The Long March (New BSG/Robotech [Post-Sentinels/New Generation era])
- Thread starter Cyclone
- Start date
Grin_Reaper
Shadow Cabal Space Pirate
- Location
- Space Battleship Pennsylvania
Teach me not to refresh the page before I reply to something . . .
I would like to point out that basestars can take a helluva pounding from the guns the battlestars mount. Those things sling shells at least a meter across, and their warheads are pretty darned big too, given the size explosions they produce. Not contesting that the REF guns aren't going to lance through it, mind, just that basestars aren't armored. They're just not as massively armored as, say, a battlestar.
Now all we need is someone commenting on how visually impressive the battlestars' flak barriers are.
Grin_Reaper
Shadow Cabal Space Pirate
- Location
- Space Battleship Pennsylvania
Well, we know that the Colonials have been able to up-power their standard rifle rounds to penetrate the most current Centurions' armor, so I'd imagine a .50 BMG is going to punch through with relative ease.Cyclone said:
Cyclone
Robotech Nerd
- Location
- Earth, Sol System
Well, to be fair, the only reason I'm even doing the cameos at all is because I needed to, and given a choice between a cameo and trying to come up with an original character who's distinctive enough for me to not forget them... I'll go with the the cameo.Grin_Reaper said:
*shrug* I was going with BattlestarWiki, which specified that they were unarmored.Grin_Reaper said:
They are pretty impressive, and a darn sight better than the ones mounted on REF ships.Grin_Reaper said:
Really? Where'd we find this out?Grin_Reaper said:
Cyclone
Robotech Nerd
- Location
- Earth, Sol System
There was a Back to the Future reference, but not a cameo.JEKrug01 said:Goodness, cameos cameos everywhere. I coulda sworn I've even seen a mention of one from Back to the Future!Will have to go over that again, to see the rest of them... (There was a Star Trek one in there?
)
And yes, there were Star Trek cameos. Quite a few, actually, but under altered names because I'm not familiar enough with Star Trek to be comfortable using them as-is. The Star Wars cameos also underwent name changes so that they have Earth names.
Cyclone
Robotech Nerd
- Location
- Earth, Sol System
Tylium actually provides something on the order of 81% the power of deuterium fusion. That's plenty enough to power an energy weapon, depending on the efficiency of the power plant. Definitely a better choice than nuclear power, in any case.holyknight said:
Grin_Reaper
Shadow Cabal Space Pirate
- Location
- Space Battleship Pennsylvania
I love the cameos, personally. It's a real treat to see how you integrate them into Robotech or BSG.Cyclone said:
Well, them being totally unarmored doesn't really seem to mesh with the fact that they survive the kind of punishment we see the battlestars heaping on them. Lightly armored, perhaps, but they have got some. Doesn't really matter, I guess.
I'd love to see an swarm of Invid have collective heart-attacks at the thought of trying to swarm one under . . .
It's from Moore's blog, IIRC. He said that the reason Colonial weapons seem to go between nearly useless and highly effective from episode to episode is because the Colonial armorers keep making the rounds more powerful, while the Cylons keep putting heavier armor on the Centurions.
Cyclone
Robotech Nerd
- Location
- Earth, Sol System
You can thank my general laziness for that.Grin_Reaper said:
Well, I didn't say they unarmored. Just that they were only armored enough to survive the rigors of space. Which is pretty heavily armored for something that size.Grin_Reaper said:
Grin_Reaper said:I'd love to see an swarm of Invid have collective heart-attacks at the thought of trying to swarm one under . . .
There's certainly something to be said for using more primitive weaponry when you can have a helluva lot more of them.
Ah.Grin_Reaper said:
That doesn't make any sense. You can only hotload a round to a certain point or armor the same frame to a certain point. Unless the Colonials are rebuilding the guns to higher pressure tolerances and the Cylons are inventing new alloy after new alloy, that doesn't make sense.
I've been operating on the theory that the ones that needed explosive rounds to defeat were specially-built for boarding actions, in which they could expect to be very heavily outnumbered with no real hope for reinforcements.
Cyclone
Robotech Nerd
- Location
- Earth, Sol System
Well, considering that they're still using the Tokugawa-class, despite how long it's been in service (at least fifteen years as of the Second Robotech War; see The Outsiders), it's entirely probable that the REF ships are that old, with the same frame upgraded and modified over the years.Chaos Blade said:
Consider just how BIG those ships are, compared to, say, a modern aircraft carrier. Building new ships is very expensive, so ships tend to have a very long service life. Look at the USS Kitty Hawk, for example. She was commissioned in 1961, and she's still in service. That's nearly forty-six years.
Even if, say, the original ARMD platforms or Oberth-class destroyers were still in service, they wouldn't be that old.
Grin_Reaper
Shadow Cabal Space Pirate
- Location
- Space Battleship Pennsylvania
Yeah, I didn't spend long enough thinking about it; in my defense, I was rushed.Cyclone said:
That's something I've never understood. Even if they can mount no more of the longer-ranged anti-fighter guns, why don't they just stick scads of gun clusters made from the same cannons the Alphas and Betas use for rifles on the ship? Those are quite capable of killing Invid, after all.
Well, they are using different guns now than they were earlier, by and large. They started out with mostly small-caliber PDWs and carbines, and now, if I'm not mistaken, the Colonial Marines are up to using full-up assault rifles. They also switched pistol designs. (I know, the real reason is because they're using what they've got, and that the original pistols were too hard/expensive to make compared to bolting the HE round launchers onto the Five-seveNs. But.) As for the Centurions, maybe the Cylons never armored them up to max, and still haven't reached that point. *shrugs* I dunno.
The explosive rounds are way overkill, though. IIRC they blew pretty big holes in the Centurions in Valley of Darkness.
But either way, a .50 BMG or similar round would be more than sufficient to take down a Centurion, and that's just with standard ball ammo. For that matter, something scaled down somewhat would work nicely too. Like you said, the Colonials can't have made their rounds that much more powerful.
Cyclone
Robotech Nerd
- Location
- Earth, Sol System
I suspect it has to do with how much it takes to mount them. You're talking about extensive body rework. They can't exactly just bolt them on, y'know.Grin_Reaper said:
I think I'll stick with my "boarding action model" theory. The guns didn't even dent those toasters. You can't hotload by that much.Grin_Reaper said:
Thank you. That's just one thing I was concerned about.Grin_Reaper said:
Actually the current REF ships are designed with the Regent's Invid forces in mind and his tactics with Inorganics and capital ships. After the 2nd Robotech war, the Earth's defenses were shattered and the pelliminary raids were from Mars and Jupiter. The Regis left and took out 85% of the hostile REF forces in a single go.Chaos Blade said:
Cyclone
Robotech Nerd
- Location
- Earth, Sol System
Because I was bored, I compiled a tally of cameo characters, non-characters, and sources. The numbers are total numbers as of the end of the chapter and includes the ones from previous chapters. If a cameo character appeared twice (becoming technically no longer a cameo), that character only counts once. The same for any source universe that has multiple characters coming from it, regardless of how many works are set in that universe. For example, the entire Star Trek universe would only count once, even if there were cameos from different Star Trek series. References that are made by characters within the series (such as Cal Tannen's callsign being Biff after the Back to the Future character) are not included.
The Long March
Chapter One
Cameo Crossover Characters: 0
Cameo Crossover Non-Characters: 0
Cameo Crossover Sources: 0
Chapter Two
Cameo Crossover Characters: 3
Cameo Crossover Non-Characters: 0
Cameo Crossover Sources: 2
Chapter Three
Cameo Crossover Characters: 3
Cameo Crossover Non-Characters: 0
Cameo Crossover Sources: 2
Chapter Four
Cameo Crossover Characters: 3
Cameo Crossover Non-Characters: 0
Cameo Crossover Sources: 2
Chapter Five
Cameo Crossover Characters: 7
Cameo Crossover Non-Characters: 0
Cameo Crossover Sources: 4
Chapter Six
Cameo Crossover Characters: 13
Cameo Crossover Non-Characters: 1
Cameo Crossover Sources: 4
Chapter Seven
Cameo Crossover Characters: 13
Cameo Crossover Non-Characters: 1
Cameo Crossover Sources: 4
Chapter Eight
Cameo Crossover Characters: 20
Cameo Crossover Non-Characters: 2
Cameo Crossover Sources: 8
Have fun trying to figure them out!
The Long March
Chapter One
Cameo Crossover Characters: 0
Cameo Crossover Non-Characters: 0
Cameo Crossover Sources: 0
Chapter Two
Cameo Crossover Characters: 3
Cameo Crossover Non-Characters: 0
Cameo Crossover Sources: 2
Chapter Three
Cameo Crossover Characters: 3
Cameo Crossover Non-Characters: 0
Cameo Crossover Sources: 2
Chapter Four
Cameo Crossover Characters: 3
Cameo Crossover Non-Characters: 0
Cameo Crossover Sources: 2
Chapter Five
Cameo Crossover Characters: 7
Cameo Crossover Non-Characters: 0
Cameo Crossover Sources: 4
Chapter Six
Cameo Crossover Characters: 13
Cameo Crossover Non-Characters: 1
Cameo Crossover Sources: 4
Chapter Seven
Cameo Crossover Characters: 13
Cameo Crossover Non-Characters: 1
Cameo Crossover Sources: 4
Chapter Eight
Cameo Crossover Characters: 20
Cameo Crossover Non-Characters: 2
Cameo Crossover Sources: 8
Have fun trying to figure them out!
