Chapter 19

USS Sioux, DDG-155

"Cap'n's on the bridge."

Bryson nodded to the duty officer. "As you were." After the bridge crew relaxed, he walked over to his command seat, the 'barber's chair'. He looked out the forward viewport and saw what he expected to see. Sea and more sea. A whole lot of nothing.

"Let me guess, nothin' new, right?" Bryson muttered, yawning. He'd only just gotten up himself.

The officer of the watch nodded. "Aye, skipper. Picked the wrong day for excitement. All quiet on the comms."

Bryson yawned. "Fig'red as much. Next alert drill?"

"Not for another seven hours, sir."

Bryson nodded absentmindedly. The sky was more or less clear, with only a few clouds brewing to the south, huge wooly cumulus clouds. He just sat, watching the ship pitch and yaw in the water, as it steamed north-west towards Baltimore. The Sioux had been detached from her carrier group temporarily in order to refuel her nuclear core, as it only had less than a month of power left.

Bryson was shaken out of his reverie a little later by a conversation behind him. "What is it, Jenson?"

The OOD turned. "Nothing sir, just some trouble with our comm array."

"Then for God's sake get it sorted out." Bryson muttered, gazing out at the swaying seascape again. "Send a guy up or something."

At that moment the phone buzzed beside him. Glaring at Jenson, Bryson muttered "No excitement my ass," before picking up the receiver. "CO, what is it?"

"Just a report on the comms, sir. All antennas and dishes check out."

"Check out? Then what was the problem?"

"Still is a problem, sir. We're just picking up some low stuff in the 200 meter band, otherwise we're off the air. No satellite connection either. What we're getting is pretty heated though. We'll have to do some retuning to transmit in that range."

"So you're saying it's the source that's gone wacko?" Bryson scratched his head. "Rig the comms to transmit in that range, I want to know what's up."

Unfortunately for the destroyer, the answer was all too near.

"Radar contact, we got a bogey, correction fifty plus, inbound!"

Bryson swiveled around in his chair. "IFF?"

The radar operator shook his head. "Correction, sir, sixty plus."

Bryson just stared with his mouth open for a second. "Oh shit." he hissed. "Sound general quarters, no damn drill!"

The OOD nodded. "Boatswain!" he called, and interrupting the trained response continued "Sound general quarters, no drill."

"Aye sir." The boatswain's mate then woke the ship up with a shrill blast on the intercom. He flipped the alarm switch. And then all hell broke lose.

"General quarters, general quarters, this is not a drill, general quarters general quarters, man your battlestations!"

"Inbound skipper! Weapons range in fifteen seconds!"

"Fifteen seconds?" Bryson peered out the port at the black swarm on the horizon. "What the hell are they and how did they get so close? Scratch that, just put up a firing solution."

The tactical officer, already on the horn with the anti-aircraft batteries, flashed a thumbs-up.

"Weapons are go."

"Engines are go."

"Time plus four. Material condition one now set."

Bryson had to be impressed by his crew's reaction time. From a sleepy morning to general quarters in less than four minutes-

The bridge tilted wildly and collision alarms began to sound.

"Shit, we've been hit amidships! Damage control parties en-"

CRASH

"Two more on the stern, sir!"

Bryson scrambled up from the deck. "Where's that goddamned firing solution!? Get birds in the air, Tactical! Helm, port, full!"

"Phoenix batteries, shoot shoot shoot." came the voice.

With a deafening roar five Phoenix missiles soared away from the Sioux, leaving thick white contrails. Flak began to burst as well, guided by computers and radar tie-ins to follow the targets. Crewmen and officers caught on the deck glanced up as the strange saucer-shaped craft flew low over the flaming ship. Tracer fire leapt from strafing runs and ricocheted off the hull, leaving huge plumes of sparks. Another missile impacted just fore of an armour belt, piercing the hull. Bulkheads quickly sealed the water off, but every passing minute the destroyer was listing more heavily to port.

Up on the bridge, the situation was clearly reflected. Shell impacts had damaged power relays somewhere, and shorts were frequently throwing sparks around some consoles. Conduits had ruptured, and some coolant steam was seeping in through the ventilation system. The list to port was making it difficult to keep a footing.

"Another hit amidships, skipper! Five more degrees and we'll be in serious trouble!"

Bryson rubbed his forehead, which he had smashed on an exposed conduit. "Engine status?"

"We're stuck all ahead full, rudder not responding."

Bryson groaned and leaned against the bulkhead. "Boatswain, sound abandon ship. Abandon ship!"

"Abandon ship, all hands, abandon ship"

"Everyone out, RFN, everybody move it!" Bryson shouted over the alarm.

This proved to be difficult. In some places the hull had completely melted through, leaving large craters in the deck and bulkheads. Some plating was so hot the soles of their boots melted, slowing their pace. Missiles were now regularly hitting the hull, as well as incendiary autocannon rounds. The fire from the destroyer's own batteries had stopped, and the sky was clear for the flying saucers to continue firing.

Bryson looked at his command one last time from the lifeboat, as she settled low in the water. The enemy aircraft abandoned the attack, seeing that the destroyer was beyond saving. With a loud and grating groan, the vessel capsized and sank beneath the waves.

Battlestar Agrippa

Greer performed one last visual check of CIC. "All stations, stand by to jump. Start the clock, Tactical."

