raider's interface. But it was too late, even, for that. Some of the raiders had made it back into position, but they were taking heavy losses, deprived of the protective umbrella of their basestar. The second baseship had already lost FTL drive and was rapidly succumbing to both battlestars' offensive fire. One's fist hit the controls and he vanished into the unknown. Only a few raiders made it with him. It was only then that he realized, he still didn't have any clothes on. Anger welled up within him again at these useless human needs.
…...
"Just what the frak did you think you were doing?" Andego's voice was filled with anger. Colonel Nash stood before him at full attention, saying nothing. "I gave you a direct order to leave that ship."
"Sir, I didn't want to leave people to..."
"Shut your frakking mouth. I can't believe I have to tell you the consequences of disobeying orders." Andego ordered. That order, at least, the Colonel seemed willing to follow. This was a reversal of the way things used to be. Once, Nash had been the voice of obedient authority, and Andego the risk-taker. The Fall had wrecked many preconceptions in his universe.
"And you..." Andego looked at Elena, who was also at attention, but with just a hint of casual disobedience in her eyes. The Admiral had dealt with many problem officers over his time, and in many ways, Elena reminded him of his younger self. But he'd never been quite this reckless.
"You are damned lucky you were right, Stalker. Damned lucky." Andego finished. The whole fiasco had gone downhill in a hurry. Elena shot the 'captain' of the freighter, and his compatriots immediately fought back. There was a dead marine on the hangar deck, neck broken like a twig, that stood as testament to the unnatural origin of these 'civilians.'
"Yes, sir." Elena's expression twisted in a hint of a smile.
"Get off my ship, Lieutenant. Just be glad your Commander is a pirate and seems to like you for some gods-forsaken reason I cannot fathom."
"Sir?" Elena's expression changed.
"He went to bat for you, Lieutenant. Said something about stopping all shipments of alcohol to my ship if he didn't get his 'psychopathic pilot' back." Andego began. "Like I said, just be glad you were right. You're dismissed."
Elena turned on her heels and walked out, and Nash began to do the same.
"Not you, Colonel. We're going to hash this out."
"Sir?"
"Look, I can't have an XO questioning my orders, for one. But more importantly, you've got to understand that we aren't just fighting in line-action battles out here. We're fighting infiltration, sabotage. There could be more Cylons among us, and we have to make harsh calls. Calls that maybe sacrifice a few in the name of preserving our frakking species. I'm choosing to forgive this transgression, Colonel. Just this once. I won't forget it, however."
"Yes, sir. I'm sorry I disappointed, sir." Nash's voice trembled a bit with sincerity.
"Now," Andego allowed a bit of a smile to cross his features. "Get out, before I change my mind."
…...
"Cap'n, our salvage teams are working double-time out there. Seems like every time we fix something, the toasters just come by and blow our work up." Jack explained, sitting in the comfort of Summers quarters. By the standard of any battlestar, Summers' quarters were downright luxurious, in many ways. The old recliner which had been removed from CIC had found its way down here, and the private beer tap, containing the last of their kegs of Caprican Ale, featured prominently. But there were other changes too, the Major thought. Monitors and computer readouts were new, tied into CIC systems, giving Summers a constant stream of data on his warship. Sandra's personal effects had somehow made it into the quarters too, and Jack was a little surprised at that. The salvage captain wasn't noted for close attachments to women. The fall had changed much in the man, that was apparent.
"We don't have a choice, Jack," Summers replied, pouring some of the precious ale for the Major. Jack frowned a little, but accepted it. This was the last of the good stuff, he knew, and they wouldn't be getting any more. Sandra's Swill was drinkable, if barely, but he'd miss his old drinks.
"I know, Cap'n. Believe me, I know. But we gotta do somethin' about morale, and soon. Look, right after the fall, survival instinct kicked in, ya know? People runnin' off adrenaline. It's all gone now, and they've started to realize, when you get right down to it, space just frakkin' sucks. 'Specially when workin' 16 hour shifts." Jack took a sip of the ale and tried to let himself relax for a moment. But he'd been out there with the rest of them, running the work crews ragged, keeping both capital ships flying.
"I'd be lying if I said I had any idea of what we should be doing, at this point." Summers answered.
"And you can tell me that, Cap'n. But I'd suggest stowin' that shit around the others. This is supposed to be a dictatorship, this ship. You're the Captain. They figure you better damn well know what to do, and it better involve somethin' other than them workin' to death for once." The glass was nearly empty now, Jack reflected sadly. But times were changing. They'd have to adapt, or die.
"Yeah, you're right enough about that. Well, let's do this then: those civvies over there in the freighters, they need to do some heavy lifting too. Get Graystone over here, and start training more of those lazy frakkers. Lots of 'em." Summers pointed out, relishing his own glass of ale with obvious delight.
"We'll still be workin' our teams hard, Cap'n, trying to train and repair at once."
"True, but like you said... this is a dictatorship. And at least this way, they'll see that we do give a frak about them, and we're getting them some help. We can't stop the repair work, not for a minute, Jack. Or we're dead."
For his part, Jack merely nodded, taking in the last of his ale. It was going to be hard, pushing the crew like that, but it was possible the prospect of relief workers eventually taking over some of that work would be enough to prevent all-out mutiny. But there would be grumbling, dissatisfaction, and the morale still wouldn't be exactly good.
"And Jack?" Summers began, the Major looking back at him with a degree of wistful sadness.
"Yeah, Cap'n?"
"This last keg of ale... honestly, it's almost full. Haven't really touched it since the fall. Saving it, you know? Roll it down the docking bay for the men. Give 'em something better to drink."
Jack smiled. That was definitely something the men would be thankful for. Still, he was hoping there'd be some female 'volunteers' among Graystone's civvies. If that could be arranged, that might fix all of the morale problems on board. And, in the long-term, might be critical in helping the human species stay around a bit longer. But Jack's thoughts wandered to the jar of Sandra's Swill on Summers' desk.
"Yeah... leave the good stuff for the men... but that stuff there ain't good for anything other than cleanin' engines and forgettin' bad times." Jack reached for it. "That swill is always fair game."
"Sure is, if you don't mind atrocious hangovers." But when Jack poured two shots, Summers didn't hesitate to grab his. "Me? Guess I'm getting used to 'em." Summers stated.
Ellison's face was stuck in Jack's mind, though, a thing no amount of drink could entirely banish from his memory. He'd frakked a machine, a toaster, a murderous thing. Maybe Graystone's civvies would have some women for the men, but Jack wasn't likely to enjoy any of them. Not sober, at any rate.
She said she loved me, he remembered. And he didn't believe it then anymore than he did now, but there was that unspoken question anyway. Could a machine love anything? And just how human were these things? And what happened to men who found themselves pining over a toaster? He took another drink. It didn't help.