Eh. I always figured the fleets that got blown out of space by the Invid were from the colonies in the system. Mars, Io, Titan, Ganymede until the end fleet with the Nutreon S missles and stealth tech. Scott Benard was born and raised on Mars. He wasn't part of the REF. He was part of the Martian millitary. He left to go find the flagship of the REF at the end of Robotech.Chaos Blade said:
Cyclone
Robotech Nerd
- Location
- Earth, Sol System
That's MOSPEADA, not Robotech. Scott has specifically introduced himself at least once as a member of the Expeditionary Forces (The Lost City), and his references to Mars and Venus only suggest he's been to both planets, not that he lived on either planet.Tom Mathews said:
We have zero evidence whatsoever to suggest the Robotech universe has any colonies (or any facilities at all) on Io, Titan, or Ganymede.
Cyclone
Robotech Nerd
- Location
- Earth, Sol System
Perhaps, but that doesn't change the fact that there's no evidence of them. Not one word of it.Raneko said:
And to be fair, only Scott ever made a reference to Venus, and the only reference he made was in response to the first stretch of desert he saw on Earth: "It's as vast as Venus!"
For all we know, he was part of a survey mission there, or he was just going for the alliteration (as the scriptwriters certainly were).
Cyclone
Robotech Nerd
- Location
- Earth, Sol System
See, that's where we have a problem.Tom Mathews said:
I'm going strictly from the TV series, which came first. The comics have dialogue that directly contradict the series. Moreover, I just checked the aforementioned New Generation #1. It also agrees that Scott's unit is part of the REF.
Top of page four: "As you know, we are an advance armada sent by the robotech expeditionary mission headed by Admiral Hunter."
EDIT: Moreover, I didn't see the reference to the "Martian deserts of his youth" anywhere in the issue, though I do admit to only skimming it. The scene I expected to see it in was omitted completely.
Cyclone
Robotech Nerd
- Location
- Earth, Sol System
Transport Squadron 85. Combined with other elements, though, they must be REF, because the REF participated in the Second Robotech War (albeit largely off-screen). Lunk, the old geezers in Ghost Town, and Colonel Wolff all fought in RWII, and they were all REF troops. Lancer even specifically comments that one particular crate of Gallants "must date back to the war against the Robotech Masters."Chaos Blade said:
15
Cyclone
Robotech Nerd
- Location
- Earth, Sol System
Made a bunch of minor edits.
* * *
Cylon Raiders were equipped with a wide variety of sensors, and unlike a human pilot, they had no need to look at a sensor screen to access that data. It was much a part of them as sight or hearing was to a human.
The Shadow Legiosses they were fighting was invisible to those sensors. Only the Raiders' forward camera could detect them, and even then, it was difficult to see the black and grey fighters against the backdrop of space. The Raiders were like humans fighting an invisible army, forced to rely on hearing... in the middle of a busy metropolitan intersection.
The Pioneer had disgorged over five hundred Shadow Legiosses to assault the tylium refinery. There were only sixty Cylon Raiders assigned to its garrison.
The Cylons didn't stand a chance.
Unlike the current generation of Centurions, the current generation of Cylon Raiders were sentient. It was a primitive sentience, more bestial than human, but sentience nonetheless. Like the human models, they were downloaded when they died, giving them a degree of immortality.
But that immortality came with a price, a price that caused them to value their current bodies just as much as they would if they were as mortal as their human adversaries.
Dying hurt. A _lot_.
It was for this reason -- as well as more practical manufacturing limits -- that the fleet of Colonial refugees had not been destroyed months ago. Kamikaze attacks -- though that particular term would be foreign to Cylon and Colonial alike -- were simply impractical.
The pain of death was something that Cylon Raider 4711-38 was intimately familiar with. One of its deaths had been particularly painful: damaged, lying in the desert for hours, waiting for death to grant him release, only to have it arrive in the form of a human. A human who climbed inside him and ripped out his innards.
It was then that 4711-38 experienced another interesting facet of sentience, a new emotion: hate.
Hate is a powerful thing. Left unchecked, it can easily consume someone, overriding common sense, logic, and even self-preservation. This is something humans had learned time and time again throughout their histories, no matter their planet of origin. Even the Zentraedi -- emotionally stunted as they were -- knew the power of hate, even before encountering the people of Earth; within a warrior culture, hate is an emotion that comes easy to the unwary.
The Cylons were a young race. They were still learning.
And so it was that, high above the tylium refinery, Cylon Raider 4711-38 dove through the swarm of veritech fighters, firing his cannons and heedlessly weaving through them, taking risks no sane being would. It was that recklessness that would earn the Cylons a much needed victory.
A small victory, insignificant on the face of it, but a victory nonetheless.
When a particle beam grazed 4711-38's wing, he ignored it, focusing on his target. He had no reason to hate his target, save for the fact that it most assuredly was being piloted by a human. Suddenly, his focus broke as a cluster of missiles detonated nearby, sending shrapnel into his outer skin.
Fueled with rage at the insult and at the deaths -- however temporary -- of his brethren, 4711-38 poured more fuel into his thrusters, leaping toward his target. He knew he would die, but as God as his witness, he would take at least one of these humans with him to the other side.
After all, he'd be back.
* * *
Sergeant Jack "Piggy" Parker was in trouble. He couldn't shake the Cylon that was on his tail, and somehow, the slippery little tin can was able to evade the other REF pilots' shots, defying both the technological and ten-to-one numerical advantage they had.
*Just my luck to be stuck with the damn Igloo of Cylons,* he thought sourly.
His Legioss's armor had already been perforated with a handful of shots, and the brass -- in their infinite wisdom -- had forbidden them from converting to guardian or battloid mode. He hadn't taken any life-threatening damage yet, but the Raider just kept coming.
"Piggy here. Can't any of you dumb f***s hit that tin can?" Just as he said that, his veritech shuddered as something -- the Cylon Raider that was tailing him -- rammed into it from behind.
"Shit!" he swore as warning lights flashed. "Control, Piggy. Beta's been wrecked. Gonna have to disengage to hold her together."
"Copy that, Piggy."
* * *
Dispassionately from his seat in the Pioneer's captain's chair, Wade Anderson watched the... no, this wasn't a battle. It was a massacre.
"Anything, Sparks?" he asked.
The communications officer shook his head, "The airwaves are flooded. They're just throwing signals at us, hoping something will stick. Whatever software they're using, it isn't even compatible with our OS. They might as well be throwing feathers at us."
"Keep monitoring," Wade replied. "No time to get complacent. They can still get lucky."
* * *
Elsewhere, another battle was unfolding. With the arrival of the Earthers, the Cylons had suddenly found themselves losing the initiative. Initially, they had halted their attacks out of caution and a need to analyze the new ships. Then, a battle that should have been simple -- the obliteration of a single understaffed battlestar that had already lost most of its Vipers -- had been foiled, their prey slipping through their grip right doing exactly what the Cylons had been trying to keep them from doing: uniting with the rest of the fleet. They had lost four basestars in that fiasco.
So when they detected the two largest Earth warships and four of the smaller ones jumping away, they had to take the opportunity. They did not know where the smaller warships went, but the largest -- their flagship, the Pioneer -- had been observed making a critical strategic error: It had launched over five hundred fighters to assault the comparatively-lightly defended tylium refinery.
It would take time to recover all those fighters before they could jump out, and one tylium refinery was certainly a small price to pay when compared to the opportunity this represented. At the moment, the civilian fleet was guarded only by the Galactica, the crippled Pegasus and the Earth tender that was tending to it, and the much smaller Earth ships.
In response to the growing threat, the Resurrection's escort had been increased. Eight basestars against one outdated battlestar, one crippled battlestar, one non-combat military vessel, and a handful of smaller ships.
It should have been easy.
The Cylons were a young race. They still had not yet theorized an equivalent of Murphy's Law.
And Murphy was about to kick them in the face.
* * *
The REF Marine Corps dropship Wolf was a shadow-equipped Horizon-T-class transatmospheric dropship. While a Horizon-class shuttle -- even the -T variant -- normally required a crew of eight, marine dropships were typically stowed within larger naval vessels, rather than being deployed for extended periods of time. This meant that five of the eight crewmembers were largely unnecessary, as their jobs included command duties, navigation, engineering, and so forth. Considering that the on-board marine platoon's lieutenant usually handled communications, they were able to cut down the crew to a mere two: pilot and copilot.
The Wolf's pilot was Corporal Colette Ferro. Her copilot was Private First Class Daniel Spunkmeyer. The senior officer on board the Wolf -- and the only commissioned officer -- was Lieutenant William Gorman, who was monitoring the comm station, just in case.
