Orbit of Scorpia
2 minutes into the Cylon attack
Mercury-class Heavy Battlestar Heart of Storm BS-97
"Starboard full!" I yelled, hauling myself off the floor for the second time. "Damage report!"
"Sir—nuke hit the dorsal side. Hull breach. Some point-defense guns are down," stammered Alex, the damage control officer, his voice tight with panic.
What the hell is happening? My mind raced. Another Basestar just jumped in. ROB, why?!
I screamed the question inwardly, hurling it at the Random Omnipotent Being who'd done this to me. One moment, I'd been drifting off to sleep in my ordinary, mundane life—and the next, I was standing on cold steel, my body on fire. Someone had yanked me upright and called me Admiral. Admiral! Me, who'd never even thought about joining the military. At the very least, you could've dropped me in before the attack, you bastard!
"Why aren't our jump drives online yet?!" I bellowed, my voice cracking. "Target Basestar Four with our fixed batteries—fire when ready! And where the frak is my fleet?!"
I spun toward the DRADIS, scanning for friendlies. Nothing but red. Then—another contact blinked in.
"Fifth Basestar just jumped in," Jonathan, the DRADIS officer, reported, his voice flat, as if hope had already fled. My hands gripped the console harder. Another explosion rattled the CIC, and I cursed ROB for throwing me into this nightmare.
Three Basestars high on starboard. One dead ahead. The last— I glanced at the DRADIS again—was closing from behind, still launching fighters. Over a hundred missiles screamed toward Heart of Storm's engines.
"Frak the lock!" I barked. "Full starboard! Get us between Basestars Two and Three!" The ship lurched violently as something exploded, throwing me forward. I stumbled, catching myself on the main console.
"What was that?!" I shouted.
"Sir! Battery Fourteen just got destroyed—Cylon Raider strike!"
"Perfect," I snapped, sarcasm sharp, as another shockwave hit. "Engines full ahead!" My mind raced, a desperate plan forming. "Close for broadside with Basestar Three and prepare to switch the starboard batteries to HE!"
Galen, my XO, shot me a sharp look. It told me exactly what he thought: stripping the starboard flak field in the middle of an assault was madness. But madness was all we had left. If we wanted to even the odds, we had to strike hard and fast.
"Four clicks and closing fast," Jonathan reported, unease thick in his voice. Maybe he thought I'd lost my mind. Perhaps I had.
"Crossing three clicks right… now!" I nodded at his words, scanning the DRADIS again. Two swarms of missiles were closing in from starboard—one from Basestar Three, about two dozen strong. The PD guns should handle that. But the swarm from Basestar Five? Over a hundred missiles, some nukes. My plan might've been a terrible idea. Too late now. "Execute!"
At my command, the starboard batteries switched their flak rounds to HE and locked onto the Basestar. Over ten dual-barreled turrets roared to life, spitting death on the offensive for the first time. The Basestar's fragile hull didn't stand a chance.
Within seconds, nearly a dozen HE rounds slammed into it, tearing meter-sized holes through its structure. Another salvo, and then another. The DRADIS flickered. The Basestar's signature vanished.
The bridge crew barely had time to celebrate before a few missiles struck the alligator head, slamming us to the floor.
"Flak rounds—now!" I yelled in desperation as missiles exploded against the starboard side of the ship. Without the flak field, they overwhelmed our point-defense turrets.
The main batteries switched fire as fast as they could, wiping out the last missile from the second swarm.
"Damage report!" I ordered, leaning heavily on the main console.
"Sir, multiple hull breaches—dozens of point-defense guns gone. Three main batteries are scrap."
We'd gotten lucky. Extremely lucky. The debris from Basestar Three's explosion had wiped out almost a dozen missiles—and all of its nukes.
"Engines off. Full port. Let us drift," I ordered.
The helmsman carried out the command without hesitation, his hands steady despite the chaos. The ship groaned in protest as the massive engines cut off, the Heart of Storm adjusting to the maneuver with a shudder that reverberated through the hull. For the first time in minutes, the hum of the CIC quieted, replaced by the ominous vibrations of stressed metal and the distant echoes of battle.
