Disclaimer: Much as I wish BSG was mine, I don't own it.
In the Eye of the Storm, Chapter 4
Deep Space, unknown coordinates
25th July 2467 TSR
0600hrs
Galactica hung in space, her drives dead for the first time in years. Great rents in her hull vented atmosphere, burning chemicals and debris like fiery blood. Tiny figures swarmed over her, ant like in comparison to the size of the vessel, dragging hoses or bulky repair equipment to the areas most critically in need.
Chief Tyrol cursed the bulky, clumsy EVA suit he was currently wearing. It made all his movements slow, imprecise and difficult, and it's field of vision left much to be desired. He shifted his grip on the nozzle of the hose he and the motley damage control crew behind him had managed to drag through the smoke filled hell that Galactica's remaining pressurised compartments had become, and then through the airless mortuary the Cylon missiles had transformed at least a third of the battlestar into. Checking that it was pointed to the base of the inferno before him, he activated the radio built into his helmet.
"Alright!" He called. "Hit it!"
"Got it, chief!" Responded the marine corporal hunched over the fire suppression unit's control module.
The hose twitched, causing the five people holding the flexible tube to tighten their grip on the handholds provided along it's length. The chief bit back another curse as the hose bucked in his hands, struggling to keep it pointed at the base of the blaze. Finally, a stream of white foam shot from the hose, sputtering into the chemical fuelled fire in front of him. The flames recoiled from the inert foam, retreating from the slowly advancing damage control party, and revealing a hell of scorched and melted metal that had, at one point, been a corridor. It was slow going. The fire fought tenaciously, and by the time the last flames were extinguished, Tyrol was afraid they were going to run out of suppressant.
"Good work people." He muttered, wiping his faceplate clear of the residue deposited by the extinguished fire. "Any word from CIC?"
"None, Chief." Replied one of his impromptu team. The insignia on his suit indicated he was an engineer, but Tyrol had no idea what the man's name was, or whether the suit actually belonged to him. "Looks like this entire area's been cut off. Don't look like there's any power- not even the emergency lights're on. Toasters prob'ly took out all the runs to CIC from this part of the ship, so.."
"So we'll have to send someone there in person." The Chief finished for him. "Cally, you're up." He said, turning to the only member of the team he recognised.
"But Chief..."
"No! No buts. We can't just keep blundering around in here without knowing the situation or where we're needed the most. Get to CIC, or any part of the ship with active commo, and tell whoever's up there where we are, and that we need instructions. Then get back here as fast as you can. Go!"
"Bu.."
"That's an order!"
Cally grunted once, then turned and rushed off the way the part had come. Tyrol turned to his remaining followers, pulling the welding torch out of his equipment belt.
"C'mon, we've got work to do." He said, indicating the ruined corridor with a wave of the tool. "Get those chem tanks sealed!"
Staring at the multitude of red lights at the damage control station, Adama felt sick. The Cylons had pounded Galactica until she was almost a complete wreck. There was no way he could protect the fleet if the Cylons managed to follow them any time soon.
Or what was left of the fleet, anyway. A glance at the wildly flickering dradis display indicated that just under two thirds of the fleet has managed to escape the Cylon trap. He was grimly certain that, had it not been for the Cylon's sudden and inexpicable attack on those mystery contacts, the machines would have gotten the whole fleet. He had no idea of the status of those ships- Galactica could no longer receive incoming communications after a Cylon nuke had burned the receiver assemblies from existence, but she still had some transmitters left, which was nothing short of a miracle, in his carefully unvoiced opinion. As soon as Galactica had emerged from transit, he had ordered the fleet to scatter at the first sign of any Cylon pursuit, and to rendezvous as soon as possible at a nearby blue giant star. Fortunately, the Cylons had not yet come after the battered refugee fleet.
"What do we have left?" He asked a battered Lieutenant Gaeta, who was bleeding from a gash on his forehead.
"Not much, sir" Gaeta replied, wiping the blood from his eyes, and leaning heavily against the side of the nearest console. "Engines are dead, and most of our starboard weapons are gone." He indicated the solid wall of red lights on the starboard aspect of the ship. "Starboard flight pod's gone as well, but it was still non operational. We've lost all of our receivers, and ninety percent of our transmitter arrays. Dradis is still functional, barely, but we've lost internal communications to almost everything aft of frame twenty one on our starboard side, so we can't coordinate our damage control efforts."
"What about the magazines, and fuel storage?"
"Magazines are safe, sir. Ammunition hoists are all broken on to starboard, but the failsafes stopped any backblast from starting off a cook up." The lieutenant leant forward and rested his finger on a cluster of blinking lights. "Fuel is another matter. We've got chemical fires from frame twenty six aft to frame thirty two. The whole area's open to vacuum, and it's one of the areas cut off from communications. There are several almost full tylieum tanks near the blaze, and two more in this section." He pointed to another area on the representation, where the lights blazed solid red. "That area was shredded by armour fragments when the armour in the area was penetrated by several Raider nukes. There's a tylieum spill advancing down towards frame twenty nine, but it's not ablaze yet. If we don't get the fires put out, or stop that spill, the Cylons will arrive here to find a debris field."
Adama glared at the schematic for nearly three seconds.
"Who do we have in contact?"
"From damage control? I've got a marine sergeant with most of a platoon. He's got suits, but no damage control equipment. There's also most of the deck crew from the port flight pod. The Chief went to help with damage control before all the pilots got back, and took Cally with him. We don't know where they are at the moment, but the rest of the deck crew are moving over to help right now."
"They have supplies?"
"Yes sir. Suits and tools."
"Have them take enough for this sergeant, and meet him here." Adama stabbed a finger at an area just outside the encroaching tylieum spill. "Clean up or stop that slick, then tell them to help with fire suppression. And make sure they take some proper radios, and distribute them to any damage control teams they find."
"I'll get right on it sir."
Cylon Base Star
M324-02
26th July 2467 TSR
The Six model looked at the heat warped lump of metal in her hand, and traced the twisted by recogniseable letters etched into the brass square. The Colonial Standard characters.
"What does it say?"
The model eleven opposite her shrugged.
"We don't know."
"What?"
"We don't know. The letters themselves are Colonial Standard. Well, most of them, anyway. There look like there are some extras. The language is completely unkown."
"So they're human"
"Yes. The bodies we've found confirm that."
"But not colonial?"
"Not unless they've developed an entirely new language whilest they've been out here. Not to mention the advanced nature of the thechnology we've recovered."
"So who are they? The mysterious Thirteenth Tribe from their silly Sacred Scrolls?"
"Possibly. If so, it makes little difference. We will destroy them like we did the Colonies. God will accept nothing else."
"Of course. That goes without saying. Do you know where we will strike?"
"Not yet. The computers recovered from the wrecks are being analysed now. It shouldn't be long."
"Good."
Six traced the letters on the brass, and wondered what 'HMS London, CA(C)-243, launched 23rd August 2451 TSR, Sigismund I Shipyard, Earth' meant.
A.N: Yeah, yeah. Most of a year since I updated. This is, essentially, just to let anyone who might want to know that I'm still alive. I was going to make this significantly longer, but RL is still being unplesant, and I figured that I might as well post what I had at a convinent cut off point. It's about a third of what I had planned for chapter 4, but I have it done up to this point, and probably won't finish the last two thirds until after Christmas. I've said to people who emailed me that this wasn't dead, and I mean it!