Meanwhile, the squadron's technical adviser -- Tech Sergeant Lance Bishop, a half-Zentraedi -- was monitoring the sensor readout. They were relying on his experience to time this right.
"Wait for it..." Bishop muttered. "Wait for it..."
The other ships dropped into place. The first beams of light lanced out from the Wright.
"Wait for it!" Bishop warned again, waiting for the right moment.
* * *
"Pioneer is reporting site secure." That was the Wright's communications officer.
"Understood," Admiral Hunter nodded.
Rick had temporarily transferred his flag to the Wright. This was where he was needed. Even though the Wright was not a warship, it had to be maneuvered like one. The Pegasus -- clutched to its belly like a nursing dolphin -- was relying on the Wright for its combat maneuvering.
It showed a level of trust that Rick was not about to break, and however good the Wright's captain, Commander Tankersley, was, he was not used to maneuvering to engage the enemy. This end of the plan had been deceptively simple. They had some of the fleet's ships begin mining operations, and when the Cylons made their move, most of the fleet bugged out. The Wright remained, pretending to have problems with their fold drive, luring in the Cylon Raiders.
Then, a squadron of shadow fighters swooped in and blew apart the Cylon flagship's FTL drive. The explosion was the signal for the rest of the fleet's warships to jump into position.
The Galactica had jumped in on one flank, while the Garfishes had folded in on the other three, boxing the fleet in as the Wright opened fire. By that point, the Wright, pretending to be a sitting duck trying to flee with sublight engines, had lured the target fleet well within the range of her guns.
Three-gigajoule particle beams lanced out and slashed across the nearest basestar, searing armor with power equivalent to over half a ton of TNT. Compared to the nuclear warheads that were the standard anti-ship missiles used by the by both Colonial and Cylon forces, it was not very powerful, but against the Cylon basestars -- which had been designed as dedicated mobile fighter carriers and only armored enough to withstand the rigors of space rather than ship to ship combat -- it was more than enough. The basestar's exterior hull crumpled and blackened, melted to slag by the particle beams as subsequent shots penetrated ever deeper before the Wright's gunners moved on to the next.
Meanwhile, the defensive turrets that dotted the Wright and Pegasus opened up, and the two mated ships began reversing thrust. Slowly but surely, the momentum of the two ships was halted, then reversed. Still, the Cylons were not idle. While the basestars remained helpless, lacking weapons designed to engage capital ships, their Raiders were not, and they began their attack.
A lone squadron of Vipers launched from the Pegasus, flying out to challenge the incoming Cylons. Twenty fighters in all, it was a pitiful defense.
Or it would have been, had they not been accompanied by over a hundred and fifty veritechs -- half of them older models that lacked shadow cloaking devices, but were still quite formidable -- and the point defense weapons of a Mercury-class battlestar, which far outclassed the Wright's own point defense network.
Still, there were literally hundreds of Cylon Raiders in the assault force.
* * *
"That's a lot of fighters," muttered Second Lieutenant Rachel "Mercy" Torres as she flew her Lightning III toward the cloud of incoming Raiders.
The Wright's veritech complement was a fairly even mix of VF-4D Lightning IIIs, VF/A-6 Alphas, and VF/B-9 Betas. While the Lightning III -- easily distinguished by its distinctive wing/arm beam cannons -- was an older fighter, in many ways, it was superior to the more specialized Alphas and Betas. It could fill mission roles that would otherwise require a Legioss.
"Cut the chatter, Mercy," that was Lieutenant Commander Hiller, the Wright's CAG and Mercy's squadron leader. "Let's light 'em up, Knights!"
* * *
"Admiral, we have nukes inbound!"
"Request Pegasus to cease fire and raise the barrier," Rick ordered. "Order all fighters to minimum safe range."
"Pegasus has ceased fire."
"Omnidirectional barrier system is up."
"Nuclear weapons impact in five... four... three... two... one... impact."
A series of brilliant flashes of light polarized the bridge viewports.
"Capacitors holding. Barrier system is stable."
Rick nodded. He hadn't been entirely sure whether the Cylon nuclear volley would have overloaded the barrier system or not. The yield calculations had indicated the barrier system could handle it, but nothing beat a field test, and considering how the barrier system inverted when overloaded, it was a minimal risk.
"Drop the barrier and resume suppressive fire. Inform Pegasus weapons clear. Signal the Pioneer. It's time to drop the hammer."
* * *
The Cylons had taken heavy losses, and several of their basestars had been very heavily damaged; some would not be salvageable. It was a neat little trap that the humans had laid, but the Cylons remained confident in their victory. Through sheer numbers alone, they knew they would emerge victorious.
Two things caused them to rapidly reassess the odds.
The first was when the unseen Earth ship rammed the side of the resurrection ship and disgorged about a dozen humans in unfamiliar body armor. This was, however, a very minor detail compared to the other.
The other was the Earth flagship appearing behind the fleet, blocking the resurrection ship's only possible escape route.
With over five hundred virtually invisible fighters already deployed.
Not that the Cylons knew about the fighters before they started blowing things up.
* * *
On board the resurrection ship, one of the Cavil models had only one thing to say about this.
"I told you."
* * *
Current Tally
Cameo Crossover Characters: 21
Cameo Crossover Non-Characters: 2
Cameo Crossover Sources: 9
* * *
Cylon Raiders were equipped with a wide variety of sensors, and unlike a human pilot, they had no need to look at a sensor screen to access that data. It was much a part of them as sight or hearing was to a human.
The Shadow Legiosses they were fighting was invisible to those sensors. Only the Raiders' forward camera could detect them, and even then, it was difficult to see the black and grey fighters against the backdrop of space. The Raiders were like humans fighting an invisible army, forced to rely on hearing... in the middle of a busy metropolitan intersection.
The Pioneer had disgorged over five hundred Shadow Legiosses to assault the tylium refinery. There were only sixty Cylon Raiders assigned to its garrison.
The Cylons didn't stand a chance.
Unlike the current generation of Centurions, the current generation of Cylon Raiders were sentient. It was a primitive sentience, more bestial than human, but sentience nonetheless. Like the human models, they were downloaded when they died, giving them a degree of immortality.
But that immortality came with a price, a price that caused them to value their current bodies just as much as they would if they were as mortal as their human adversaries.
Dying hurt. A _lot_.
It was for this reason -- as well as more practical manufacturing limits -- that the fleet of Colonial refugees had not been destroyed months ago. Kamikaze attacks -- though that particular term would be foreign to Cylon and Colonial alike -- were simply impractical.
The pain of death was something that Cylon Raider 4711-38 was intimately familiar with. One of its deaths had been particularly painful: damaged, lying in the desert for hours, waiting for death to grant him release, only to have it arrive in the form of a human. A human who climbed inside him and ripped out his innards.
It was then that 4711-38 experienced another interesting facet of sentience, a new emotion: hate.
Hate is a powerful thing. Left unchecked, it can easily consume someone, overriding common sense, logic, and even self-preservation. This is something humans had learned time and time again throughout their histories, no matter their planet of origin. Even the Zentraedi -- emotionally stunted as they were -- knew the power of hate, even before encountering the people of Earth; within a warrior culture, hate is an emotion that comes easy to the unwary.
The Cylons were a young race. They were still learning.
And so it was that, high above the tylium refinery, Cylon Raider 4711-38 dove through the swarm of veritech fighters, firing his cannons and heedlessly weaving through them, taking risks no sane being would. It was that recklessness that would earn the Cylons a much needed victory.
A small victory, insignificant on the face of it, but a victory nonetheless.
When a particle beam grazed 4711-38's wing, he ignored it, focusing on his target. He had no reason to hate his target, save for the fact that it most assuredly was being piloted by a human. Suddenly, his focus broke as a cluster of missiles detonated nearby, sending shrapnel into his outer skin.
Fueled with rage at the insult and at the deaths -- however temporary -- of his brethren, 4711-38 poured more fuel into his thrusters, leaping toward his target. He knew he would die, but as God as his witness, he would take at least one of these humans with him to the other side.
After all, he'd be back.
* * *
Sergeant Jack "Piggy" Parker was in trouble. He couldn't shake the Cylon that was on his tail, and somehow, the slippery little tin can was able to evade the other REF pilots' shots, defying both the technological and ten-to-one numerical advantage they had.
*Just my luck to be stuck with the damn Igloo of Cylons,* he thought sourly.
His Legioss's armor had already been perforated with a handful of shots, and the brass -- in their infinite wisdom -- had forbidden them from converting to guardian or battloid mode. He hadn't taken any life-threatening damage yet, but the Raider just kept coming.
"Piggy here. Can't any of you dumb f***s hit that tin can?" Just as he said that, his veritech shuddered as something -- the Cylon Raider that was tailing him -- rammed into it from behind.
"Shit!" he swore as warning lights flashed. "Control, Piggy. Beta's been wrecked. Gonna have to disengage to hold her together."