"Clock is running..." Lieutenant Urquhart reported.

Greer was distracted by a noise from the DRADIS console. Contacts. "What the... ID those contacts!"

Urquhart scrambled to confirm. "Colonial ID, sir... It's the Valkyrie... No ID on the other, unknown configuration. Too small to be a basestar, Admiral."

Commander Ramius snapped his fingers. "Mr. Urguhart, hold the jump. Repeat, hold jump. Copy to all ships."

"Commander, get me a line." Greer said. When that was done, he opened the channel. "Valkyrie, this is Agrippa actual, come in please. Valkyrie, this is Agrippa actual on colonial channel 12, please respond."

"This is Valkyrie, Commander Nelson speaking. I'm afraid things are really fubar now, Admiral. Thirteen Cylon ships are now in orbit, more jumping in."

"Where's Valkyrie actual?"

"He's here. Should I put him on?"

Greer stood for a second. "No, I'll talk to him myself. What's the other ship?"

"It's a Terran battlestar. Long story, sir, but it's with us."

"Understood." Greer looked up to see Ramius. 'not good' he mouthed.

"Was there anything else?"

"No, I'll be over shortly. Out." Greer replaced the phone. "The Cylons came with more force than we expected. Thirteen basestars."

"Frak me!" Ramius sputtered. "Where'd those come from?"

Greer shrugged. "They're there now. Looks like Adama considered the situation lost."

"Two battlestars against thirteen ships? I'm not surprised." Ramius stepped back from the plot table. "Thirteen ships..."

"Yeah, that's a problem." Greer said. "I want a Raptor as soon as you can get me one. I'm going over to Valkyrie."

Greer turned, and at that moment the speakers crackled to panicked life. "Agrippa, this is Galactica! Agrippa, Galactica, come in!"

Greer raised and eyebrow as Ramius picked up a commline. "Galactica, this is Ramius, Sitrep."

"Isolate Galactica immediately, we've been boarded. It's the centurion, it's alive!"

Ramius groaned. "Oh bloody hell."

Yaroslyl, SSR

Cavil stormed up and down the hall. "I thought you said they'd just jumped into orbit, Six! The skies are strangely empty!"

The Six in charge of communications gave him a hopeless look. "I don't know what happened, they were here and now there's nothing on any comms. We're off the air entirely, we can't even pick up our forces on the Front."

"And why is that?" Cavil ceased pacing and spun around on the spot, leaning on a tabletop. "Radio's broken? Electrical storm? Why am I not swimming in reinforcements?"

"All radios are down. Handheld units, everything. Best explanation is someone detonated an EMP."

"Goddammit." Cavil snorted. "Still doesn't explain why they couldn't fly a few Raiders out here. If they don't show up in less than two days we're all going to have to commit, what was it, kamikaze, hari-kiri? Whatever those island folks do."

"Mass suicide? You can't be serious!" Six was shocked, crossing her arms angrily. "What if we don't get resurrected?"

"Then you'll get to see God a lot sooner than you anticipated." Cavil shrugged. "Would you rather surrender to the Russians, they don't treat their prisoners very well now, do they?"

Six opened her mouth, but snapped it shut again. Cavil saw this with concealed victory.

"Face it, Six, we'd end up dead anyway." Cavil sighed, then stopped himself. "You hear that? The Russians are shooting..."

Six didn't move. "And how's that special?"

Cavil gestured around the room with his hand. "Where are the shells landing? Not in our little pocket, that's for sure. So where are they going? Those are big guns going off, we'd hear shell hits." Cavil looked at the phone on his desk, on old relic left behind by the Russians. "Well I guess if it's important this should-"

Ring

Cavil chuckled. "Am I good or what?" He picked it up. "What's going on out there?"

"Skyraiders, One." said a Five from the roof. "There are old Skyraiders from the Great War attacking Russian positions on the outskirts. That's anti-aircraft fire."

"Skyraiders?" Cavil repeated. "Are they ours, I didn't know we had any squadrons left. Six, what do you think?"

"I think we've got a bigger problem than we thought." she replied.

"They're blowing the Russians to hell, why is that a problem?"

The Five on the phone wasn't finished. "Whoever said that may be right. They're headed this way."

"Maybe they're here to help us. Our own forces, they're Cylons for God's sake!"

He was proved wrong a second later when a flash-bang went off behind the next building, shaking the ground.

"Get out, go, go!" Cavil shouted. "They're shooting at us!"

"No kidding!"

"They're shooting at us!"

Battlestar Galactica

"Give me something!" Tigh growled. "Where is that bastard, I thought he was on deck 6!"

"He's moved again... We're getting reports of shots forward of Frame 12."

"Well isolate him, now!" Tigh gave out an exasperated sigh. This centurion didn't seem to be moving in any kind of coordinated way. It was just moving in random directions, raiding arms lockers and shooting up crewmen. It had long since retreated from the corridors, somehow managing to haunt the service crawlways between deck 5 and 6.

"Nothing subtle about this guy, so why can't we find him?"

Lieutenant j.g. Carraway said "We've got fire teams stretched pretty wide, still no contact. Reports show he's moving away from auxiliary fire control. But that was five minutes ago."

"Someone forgot to load this thing with logic banks." Tigh snapped. "I want all possible targets with percentage probabilities of strikes."

"Yes, sir. We're also receiving a signal from Agrippa."

