Since I'm feeling kind, here's the next part. In crossover terms, this shit's about to get real:
Hearts of Iron
Terran Orbital Space
While
Galactica and her escorts were fighting their defiant last stand over Lemuria, the main Cylon force began their push towards Olympus Base and the badly depleted human forces. Their shields were at full strength, their missile launchers primed with full salvos and the energy weapons on the three First War Basestars charged and ready.
Or rather, most of the ships were ready. On the two refitted relics controlled by Cavil and his sympathisers things were not as simple. They knew they had to give the appearance of fighting lest the much more numerous loyal ships would turn on them. Yet they also knew they could not risk doing too much damage to the humans, lest their eventual plea for a ceasefire go unheeded.
Cavil had therefore come up with a rather subtle plan. He ordered his gunners to shoot to miss: plasma bolts would come close, even graze the shields, but not actually impact and vent their full force. Likewise, the missiles were dumbed down; their nav systems disabled to make them much easier to shoot down. And the nuclear warheads were not armed either. He fervently hoped that the Cylons loyal to God would not notice this deception amidst the fire and chaos.
The Cylon ships closed in a wall formation, the three refit Basestars at the heart with the nine shielded new models above, below and on either flank. The battle plan proceeded as before; a massive missile barrage accompanied by the remaining Raider forces swarming forwards.
The human forces realised they would need every available weapon to survive, so the eight defence platforms that had surrounded Olympus Base had been brought forwards to join the Battlestars. The seven surviving destroyers formed up around their larger charges. Kate Stewart and her deputy, Captain Garrett of the
Aurora, had seen how easily their light ships could perish in this lethal new environment. Both were less than certain they would survive, but both were also determined to make the Cylons bleed.
The Cylon missiles raced in, only to be met by the massed point-defence fire of the four Battlestars, the destroyers and the weapon platforms. The computers controlling the systems were among the most powerful the humans mounted aboard starships and they quickly reached a conclusion – there were simply too many missiles to be shot down completely despite their best efforts. Some, even many, leakers were inevitable. Every hit would further weaken the defence grid: power would need to be diverted from the guns to shore up the shields, and when those failed, each further hit would remove guns and ships. The computers ran the numbers in a fraction of a second and announced to the various tactical officers the results.
With the Vipers engaging the Raiders and not able to help, the point-defence grid would reach saturation failure point in four minutes. Estimated survival for the entire fleet was fifteen minutes beyond this point.
The Cylons, being equally advanced computers, could calculate this as well; they had gathered enough data on the new Terran weaponry to make reasonably accurate estimates. Their estimates matched the human computers to within a handful of seconds. They also reported the fact that at present rates of expenditure the Cylon magazines would be depleted in sixteen and a half minutes.
The battle had become a race, hours of waiting and tension and various thrusts and parries degraded to less than twenty minutes of brutal attrition – the humans trying to survive and reduce the Cylon numbers without taking losses, the Cylons trying to focus on weaker targets to disproportionately weaken the human defences before their missiles were all expended. The computers on both sides ran simulations with every possible variable and gave the same result: the odds of success for either side were no better than fifty percent.
For the Viper pilots numbers and data and estimates were totally irrelevant and blissfully ignored. There was nothing but enemies to hunt and kill. The two side’s fighter forces were evenly matched in numbers and power – the remaining Cylon fighters being the old War-model Raiders that had been refitted with twin light plasma cannons, firing the same vivid blue bolts of their larger cousins on the Basestars. The Vipers were a mixture of rebuilt Colonial Mark VIII’s, mounting three laser cannons and a basic shield system, and the slightly more capable Terran Cobras.
For the veteran Colonial pilots, it was business as usual – hundreds of Raiders to kill and ships to protect behind them. They moved around in an endless ballet of turns, loops and spins, their wireless chatter a frantic mix of action calls, victory yells and desperate warnings to wingmates. For the Terrans, it was a nightmarish baptism of fire. They had been well-trained and remorselessly drilled by Starbuck, Kat, Hot Dog and others, but training and simulator runs were a far cry from reality.
The larger fleet battle was well underway by the time
Champion and
Galactica received their fatal hits. The officers and crew could spare no thoughts for their dying comrades – saturation failure point had been reached, and flares of nuclear fire began battering at their shields. The senior commanders could only watch in horror as that small force was overwhelmed.
