7 Points
By Chaoseternus
Del Shakka Mel
Enerist looked at the swiftly changing tactical display and decided that it was time for a words she had learnt of their Tau'ri allies, "Crap"
Enerina looked up sharply, the movement sending daggers of pain through her mind, "Enerist? What's wrong?"
"Every cylon warship just shifted course, we have multiple inbounds and a third wave of cylons just excited jump"
"Call for assistance, now" Enerina ordered, the words slipping from her mouth without her needing to seriously consider it, she trusted Enerist.
633 'Mosquito' Squadron RSS
Wing Commander Liana Ross screamed in frustration as her Lancer shook apart around her, the impacts of cylon railgun rounds tearing her unshielded and lightly armoured fighter apart from around her.
Desperately, she pulled the craft in an impossibly tight reversal, turning a sharp 180 degrees, the craft screaming in mechanical torment around her.
The Scimitar flipped over, still racing in the same direction it fired at the retreating Lancer, railgun rounds tearing into the fighter's engines as the two fighters sped apart, rapidly separating.
More red lights lit up around her cockpit, then Liana felt a chill run through her as a distinctive eerie metallic warbling sounded, a large red button flashing in front of her.
"Mossie 1, I have a master alarm in the cockpit" Liana stated calmly, then less calmly, "Bugger, I have multiple master alarms, request assistance!"
"Negative Ross, no retrieval boats available the area is too hot" came the coolly dispassionate response over the radio, followed by a less distanced and more heartfelt "Sorry"
"Shit damn and blast" Ross cursed, rapidly flicking through the diagnostics on her touch screen monitors, before shuddering to a halt as an alert flashed up.
Her arms prickled as Goosebumps rose and she felt a chill pass through the cockpit, a calm voice sounded over the radio and with a start she realised it was hers, "Reactor Dump from Mosquito 1, all ships, all craft, rig for EMP wave"
Moving quickly, she tapped in the sequence that would cause her fighters Naquadah power core to be dumped, then stopped, the red 'Initiate Yes/No?' message flickering on the screen.
She checked the tactical display, and then nudged on the joystick, triggering short bursts from the small reaction thrusters as she reoriented the craft.
Then she pressed 'Yes'.
The core burst from her craft, propelled by its own small rocket as it was forcefully blown away from the fighter.
The core sped on; ignoring occasional bursts of railgun fire as the small onboard computer obeyed its primary objective, take the explosive core as far away from any lifesigns as possible.
Cylons do not have lifesigns. Assuming the cylon craft to be abandoned the core sped towards them, hoping to reach them before going critical, where their mass would shield the programmers from the EMP wave of the exploding core.
The core made the cylon craft before going critical, a massive EMP wave hitting the cylon warships as they regrouped, preparing to attack the hackers aboard Invincible.
The cylon fighters were lightly shielded; they died, the EMP frying their circuits, ironically delivering payback for all the Colonial Fleets deaths of several months before. The gathering baseships were heavily shielded, energy crackling around their edges they sped on, the AI's frantically racing to bring external sensors and weapons systems back online.
The EMP wave sped on, aboard Invincible a group of Elite Hackers cursed as the expanding wave corrupted their connection to the baseship, allowing it to close their connection.
Aboard Galactica, Adama and Tigh exchanged wary glances as their screens flickered momentarily, despite no nuclear explosion close at hand.
And aboard a small fighter, things went from bad to worse.
"Argghhh!" Liana screamed, pain etched through her voice as electricity shorted though her consoles, shocking her badly, leaving her arms shaky and jerky.
Grimacing, tears of pain leaking from her eyes Liana glanced around the cockpit, and cursed, despair written in her face as she contemplated the message in front of her, 'Critical Error/Cockpit Eject ROM Checksum/Pilot Eject Disabled'
Her Cockpit, which could function as an escape pod in an emergency, was dead. She was stuck aboard the fighter.
But wait a minute, where was she?
Glancing around outside of her cockpit she saw a massive shape eclipse the stars to her right, a ship she had received a long briefing on.
Furiously, she tapped into the one remaining screen, calling up the emergency transmitter and tying in Pierson's translation matrix.
BSG-75 Galactica
Dualla looked startled as an unfamiliar voice sounded through her headset, then looked up awed as the words registered.
"Mayday Mayday mayday, this is Wing Commander Ross, 633 Squadron RSS calling Galactica, requesting emergency landing instructions"
"Roger Ross, copy your Emergency, please stand by"
Dualla caught the worried eyes of Adama and Tigh, "We have a 13 th colony fighter requesting emergency landing instructions"
"What the frak? Are you serious?" Tigh asked.
"Yes sir, I've been tracking this one too sir, its got close several times but I'm sure it isn't cylon"
"Get security and DC parties to the port bay, and give them landing permission" Adama ordered, reaching swiftly for the intercom, "All hear this, emergency landing in the port bay, DC parties stand by to receive unidentified fighter"
"Unidentified fighter? He's kidding right?" Cally asked, looking at Tyrol.Port Hanger Bay
"I don't think so" Tyrol replied, a puzzled frown lining his face.
"Well, if its unidentified it cant be ours, or a cylon that only leaves…" Cally's eyes widened, and she looked directly into a shocked Tyrol's eyes.
"13 th colony" Tyrol breathed out, then turned, swiftly barking out orders.
Tyrol and Cally watched anxiously through a viewing port as the strange battered fighter approached, its main engines clearly dark and lifeless, running on thrusters and momentum, only the fact that Galactica was moving slowly, maintaining a covering position over the refugees allowing it to approach the Battlestar at all.
The craft was ugly, the sort of thing only a mother or creator would like, high sharp edges wings, stubby short engine nacelles, a pointed dangerous looking nose and wing tip cannons.
To Tyrol she looked deadly, but graceless.
With a sickening crunch the fighter landed on the deck, its undercarriage never having extended and the DC parties and security rushed out to the ship, crawling quickly over it, lifting the shaking Ross from her craft.
First contact with the colonials had at last been made.
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