Tigh waved it off. "Tell the Admiral he'll have to jump without us, I don't want to go into combat with this guy aboard."

"No, sir. Valkyrie's back. The jump is cancelled. He wants to know if we need assistance."

"If he's got Marines to spare, I won't refuse them. I want them under our command though, tell him that."

Carraway nodded. "Aye, sir."

On deck five, Lieutenant Burrell hunched along the conduit, trying to peer down the corridor without presenting too much off himself. Metallic clanking could be heard from beyond, down a bend in the conduit.

"CIC, this is Burrell, I'm in maintenance fore of frame 15 on deck five. It's approaching one of the ventilation junctions."

Ottawa, Canada

"You going to shoot or not?" asked Tyrol, standing unguarded in the corner of the hall.

Remus looked up from his console, as if only just remembering Tyrol. "What do you think?"

"I'm going to guess no."

"Good guess! Give the man a prize."

Tyrol crossed his arms. "I could just attack you now, you put your gun down."

"So go ahead." Remus looked down at the FTL communicator. "I have a feeling you're more interested in what's going on."

"I'll find that out when the cavalry comes busting through that door to get you."

Remus feigned indignation. "Ouch... Would you really treat your brother like that?"

"You're no brother of mine."

"Oh come on, look what you can achieve!" Remus snapped. "Look who you are! Only five of us in existence, and you want to be picky. Frak that!"

"I'm as much a Colonial as any of the others." Tyrol growled. "Just because I happen to be artificial doesn't change that. I was still Colonial by birth, or by creation, or..." Tyrol waved in the air, "or what the hell ever. I know who I am."

"Oh, Galen, you have no idea what you're passing up..." Remus shook his head. "You're much more than any human. You're stronger than them, faster than them, better in every way. Why design normal humans when getting a girlfriend is so much easier?" Remus laughed. "We're supermen, Galen. Above the mortals, superior. That's why they hired the military to build us, prototypes for the next-generation Colonial supersoldier, impervious to electronic control, stronger, faster, more intelligent..."

Tyrol was next in line to laugh. "I don't feel anything like that, I'm not immortal for one. Not fast, not exceptionally strong."

"You think they'd let the likes of you out into the world without dumbing you down? Safeguards on your mind, artificial aging, it's all to allow you to fit in. But those safeguards can be broken down. You know what I mean, don't you?"

Tyrol looked at him out the corner of his eye. "How about I say no..."

"Oh God, Galen..." Remus rolled his eyes. "Oh, wait, can't say that." He chuckled to himself. "That's me! Anyway, surely you all noticed during your stay at the Ionian Nebula?"

"You mean, that was the safeguard coming down?"

"Er... No. Just one. But it's the hardest one to drop, the rest are easy. You might have noticed things changing after that. But once you've bypassed the last one, imagine your potential! We may very well become Gods."

Tyrol started pacing back forth, alternately shaking his head and just staring at Remus. "You mean you believe that crap? It's not some crazy way of tricking your new friends?"

"Soon enough I will be one." Remus stated, as if saying that two and two made four. "Once the last safeguard is gone. Already they've detonated the nukes in the atmosphere. Once communications are down, the Raiders will sweep aside the last defences. They're already on their way."

"Then Gods help us." mumbled Tyrol. "And I don't mean you."

Yaroslyl, SSR

"No, no, no, we can't do that." For good measure, the number One slammed the table in front of them. Quite by coincidence, the building shook as another Russian artillery shell hit. "See, they're still shooting at us."

Five models had been convened in an emergency session in the basement of a hospital still in Cylon-controlled territory. The initial wave of old Cylon Skyraiders had been repulsed by the Russian forces surrounding the city, and the Russians had resumed shelling the Cylons.

"Look, One," said a Six. "they think we're behind the Skyraiders. They probably don't know that we've been attacked, or if they do they'll think it a happy accident and keep shooting."

"I agree." said a Four. "We have to open dialogue."

"That's suicide, and weakness on our part!" another Cavil emphasized. "We just rolled over a quarter of their country, you think they'll be in the mood to chat?"

Simon Fuller, sitting quietly at the back of the dark cellar, raised his voice. "Those other Cylons come back, and they'll be as isolated as we are. A double encirclement with three battling forces. We'll have to pool resources, they must know that as much as we do."

"Agreed." said Six. "All in favour..."

The first One looked in astonishment as every other model in the room nodded agreement. "You can't be serious, we can't allow it!"

Six glared at him. "You don't have the authority to countermand group decisions. Why are you so desperate to try?"

Fuller nodded. "Resistance is hopeless, Number One. We've voted. It passed."

The other Cavil sighed. "So be it. But don't hold out too much hope for it. I hope your Russian is good enough."

"Major!" came a cry. Lavochkin grunted as he woke up, having passed out on the floor of a ruined shop.

"Where's the Major? Get him quickly."

"What's up?" Lavochkin shouted. "I'm in here!"

A dirty looking soldier appeared at the window. "It's the metalheads, sir! Under a white flag!"

Lavochkin jumped to his feet. "Have they said anything?"

"They want to talk to someone in authority. A rather interesting development."

Lavochkin tapped him on the shoulder and hopped out of the building. "Damn right it is. Hoped you halted them before they got on our side."

"Yes, sir."

"Good job, comrade." Lavochkin slapped him on the back. "Lead on."