"Copy that, Piggy."
* * *
Dispassionately from his seat in the Pioneer's captain's chair, Wade Anderson watched the... no, this wasn't a battle. It was a massacre.
"Anything, Sparks?" he asked.
The communications officer shook his head, "The airwaves are flooded. They're just throwing signals at us, hoping something will stick. Whatever software they're using, it isn't even compatible with our OS. They might as well be throwing feathers at us."
"Keep monitoring," Wade replied. "No time to get complacent. They can still get lucky."
* * *
Elsewhere, another battle was unfolding. With the arrival of the Earthers, the Cylons had suddenly found themselves losing the initiative. Initially, they had halted their attacks out of caution and a need to analyze the new ships. Then, a battle that should have been simple -- the obliteration of a single understaffed battlestar that had already lost most of its Vipers -- had been foiled, their prey slipping through their grip right doing exactly what the Cylons had been trying to keep them from doing: uniting with the rest of the fleet. They had lost four basestars in that fiasco.
So when they detected the two largest Earth warships and four of the smaller ones jumping away, they had to take the opportunity. They did not know where the smaller warships went, but the largest -- their flagship, the Pioneer -- had been observed making a critical strategic error: It had launched over five hundred fighters to assault the comparatively-lightly defended tylium refinery.
It would take time to recover all those fighters before they could jump out, and one tylium refinery was certainly a small price to pay when compared to the opportunity this represented. At the moment, the civilian fleet was guarded only by the Galactica, the crippled Pegasus and the Earth tender that was tending to it, and the much smaller Earth ships.
In response to the growing threat, the Resurrection's escort had been increased. Eight basestars against one outdated battlestar, one crippled battlestar, one non-combat military vessel, and a handful of smaller ships.
It should have been easy.
The Cylons were a young race. They still had not yet theorized an equivalent of Murphy's Law.
And Murphy was about to kick them in the face.
* * *
The REF Marine Corps dropship Wolf was a shadow-equipped Horizon-T-class transatmospheric dropship. While a Horizon-class shuttle -- even the -T variant -- normally required a crew of eight, marine dropships were typically stowed within larger naval vessels, rather than being deployed for extended periods of time. This meant that five of the eight crewmembers were largely unnecessary, as their jobs included command duties, navigation, engineering, and so forth. Considering that the on-board marine platoon's lieutenant usually handled communications, they were able to cut down the crew to a mere two: pilot and copilot.
The Wolf's pilot was Corporal Colette Ferro. Her copilot was Private First Class Daniel Spunkmeyer. The senior officer on board the Wolf -- and the only commissioned officer -- was Lieutenant William Gorman, who was monitoring the comm station, just in case.
Meanwhile, the squadron's technical adviser -- Tech Sergeant Lance Bishop, a half-Zentraedi -- was monitoring the sensor readout. They were relying on his experience to time this right.
"Wait for it..." Bishop muttered. "Wait for it..."
The other ships dropped into place. The first beams of light lanced out from the Wright.
"Wait for it!" Bishop warned again, waiting for the right moment.
* * *
"Pioneer is reporting site secure." That was the Wright's communications officer.
"Understood," Admiral Hunter nodded.
Rick had temporarily transferred his flag to the Wright. This was where he was needed. Even though the Wright was not a warship, it had to be maneuvered like one. The Pegasus -- clutched to its belly like a nursing dolphin -- was relying on the Wright for its combat maneuvering.
It showed a level of trust that Rick was not about to break, and however good the Wright's captain, Commander Tankersley, was, he was not used to maneuvering to engage the enemy. This end of the plan had been deceptively simple. They had some of the fleet's ships begin mining operations, and when the Cylons made their move, most of the fleet bugged out. The Wright remained, pretending to have problems with their fold drive, luring in the Cylon Raiders.
Then, a squadron of shadow fighters swooped in and blew apart the Cylon flagship's FTL drive. The explosion was the signal for the rest of the fleet's warships to jump into position.
The Galactica had jumped in on one flank, while the Garfishes had folded in on the other three, boxing the fleet in as the Wright opened fire. By that point, the Wright, pretending to be a sitting duck trying to flee with sublight engines, had lured the target fleet well within the range of her guns.
Three-gigajoule particle beams lanced out and slashed across the nearest basestar, searing armor with power equivalent to over half a ton of TNT. Compared to the nuclear warheads that were the standard anti-ship missiles used by the by both Colonial and Cylon forces, it was not very powerful, but against the Cylon basestars -- which had been designed as dedicated mobile fighter carriers and only armored enough to withstand the rigors of space rather than ship to ship combat -- it was more than enough. The basestar's exterior hull crumpled and blackened, melted to slag by the particle beams as subsequent shots penetrated ever deeper before the Wright's gunners moved on to the next.
Meanwhile, the defensive turrets that dotted the Wright and Pegasus opened up, and the two mated ships began reversing thrust. Slowly but surely, the momentum of the two ships was halted, then reversed. Still, the Cylons were not idle. While the basestars remained helpless, lacking weapons designed to engage capital ships, their Raiders were not, and they began their attack.
A lone squadron of Vipers launched from the Pegasus, flying out to challenge the incoming Cylons. Twenty fighters in all, it was a pitiful defense.
Or it would have been, had they not been accompanied by over a hundred and fifty veritechs -- half of them older models that lacked shadow cloaking devices, but were still quite formidable -- and the point defense weapons of a Mercury-class battlestar, which far outclassed the Wright's own point defense network.
Still, there were literally hundreds of Cylon Raiders in the assault force.
* * *
"That's a lot of fighters," muttered Second Lieutenant Rachel "Mercy" Torres as she flew her Lightning III toward the cloud of incoming Raiders.
The Wright's veritech complement was a fairly even mix of VF-4D Lightning IIIs, VF/A-6 Alphas, and VF/B-9 Betas. While the Lightning III -- easily distinguished by its distinctive wing/arm beam cannons -- was an older fighter, in many ways, it was superior to the more specialized Alphas and Betas. It could fill mission roles that would otherwise require a Legioss.
"Cut the chatter, Mercy," that was Lieutenant Commander Hiller, the Wright's CAG and Mercy's squadron leader. "Let's light 'em up, Knights!"
* * *
"Admiral, we have nukes inbound!"
"Request Pegasus to cease fire and raise the barrier," Rick ordered. "Order all fighters to minimum safe range."
"Pegasus has ceased fire."
"Omnidirectional barrier system is up."
"Nuclear weapons impact in five... four... three... two... one... impact."
A series of brilliant flashes of light polarized the bridge viewports.
"Capacitors holding. Barrier system is stable."
Rick nodded. He hadn't been entirely sure whether the Cylon nuclear volley would have overloaded the barrier system or not. The yield calculations had indicated the barrier system could handle it, but nothing beat a field test, and considering how the barrier system inverted when overloaded, it was a minimal risk.
"Drop the barrier and resume suppressive fire. Inform Pegasus weapons clear. Signal the Pioneer. It's time to drop the hammer."
* * *
The Cylons had taken heavy losses, and several of their basestars had been very heavily damaged; some would not be salvageable. It was a neat little trap that the humans had laid, but the Cylons remained confident in their victory. Through sheer numbers alone, they knew they would emerge victorious.
Two things caused them to rapidly reassess the odds.
The first was when the unseen Earth ship rammed the side of the resurrection ship and disgorged about a dozen humans in unfamiliar body armor. This was, however, a very minor detail compared to the other.
The other was the Earth flagship appearing behind the fleet, blocking the resurrection ship's only possible escape route.
With over five hundred virtually invisible fighters already deployed.
Not that the Cylons knew about the fighters before they started blowing things up.
* * *
On board the resurrection ship, one of the Cavil models had only one thing to say about this.
"I told you."
* * *
Current Tally
Cameo Crossover Characters: 21
Cameo Crossover Non-Characters: 2
Cameo Crossover Sources: 9
16
Cyclone
Robotech Nerd
- Location
- Earth, Sol System
Well, normally, I would wait until I've run this by Drake, my military consultant for this 'fic (for most of my 'fics, actually; those that need one, anyway), but I haven't been able to get in touch with him. Oh, well. Here's chapter nine, first draft.
* * *
"Pioneer reports no damage from the nuclear strike, Admiral."
"Understood," Rick nodded. As soon as the Pioneer folded in, he'd given Wade orders to deliberately give the Cylons a chance to use their nukes on the Pioneer; with the omni-directional barrier system, they were no threat, and it made a point. "Order all ships: Defensive fire only until five minutes from mark, then give me an open comm, all frequencies, no encryption."
"Comm open, sir."
Rick cleared his throat and spoke, "Attention, all Cylon forces. This is Admiral Rick Hunter of the Robotech Expeditionary Force. Your sensors cannot see us. Your weapons cannot hurt us. Your hacking attempts are useless. We've already demonstrated what our weapons can do to you. You have five minutes from mark to cease fire and surrender. All ships, mark. Hunter out.""
"Cylon forces still attacking, sir."
"Understood," Rick nodded grimly.
