Interlude: The Sacred Scrolls: The Thunder and the Lightning

When the War between Asgard and Olympus began there was no quarter to be found. Both tribes of gods were too enraged and fueled by vengeance to have much consideration for diplomacy. Their mortal bannermen were called and the tribe of men was broken into four camps. First and second were the servants of Marble and Oak. Third was the bannermen of Gold and those refugees they could take in. Fourth were those unfortunates who attempted neutrality and were slaughtered by the warriors of Oak and Marble.

Great battles raged in all places of Kobol except for the City of the Gods. The City was suddenly seized by the Gold Tribe and proclaimed neutral ground on the onset of the war. Their warriors and the power of Ra ensured its laws were respected. Yet just outside its walls battles were fought between gods and their servants. Heroes would fall and rise in these times and great battles would leave scars on mankind until the end of times.

The greatest and most terrible battles happened when two gods of the same domain clashed. Such was the terrible, earth rending cataclysms that came when the Thunder Prince and the Lightning King fought.

Thor Odinson always sought out Zeus when they fought on the same battlefield. The Marble Lord would throw his lightning bolts and the hammer Mjolnir would deflect them and pound the earth where Zeus stood. Though one was king they were equally matched. Every battle where they fought was one reduced to just them fighting until their godly brethren dragged them off the field.

The Mercurial King watched these battles with great interest. More than steel and more than magic, the Dark Prince feared the Light of Day that they both represented. Against one he would be risking much in an open confrontation. Against both he would surely die. So he watched and plotted.

With the gods fighting and so much death and chaos covering Kobol the dark things and evil demons that had been driven into the farthest corners of the planet returned and pledged their loyalty to their black monarch. Even the mighty giants returned from their mountain hideouts to bring flame and death to the mortals they had been slaughtered and pushed to extinction to make room for. Thor was their destroyer and protector of humanity. He was forced to divert his attentions between the war and protecting those humans who could be saved from the giants.

The mightiest of these giants was Jormungandr: The World Serpent. He was also known as the Beast King, for from his blood many monsters had been born during the First Days of the First Age. The Dark Prince was the one to release the Serpent from its prison and it immediately sought its prey: Thor.

Thor was embattled with Zeus upon the Plains of Sparta when the World Serpent found him. The two gods found themselves battling the Serpent along with each other. Zeus, in his wisdom, allowed the Serpent to battle Thor mostly unmolested. Four mortal kingdoms were destroyed in their battle and four more were flattened from the death throes of Jormungandr.

Thor, bloodied and exhausted, was slaughtered by a relatively unharmed Zeus in cold blood. Such was Odin's fury that he seemed to enter a realm of madness that saw the Oak Tribe's purpose perverted. The Oak Tribe were the monster slayers and guardians of their prisons. With the loss of first Baldr then Thor, Odin's mind was open to the Mercurial King's influence.

The day after Thor's death, two of the three Wolves of Oblivion were released. The sun and moon of Kobol disappeared in their jaws and the Endless Night came over Kobol at last. In his cavern hideaway the Mercurial King took a step out into the "noon day" without its sun and laughed, for his greatest enemies continued to fight and kill each other for him.

At the Cliffs of Bone, wise and beautiful Athena threw herself from them in despair for the tribes and the world.

Chapter 7: Blow Out

Starbuck loved the Old Man. He was one of the few authority figures she truly respected and obeyed without question. She loved him like a second father in that way only servicemen and women could love someone. She would gladly, willingly walk into Perdition's Flame if he asked her to. More than that, there was a special bond brought on by a great loss they shared. These days whatever he wanted, she wanted. It was a love second only to the love a viper pilot has with her ship.

So when Adama ordered the CAG to pick four vipers and outfit them with a nuclear payload she was only mildly put out instead of questioning his sanity. Vipers were speed machines. They were dancers of death in the stars. They were most certainly not torpedo bombers and treating them like so was a terrible idea.

Starbuck tried to keep her glare on the two nuclear missiles as the Chief fitted them to her viper's undercarriage. They were going to cut her speed and maneuverability a third at best or down to half at worst. She hoped that the cylons didn't have any raiders nearby or she'd be a lame duck in a shooting gallery.

Beside her two of the tiny, fuzzy aliens were talking to eachother in that weird yip-bark language of theirs. They were engineers from the Alkrani tech cruiser come to inspect the Colonial fighters and determine if they could fit any more than four into the tiny shuttle bay that Bone Rattle had landed in.