Surprisingly the envoys were two unarmed human models, and no centurions were to be seen.

"Damn odd." Lavochkin, muttered. They seemed to want something badly enough to come unarmed. "That's far enough!" he shouted at them.

"Major Lavochkin?" one of them shouted back.

"Correct! What do you want?"

"It's complicated! Could we actually talk about it, face to face!? Your terms!"

"Major..." said a soldier nearby, with his rifle trained on them. "I don't like it."

"Neither do I. Keep your aim, I'm going to bring them in. On our terms." He raised his voice to shout again. "Right, drop the flag, put your hands up, and come forward slowly! And I don't want to find ourselves in the sights of some centurion!"

"There are no centurions!"

Slowly they came forward, hands up. Red Army soldiers rushed forward as soon as they were close enough. Right behind them was Lavochkin, waiting in an outdoor patio belonging to a small restaurant.

"Okay, I've got you covered." he said. "Pull anything stupid and you'll all get it, understood?"

One of them, a man of about thirty, held out his empty hands. "Don't worry, nothing will happen."

The other one, a young woman of apparently east Asian descent, started speaking. "You'll remember those aircraft that attacked us earlier today. "

"Of course. We destroyed some of them, if you were hoping for reinforcements."

"Quite the opposite." the man said. "They attacked us too. They're not ours. They seem to be a breakaway group. We were hoping..." At this he looked decidedly uncomfortable, "...that we could come to some kind of mutual defense arrangement. An alliance, maybe.

"So why should we ally with you and not them?"

"Well..." The woman paused to think.

"We don't know their intentions." said the man. "They've cut off communications, and our own ships are nowhere to be seen so chances are they're here in great numbers. We may not be their only target."

"If there are great numbers of them, and they want to blast you to hell and gone, I don't see any reason why I should ally with you more than them." said Lavochkin.

"Because if they've blown communications, they're not interested in negotiating, are they?"

Lavochkin nodded. "You're right, we haven't been able to raise anyone since this morning. The 2nd Army just came within range though, they'll be here tomorrow."

"Ah..." said the man. "If those Cylons attack us in force, we may be encircled together. We're isolated from the rest of the battle."

"I don't see any forces of Cylons. Still, what are you proposing?"

"We'd hope for a truce, maybe an alliance against the other Cylons."

"Quite impossible." said Lavochkin. "If there was a clear and present danger, I would consider it. As it is, we can hold our own. Your getting attacked is just a bonus."

"What if we agreed to cease attacking? A temporary truce, to see if they come back? If they find out what happened to their advance force, they'll be back soon enough."

"Twenty-four hours." said Lavochkin. "Then we continue."

Little Rock AFB, Arkansas

Robert Yeagar stuck his head out of the C-132K, his instructor right behind him. The training flight had been a normal navigation course, but again the landing was a little rough. It would go down in his record for sure, although it was not a red mark. He would have to clear up his landings or middle of the class might be all he could hope for.

"Not bad, Yeagar. Apart from that landing it was spot-on. Don't forget to mention to the ground crew about the radio, we need to get that looked at. Can't have it cutting out on us."

Yeagar sighed. He was good enough at self-criticism, he didn't need the help. It was his instructor's job, though.

Once inside the hangar, he signed off on his flight log, effectively handing over the aircraft to the ground crew.

"What was that?" he suddenly asked, putting a hand to his ear. "The band playing or something?" The air boss looked at him in confusion.

Suddenly the air-raid siren started howling. Everyone just stood staring at one another, unsure of what to do, before bolting for the designated exits. Pops and bangs began to be heard from outside, the echoes from large explosions further off. Most of it was drowned out by the sound of boots on concrete and the siren.

Then the thin metal siding of the hangar was shredded by a stream of tracer fire, and the orderly procession turned into panic.

Yeagar was not new to 314th wing, but neither was he a veteran. He panicked just as much as everyone else, trying to avoid the metal and concrete fragments flying through the air. A distinctive howling whine passed overhead, the sound of the attacking aircraft.

"They're everywhere!"

"Where the fuck is base defense?"

"MOVE YOURSELVES!"

The panic hit a fever pitch as a missile exploded right outside the hangar, obliterating one of the C-17Ds on the tarmac and blowing in the huge hangar doors, crushing those unlucky enough to have been caught there by the crowd. The smoke from the explosion quickly filled the remaining space, blinding everyone else.

Yeagar found himself next to a corridor, which he remembered led to the briefing room, change room, and generally away from the hangar. In panicked desperation he bolted down it, navigating on memory alone. He ran full speed into a door, fell to the ground, and pushed through it blindly. He found himself inside the men's washroom, clear compared to the smokey air outside. He scrambled to a tiled corner, and waited as the bombs went off outside.

Battlestar Panthalassa

Bishop tapped his hands on the arm of his chair. He hadn't left the bridge since the Panthalassa had jumped into the middle of the Colonial Fleet, and the ship was still at condition two. What annoyed him most however, was the fact that whoever was in command of the fleet hadn't contacted him. He was uneasy at being in a strange fleet with no mission or information, and was frustrated by it. It was similar to a feeling he got whenever he was somewhere he felt he wasn't supposed to be.

The doors opened to the bridge, and he looked around. "Ah, Mr. Hoshi."

Hoshi was looking uncomfortable. "Yes, Captain?"