* * *
"He _what_?" Rear Admiral (Upper Half) Helena Cain stared in disbelief.
"The Earth admiral has issued a demand for the Cylons to surrender, sir," came the nervous reply. "He's given them five minutes and ordered all ships to engage in defensive fire only until the deadline."
Her XO, Colonel Fisk, looked at her questioningly, "What should we do, sir?"
Cain ground her teeth in indecision for a long moment, then finally closed her eyes in resignation. "We have our orders, XO. Defensive fire only, Guns."
* * *
"Let's RO-O-O-OCK!" PFC Jenette Vasquez roared as she and her partner in crime, PFC Mark Drake, proceeded to cut down the Centurions.
The entire platoon was outfitted for a boarding action, which meant VR-041H Saber Cyclones. The Saber boasted a dozen internal Recluse terminally-guided RPGs, and the -H variant -- for which the Saber was named -- added a pair of retractable vibroblades to the mix, which were impractical for anything besides stealthy commando operations or the tight quarters of a boarding action like this. In addition, most of them carried the standard EP-37 60mm particle beam gun. Vasquez and Drake, on the other hand, were toting the M-100.
The M-100 was designed for heavy fire support against soft targets, used mostly against insurgents and space pirates. It was of little use against even the relatively lightly armored Invid mecha. Against infantry of all sorts, however, it was deadly. It was a long and sleek three-barreled weapon with a cyclic fire rate of 600 RPM. It was loaded from two 100-round box magazines, and it fired 12.7mm rounds... which was, in fact, the venerable .50 BMG round that had been in use for more than a century, albeit updated with modern propellants.
Some of the Cylon Centurions the marines faced had been built for boarding actions. As such, they had much heavier armor than their standard cousins, who could be destroyed by the hotloaded rifle rounds that had become standard issue in the refugee fleet. Their armor was tough enough that the Colonials needed to use their limited supply of explosive rounds to fight them effectively.
With enough power to punch through light Cyclone armor or even early tank armor, the M-100's 12.7mm rounds had no trouble ripping through even the upgraded armor of the boarding Centurions. With the advent of powered armor, the REF's definition of "small arms" was somewhat different from the Colonial -- and by extension, Cylon -- definition.
The other marines were not idle, either. The platoon moved with precision, like a well-oiled machine, halting when they ran out of targets. "Talk to me, Hudson," Sergeant Al Apone ordered.
"Incoming, multiple vectors," came the irreverent reply. "These toasters are _toast_!" PFC Hudson grinned as he negligently shot a Centurion as it rounded the corner, the blast punching clean through its torso.
Apone had had Drake and Vasquez taking point. Their M-100s had enough power to take out the Centurions, and unlike with the rest of the platoon's particle beam guns, a missed shot wasn't as likely to bperforate something important. They had come loaded for bear and found themselves fighting squirrels; they'd already stowed their EP-37s in favor of the somewhat safer Gallant H-90s.
Corporal Dwayne Hicks rounded a corner and hesitated, the muzzle of his Gallant between the breasts of a beautiful blonde. It wasn't the blonde who had been on the Colonials' list of Known Cylon Agents, but...
His finger tightened over the trigger.
Her hands shot up.
"I surrender."
Hicks sighed. Why did this have to happen to him?
"Sarge, I've got a situation here."
* * *
Even stretched out by the five minute surrender window, the space battle outside was relatively short and brutal. Once the Pioneer and her veritechs joined the fight, they had immediately begun slaughtering the Cylons with near impunity, and hundreds of Raiders died even during the five minute respite, cut down by point defense weapons. The battle wasn't entirely one-sided, however.
"Damn it, Guns, I need that firing solution!" Lt. Cmdr. April Tobin snapped. She was the captain of the SCL-85 Garrote, one of the shadow-equipped Garfishes in the fleet; she was also Vanessa Leeds' XO in the Destroyer Squadron.
The Garfish was a small ship, with nowhere near the firepower or tonnage of a Tokugawa or Ikazuchi, but its ventral battery of three heavy cannons was not to be underestimated. The Garfish had been designed as a mobile gunship, able to threaten light Zentraedi warships and support full-scale fleet actions. Each gun was almost as powerful as the Wright's guns, which meant that a single good salvo could cripple a basestar if it hit the right spot.
The problem was in finding the right spot to hit. The basestars were flooding the area with some sort of ECM; the crew of the Garrote couldn't know that the "ECM" was actually a series of doomed attempts to access and hack into their computer systems. While the Garrote's guns were easily hitting the basestar -- it would have been difficult to miss at this range -- they weren't doing enough to cripple it, melting and boiling away its relatively thin armor plating and charring countless non-critical systems beneath. With each hit, portions of the basestar went dark, and missile tubes were silenced, but it wasn't enough.
While a larger ship could afford to simply keep firing until they hit something vital, the Garfish wasn't so lucky. With a three-second charge time between salvos, a relatively fragile hull, and only a matter of time before the Cylons got lucky at this range, they needed to make every shot count, which only increased the need for an accurate firing solution.
The Garfishes were not built for anti-fighter work, but while the Cylons still had a large reserve of Raiders -- despite the trap -- and the basestars' own internal ship-to-ship missile launchers, the shadow cloaking devices and the point defense weapons grafted on during the last refit protected the Garrote and her three sister ships -- the Trident, Broadsword, and Battleaxe -- from the worst of the Cylon counterattack.
The other three Garfishes in the fleet -- the Long Sax, Bokuto, and Masakari -- were accompanying the Xerxes on _her_ mission.
"We have a solution!"
"Fire!"
Three particle beams raked across the basestar, once again melting and boiling away its armor plating and charring the interior. This time, however, the basestar's armored skin was considerably thicker, a sign of the importance of the systems it protected, but that wasn't enough to stop the beams as they punched through the armor plating and stabbed deep into the delicate systems beneath until they sank into the basestar's tylium power core.
The shrapnel from the resultant explosion caused more damage to the Garrote than the Raiders and missiles had.
* * *
"The last basestar has jumped out."
"My gods," murmured Admiral Cain, stunned. "We actually did it."
There was a part of her that still had trouble grappling with the reality of it. The plan had been sound, and she had already seen what the Earthers' weapons could do, but she had still remained resistant to the idea, unwilling to believe that everything would go anywhere near as planned, unwilling to see the Earthers' optimism as anything but either arrogance or naivete.
Unwilling... to hope.
But there it was. They had just captured the Cylon flagship, destroyed seven basestars -- two of which had apparently attempted to surrender at the end, but that was well after the five minute window, and Hunter had shown no mercy -- and sent the last one running.
She wanted to cheer; she wanted to pull the nearest person (Colonel Fisk, incidentally) into a bone-crushing hug; she wanted to whoop and holler and throw her arms around in celebration; she wanted to order a parade, a carnival, and a fireworks display all at once; she wanted to do all these things and more.
And she wanted to cry. Whether in relief, in amazement, or out of sheer, unadulterated joy, she wasn't sure, but she could feel the tears welling in her eyes.
She didn't do any of these things, though. Had she been a mere commander, she might -- just _might_ -- have given in to the urge to celebrate, but she was not a commander. She was an admiral, and a flag officer was held to a somewhat higher standard of decorum. Instead, she blinked the tears back and hardened her expression.
"Excellent," she said. "Let's bring our birds home."
* * *
Six gasped as she resurrected. She sat up in the tub, unconsciously touching her breastbone, where she remembered the searing hot energy blast cooking her flesh. This particular Six was once known as Gina, an infiltrator aboard the Mercury-class battlestar Pegasus. She had been partly successful in her mission, but then been captured... tortured... raped. She had died when the cell they were holding her in had become depressurized; her rebirth after that had changed her, lighting a fire of vengeance within her, accompanied by a sadistic satisfaction that her direct tormentors had died with her. When the humans boarded the resurrection ship, she fought, refusing to give in, refusing to surrender.
She would rather die a thousand more deaths than become the humans' captive again, and any she took with her was icing on the cake. She had hoped that the others would find a way to drive them off or that the humans would destroy the resurrection computer before she was reborn.
After that brief moment of reliving her last death, she looked around. Where were her siblings?
Fear siezed her heart when she saw _them_. Humans, clad in battle armor that could shrug off a Centurion's guns, stood vigilantly over the resurrection vats. Even here, in the heart of the resurrection ship, she wasn't safe.
Movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention. One of the humans, the nearest one, turned to her, and even through the layers of battle armor, she could tell the human was male, just from body language and what she could see of his face through the helmet's visor. She shrank away. She was nude, vulnerable, fresh from her rebirth and without even a makeshift club to defend herself with.
She knew what would come. These humans... they were _animals_, in every sense of the word.
Then the human did something totally unexpected. He averted his gaze and tossed her some clothing. She recognized it as coming from the ship's stores on board for newly reborn Cylons. She looked up and stared at him in confusion.
"Get dressed."
* * *
Current Tally
Cameo Crossover Characters: 27
Cameo Crossover Non-Characters: 2
Cameo Crossover Sources: 9
* * *
"Pioneer reports no damage from the nuclear strike, Admiral."