Lethbridge-Stewart in particular grimaced at the news as the tactical display showed the old ship’s fate in a cold, dispassionate fashion. He knew he’d sent them to their deaths but he also knew he hadn’t had a choice and Adama had known this as well. He whispered a quiet prayer to the Lords that those lost crews would be looked after. And then he staggered as a whole volley of missiles slipped through the defences and detonated against
Lionheart’s dorsal shields.
The Cylons had spent some time analysing the host of wireless signals flying around. They were, naturally, heavily encrypted – not even Cylon computers could crack such codes quickly enough to be of use. But as is often the case, messages can reveal a great deal even when unreadable; simply knowing who is talking to whom is very informative.
They had identified
Lionheart as the human flagship and thus were practically ignoring her sister
Excalibur in their targeting solutions. As their third, now lost, sister
Barham had shown, even their shields would not hold for long.
Three destroyers recognised this threat and moved forward, forming a picket line ahead of the huge Battlestar. At the centre was
Ranger, flanked on either side by
Daring and
Centurion. Their commanders knew the danger, knew they were inviting a quick and fiery death, but they decided that destroyers were easier to replace than Battlestars, especially if the Battlestar in question carried the fleet commander.
That quick and fiery death was not long in coming.
Daring was bracketed by exploding warheads, her shields held back the radiation but failed from the effort. Another warhead slammed into her bows, shattering the ship’s forward hull. Her chief engineer, in command of the remnants of the ship and taking inspiration from
Barham’s fate, opened his throttles and the ship shot forwards.
She closed rapidly with one of the new model Basestars. Her mega-lasers fired, the red beams speared the Cylon ship’s shields, depleting them rapidly. A volley of missiles managed to intercept the destroyer but the warheads had not had time to arm properly; only one detonated properly and that explosion was premature. It did little to the savaged human ship beyond peel away a few more layers of bulkheads and compartments from the forward hull, certainly nothing to stop the engines.
The premature explosion also drained the last of the Basestar’s shield strength, and seconds later the ruined destroyer rammed into the Basestar’s central core at full thrust. The engines detonated half a second later, consuming both ships.
The two other destroyers were doing all they could to thin out the missile fire aimed at the flagship, but all they could was not enough. Missile detonations were coming with increasing regularity, the shields glowed an angry red as they valiantly warded off the radiation. Internally, the repeated shocks from the close nuclear blasts were beginning to cause damage of their own. The huge shield generators showed the most strain, their compartments had already been sealed and decompressed to minimise the risk of fires.
While this was happening, two events occurred that went almost completely unnoticed by the combatants but would have profound effects on the futures of all involved. The first was quite simple; a wounded Cylon aboard one of the dying Basestars above Lemuria triggered a data burst to God, telling Him of the murderous losses and, most importantly, the exact coordinates of Terra.
The second event was much more dramatic, at least initially. The ruined stern section of the
Champion finished its terminal descent through Terra’s atmosphere in a spectacular impact two kilometres outside Lemuria’s shield perimeter. The blast did not damage the shields any more than the Cylon nuclear bombardment had, but it did create a moderately powerful ground tremor. This tremor was enough to shake every building in the city, adding to the terror felt by the inhabitants.
In a large hall in the base of the city’s central citadel, the tremor was aligned just right and just powerful enough to cause a large circular stone to overbalance and fall away from what it had been covering; a large metal ring with seven red devices spread around the outer surface and strange symbols covering the inner surface. It was a relic of the Lords of Kobol, known to the city’s residents as the Astria Porta, the Gateway of the Gods. It had been ordered sealed away by Prometheus himself millennia ago. Now, for the first time since the Lords last walked among mankind, the Astria Porta was exposed.
Back in space things were deteriorating rapidly. Lethbridge-Stewart had concluded the only remaining option was for his ten surviving vessels to close to energy range, ensuring that they could at least take some of the Cylons with them. He was approaching the grim conclusion that this would be the Terran Commonwealth Navy’s first and
last battle, a thought reinforced when first one, then a second and finally a third defence platform was overwhelmed by Cylon missile fire and incinerated.
Their fighter strength was barely 60% of what they’d started with and whilst the Cylons had lost more fighters the human pilots were getting tired. The order went out: all ships would close to energy range. Ten against eleven, it was an even match. Almost immediately,
Challenger and
Aurora leaped forward, firing their mega-lasers and shattering a new model Basestar. Ten against ten, even numbers for the first time.