Bishop gestured at the screen. "Would someone please tell me what's up? Adama sends us an emergency jump coordinate, and considering the numbers it was a good idea at the time. But when are we going to take your big friends and jump back?"

Hoshi shrugged. "To be honest, I'm not sure. I've been monitoring some comm traffic from the Raptor on the hangar deck, and..."

Bishop raised his eyebrows in a prodding manner. "And?"

"We're not jumping back as far as I can tell, I haven't been able to raise anyone."

Bishop nodded and looked back at the screen. "Mr. Hoshi, if this alliance, if that's what it in fact is, is to work we need a little more openness. If there's a problem I'd like to know about it. Or do you just look uneasy because of the lack of gravity?"

Hoshi blinked without saying a word. "Well... Galactica's been boarded by the Cylons."

"And you don't think I'd need to know about that?"

"I'm sure they can handle it on their own."

The captain chuckled to himself. "So that explains the shuttle traffic heading towards that ship and the fighters that have cut her off." Seeing Hoshi's look, he smiled again. "Yes, we know. We can help, you know. We're not helpless just because this ship happens to be a bit newer than yours."

Hoshi tried to scramble for words, finally resorting to "What help would you be willing to give?"

"We've embarked a special forces unit onboard, part of JTF-3," said Bishop. "Their specialty is space-borne operations, including counter-insurgency, counter-terrorism, sabotage, and extraction."

"I'll let Admiral Greer know. He seems to be in command right now."

Bishop seemed surprised. "What happened to Adama?"

"I don't know. I haven't heard anything."

"Okay, keep me informed." Bishop turned to the tactical station. "Lieutenant, stand down to condition three." He turned back to Hoshi. "Also ask him if it's okay for you to stay here as my liaison, I think you may become necessary sooner than later." Hoshi turned to leave, but Bishop interrupted him. "Oh, and he can come over for a visit if he wants, I'd like to talk with him." Again Hoshi turned to go, and again Bishop stopped him. "Oh, and be sure to say please." Hoshi finally left the bridge without being stopped.

Bishop decided to leave the bridge himself, and handed over command to the officer of the deck. He took one last look at the viewscreen. He knew Galactica was having problems, but otherwise it was all quiet in the Colonial Fleet.

Battlestar Galactica

"Admiral Greer reports incoming assistance from the Terran battlestar, ETA five minutes. Frak they're fast..."

Tigh nodded curtly. "Fine, route 'em to the hangar deck when they arrive." He looked past the comm station towards the back of the CIC. "DC, seal off Deck Five ventilation junctions. Burrell says that's where he is."

Down below decks, Burrell continued to hold position near the junction. His subordinate marines also held their spots in the maintenance crawlways surrounding the area.

Suddenly a strange noise came ahead of him. Burrell cocked his head to one side, trying to hear what it was. It quickly died down though. It wasn't mechanical, and seemed to be coming from a human.

"Who is it? Are you okay?" he shouted. The echo came ringing back, but not reply.

Gripping his carbine tightly, he advanced forward. He treaded as softly as he could, as the centurion was most likely behind the next bend. He peeked around a corner, and saw the centurion holding its arm up to the ventilation grating. A loud hissing noise was coming from it.

Burrell leaped backwards. "CIC, deck 5, it's releasing something into the air vents! Shut down the ventilation system! Now!"

Burrell heard the centurion start moving, no doubt it had heard him. But as he looked to his side, he saw a dead marine. A new kind of terror welled up. The marine hadn't a mark on his body, and as Burrell looked on, he thought he felt his throat constrict. He almost didn't notice the centurion come up behind him, and the sword deploy. In the end, that hurt less.

Galactica Port Landing Bay

"You're the deck chief?"

Laird looked up to see a Canadian soldier in jet-black fatigues. "Yeah, for now. What's up?"

"Your ship's been boarded, that's what. Captain Tom Hillier, JTF-3." He shook Liard's hand.

Laird looked over the Terran assault team. "You guys supposed to be here?"

"We were called here. Don't worry." Hillier nodded. "We're professionals. Just point us to the nearest Marine, they're supposed to coordinate us."

Laird in fact did literally point. "Uh, right... There should be some in the halls over there, I saw them earlier."

"Right, thanks."

Hillier led the way out of the hangar deck, entering the winding corridors of the flight pod. The first thing he noticed was the air quality. "Things are a little stale here," he said to his 2I.C, second-lieutenent Ritchie. "Either the vents are broken or their fans suck."

"There's no wind out of these grates, I think the system's down." came the reply from Ritchie. "Everyone better get their O2 tanks ready, just in case we need to move it. Oxygen will be running down."

"Good idea." said Hillier. "We still have to find the security forces here, though."

That didn't turn out to be difficult. Laird had been correct, and with the mobilization it wasn't hard to find them.

"Hello there!" Hillier called, not knowing how to distinguish Colonial ranks.

"Are you the Canadians?" the marine asked.

"That's us. We were told you'd have positions for us."

"The sergeant's over there, talk to her about it." The Marine pointed to another noncom down the hall.

"Thanks." said Hillier. It took no time to make it down the corridor, it was only a short distance. "Sergeant?"

"Hadrian." came the reply. "Sergeant Hadrian. You're the Canadian's were expecting?"

"Affirmative," said Hillier. "I'm Captain Tom Hillier, and this is second-lieutenent Steve Ritchie."