"Hey egghead," she said to the interpreter they'd been assigned. "What are they saying?"

The nervous young man who looked like he should still be popping pimples in high school jumped a little and took a moment to recompile his brain, find his spine, and answer.

He said, "They're talking about your viper, ma'am. Talking about how different your dart fighters are from Cylon ones."

"Dart fighter?" she asked.

The interpreter interrupted the jabbering Alkrani and shared some quick but stilted sentences with each other.

"On the Alkrani homeworld," the interpreter said, "there is a bug like a bee. It's called a Dart Fly. When you smack the nest they come out in the hundreds and sting you to death."

"What are Alkrani fighters like?" Starbuck asked.

The interpreter and the Alkrani spoke some more and the little aliens started pointing at a passing raptor getting chain guns and missile pods strapped to her.

"They say that their strike fighters are like the raptor gunships. Multiple role ships that are big."

"Frak, no wonder the Cylons are kicking their asses," Starbuck mused.

"You're lucky they can't speak Caprican, Lieutenant Thrace," Saul Tigh said.

Chief Tyrol snapped to salute immediately. Starbuck followed suit just slow enough to get the insult across. The interpreter just looked startled and uncomfortable. The Alkrani stopped talking and looked at eachother, then at Tigh.

"Interpreter," Tigh said, "Please tell our guests that their shuttle is waiting to return them to their ship. Starbuck, a word."

The two went to a vacated fighter alcove. They were followed by the eyes of the Alkrani.

"What do you think they're talking about," one of them asked.

"Hell if I know," his companion replied. "How can the Lord of Admirals understand that moan-grunting they call a language is something I'll never know."

"Well, looks like they're about to come to blows," the first commented as Starbuck not quiet stormed out. Colonel Tigh attempted a dignified walk in the other direction.

"Well, they didn't. Come on. Let's not keep the shuttle waiting."

Ship Lord Rynael arrived on her bridge to the sound of the XO declaring, "Attention on deck!"

"As you were," she said. "Crew Master, are we prepared?"

Concrael, Crew Master and Executive Officer, replied, "Yes, Ship Lord. The Hymn is ready to ply the ice again."

That made her smile. She fitted her helmet on and sealed it. She took her place in the center of the bridge standing at the center of it all next to the tactical plot while her XO stalked the alcoves and single circular trench that surrounded it all.

Almost everyone was here. Almost everyone. There were a few still being stitched back together in the medical bay. Two were returned to grace of the Alkran's heavenly kingdom as their bodies were torn apart by the storms of the gas giant. It was like that all over the ship. The Hymn was an E-WAR cruiser. She had only a few auto-laser turrets to protect herself with. Not even a single particle blaster or even a railgun to offer up to defend herself. No fighters except what she could cram into her utility shuttle bay. When no less than five basestars with twenty cruisers flying escort had attacked her fleet the Cylons had ignored the Hymn in favor of the more "valuable" warships like the strike carriers and the dreadnoughts. Even the escorting destroyers were considered more of a threat than her.

The Cylons would pay for the murder of the Thirteenth Dreadnought Squadron. Moreover, they would pay for dismissing the Soothing Hymn.

"Helms Master!" she declared, "Take us out of the short into a slingshot maneuver. Let's give the clankers something to chase!"

The Hymn burst from the cloud cover like a missile. The cylon ships spotted her immediately and began to plot their own intercepts. They followed the projected path and logically assumed that the Hymn was planning to escape via slingshot into open space. The corvettes converged and prepared their trap while the light cruiser positioned itself to intercept the Alkrani cruiser should she escape.

If only they had payed a bit more attention they would have seen the battlestar slowly but surely moving into position. As the chase reached its ultimate all the players were in position. The corvettes were clustered and ready to attack the Soothing Hymn when she came around the planet again. The light cruiser was in position to intercept. The Galactica was ready to engage.

"Helm, take us out of the clouds. Ventral Batteries," Adama entoned, "Open fire on enemy corvette formation. Launch Red Squadron."

Galactica emerged from the cloud layer like a whale breaching the surface, though she appeared belly up relative to the corvettes. Her heavy railguns tracked and fired at will, sending scores of high explosive shells into the mass of corvettes. The small and lightly armored scout ships broke apart under the fusilade and were scattering when the Hymn boomed past. Twenty vipers, all loaded with nukes, swarmed the light ships as they tried to escape the guns of Galactica. They had no point defenses or even raiders flying cover. Such was the Cylon arrogance that now doomed their otherwise lethal ships to an ignoble death of being consumed in a nuclear fusion explosion.