But then things went wrong. In
Lionheart’s forward hull, the shield generator covering the bow sections was strained to the limit, far more so than the other generators. The coolant system was running at 130 percent of rated capacity, something that could not be sustained. The coolant pumps jammed and in seconds the generator temperature spiked five hundred degrees above safe levels.
Hundreds of tonnes of metal, crystal and other materials warped and twisted in the heat, the immense energy they normally channelled suddenly had nowhere to go, except out into the ship. The compartment had been vented of atmosphere but that did little to help. The generator exploded, pieces of the outer shell shattering the nearby bulkheads and allowing the ship’s atmosphere to flood back into the generator room. Fire ignited quickly, spreading out into the rest of the ship.
Lethbridge-Stewart didn’t feel the explosion. He was slammed into the plot table and knocked out. In CIC, Captain Davies knew his ship was badly hurt. He watched in detached horror as the forward shields collapsed completely, the remaining generators unable to compensate quickly enough. He decided quickly that the Admiral needed to transfer his flag before the ship became too damaged to function as a flagship.
He turned from the tactical display to the Marines guarding the CIC hatch.
“Sergeant Benton, to me!”
The Marine in question, a tall fellow with dark hair, kind eyes and an open, friendly face immediately raced over. “Sir?”
“Sergeant, this is a priority-one order. You and your men are to go to Fleet Ops, get the Admiral and get his ass to the port hanger bay. We’re transferring the flag to
Excalibur and I don’t give a damn what he says, he needs to get off this ship!”
His point was punctuated by a pair of Cylon missiles that leaked through their weakening defence screen. The superconductive armour did its work, protecting the hull, but as had happened to
Barham, it had consequences. His Ops officer called out the news:
“Captain, sublight drives offline, fire control for the main battery is also down!”
Davies swore viciously. “Benton, go!” The Marine did not even salute, he simply turned and raced for the aft hatch. The Captain turned to his comms officer “Signal White Knight and tell him we’re transferring Battleaxe to his ship.”
The officer nodded and sent out the signal. Davies turned back to the tactical display just in time to see
Ranger intercept a volley of plasma bolts from a war-era Basestar and explode violently. She was avenged however; off on his ship’s starboard flank the
Excalibur and the
Pegasus had the offending Basestar bracketed, whilst to port the
Warspite was working with
Centurion to reduce a pair of new Basestars to scrap; as he watched one of them vanished in a bright fireball. A call came over the wireless.
”Captain, Sergeant Benton, Battleaxe is unconscious, we’re moving him the staff to the port bay now.”
Wayne swore again. His XO, Commander von Erich, snorted in wry amusement at his friend’s surprisingly eloquent method of expressing his anger. The Admiral’s designated second was Adama, but he was nowhere to be found;
Galactica had vanished from the tactical display shortly after plunging into the atmosphere.
“Get me a priority channel to Iron Duke.”
Battlestar Warspite CIC
Jellicoe was having a hell of a day. His ship was on the left flank of the Battlestars and heavily engaged. His guns were firing as rapidly as possible, his shields tanking the hits that got through. He was working with
Centurion and
Avenger to thin out the Cylon lines and having some success; he grinned as one of his targets was destroyed and the second began listing badly.
“Sir, priority signal from Sharpshooter for you.”
Jellicoe tore his eyes from the DRADIS screen and grabbed the phone.
“Sharpshooter, Iron Duke, go ahead.” He was somewhat confused as to why Davies was calling, rather than the Admiral.
”Iron Duke, my ship has lost forward shields and sublights. Battleaxe is unconscious; we’re transferring him and the flag to Excalibur
. Husker is MIA, you’re the next senior officer so you’re in command.”
The words, delivered in a remarkably calm tone, came as a gut-shot to the Commander. Not so much the reality of him taking command; that was something he’d known might happen in a close action. What really hurt was that Adama, and presumably
Galactica, was gone. He’d been so focused on his ship’s actions he hadn’t even thought about the older Battlestar’s fight against impossible odds over Lemuria.
“Understood Sharpshooter. Iron Duke, out.”
He slammed the phone back into its cradle just in time to grab the plot table as another hit rocked the ship. He turned to his own comms officer.
“Send to all ships and stations: Battleaxe disabled, Husker MIA, Iron Duke assuming command. Close in and kill those frakkers.” The officer nodded and sent out the signal. Colonel Beatty looked at him with concern from his post.
“Bill will be alright John. He’s too stubborn to die. So’s his ship.”