"Okay, Captain, we've got a slight change in the mission." said Hadrian. "Reports indicate the centurion released some kind of biological weapon into the vents. We've shut those down. However, it's still in the middle of the contaminated zone. Our CMO hasn't identified the toxin yet, but it's almost certainly one from the first war."

Hillier shrugged. "First war? Not very helpful, our First World War was almost one-hundred fifty years ago. I have a feeling you're not dealing with mustard gas and chlorine fumes."

"Certainly not. Nasty little bug, apparently. Almost instantly fatal."

"Ah, damn..." Hillier sighed. "Back to the shuttle, everyone, we gotta get the hazmat gear out. Sergeant, do you want us to try and take this guy out?"

"If you can, please do."

Hillier took his hand off his rifle and gestured towards the hangar deck. "Okay boys, let's go."

As the canadian special forces started to head back towards their shuttle, Hillier took one look back at the Colonial marines. He could tell by looking at them that they'd had no break for a long time. The strain showed, and all of them looked tired somehow. How long that had been, only they knew.

Strikestar Spitfire

Lee Adama- off-duty at the moment- lay on the small couch in his quarters with a magazine over his eyes and the lights dimmed. He'd taken some isonal for his headache, but it was still bugging him.

The automated door buzzer went off, and he groaned. "Yeah, who is it?"

He heard the door open and someone walk in. "Look," Apollo said. "I'm not having a..." He snapped his mouth shut as he saw Admiral Greer in the doorway.

"Not having a what?" Greer said.

"Nothing, Admiral. Well, just a headache, but it's fine."

"I hope so." said Greer. "Admiral Adama just got back from Earth little more than an hour ago, I don't know if you've been informed yet."

Lee shook his head. "No, I've been off-duty."

Greer nodded. "Okay... Well if you didn't know Earth has just been surrounded by a Cylon fleet, and Adama had to evacuate both Valkyrie and Panthalassa, a terran battlestar. The trouble is he's taking it a bit hard, as you'd understand."

"So you want me to talk to him."

"Good guess. Tigh's a little busy right now, but you're the next best man for the job. The point is I can't have Adama holed up on Valkyrie right now, I need him at his best especially now."

Lee scratched his head thoughtfully, running over the request. "I don't know what I could do, I mean he might let me in, but..." He shrugged. "What the hell, I'll try it."

"Good man, commander." said Greer, turning to the door. "I just hope it works, that's all. I'd see him myself, but in the state he seems to be in, you'd be better."

Lee nodded. "I'll see what I can do."

SSR, Earth

Lavochkin bolted upright as he heard the sound. "Tanks!" he bellowed. Grinning to himself, he jogged up the stairs of the ruined shop, bursting out onto the roof despite the gray drizzle.

"It's them!" he hissed. Then he shouted "Comm, get on the radio! Tell them our Army's here!"

Lavochkin ignored the next reply, and continued to look out across the city. Pulling out a pair of binoculars, he checked the incoming column. There were tanks alright, and yet...

"Something's wrong..." he muttered. "Bozhemoi!"

They were under attack!

It looked like a running battle from the distance. Ground-to-air missiles screamed away from the column while the strange round Cylon craft from earlier strafed the tanks again and again. An APC exploded right in front of a T-82 and swerved off the road. A missile then obliterated the Cylon raider.

"Comm! Get a hold of the AAA units, tell them to sight in!" Lavochkin shouted without taking his eyes off the battle. The army was definitely feeling the brunt of the air attack, under fire from the strange new raiders.

The lead units were now approaching the edge of the downtown core, approaching the rearguard of the paratroopers. Lavochkin could see from his position surface-to-air missiles, both handheld and launcher-based, being readied by paratroopers hidden in ruined buildings. Even from a distance he could see the soldiers tensing up...

On a signal, rockets roared from the buildings, plunging them into an almost fog-like cloud. The missiles quickly became too small to see, but the contrails stood out against the grey sky. They split up, each picking the nearest target. Several raiders erupted in flame as the missiles hit their mark.

"Da!" Lavochkin pumped his fist into the air. More missiles rose from the army column, obliterating more aircraft.

And then a very peculiar thing happened. As the Cylon vessel banked over the centre of town, automatic fire opened up from the Cylon held area. One of the Cylon (other Cylons?) ships exploded in mid-flight.

Why were they firing on their own?

Lavochkin became even more confused as he saw the surviving raiders open up on the Cylon-held area.

The other raiders seemed to be breaking off, as the motorized vehicles entered the city proper. The soldiers who saw this rose a cheer.

Lavochkin only stared as the Raiders retreated. And only one thought occurred to him.

"They were telling the truth..." he murmured.

Battlestar Galactica

Hillier shifted his isolation suit uncomfortably. "I never get over how I hate these things..." he muttered.

They were now deep in the afflicted area, however. The suit was the only thing keeping him alive. The good news was that a single centurion could only carry so much contaminant, and that it would dilute the further out it spread. Trouble was it seemed deadly enough the even a diluted strain would be fatal.

"Movement, dead ahead." said Ritchie.

"Understood." replied Hillier. "Spread out, you two, take point, the rest, cover."

Fanning out to both sides of the corridor, the team moved forward slowly.

Right on queue, a large metallic humanoid swung out from behind a corner, a captured colonial carbine in its hands. Instantly it was drawing bead on some of the team.