We couldn't pull off something like that again. I grimly studied the DRADIS display, which showed the Basestars shifting into two groups. Four red icons loomed: two closing in from port fore, the others creeping in from port aft. They were boxing us in, slowly but deliberately.
My stomach churned. Engaging one group would leave us wide open to the other—trapped between two Basestars on either side. Suicide.
We'd gotten lucky with Basestar Three. It had been too far from its allies, isolated enough to take down before the rest overwhelmed us. That luck was gone now. I clenched my jaw as the formation tightened, the gap between us shrinking with every second.
"How many Vipers have their CPN uninstalled?" I asked sharply, watching as Cylon Raiders began retreating to rearm. The second wave would be on us soon.
Galen turned toward his terminal. "Forty-three Vipers ready to launch, sir, from Five and Six Squadron. Orders?"
I hesitated for only a moment. "Launch them."
At my command, the CIC crew sprang into action. I watched as forty-three fighters deployed—twenty-five from the starboard flight pod, eighteen from the port, their signatures flickering to life as they moved into position. The sight brought a faint flicker of hope. But it wasn't much. Not against four Basestars and two swarms of incoming Raiders.
"Have Squad Five form up on the ventral side and Squad Six on the dorsal," I continued, my voice firm. "Priority is to intercept any Raiders that get through the flak field. Keep them clear of our hull."
"Yes, sir," Galen replied, relaying my orders to the flight controllers.
"Raiders and missiles incoming!" Jonathan reported sharply, his voice cutting through the tense hum of the CIC. "Over four hundred fifty missiles—thirty nukes—and at least two hundred Raiders."
I swore under my breath. "Flak field at twelve clicks from port. Engines, full power!" The deck vibrated as the engines roared to life, the sudden acceleration breaking us out of the drifting maneuver.
"Flak field established, sir," someone called out.
I nodded, leaning closer to the DRADIS. "Phalanx, prioritize the nukes and missiles. Ignore the Raiders for now. Tighten the flak field by two clicks every time a missile breaches it."
"Yes, Admiral," came the response, the crew working with almost mechanical precision.
The CIC fell uncomfortably silent, the tension thick enough to choke on. My eyes stayed locked on the DRADIS as the missiles closed the distance. A sick knot twisted in my stomach as the first wave entered the flak field.
Four hundred fifty missiles. . . Four hundred. . . Three hundred fifty.
The flak field spat death, shredding the missiles with terrifying speed, but it wasn't enough. The numbers were still overwhelming. "Bring the field in!" I barked as the missiles breached the first line of defense. The field contracted inward, closer to the ship.
Eight clicks. Three hundred fifty missiles.
Six clicks. Three hundred.
The Phalanx systems kicked in, targeting the nukes with ruthless efficiency. Twelve nuclear warheads were destroyed in seconds, their signatures vanishing from the DRADIS. It still wasn't enough.
Four clicks. Two hundred fifty.
Two clicks. One hundred fifty.
One click.
"Brace for impact!" I roared, throwing my arms around the console and hugging it for dear life.
The first impacts slammed into the ship like a sledgehammer. The Heart of Storm groaned in protest, shuddering violently as it absorbed the blows. Explosions ripped through the hull, and the deck lights flickered madly, casting the CIC in erratic bursts of light and shadow. Somewhere behind me, a console sparked, and I heard a sharp scream.
I thought it couldn't get worse—until the first nuke hit.
The ship lurched violently, and I was thrown forward. Pain exploded in my skull as my head hit the console, and the world went black.
"W-e u- Adm-a-!" A muffled voice cut through the haze, distant and distorted, as though it were coming from behind a thick door. My body felt heavy, my head pounding. It took me a few seconds to remember where I was—what was happening.
I blinked hard, forcing the world back into focus. A hand appeared in front of me, and I grabbed it, allowing the crew member to pull me to my feet. My vision swam, but I steadied myself on the edge of the console.