The light cruiser tried to run but suddenly found itself being chased by the Hymn, which was now jamming its communications and that of the fuel depot with its amazing electronics suite. The cruiser turned to face down the Hymn. Light cruiser though it may be she was still more heavily armed than the Hymn by far. Even with all of the jamming she was putting out the Hymn had built up too much speed and seemed about to fall into the clutches of the Cylon cruiser.

Starbuck eased her viper out of the launch deck and zoomed into open space along with Jolly and their two wingmen. Her fighter felt like it as handling like a drunken duck but she managed to keep it straight and on course with the Cylon cruiser.

The Cylons onboard panicked and attempted to spin up their FTL drives. The few auto-cannons aboard opened fire but found lots of empty space instead of the vipers thanks to the Hymn's jamming. Starbuck and Jolly fired off their nukes and broke off their approach. One of the nukes were shot down. The remaining three struck home and turned the warship into three small and expanding clouds of debris.

"Dee," Adama intoned, "Tell Colonel Belmont that his marines are Go for Phase Two."

The first company of the 357th Battalion was loaded into assault raptors. Assault raptors sacrificed their FTL drives and SWACs system for extra troop capacity and armor. A score of them launched off Galactica's newly refurbished starboard flight pods and vectored towards the refueling station. Mixed in among them was their viper escort and even a few raptor gunships.

"Gear check!" Sergeant Abigail Anderson yelled. Today her squad was armed with all the amenities of home. An assault rifle with folding stock stood at attention between her legs and frag grenades were on her belt along with the rest of her gear. The rest of her squad were carrying assault rifles, shotguns, and even a squad assault weapon. Her team was ready for war, and she was itching for some payback.

Crusader Company's mission was to secure the landing zone and prepare for the other two companies to fly in and take the base. The cylons had been nice enough to provide a nice big cargo dock for the raptors to settle down on. Anderson hoped that these new toasters were too dumb to set up a self destruct.

Out of the canopy she saw the gunships laying down suppressing fire on a squad of centurions patrolling the outside.

First Company set down and egress with rifles on point. The dock was exposed to space currently and without gravity. The marines marched forward on mag boots with rifles barking silently as the centurions were pinned down and wiped out.

"All Crusader Elements," Crusader Command announced. "Chevalier and Arbalest company inbound. Begin sweep and clear of the depot."

Chapter 8: Blood and Tylium

Inside the primary medical bay, a groggy Colonel Sinclair fought for wakefulness. His head pounded with pain and he felt like he was going to throw up his stomach, lungs, and everything else inside him. He fought down both and forced himself to sit up. He was stopped partly through by a harried looking orderly.

"You can't get up, sir," the young man told him sternly. "You have a bad concussion and other injuries. Please, lay down."

For all his arrogance and spunk, Odin Sinclair was man enough to at least obey the order. However he was still fighting his mouth to speak. He said something but it come out "Aughm!"

"Sir?" the orderly asked.

"Ah," Sinclair said, forcing each syllable out at a time. "Cy-lon! Spies!"

That proved too much for him. Sinclair bent over and puked his guts on the deck and fell into it.

In the Galactica's CIC, Lt. Gaeta announced, "Cylon fuel depot secured! All scopes show clear of enemy contact!"

A series of claps and a few whoops filled the command deck as a collective sigh of relief was breathed by the crew. For now they were safe.

Adama was as stone faced as ever and eerily sober as he ordered, "Tell the marines to prepare for Galactica refuelling operation. Keep Blue Squadron in the air and tell Red to RTB for refuelling and rearming."

Gaeta and the rest of the two score or so petty officers and ensigns that were needed to keep the Galactica flying jumped to work. On the fuel depot the attached Alkrani system engineers on loan from the Soothing Hymn began patching into the Cylon control interface. There were no liquid-based interfaces here or even bio-cylons on this base. A base as remote and specialized as this wasn't considered worth their time and thus left to the Centurions. That attitude had remained in place even after the synth-cylons reclaimed their sapience, making it all the more easy for the refuelling operation to be carried out.