"Down!" Hillier roared. The flanking soldiers opened fire on the machine, automatic rifles bucking in their grip and plasma rounds arcing towards the Cylon. Unfortunately, even the Terran plasma rounds merely ricocheted off the armour plating.

"Grenades!" Ritchie called out. The centurion chose this moment to open fire, blanketing the corridor with automatic bursts.

Corporal Giles fell, his HAZMAT suit punctured by the wild firing. Everyone else ducked, trying to flatten themselves against the bulkheads.

"Let 'im have it!" Hillier shouted. "Firing one!"

A single grenade from Hillier's rifle shredded the centurion, scattering metal shrapnel all around the corridor. The canadian soldiers flattened on the ground, shielding themselves.

"Everyone alright?" Hillier asked. His attention was immediately taken by sergeant Sykes, writhing on the ground. A piece of shrapnel had penetrated his forearm, and the suit was breached. Hillier immediately opened a radio link. "CIC, this is Hillier. Your centurion's down, get the medics up here asap!"

Closing the radio link, he shouldered his rifle. "Okay, let's get out of here. Standard decon procedures, and we'll be in quarantine until they figure out what kind of crap this gas is." Hillier gestured with one hand and led the team back the way they'd come.

Richmond, Virginia

One of the first questions asked when a president is informed of a crisis is "Where is the nearest carrier?" This crisis had been the first to which the answer was "All under attack." General Trent had immediately recommended to evacuate the executive branch to Cheyenne Mountain. Then Edwards AFB had fallen under fire.

Warren's Nation Security Advisor, Brent Jenkins, had then recommended Philadelphia. Trent then stated flatly that small flying saucers had appeared over the city, and were engaged with air force units in the area. Shortly afterward more of the fighters were reported just outside the District of Columbia.

So President Warren and the executive staff were now crowded into a field command centre near Richmond, Virginia. And things were not good.

"We lost the Sentinel..." said Brigadier General Patton. "That makes five starships destroyed, and three left."

Warren was leaning against a tent post. "Okay, so you're pretty much saying we're getting slaughtered up there."

Patton grimaced. "They outnumber us and they have smaller fighter craft, all of which are armed. Once our ships get off their salvo, they've pretty much got the laser emplacements, and they were designed for missile interception, not swarms of fighters. Once the fighters flank them, they're beyond the line-of-sight for targeting."

Trent leaned over Patton's shoulder. "The first salvos destroyed one ship and critically wounded three more. They're just designed for a different type or warfare than we're equipped to handle."

Warren stood up and started pacing, massaging his forehead. "Just like Adama said, right? So we've got no free carriers, our starfleet is being torn to shreds, our satellites are being hunted down and communications are crap. Anything I missed?"

"Our military bases are being targeted first?"

Warren slammed a fist into the tent post, causing the entire structure to waver. "What about nuclear silos?"

"We've got underground Vega missile silos still online, as well as our Ohio II subs." said Trent. "Should I get Admiral Stearns up here?"

"No." said Warren. "Override that. I just want them launched."

No one said a word.

Warren saw their reaction. His reaction surprised everyone.

He burst out laughing.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I campaigned against missile defense from day one. This is a good way to get rid of the damn things..." He chuckled and paused to catch breath. "Launch. Launch them all. Get them out of the atmosphere and save the goddamned planet while we still can."

Trent exhaled and raised his eyebrows in disbelief and anxiousness. "You do realize that once we fire them off then everyone else will too? And without satellite comms there's nothing we can do about it?"

"I figured that would happen." Warren said. "Doesn't make much of a difference if we're all dead now, does it? Better to be shot like a sheep... I forget the saying." He grinned. "Point is, let's go down fighting, eh?"

Trent nodded. "Yes, Mr. President."

"Look on the bright side, General. Things just got easier. No more talking, just kill the bastards."

Ottawa, Canada

The radio had died three hours earlier. Tyrol was sitting in a corner, growing more and more uncomfortable as his muscles ached. The floor and wall were not comfortable at all.

"We going to stay in here any longer?" he called out.

"I hope so." Remus shrugged, sitting opposite Tyrol on the other side of the room. "It got boring since they stopped playing Won't Get Fooled Again." He put down his pistol and scratched his head. "I think it's safe to go out now, though."

Tyrol scrambled to his feet. "About time, too."

Remus, careful to hold the pistol loosely, rose to his feet himself. In his other hand, he carried what looked to Tyrol like a screwdriver.

It was, it turned out. Remus jammed the metal tip into the door and levered the lock. The heavy door started to swing open. Remus looked at the bent screwdriver and tossed it away. "I should carry one of those things." he said. "Useful."

"If I had a hammer..." Tyrol shot back.

"Ha ha. I think you're catching on, old chap." Remus said. "Now let's take a peek outside, shall we? My new Cylon homeworld? Just until we can get the other one back, of course."

Remus then paused, as if he remembered something. "Oh, hang on, gotta have a welcoming committee." He walked over to the FTL communicator and opened a channel. "Flagship, this is your... imperious leader. I'm in the city formally known as Ottawa, the NRC, and I'd like my entourage there, if you don't mind."

"By your command."

Remus shut down the link. "I like that. I thought that'd be something they could relate to, 'imperious leader'. It's original."

"You're mad..."