“I know that David. At least, I hope so. Anyway…” he was once again interrupted by a violent tremor through the deck. He regained his balance and turned to the tactical officer. “Smythe, coordinate with our destroyers, I want a staggered mega-laser salvo on targets four and five, burn those frakkers from my sky.”
“Aye sir!”
The three ships turned, still shrugging off occasional nuclear hits, before eight mega-lasers fired in sequence. The beams struck the shields of two hitherto untouched Basestars, slashing their shields with the first two hits, allowing the final two shots on each target to obliterate the Cylon vessels.
The grin had barely formed when he saw the DRADIS signal from the
Avenger flash briefly and then vanish as the destroyer was torn into three pieces by a volley of missiles that finally brought down her shields. Worse still, the icon for
Lionheart flashed red, indicating she was taking heavy damage.
Out in space there was fire and death everywhere. The Viper pilots were reaching their limits in more ways than one; they were riding high on adrenaline but that edge was quickly fading, and whilst their new fighter’s didn’t need ammunition their fuel tanks were quickly running dry. The Cylons were capitalising on this and the Raiders were evening the score in fighter kills. The fighter engagement was at once both terrible and irrelevant; this fight would be settled by the big guns.
The
Lionheart was taking a beating. Her armour was holding superbly, but interior damage was still mounting. Captain Davies stood in his CIC with a grim expression as the forward sections died piece by piece. Another hit came, this one wrecking the mega-laser battery completely. He’d already ordered the crew evacuated from those forward sections to spare as many as possible. He thought about pulling back, but with the ship’s main drives offline that was impossible. His ship still had teeth though; the port turbolasers ripped into the Basestar that
Warspite had already hurt, completing its destruction in two volleys of bright crimson plasma fire.
Just seven Cylon ships remained. With three intact Battlestars and four destroyers, the humans now held the advantage and were quick to seize it. Captain Pendragon of the
Excalibur and Commander Adama of the
Pegasus moved with perfect synchronisation: their ships turned and their mega-lasers fired. Eight beams of crimson death all struck out at the war-era Basestar they had been engaging. With its shields already weakened, the old ship stood no chance. The first three beams took down the shields, the next five tore the ship apart. One beam burned clean through the ship’s ventral hull, erupted from the lower hanger’s upper surface before penetrating the dorsal hanger as well. A second gutted the lower disc, penetrating laterally along half the hanger deck. The final three shots converged on the central core, immolating the reactors and breaking the ship up into fragments.
The battle continued, the human ships pressed the advantage. By now it had been noticed that the two remaining war-era Basestars seemed to have trouble targeting them, so they were being treated as lower-priority targets. The four remaining new model vessels were still fighting fiercely however.
A hundred kilometres beyond the battle, away from Terra, space itself ripped open. A vast area of blue-purple distortion was visible, surrounding a central region of the most impenetrable blackness. From this blackness a huge ship emerged at great speed before rapidly slowing. At its core was a huge golden tetrahedron, surrounding that was a huge framework of dull grey metal.
Its appearance was a complete shock to both sides. The Cylons recovered first, their ships and Raiders immediately turned and fled towards this new ship, heedless of the fact that the Battlestars were still firing. One of the four surviving Basestars broke apart into flaming wreckage as it turned, but the Cylons did not care. They were not fleeing, they were regrouping.
Their God had arrived at the battle and He would surely bring them victory.
Below this surprising vista, in that large hall in the Citadel in Lemuria, the Astria Porta, dormant for two millennia, suddenly came to life. The seven red devices lit up in sequence before a blue vortex erupted outwards from the ring. It reached into the room, consuming part of the fallen stone covering before collapsing back into the ring, forming what appeared to be a vertical puddle of bright blue water. It rippled quietly for a moment, before something emerged from it.
A mechanical device, mounted on a six-wheeled chassis, rolled into the room. Its various sensors looked around in apparent curiosity before it began transmitting its data back into the Astria Porta.
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Ooooo, cliffhanger ending, and I still haven't told you about poor
Galactica. Well, I'm an evil bastard, this has already been established.
Also, we learn a couple new callsigns: Captain Davies/Sharpshooter, he's based on a RL friend of mine who's a semi-pro wrestler, and the Sharpshooter was his finishing move for a while. Captain Pendragon/White Knight...what the hell else would I call a captain called that with a ship called
Excalibur?
And finally, Commander John Jellicoe/Iron Duke. Well duh