"Damage!" I yelled instinctively, but no answer came.
Frowning, I glanced around the CIC. The air reeked of smoke and burnt circuits, and sparks rained down from a damaged overhead panel. My eyes locked onto Alex, the damage control officer, lying motionless on the deck.
"Frak!" I whispered, rushing to the damage control station. My hands shook as I ran the panel, the screen flickering erratically in front of me. My stomach sank as the damage reports scrolled across the screen. Fires. Hull breaches. Batteries offline. Point-defense guns on the port side were almost non-existent. The ship was barely holding together.
"Galen!" I called out, spotting my XO in the chaos. He was lifting a dazed crewman to their feet. "Damage control is yours!" I yelled, stepping back as I saw him nod and move toward the console.
I turned back to the DRADIS—and my breath caught. Another missile salvo, this time over one hundred strong, was closing in fast.
There wasn't enough time. I gripped the edge of the console, trying to steady the growing panic in my chest. "Frak," I muttered under my breath.
"Roll us 180 starboard—NOW!" I roared at Lisa, the helm officer. "Do it, or we're dead!"
Lisa's hands flew over the controls, her jaw clenched tight. The Heart of Storm groaned in protest as the massive ship began its roll, the sound of metal grinding against itself echoing through the CIC. A deep vibration rattled the deck beneath us, as if the ship itself were screaming in agony.
The missiles were closing fast.
"Twelve clicks!" Jonathan called out from the DRADIS station, his voice taut with panic. The roll was halfway complete.
"Eight clicks!" The rotation finished with a shudder, the ship's starboard side now facing the brunt of the incoming fire.
"Flak field, four clicks out! Fire—NOW!" I barked.
The Phalanx turrets erupted, tracer rounds streaking into the void like fiery threads. On the DRADIS, I watched with grim satisfaction as over a dozen warheads blinked out, shredded by the concentrated fire. But it wasn't nearly enough.
"Six clicks!" Jonathan's voice rose with tension. "One hundred-plus missiles still inbound!"
"Five clicks!" My hands tightened around the console as I willed the numbers to shrink. Still one hundred-plus.
"Four clicks!" The first wave smashed into the flak field, tearing through over fifty missiles in a furious barrage.
"Two clicks!" Jonathan shouted, his tone grim. "Fifty-plus still incoming!"
"One click!" My heart plummeted as the DRADIS still showed over a dozen missile signatures screaming toward us.
"Brace for impact!" I bellowed, throwing my arms around the console and hugging it tightly. Around me, the crew scrambled, clutching their stations or bracing against the bulkheads. The dim, flickering light cast pale, fear-stricken faces in sharp relief.
The impacts slammed into the ship with bone-jarring force. The Heart of Storm lurched, the CIC shaking like it was caught in an earthquake. Sparks showered from overhead panels, and a deafening screech filled the air as the hull groaned under the assault. The tortured sound of twisting metal drowned out the shouting of the crew.
"We've got a hull breach and a fire in Section 12!" Galen shouted from the damage control station, his voice hoarse. He turned toward me, his face streaked with soot. "Engines one and two are barely operational!"
I swore under my breath, my knuckles white against the console. The ship was on the verge of collapse. My voice came out in a growl. "Galen, get in contact with the engineering crew at FTL. Tell them to HURRY THE FRAK UP!"
Galen relayed the order, shouting into his comm as the vibrations from another near-hit rattled the deck. The tension stretched taut as I waited, watching the DRADIS with dread. The new salvo loomed closer.
Then I heard it—words that felt like salvation.
"Sir, FTL is online!" Galen reported, a faint note of relief in his voice.
"Recall our fighters and jump us anywhere!" I snapped, glancing at the DRADIS. The missiles were closing in fast.
Eighteen clicks: Fighters disengaging and flying toward the hangars.
Sixteen clicks: The first Vipers made it inside.
Fourteen clicks: More fighters docked.
Twelve clicks: The last fighter signal blinked inside.