"Why thank you, Chief." Remus grinned. "You resemble that remark. Now let's go."

The building was strangely empty. Their footsteps echoed down the corridor. They burst into the sunlight five minutes later, only Tyrol wasn't ready for what he saw.

The sunlight was filtered through smoke on the horizon, and was more red than it had been. Original Cylon skyraiders wailed overhead, beating off an assault by Canadian air force craft. The sounds of explosions could easily be heard.

Remus laughed. "They're back!" he shouted. "Ready for revenge after the First War!"

A noise behind Tyrol caught his attention. He turned to see four gold-plated centurions walk up.

"Ah!" Remus said. "My entourage. Since we got centurions I thought I should get praetorians. Nice touch, eh?" He turned to face the Cylon praetorians. "Enhanced centurions, really. Nothing fancy. I thought it'd be really cool to have some of those new centurions for my guard but these praetorians will do."

He turned to Tyrol. "Now, I have to find a capitol. Let's go,"

"By your command."

Battlestar Valkyrie

"Hello?" Lee murmured as he entered Adama's cabin.

"I'm busy, Commander. Not now."

"Dad..." Lee said. "I don't think you are."

Lee walked through the threshold and into the cabin itself. It was dark, with only two lamps providing light. Adama was lying on his cot, staring at the ceiling. "Is there something you'd like, commander?"

The door closed behind Lee. "I'm not here as Commander Adama."

Adama glanced over at him, the shadows lengthening. "Joe Greer sent you, didn't he?" He sighed. "He wants to make some strategy, or plans of some kind... Really?"

"Dad..."

"No." Adama said quietly. "Not this time. Where do we go from here? Nowhere..." He looked back up at the ceiling.

Lee looked around hastily, pulling up a chair. "What makes you say that? We're still intact, and we have a greater force than ever! We used to have one old battlestar, and we pulled through! We rescued the survivors off of New Caprica with half the crew on the surface! What's changed now?"

"What's plan B, then?" Adama said hoarsely. "Where do we go from here? We survive the Colonies, but we can head to Earth. We survive New Caprica, but we can head to Earth. We survive Earth... Where do we go? Where the frak do we go now!?"

"We'll find somewhere. We'll find something."

Adama laughed, but choked and started coughing. "So the Cylons can find us again? Dammit, how much further have we got to run? To escape them once and for all? Can we? Can we!?"

Lee shook his head. "Not with that attitude we're can't. Dad, look at you, this isn't like you at all!"

"Hope, son. That's what I'm missing. The entire Cylon fleet in orbit around Earth, and what've we got? Ten ships? Including the Canadians. It's a losing battle, Commander."

"So what do we do then? Hide in here?" Lee shook his head in disbelief. "Why not come up with some alternate plan? Where do go? Where do we live?"

Adama didn't say a word, so Lee continued. "We don't even know the situation. All the Cylon fleet may not have jumped there. And Remus sounds like he's trying to screw over the other Cylons too, he'll have some go at the Cylon homeworld I bet."

Adama considered that. "The other Cylons..." He was silent for a few more minutes. "They'll tie up a huge portion of..." He bolted upright. "I need to see Joe Greer ASAP. He knows the new Cylon forces. If they keep enough Cylons busy, we may be able to blast Earth free."

"That's not what I was hoping for..." Lee said.

Adama ignored him. "There may be a chance yet. Fool's hope, probably. But it's better than rotting out here for another dozen years. We're going to take back Earth."

Yaroslyl, SSR

"You propose an alliance, then?" said General Levin, commander of the First Tank Army. He was sitting across from two Cylon humans, in a ruined cafe between the Russian- and Cylon-controlled portions of downtown.

"That's what we've been telling you all along!" the Cylon who called himself Cavil said.

General Levin scratched his head. "Really..." He shrugged. "You do realize that the reason my army is here is to blast you and retake this city?"

"That was before the current situation." Lavochkin, sitting to Levin's left, reminded him. "Remember, we don't even know what's happening outside of this city."

"Neither do we." said the other Cylon. "Our ships seem to have vanished without letting us know."

"And our comms are down too." Levin said. "We're well equipped for air attack, of course, we have plenty of SAMs set up now. As for air defense our air force is barely recognizable, thanks to-"

"Sir, now is not the time." Lavochkin said.

Levin gave out an exasperated sigh. 'Very well, Major. The question remains: what do we do?"

"Well I wouldn't trust them further than I could throw them." Lavochkin said, loud enough for the two to hear him.

"Which is not very far, I imagine." Cavil replied. "However I don't trust you either, and yet I seem to be sitting here, don't I?"

"I'll give him that much." Levin said.

Cavil looked like he was about to snap something in response to the third-person naming, but stopped himself.

"General, I don't think we've got very much to lose." said Lavochkin. "They've already shown weakness on their part, and we now know where they are based. We have the upper hand. If they put a nose out of joint, we flatten them."

Cavil shifted uncomfortably. "Ah, I'm afraid he's got a good point there. Without our supplies we're running low on pretty much everything. I don't want to be the first Cylon to regenerate from starving to death, we need food too."

"Well the last I heard things have gone to hell beyond our borders." Levin said. "The new guys are everywhere. Even the Yanks are getting the short end of the stick. I think we should hole up in here as long as we can. Because as far as I know, we may be the last legitimate fighting force on this continent.