The Galactica emerged all the way from the gas giant's clouds and lumbered her wounded way to the fuel depot. Now was the most dangerous part of the operation. She had to put her armored belly towards the fuel depot in order to fuel up and leave her ragged, unarmored topside open to space, giving any Cylon ship a perfect shot at her innards. Adama watched with quiet, invisible discomfort as Red Squadron was brought onboard and Blue Squadron hovered about. Now would be the absolute perfect moment for everything to go wrong.

"Fuelling hoses connected!" Saul Tigh reported. "Estimate four minutes until we have enough fuel to jump."

Adama continued to eye the DRADIS for potential incoming to distract his eyes while his brain worked. A jump took about six percent of a ship's fuel reserves to be executed no matter if it was a few light seconds or a score of lightyears (which incidentally was why most civilian shipping tended to trawl at sublight speeds rather than go through the expense and hassle of a jump drive). Under normal circumstances, a military ship topped off her fuel pods when they reached eighty percent or less from her battle group's attached tanker. If the reserves dropped down to sixty percent the commanding officer was expected to get his or her ship to the nearest fuel depot or tanker for a complete top up and file a finely worded excuse as to why they'd allowed their ship to get so low on fuel.

Right now Galactica was at three percent total. Adama wanted at least thirty percent so they could get clear of Cylon space. If he could he'd like to top it up to fifty percent. That would allow him to get all the way to the Alkrani home system with enough left over to drift into a yard slip.

This was all assuming the Cylons were accommodating enough to let them get to the minimum amount.

"C'mon guys let's go, let's go!" Chief Tyrol yelled as Prozna got Major Spencer "Dipper" Jackson's sealing collar unlocked. "Let's get these vipers fueled and ready for launch!"

With his helmet released Dipper placed it in his lap and accepted a plastic water bottle from Prozna. The first thing Dipper did was squirt two blasts of the cold refreshment into his mouth, swirled it around thrice, and then swallow. He breathed deeply and took out a small packet of candy from his flight suit and tossed a handful of small chocolate pieces covered in a thin candy coated shell. He sucked on them and as he crunched and swallowed them his ritual was complete.

It was important to unwind when waiting for the knuckle draggers to do their work. When on battle time, where seconds felt like minutes and every muscle fiber was as twitchy as a junkie, sitting around doing nothing might as well be a pilot's personal hell. So you either burned out or found a way to deal with it.

Dipper glanced around the hangar deck. The even numbers of Red Squadron were being prepped on this side while the odd were being taken care of on the other. The Chief seemed to have everything in hand. Anything Dipper could have done would just make things worse, so he leaned back and thoughts.

Right now Starbuck was leading Blue Squadron and was effectively the CAG right now. She was also in charge of fully half the Galactica's flight wing until a Green Squadron could be formed for a reserve force (which wouldn't be this battle. Every second counted and it was needed for the jump drive).

Spencer wasn't exactly scared by the thought of Kara being senior pilot, but he wasn't doing cartwheels either. She was still too much of a hot head with too much raw talent and almost no common sense. And yet she was somehow still his second in command even after hitting the XO. It wasn't all Adama's doing either. Starbuck knew how to command a squadron and could even herd rooks more than half a damn. She'd make CAG one day, and maybe even battlestar commander if she cooled her heels enough.

Now there's a scary thought, he mused. Starbuck being The Commander. Lords save us all.

"DRADIS contact!" Gaeta reported as the sensors chirped. "One Charybdis-class Light Basestar has just jumped into the system! They've detected us and are incoming, CBDR! They're launching raiders!"

"Are they still in jamming range?" Adama asked.

"Yes, sir! Hymn is still going strong and it doesn't look like they're spinning up for a jump!"

"Cocky son of a bitch," Adama muttered to Tigh, then declared, "Launch Red Squadron! Point defense batteries open fire!"

"If they ain't jumping it's because they think we're an easy kill," Saul told Adama. He glanced at the fuel status and reported, "We're at twelve percent. We're running out of luck fast, bill."

"Yeah," Adama replied," but I'm feeling really lucky today."

The battle was more evenly matched than Adama or Tigh could have guessed. The Charybdis-class Light Basestar was one of the new designs developed after the Xur Incursion ended, a descendant of the Cerberus-class Battle Carriers that once terrorized the Colonies during the First Cylon War. However this new version was more orientated to being a raider platform in keeping with modern Cylon Fleet design philosophy. Her guns were purely for self defense against skirmishing light cruisers and escorts, and her armor was light and thin. Against a wounded battlestar she'd be torn apart even in Galactica's state she'd be shredded.