"Jump!" I yelled.
The Heart of Storm, battered and broken, leapt into FTL. The ship screamed as pressure wracked its damaged hull, a tortured symphony of groans and creaks. For a terrifying moment, I thought it would shatter completely. But after a few agonizing seconds, the noise stopped, and the ship settled.
I slumped over the console, my chest heaving as I tried to slow my racing heart. Around me, the crew was still. Pale, wide-eyed faces stared at me, waiting for the next command.
"Alex, Galen," I said, glancing at them. Alex had woken up, though he looked unsteady. "Damage control is yours. I want my ship in one piece—do whatever you have to."
They both nodded and hurried off. I turned toward the FTL officer, my voice hoarse but steady. "Where are we? And I want a map of nearby space—anything close, civilian or military."
Finally, I turned to the communications officer. "Keep me updated on any chatter about the Colonies. I need to know what's left. And anything you can find on Cylon fleet movements."
The CIC fell quiet, the faint hum of the battered ship the only sound as the crew began to move. I leaned on the console, staring at the dark void outside. We'd survived—for now. But the fight wasn't over.
One Hour later
"Sir, we've detected jump signatures," Jonathan reported from the DRADIS station. "Too far to identify what it was."
I sighed loudly, another problem stacked on top of the hundred others. "Send a Raptor with a volunteer. If it's Cylons, they're to jump away immediately but not to use, the Cylons will spot it signature and tell them were we are."
Jonathan nodded and relayed the order. I turned back to the monitor in front of me, my eyes scanning the damage report. I still couldn't believe we were alive.
Weapons:
-17/30 heavy dual turrets (port: 4/13, starboard: 9/13, fore: 4/4)
-4/4 dual fore fixed super-heavy cannons
-319/620 PD turrets:
heavy quadruple Flak: port: 12/60, starboard: 41/60;
Triple Phalanx: port: 58/250, starboard: 208/250
-17/24 heavy missile silos (6 heavy nukes, 96 heavy missiles; port: 5/12, starboard: 12/12)
Armor and Hull:
Hull Breaches: Multiple
Armor Damage:
Port: Extreme
Starboard: Heavy
Dorsal and Ventral: Moderate
Engines:
Engine 1: Heavy damage (15%)
Engine 4: Heavy damage (21%)
Engine 7: Moderate damage (57%)
Fighters and Raptors:
Vipers:
Squadron 1:40/40
Squadron 2: 40/40
Squadron 3: 40/40
Squadron 4: 40/40
Squadron 5: 19/40 (5 of them damage)
Squadron 6: 29/40 (3 of them damage)
Squadron 7: 20e/20e
Squadron 8: 20e/20e
Total: 240 Vipers operational, 8 damage
Raptors:
Squadron 1: 10/10
Squadron 2: 10/10
Total: 20/20 Raptors operational
Total pilots:
-260 ready to fight
-8 in med bay
Total personnel not including pilots:
-864
-145 in med bay
I skimmed the report, my frown deepening as my eyes landed on a peculiar line. "Twenty-e?" I muttered. "MKVIIe from Diaspora?" I shook my head. "Whatever."
I glanced toward Galen. "Combine Squadrons Five and Six into one," I ordered, then turned back to the damage report. "Alex—hull breaches first. How long to patch them up?"
Alex glanced up from his station, his face grim. "Twelve to eighteen hours minimum, sir. Realistically? Probably longer."
I groaned, running a hand through my hair. "Okay. And the weapons? Any of them salvageable?"
Alex shook his head slightly. "We might get a few flak guns and maybe two dozen Phalanx turrets back online. No main turrets, though—they're completely destroyed. But we could salvage some electronic components from them."
I took a deep breath before asking, "If we start producing Phalanx turrets immediately, how many could we make in a day?"
"I'd estimate four to eight, sir, but we'd need raw materials—and I'd have to check with the Chief Engineer to confirm."
"And we need about 250, right?"