"Understood," Rick nodded. As soon as the Pioneer folded in, he'd given Wade orders to deliberately give the Cylons a chance to use their nukes on the Pioneer; with the omni-directional barrier system, they were no threat, and it made a point. "Order all ships: Defensive fire only until five minutes from mark, then give me an open comm, all frequencies, no encryption."
"Comm open, sir."
Rick cleared his throat and spoke, "Attention, all Cylon forces. This is Admiral Rick Hunter of the Robotech Expeditionary Force. Your sensors cannot see us. Your weapons cannot hurt us. Your hacking attempts are useless. We've already demonstrated what our weapons can do to you. You have five minutes from mark to cease fire and surrender. All ships, mark. Hunter out.""
"Cylon forces still attacking, sir."
"Understood," Rick nodded grimly.
* * *
"He _what_?" Rear Admiral (Upper Half) Helena Cain stared in disbelief.
"The Earth admiral has issued a demand for the Cylons to surrender, sir," came the nervous reply. "He's given them five minutes and ordered all ships to engage in defensive fire only until the deadline."
Her XO, Colonel Fisk, looked at her questioningly, "What should we do, sir?"
Cain ground her teeth in indecision for a long moment, then finally closed her eyes in resignation. "We have our orders, XO. Defensive fire only, Guns."
* * *
"Let's RO-O-O-OCK!" PFC Jenette Vasquez roared as she and her partner in crime, PFC Mark Drake, proceeded to cut down the Centurions.
The entire platoon was outfitted for a boarding action, which meant VR-041H Saber Cyclones. The Saber boasted a dozen internal Recluse terminally-guided RPGs, and the -H variant -- for which the Saber was named -- added a pair of retractable vibroblades to the mix, which were impractical for anything besides stealthy commando operations or the tight quarters of a boarding action like this. In addition, most of them carried the standard EP-37 60mm particle beam gun. Vasquez and Drake, on the other hand, were toting the M-100.
The M-100 was designed for heavy fire support against soft targets, used mostly against insurgents and space pirates. It was of little use against even the relatively lightly armored Invid mecha. Against infantry of all sorts, however, it was deadly. It was a long and sleek three-barreled weapon with a cyclic fire rate of 600 RPM. It was loaded from two 100-round box magazines, and it fired 12.7mm rounds... which was, in fact, the venerable .50 BMG round that had been in use for more than a century, albeit updated with modern propellants.
Some of the Cylon Centurions the marines faced had been built for boarding actions. As such, they had much heavier armor than their standard cousins, who could be destroyed by the hotloaded rifle rounds that had become standard issue in the refugee fleet. Their armor was tough enough that the Colonials needed to use their limited supply of explosive rounds to fight them effectively.
With enough power to punch through light Cyclone armor or even early tank armor, the M-100's 12.7mm rounds had no trouble ripping through even the upgraded armor of the boarding Centurions. With the advent of powered armor, the REF's definition of "small arms" was somewhat different from the Colonial -- and by extension, Cylon -- definition.
The other marines were not idle, either. The platoon moved with precision, like a well-oiled machine, halting when they ran out of targets. "Talk to me, Hudson," Sergeant Al Apone ordered.
"Incoming, multiple vectors," came the irreverent reply. "These toasters are _toast_!" PFC Hudson grinned as he negligently shot a Centurion as it rounded the corner, the blast punching clean through its torso.
Apone had had Drake and Vasquez taking point. Their M-100s had enough power to take out the Centurions, and unlike with the rest of the platoon's particle beam guns, a missed shot wasn't as likely to bperforate something important. They had come loaded for bear and found themselves fighting squirrels; they'd already stowed their EP-37s in favor of the somewhat safer Gallant H-90s.
Corporal Dwayne Hicks rounded a corner and hesitated, the muzzle of his Gallant between the breasts of a beautiful blonde. It wasn't the blonde who had been on the Colonials' list of Known Cylon Agents, but...
His finger tightened over the trigger.
Her hands shot up.
"I surrender."
Hicks sighed. Why did this have to happen to him?
"Sarge, I've got a situation here."
* * *
Even stretched out by the five minute surrender window, the space battle outside was relatively short and brutal. Once the Pioneer and her veritechs joined the fight, they had immediately begun slaughtering the Cylons with near impunity, and hundreds of Raiders died even during the five minute respite, cut down by point defense weapons. The battle wasn't entirely one-sided, however.
"Damn it, Guns, I need that firing solution!" Lt. Cmdr. April Tobin snapped. She was the captain of the SCL-85 Garrote, one of the shadow-equipped Garfishes in the fleet; she was also Vanessa Leeds' XO in the Destroyer Squadron.
The Garfish was a small ship, with nowhere near the firepower or tonnage of a Tokugawa or Ikazuchi, but its ventral battery of three heavy cannons was not to be underestimated. The Garfish had been designed as a mobile gunship, able to threaten light Zentraedi warships and support full-scale fleet actions. Each gun was almost as powerful as the Wright's guns, which meant that a single good salvo could cripple a basestar if it hit the right spot.
The problem was in finding the right spot to hit. The basestars were flooding the area with some sort of ECM; the crew of the Garrote couldn't know that the "ECM" was actually a series of doomed attempts to access and hack into their computer systems. While the Garrote's guns were easily hitting the basestar -- it would have been difficult to miss at this range -- they weren't doing enough to cripple it, melting and boiling away its relatively thin armor plating and charring countless non-critical systems beneath. With each hit, portions of the basestar went dark, and missile tubes were silenced, but it wasn't enough.
While a larger ship could afford to simply keep firing until they hit something vital, the Garfish wasn't so lucky. With a three-second charge time between salvos, a relatively fragile hull, and only a matter of time before the Cylons got lucky at this range, they needed to make every shot count, which only increased the need for an accurate firing solution.
The Garfishes were not built for anti-fighter work, but while the Cylons still had a large reserve of Raiders -- despite the trap -- and the basestars' own internal ship-to-ship missile launchers, the shadow cloaking devices and the point defense weapons grafted on during the last refit protected the Garrote and her three sister ships -- the Trident, Broadsword, and Battleaxe -- from the worst of the Cylon counterattack.
The other three Garfishes in the fleet -- the Long Sax, Bokuto, and Masakari -- were accompanying the Xerxes on _her_ mission.
"We have a solution!"
"Fire!"
Three particle beams raked across the basestar, once again melting and boiling away its armor plating and charring the interior. This time, however, the basestar's armored skin was considerably thicker, a sign of the importance of the systems it protected, but that wasn't enough to stop the beams as they punched through the armor plating and stabbed deep into the delicate systems beneath until they sank into the basestar's tylium power core.
The shrapnel from the resultant explosion caused more damage to the Garrote than the Raiders and missiles had.
* * *
"The last basestar has jumped out."
"My gods," murmured Admiral Cain, stunned. "We actually did it."
There was a part of her that still had trouble grappling with the reality of it. The plan had been sound, and she had already seen what the Earthers' weapons could do, but she had still remained resistant to the idea, unwilling to believe that everything would go anywhere near as planned, unwilling to see the Earthers' optimism as anything but either arrogance or naivete.
Unwilling... to hope.
But there it was. They had just captured the Cylon flagship, destroyed seven basestars -- two of which had apparently attempted to surrender at the end, but that was well after the five minute window, and Hunter had shown no mercy -- and sent the last one running.
She wanted to cheer; she wanted to pull the nearest person (Colonel Fisk, incidentally) into a bone-crushing hug; she wanted to whoop and holler and throw her arms around in celebration; she wanted to order a parade, a carnival, and a fireworks display all at once; she wanted to do all these things and more.
And she wanted to cry. Whether in relief, in amazement, or out of sheer, unadulterated joy, she wasn't sure, but she could feel the tears welling in her eyes.
She didn't do any of these things, though. Had she been a mere commander, she might -- just _might_ -- have given in to the urge to celebrate, but she was not a commander. She was an admiral, and a flag officer was held to a somewhat higher standard of decorum. Instead, she blinked the tears back and hardened her expression.
"Excellent," she said. "Let's bring our birds home."
* * *
Six gasped as she resurrected. She sat up in the tub, unconsciously touching her breastbone, where she remembered the searing hot energy blast cooking her flesh. This particular Six was once known as Gina, an infiltrator aboard the Mercury-class battlestar Pegasus. She had been partly successful in her mission, but then been captured... tortured... raped. She had died when the cell they were holding her in had become depressurized; her rebirth after that had changed her, lighting a fire of vengeance within her, accompanied by a sadistic satisfaction that her direct tormentors had died with her. When the humans boarded the resurrection ship, she fought, refusing to give in, refusing to surrender.
She would rather die a thousand more deaths than become the humans' captive again, and any she took with her was icing on the cake. She had hoped that the others would find a way to drive them off or that the humans would destroy the resurrection computer before she was reborn.
After that brief moment of reliving her last death, she looked around. Where were her siblings?