Normally the Charybdis packed a hundred or so raiders, but this one carried fifty. It had seen some action and had its airwing cannibalized to feel the supposedly more important heavy basestar fleet. The battle was down to which side's air wing could kill the other first and fire off a barrage of nukes.

The Soothing Hymn huddled close to Galactica and primed her point defense laser batteries to zap any raiders or nukes that got through the flak or vipers. The Charybdis kept ten raiders close to augment her own point defense. As usual, it was down to the viper jocks and raider crews.

"Blue Team on me!" Starbuck yelled. "We're going straight up the middle! Jolly, take Genius and Fuzzy to cover our flanks! Red Team will be right behind us! We'll swat these bastards as quick as one-two-three!"

Affirmatives echoed in her ear. She primed her two main cannons and double checked the third. She was saving her doral wing-mount cannon for emergencies while the standard pair did all the work. With no anti-fighter missiles thanks to the nukes taking up their wing space, she was forced to rely on her cannons completely. Just like the Old Man during the First War. Dog Fighting with eyeballs and raw guts. 'Course the computers and gimbal mounts her guns had made things more fun, though. Thank the Gods for the march of technology.

Her cannons tracked individual raiders and she fired off short bursts before switching to another one. The rest of her squadron did the same. Ten raiders went down in a hail of gunfire while they did the same and fired missiles. Three vipers were destroyed in turn as the dogfight began.

Kara bucked and weaved through lines of blue and red tracers like she was born to do it. She was the Valkyrie reborn and with a sword of fire she cut through the Cylon ranks like they were targets on a firing line. She had downed her fifth raider when Jolly's voice crackled over her comms.

"Skipper this is getting pretty heavy! Maybe we should fall back?"

"No we're good!" she replied, zeroing in on her sixth. The little bastard was a squirmy one. She almost didn't see his partner coming in for the kill on her. Almost. She abruptly hit the afterburners and and boosted her RCS thrusters to send her climbing up and away from the raider's firing line, then blitzed left while killing her thrust and lining up on the raider and his buddy. A prolonged pressing of her firing stub sent twin streams of armor piercing/high explosive rounds into the sixth and seventh kill.

"Starbuck we're getting torn up out here!" Jolly cried out. "We need to pull back and wait for Red to launch!"

Starbuck was about to argue when something clicked in her mind, and inside of a moment that lasted shorter than even a Cylon's brain could conceive a conversation replayed itself in front of her eyes.

"Okay, Starbuck," Colonel Tigh has said to her in that alcove. "All cards on the table, off the record. Let's get this over and done with."

"Sir?" Starbuck asked, wondering if he was drunk again. She couldn't smell the booze on him but he'd probably been sampling to bring this about.

"You've got guts, Kara," Tigh said. "You're one hell of a pilot, one of the best, but you've got a real attitude problem. You think you can push people around just because you're good in the cockpit. That creates a bad relationship with the rest of the squadron. It'll keep you back from becoming a CAG. Definitely get you kicked out of the Service in disgrace."

He paused, and Kara asked, "This is off the record, sir?"

"Yes," he replied.

"Frak you. You're a bastard. You're a drunk, and you're dangerous. I hope you don't kill anyone else when you self-destruct and burn."

Kara expected anger. She expected him to storm off in a rage. Hell maybe even hit her so she could press charges against him for once.

Instead he clenched his jaw and replied, "That's right."

She blinked. "Sir?"

"You're right, Starbuck. I'm damaged goods. A burnt out XO who should have retired years ago. But you don't get there overnight. I made my share of mistakes. Once long ago I was a cocky son of a bitch. A hotshot viper pilot who thought he could get away with anything just because I was good with a stick. And why not? I was a bad penny in the Fleet. Almost every ship I served on went down. Every squadron I served with got stitched up. Then one day I made the mistake of chasing glory instead doing my duty, and I killed someone.

"That'll be you one day, Lieutenant. If you don't shape up. You've got talent. Real talent. You'll make CAG one day. Hell maybe even a battlestar commander, but first you've got to learn to cool your jets and think beyond your crosshairs."

Kara felt like punching him again, but for different reasons. Reasons she had no idea why. Not until she was flying with about ten other vipers against thirty or more.

"Frak," she snarled, coming back to the present. "Okay break by wing mates back to Galactica's engagement zone. Leapfrog it back!"