Alex nodded. "Yes, sir. Two hundred forty-eight, to be exact. At this rate, it would take us between 30 and 60 days to replace them all."
Thirty to sixty days. My stomach twisted at the thought. Two months just to get this ship's defenses mostly back online. I slapped my forehead lightly, the sound echoing in the tense CIC.
"Do we even have enough electronics for that?"
Alex hesitated, looking at our cargo list, then nodded. "Easily, sir. We've got enough to outfit over 500 turrets—and for about 400 Vipers, if it came to that."
I let out a long breath, relief briefly cutting through the tension. "Okay. No Raptor jump drives, though, right?"
Alex shook his head. "No, sir."
Of course not. Because why make things easy? I pinched the bridge of my nose, willing my frustration to stay in check. At least we had electronics.
"I'll leave you to your job then," I said with a nod, turning away from Alex and moving toward Joel at the communications station. He was completely focused, scanning for any scrap of information he could pull in. His hands flew across the controls, his face tight with concentration.
I set a hand on his shoulder, making him flinch. "Any news on Colonial or Cylon fleet movements?" I asked.
He shook his head, his eyes still on the screen. "Just scraps here and there, sir. But it looks bad. From what I can tell, every Colonial ship with a CPN was disabled before it was destroyed. We've lost contact with everything." He hesitated, his voice lowering slightly. "Sir, we don't even know if any ships survived. The Cylons are trying to block every signal, but the interference has been weakening in the last ten minutes."
He looked up at me then, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. "It seems like most of their warships jumped away."
I patted his shoulder, trying to project confidence. "Good job, son," I said. Inside, I cringed. Son? Really? "Keep it up," I added quickly, before stepping away.
Good. Less Cylon warships around us, the better.
I moved toward the FTL officer. "Anything close to us?"
"Nothing, sir. No civilian or military signals in range," the officer replied, shaking their head.
I nodded in acknowledgment, then turned to Jonathan at the DRADIS station.
"How long until the Raptor reaches the location?"
He glanced at his display, adjusting a control. "Should be reaching it right about now, sir."
I leaned on the table next to him, my eyes scanning the console. The Raptor had long since slipped out of DRADIS range, and we were now flying blind, relying on the team's skill and luck. "Let's hope it's Colonial and not Cylon," I muttered, more to myself than to Jonathan.
To break the tension, I added, "So, how are you feeling?"
Jonathan shot me a knowing look and chuckled softly. "Admiral, are you seriously trying to make small talk?"
I smirked faintly, but before I could respond, the DRADIS console let out a sharp ping. I snapped my head toward it as a Colonial contact appeared right next to us, broadcasting codes and attempting to establish contact.
My gaze locked with Jonathan, who quickly checked the display. He nodded once, his voice steady. "They're authentic, sir."
I nodded back, picking up the receiver. "This is the Admiral. Report."
The voice on the other end responded immediately, steady but tinged with exhaustion. "Sir, the unknown contact we detected earlier was an old Ranger-class Missile Cruiser, believed lost years ago. It looks like pirates captured it. There's also an Adamant-class Frigate and an abandoned military station in the vicinity."
I turned my gaze to the FTL officer, who shook his head grimly. "Nothing on record, sir. It must've been built before the First Cylon War. Its coordinates were likely lost when the Cylons wiped out most of our data."
I frowned, keeping my voice steady. "Understood. How did the confrontation go?"
The CIC fell silent, the tension thick enough to feel. The voice on the line hesitated, then finally answered, nervous but carrying a hint of relief. "Sir, they were relieved to see us. They thought the Cylons had wiped out the entire military. They're eager to join us."
I turned to Galen, raising an eyebrow. "Thought?"
He stepped closer to the console, crossing his arms as he thought aloud. "Sir, I think we should go there. Not only will we get two more hulls, but the military station could be carrying more resources. And if it's empty, we can always scrap it for raw material."
I nodded, the reasoning sound. "Good point."
I turned to Lisa at the helm. "Set the course for the military station."
Then to the Flight Officer: "Get the Raptor back on board."
The end