Fear siezed her heart when she saw _them_. Humans, clad in battle armor that could shrug off a Centurion's guns, stood vigilantly over the resurrection vats. Even here, in the heart of the resurrection ship, she wasn't safe.
Movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention. One of the humans, the nearest one, turned to her, and even through the layers of battle armor, she could tell the human was male, just from body language and what she could see of his face through the helmet's visor. She shrank away. She was nude, vulnerable, fresh from her rebirth and without even a makeshift club to defend herself with.
She knew what would come. These humans... they were _animals_, in every sense of the word.
Then the human did something totally unexpected. He averted his gaze and tossed her some clothing. She recognized it as coming from the ship's stores on board for newly reborn Cylons. She looked up and stared at him in confusion.
"Get dressed."
* * *
Current Tally
Cameo Crossover Characters: 27
Cameo Crossover Non-Characters: 2
Cameo Crossover Sources: 9
17
Cyclone
Robotech Nerd
- Location
- Earth, Sol System
New chapter! Finally!
Here's chapter ten.
* * *
Admiral Rick Hunter walked through the UES Wright's civilian sector. While the mobile tender's repair and maintenance facilities where nowhere near as extensive as, say, Space Station Liberty's, they were still quite capable of keeping the Pioneer's fleet going for years, which meant they took up an awful lot of space. The tender was over a kilometer long, though, and didn't devote as much space to heavy weapon systems as warships did, but even with all that, the sheer amount of space the repair and maintenance facilities took up made for a cramped interior. Despite that, however, the shipwrights had somehow managed to leave enough empty space in the plans to build a small city on board.
He stopped when he reached his destination and knocked.
The door opened, and he smiled, "You wanted to speak to me, Ms. Valerii?"
The Cylon refugee nodded, "Yes, Admiral. Please, come in." She waved him in, and she blushed as she closed the door behind him, "It's kind of a mess right now, sir. I'm not exactly your average home body."
"Don't worry about it, Ms. Valerii," Rick waved it off. "I imagine it takes some getting used to. You should see what happened to one of our first defectors. She ended up putting cooking oil in the coffee pot and setting it on fire."
She turned and stared at him, "You're _kidding_?"
Rick shook his head, "Nope. I swear, it happened just like that. Scout's honor. I was living right next door when it happened. You should meet her some time. She's the fleet's DCAG."
They shared a chuckle at that, and after the moment passed, Rick asked, "So, Ms. Valerii, where's Lieutenant Agathon?"
"He's out," she said. "Picking up a few things at the store. I still can't believe you people put a city on a ship. The most we've ever done are resort ships like Cloud Nine."
"Well, we didn't have much choice the first time we did it, and it became something of a tradition after that," Rick shrugged. "So what did you want to talk to me about, Ms. Valerii?"
She suddenly looked pensive. After a moment, she said, "I heard about the battle. Why didn't you ask me about the ship? I could have helped you."
"You're a refugee, Ms. Valerii," he replied. "Not just an intelligence resource. The terms we set for granting you political asylum preclude requesting your assistance against your native people beyond the initial debriefing."
"Well, you're not requesting this," she said. "I'm telling you. That ship you captured... it's the resurrection ship. All the sentient models -- humanoids models like myself, Raiders, Heavy Raiders -- if we die, that ship is where we come back. I don't know if it's the only one, but if it is..." she trailed off.
"If it is," he nodded, "then by capturing it, we've just crippled their ability to wear us down. They won't automatically win a war of attrition anymore. They'll have to change tactics."
"Exactly, sir."
* * *
Five people entered the central area aboard the ship that Admiral Hunter had privately dubbed the Resurrection: Admiral Hunter, Admiral Cain, Commander Adama, President Roslin, and Lieutenant Gorman. The central area -- the resurrection room -- was being used as a temporary holding area for the captured Cylons.
"We've separated the prisoners into two groups," Gorman explained. He nodded to the group on the left, "Those are the ones who surrendered," he waved to the group on the right, "and those are the ones we captured when they came out of these tubs."
Admiral Hunter exchanged glances with the Colonials, and President Roslin finally said, "This was your operation, Admiral, and it was your marines who captured them. I think you should take the lead."
"Thank you, Madam President," Rick nodded. He really didn't _want_ to take the lead, but it would be... impolitic... to refuse. He led the contingent to the group of Cylons who had surrendered and said, "I am Admiral Rick Hunter of the Robotech Expeditionary Force and senior representative of the United Earth Government."
One of the Cylon stepped forward. She was one of the new models, one which had been identified as infiltrating the Colonials' Fleet News Service under the name of D'anna Biers.
"I am Number Three," she said. "If you have any questions for us, ask me."
"Very well, Ms. Three," he replied. "I am curious as to why so many of you surrendered."
"This is the resurrection ship, Admiral," Three said. "By surrendering, we can at least maintain some level of dignity." She gave a wry smirk, "We may come back from the dead, but our clothes do not."
"Fair enough," Rick replied, surreptitiously watching his Colonial counterparts. Roslin hid a smirk, and Rick could hear Adama cough suddenly. Cain's face remained expressionless, displaying an impressive level of discipline.
Well, this was off to a good start.
* * *
"You want me to _what_?" Miriya Parino Sterling asked skeptically.
"I want you to take charge of the prisoners, Captain," Rick repeated himself. Using her rank instead of her name signalled to her that this wasn't a request. They might be good friends, but right now, he was speaking as her superior officer.
"Sir, I'm not sure I understand your reasoning," she said, shifting to attention. "We're in a shooting war, and you want to take one of your best pilots and squadron commanders out of the cockpit to oversee captured enemy personnel?"
"It's your history, Miriya," he explained. "From what I've learned of Cylon and Colonial history, I think the Cylons don't think they _can_ live at peace with humans. Your own experiences are proof that humans, at least, can overcome such prejudice."
She smiled faintly, "It wasn't easy."
"No," Rick shook his head, "no, it wasn't. But it can be done, and that, I think, is something we need to get across to the Cylons."
"So you want me to be the face," she concluded. Over the last couple of decades, she'd adjusted to human culture and picked up most human euphemisms. It had been... awkward... for a while, particularly for Max, whenever she pulled a social faux pas, but she was far past that now.
"Exactly," he nodded.
"But what am I supposed to do with them?" she frowned. "I have no experience dealing with prisoners."
"You could always make them coffee," he grinned. She shot him a withering look, and he said, "Just go check the regs, brush up on the UEG's POW policies, and go from there."
* * *
Lt. Cmdr. Tobin frowned at her chief weapons tech, "Well?"
"She needs a complete overhaul, Captain," came the resigned reply. "The damn yard dogs screwed up with the Haydonite components, fried it to holy hell."
"Can you jury-rig something?"
"Maybe," he shrugged. "If I cannibalize the shadow cloak, I could, and we'll need the Wright to fabricate a new set of power regulators. We won't get the same fire rate or firepower we would with Haydonite components, but that's the best we've got."
"Do it."
She only hoped she made the right decision. Without the shadow cloak, they'd be more vulnerable to missile strikes, but the need for firepower was simply too great to ignore. They'd been hammered pretty badly in the last fight because they had had to close to knife range to maximize the effect of their less powerful triple turret.
* * *
Commander William Adama, Colonial Fleet, approached Admiral Cain's office with no small amount of trepidation. There had been a silent tension ever since Pegasus had joined the Fleet, but the pressure of running a potentially critical offensive against the Cylons had pushed it to the backburner. Now that the battle was over, the possibility of a power struggle loomed ahead.
He knew whose side he would be on when the time came, but it would cripple the only two battlestars in the Fleet until the dust settled.
As he knocked, he sent up a silent prayer that this wasn't about to be the opening salvo.
"Enter."
He did so, closing the door behind him, and saluted, "Commander Adama, reporting as ordered, sir."
"At ease, Commander," the admiral said. Adama relaxed and surreptitiously studied her. She looked... tired. Very tired. But, oddly enough, happy.
He waited silently as she finished with the paperwork she was signing. She straightened and looked at him carefully. "I've been catching up on your reports of Galactica's actions since the initial attack," she began. "You took a decommissioned relic of a museum and managed to protect nearly fifty thousand souls, maintaining -- for the most part -- a working relationship with the surviving government of the Twelve Colonies with a level of stability that I would have thought impossible."
She stepped around the desk to stand in front of him and continued, "In light of your heroic actions, Commander, I am hereby promoting you to the rank of Rear Admiral, Upper Half." Adama stiffened in shock as she unhooked her rank insignia and pinned it to his shirt. "And... in light of my own emotional state after the Fall of the Twelve Colonies, I am also hereby tendering my resignation from the Colonial Fleet, effective immediately." She stepped back and saluted.
"The Fleet is yours, Admiral."
*As it always was,* she added silently.
He returned the salute and frowned, "Ad-... Ms. Cain, if I may ask... why?"
"Because," she met his gaze, "these people are yours, sir, not mine. The military might have followed me, but the president and the Quorum would have fought me, and as a race, we would have lost. You held it together, sir. You can do this. I can't. Not anymore."