"Starbuck, Galactica," Dee's voice chimed in. "Hymn is moving to support your withdrawal. Flight deck reports Red Squadron will be in the air in less than five. Repeat, less than five minutes."

"Copy, Galactica!"

Blue Team fell back in pairs of pairs, covering each other as they fell back to the flak field of Galactica. The Soothing Hymn broke away from that protective cover and zoomed in to orbit the battlefield, shooting off her laser guns and downing raiders at an astonishing rate with pinpoint accuracy. Seven raiders were shot down before they learned their lesson and waved off from Blue's vipers.

"This is Red Leader. We are in the pipe and launching now!" Dipper reported.

In his CIC Adama was beginning to allow himself to hope. The basestar was on the ropes and his worst fear, Kara going full hero mode on the Cylon fleet at the expense of her squadron, never came to pass. It was all starting to come together so well. Too well. Where, or what, was the fly in the ointment?

The bulkhead hatch to the guest quarters swung open and a wounded man practically fell into the room. He was a bald, dark skinned man wearing an expensive looking suit covered in bloodstains. There was a nasty gash on his head that was wrapped in bandages and he had two black eyes. His nose had been broken and bled extensively until it had finally stopped. He was also hiding several gunshot wounds to the left leg and stomach.

Yet he managed to hide it as he stumbled into the room. There was an immediate uproar from the gathered scientists of the diplomatic party.

"Simon!" Doctor Gau cried. "What happened to you?"

"Sinclair!" Simon replied. "He's a Cylon spy! He's right behind me!"

"He's delirious," one of the other scientists declared. "Let's get him to the medical bay."

"He looks pretty beat up," another opined. "I think he's telling the truth."

"Get me to my bunk," Simon wheezed. "My medkit. I need it."

The confused scientists herded their comrade back to the bunk, where the wounded Simon bolted into sudden movement. He ripped open the bag and spilt its contents over his bed.

"Simon!" Gau cried in horror and confusion. "Why do you have a gun?!"

"Self defense!" Simon replied. "The damned Colonial Government is trying to kill me for not wanting to join in on their warmongering tactics!"

"W-what?" Gau babbled.

"Game's over, Cylon!" Odin Sinclair snarled, pointing a borrowed sidearm at Simon's center of mass. A marine guard with a compact submachine gun who had loaned the gun was right behind him with weapon in the ready position and finger on the trigger. "Put your hands up and turn around slowly. Everyone else step away from him."

Simon smiled as Doctor Gau started to protest. His hands gripped a small device that could have been mistaken for a smoke detector and pressed both thumbs into the central button.

"Too late, agent Sinclair," Simon boasted, grabbing the gun. "Far too late."

He spun about and tried to level his gun at the first human target. Sinclair was ready the moment the Cylon Model Five had spoken. The second that his enhanced muscles flinched Sinclair opened fire and didn't stop firing until his magazine clicked dry. The marine did so as well out of pure training and instinct. By the time they stopped firing the Cylon was truely dead and lying on his bunk. Bloos was splattered over the bulkhead and over the FTL transmitter. The one pulsing so hard it was sparking and smoking as it punched through the jamming to hit every transmitter within seven light years, most of them Cylon.

"DRADIS Contact!" Gaeta called out. "Two baseships, three light cruisers, and one frigate just jumped into the system. Baseships launching raiders!

Adama glanced at the fuel gauge status. Barely into seven percent after all this time. He could jump, yes, but it'd be without his fighters or the Hymn. Would it be enough to get them to an Alkrani outpost, without jumping into another celestial body?

"Is that it, Bill?" Saul asked. "That the end of it?"

"Looks like it," Bill replied. "Been one hell of a run."

"Hell of a run."

Nine more capital ships jumped into DRADIS Range: One heavy basestar, two Light basestar weight, three heavy cruisers, and one small escort about the size of the Hymn. One of the heavy cruisers hailed the Galactica.

"Galactica, this is the Loki. You topped up enough?" Colonel Jane Anohki asked.

Adama blinked and ordered Dee to put it to ship-to-ship. "Loki, this is Galactica Actual. We need another ten minutes to get enough fuel for two jumps."

There was a moment of silence, and then the voice of an Alkrani speaking Caprican came through.

"Fleet Master Adama, this is the Lord of Admirals Skrain Skarskin. We shall give you those ten minutes. Prepare to withdraw as soon as you are finished refuelling."