*Because... you never gave up hope, Bill.*
"I'm not a veteran of the last war," she elaborated. "All my experience has been in simulators and tac rooms at War College, wargames that were all about objectives and numbers. Acceptable losses. For me, hope was an acceptable loss in exchange for survival. These people -- all of us, myself included -- need a leader who will not surrender hope to despair. That is you. You know it, I know it, and most importantly, the people know it."
* * *
Author's Postscript:
Nope. He certainly did not see that coming.
Did you?
Here's chapter ten.
* * *
Admiral Rick Hunter walked through the UES Wright's civilian sector. While the mobile tender's repair and maintenance facilities where nowhere near as extensive as, say, Space Station Liberty's, they were still quite capable of keeping the Pioneer's fleet going for years, which meant they took up an awful lot of space. The tender was over a kilometer long, though, and didn't devote as much space to heavy weapon systems as warships did, but even with all that, the sheer amount of space the repair and maintenance facilities took up made for a cramped interior. Despite that, however, the shipwrights had somehow managed to leave enough empty space in the plans to build a small city on board.
He stopped when he reached his destination and knocked.
The door opened, and he smiled, "You wanted to speak to me, Ms. Valerii?"
The Cylon refugee nodded, "Yes, Admiral. Please, come in." She waved him in, and she blushed as she closed the door behind him, "It's kind of a mess right now, sir. I'm not exactly your average home body."
"Don't worry about it, Ms. Valerii," Rick waved it off. "I imagine it takes some getting used to. You should see what happened to one of our first defectors. She ended up putting cooking oil in the coffee pot and setting it on fire."
She turned and stared at him, "You're _kidding_?"
Rick shook his head, "Nope. I swear, it happened just like that. Scout's honor. I was living right next door when it happened. You should meet her some time. She's the fleet's DCAG."
They shared a chuckle at that, and after the moment passed, Rick asked, "So, Ms. Valerii, where's Lieutenant Agathon?"
"He's out," she said. "Picking up a few things at the store. I still can't believe you people put a city on a ship. The most we've ever done are resort ships like Cloud Nine."
"Well, we didn't have much choice the first time we did it, and it became something of a tradition after that," Rick shrugged. "So what did you want to talk to me about, Ms. Valerii?"
She suddenly looked pensive. After a moment, she said, "I heard about the battle. Why didn't you ask me about the ship? I could have helped you."
"You're a refugee, Ms. Valerii," he replied. "Not just an intelligence resource. The terms we set for granting you political asylum preclude requesting your assistance against your native people beyond the initial debriefing."
"Well, you're not requesting this," she said. "I'm telling you. That ship you captured... it's the resurrection ship. All the sentient models -- humanoids models like myself, Raiders, Heavy Raiders -- if we die, that ship is where we come back. I don't know if it's the only one, but if it is..." she trailed off.
"If it is," he nodded, "then by capturing it, we've just crippled their ability to wear us down. They won't automatically win a war of attrition anymore. They'll have to change tactics."
"Exactly, sir."
* * *
Five people entered the central area aboard the ship that Admiral Hunter had privately dubbed the Resurrection: Admiral Hunter, Admiral Cain, Commander Adama, President Roslin, and Lieutenant Gorman. The central area -- the resurrection room -- was being used as a temporary holding area for the captured Cylons.
"We've separated the prisoners into two groups," Gorman explained. He nodded to the group on the left, "Those are the ones who surrendered," he waved to the group on the right, "and those are the ones we captured when they came out of these tubs."
Admiral Hunter exchanged glances with the Colonials, and President Roslin finally said, "This was your operation, Admiral, and it was your marines who captured them. I think you should take the lead."
"Thank you, Madam President," Rick nodded. He really didn't _want_ to take the lead, but it would be... impolitic... to refuse. He led the contingent to the group of Cylons who had surrendered and said, "I am Admiral Rick Hunter of the Robotech Expeditionary Force and senior representative of the United Earth Government."
One of the Cylon stepped forward. She was one of the new models, one which had been identified as infiltrating the Colonials' Fleet News Service under the name of D'anna Biers.
"I am Number Three," she said. "If you have any questions for us, ask me."
"Very well, Ms. Three," he replied. "I am curious as to why so many of you surrendered."
"This is the resurrection ship, Admiral," Three said. "By surrendering, we can at least maintain some level of dignity." She gave a wry smirk, "We may come back from the dead, but our clothes do not."
"Fair enough," Rick replied, surreptitiously watching his Colonial counterparts. Roslin hid a smirk, and Rick could hear Adama cough suddenly. Cain's face remained expressionless, displaying an impressive level of discipline.
Well, this was off to a good start.
* * *
"You want me to _what_?" Miriya Parino Sterling asked skeptically.
"I want you to take charge of the prisoners, Captain," Rick repeated himself. Using her rank instead of her name signalled to her that this wasn't a request. They might be good friends, but right now, he was speaking as her superior officer.
"Sir, I'm not sure I understand your reasoning," she said, shifting to attention. "We're in a shooting war, and you want to take one of your best pilots and squadron commanders out of the cockpit to oversee captured enemy personnel?"
"It's your history, Miriya," he explained. "From what I've learned of Cylon and Colonial history, I think the Cylons don't think they _can_ live at peace with humans. Your own experiences are proof that humans, at least, can overcome such prejudice."
She smiled faintly, "It wasn't easy."
"No," Rick shook his head, "no, it wasn't. But it can be done, and that, I think, is something we need to get across to the Cylons."
"So you want me to be the face," she concluded. Over the last couple of decades, she'd adjusted to human culture and picked up most human euphemisms. It had been... awkward... for a while, particularly for Max, whenever she pulled a social faux pas, but she was far past that now.
"Exactly," he nodded.
"But what am I supposed to do with them?" she frowned. "I have no experience dealing with prisoners."
"You could always make them coffee," he grinned. She shot him a withering look, and he said, "Just go check the regs, brush up on the UEG's POW policies, and go from there."
* * *
Lt. Cmdr. Tobin frowned at her chief weapons tech, "Well?"
"She needs a complete overhaul, Captain," came the resigned reply. "The damn yard dogs screwed up with the Haydonite components, fried it to holy hell."
"Can you jury-rig something?"
"Maybe," he shrugged. "If I cannibalize the shadow cloak, I could, and we'll need the Wright to fabricate a new set of power regulators. We won't get the same fire rate or firepower we would with Haydonite components, but that's the best we've got."
"Do it."
She only hoped she made the right decision. Without the shadow cloak, they'd be more vulnerable to missile strikes, but the need for firepower was simply too great to ignore. They'd been hammered pretty badly in the last fight because they had had to close to knife range to maximize the effect of their less powerful triple turret.
* * *
Commander William Adama, Colonial Fleet, approached Admiral Cain's office with no small amount of trepidation. There had been a silent tension ever since Pegasus had joined the Fleet, but the pressure of running a potentially critical offensive against the Cylons had pushed it to the backburner. Now that the battle was over, the possibility of a power struggle loomed ahead.
He knew whose side he would be on when the time came, but it would cripple the only two battlestars in the Fleet until the dust settled.
As he knocked, he sent up a silent prayer that this wasn't about to be the opening salvo.
"Enter."
He did so, closing the door behind him, and saluted, "Commander Adama, reporting as ordered, sir."
"At ease, Commander," the admiral said. Adama relaxed and surreptitiously studied her. She looked... tired. Very tired. But, oddly enough, happy.
He waited silently as she finished with the paperwork she was signing. She straightened and looked at him carefully. "I've been catching up on your reports of Galactica's actions since the initial attack," she began. "You took a decommissioned relic of a museum and managed to protect nearly fifty thousand souls, maintaining -- for the most part -- a working relationship with the surviving government of the Twelve Colonies with a level of stability that I would have thought impossible."
She stepped around the desk to stand in front of him and continued, "In light of your heroic actions, Commander, I am hereby promoting you to the rank of Rear Admiral, Upper Half." Adama stiffened in shock as she unhooked her rank insignia and pinned it to his shirt. "And... in light of my own emotional state after the Fall of the Twelve Colonies, I am also hereby tendering my resignation from the Colonial Fleet, effective immediately." She stepped back and saluted.
"The Fleet is yours, Admiral."
*As it always was,* she added silently.
He returned the salute and frowned, "Ad-... Ms. Cain, if I may ask... why?"
"Because," she met his gaze, "these people are yours, sir, not mine. The military might have followed me, but the president and the Quorum would have fought me, and as a race, we would have lost. You held it together, sir. You can do this. I can't. Not anymore."
*Because... you never gave up hope, Bill.*
"I'm not a veteran of the last war," she elaborated. "All my experience has been in simulators and tac rooms at War College, wargames that were all about objectives and numbers. Acceptable losses. For me, hope was an acceptable loss in exchange for survival. These people -- all of us, myself included -- need a leader who will not surrender hope to despair. That is you. You know it, I know it, and most importantly, the people know it."
* * *
Author's Postscript:
Nope. He certainly did not see that coming.
Did you?