"Order back our fighters once that Charybdis goes up," Adama ordered to Dee. "Get the marines back onboard! Prepare for immediate FTL jump!"

"I can't believe we're doing this," a Model Six by the moniker of Victoria whined. "Why are we doing this?"

"Because," Commander Natalie Faust replied with an annoyed, threatening tone, "this is what's necessary to save our race! Bring me a read-out of the battle."

The two cylon models were in what passed for the CIC of Basestar 210 with their hands steeped in the liquid interface. The artificial visage was like some kind of pleasure port's viewing lounge, complete with wine and glasses and AI butlers tottering about. Natalie and Victoria were seated on a plush couch with a commanding view of a simulation of the battle.

Nominally, Natalie could have summoned it herself, but she had been taking lessons from Colonial History and making sure her subordinates didn't decided to get ideas about removing her from as unofficial supreme commander of what was the Cylon resistance against the Cavils and their allies.

Victoria huffed and brought up the requested information.

The Colonial vipers and raptors had finished mopping up the enemy raiders and were retreating back to the battlestar as three nukes penetrated the Charybdis basestar's defenses and exploded on the central spine, effectively blowing the delicate light basestar into two pieces. The Alkrani were launching their strike fighters from the two dreadnoughts and single strike carrier while their semi-spinal particle blast lances were charged. The battle cruisers, which was what the Alkrani called their mass production line cruisers, charged ahead with a point defense destroyer covering them from nukes and raiders.

The Republican Cylons broke off from targeting Galactica and turned to face the combined Rebel/Alkrani Fleet. Hundreds of raiders were launched and moving to engage while the scattered Republican fleet gathered so it could properly face down the Alkrani forces. They were definitely not retreating, which was what any sane commander would have done by now. Natalie wondered if General Odysseus was in command of the ragtag fleet and hoping to kill the Galactica and the last remaining dreadnought squadron still functional.

"Target odd number missile launchers on Light Cruiser One and evens on Light Cruiser Two," Natalie ordered. "Standby all raiders for launch."

"By your command," came the expected reply from the free thinking centurion manning the weapons console. "Request permission to use nuclear ordinance."

Natalie pursed her lips and checked her basestar's ammo bunkers. She had a full loadout of nukes but wasn't ready to commit them just yet. Not to this battle and certainly not her precious, limited supply of capital ship busters. Now her single digit-kiloton missiles on the other hand…

"Negative!" she replied. "Wing Commander, load Alpha and Beta Squadrons with Type-1 nuclear missiles. All squadrons prepare for tactical FTL jump and engage enemy Basestars. Notify when ready!"

"Complying," the centurion replied.

Outside the Alkrani dreadnoughts finally opened fire. One of their beams missiles while the other grazed one of the basestars. The battle cruisers had closed the range and were mauling the Republican light cruisers with their railguns and particle blast cannons. If she wanted to accomplish something, Natalie needed to do it now.

"All squadrons are ready for launch," the Wing Commander reported.

"Launch and execute attack on the unwounded basestar!" she yelled, feeling the excitement in her blood as she finally joined the battle.

Close to two hundred raiders launched and executed a tight tactical jump that crossed the three light seconds of battlefield to the undefended Republican basestars. Two hundred raiders launched eight missiles each, regardless of whether they were nuke or conventional warhead. One thousand, six hundred missiles struck home and crippled the fragile carrier/heavy missile battleship. Cascading explosions and krumping hull showed the last legs of the warship failing just in time for a pair of particle lances cut through her, finishing the basestar off in a dazzling explosion of ignited tylium and ordinance.

"Now that's not fair," Natalie pouted.

General Odysseus regained consciousness seemingly the same moment the CIC of his basestar exploded in flames. He compiled himself and examined his surroundings. He was in one of the centurion areas aboard the Alpha Primary Resurrection Hub aboard the Colony. His feeds to the cylon network were being limited to just the local network of the Colony. Those feeds suddenly exploded with light and information as he was repeatedly informed to report to the Council Chambers for a hearing.

Odysseus checked his internal chronometer and compared it to the local network. It'd been seven hours since his ship's destruction. Such a delay was an oddity, but he suspected he had been specially rerouted for this purpose. That purpose presumably being to be verbally whipped by the Cavil representative and his allies for the escape of the Galactica, the destruction of several irreplaceable ships including the prototype assault battleship, and the loss of a fuel depot.