Author's Note:

This story is a departure from typical BSG fanfiction. This isn't about some grand ship that escaped the colony with a huge fleet. These are ordinary people, some good, some bad, and most drunken pirates. This is about a less-than-reputable bunch that survives the initial attack mostly by blind luck and a bit of low-brow innovation. Their ship makes Galactica look state-of-the-art by comparison, their crew is borderline piratical and they spend a fair amount of the story drunk. They have their encounters with Galactica, Pegasus and, of course, the Cylons on their way, much to everyone's disdain.

Also, I'm still working on the next chapter for A Colonial Sunset, so no worries that it won't continue :).

Dreadnaught's Revenge

4 Days before the attack, in orbit around Caprica's moon.

Ships littered the boneyard, ancient vessels floating in the cold blackness, devoid of life. Great starships lay next to tiny fighters. Civilian and military craft alike were stranded here, unlikely companions united in neglect. No one paid attention to the orbits of the forgotten vessels, allowing them to drift and wander into one another, cracking hulls and breaking seals. Only one vessel remained lit with any form of power, drifting lazily through the center of the ghostly formation, her massive, armored bulk giving her worn hull a sense of barely restrained menace.

Blackened metal, pitted and worn, gave way to the ship's nameplate, missing a single letter but otherwise as glorious as she always was. Dreadnaught, the letters read. Her prow was covered with ribbing and armor, her long form similar to the battlestars that rendered her obsolete even in the first war.

This once-mighty vessel represented the first Colonial capital ships, the ancestor to the twelve battlestars that were better equipped, faster and stronger. Dreadnaught was a pre-battlestar, or as they were once called, battleships. They were built to engage capital ships with little thought to fighter defense or long-range capability. Only later was the need for large-scale carrier capability, ammunition production ability and long-duration water recycling realized. Almost immediately relegated to secondary roles as the battlestars replaced them on the front lines, the pre-battlestars were modified as much as possible, then retired after the end of the war. Dreadnaught alone survived the scrapper's torch, transformed into the floating headquarters for the lonely salvage yard.

It was a fate all too similar to the men that crewed the ex-warship, comprised of military rejects, ex-pirates and paroled criminals gone legit. They were a rowdy bunch, always there to turn a quick profit from their sizable boneyard they had accumulated over years of “grey-area” salvage operations.

A single middle-aged man stood in the former CIC of the retired battleship, lazily sipping from a tankard of ale, his hair beginning to gray and his pasty-white complexion indicating that he had been on board for far too long. Intense blue eyes took in everything, watching dispassionately as two crewmen attacked each other in a short but violent bar brawl. Taking another long pull from his tankard, Captain Thomas Summers stood, throwing a wrench at the offending crewmen, watching as it smashed a can of ale near the fighting pair.

“Knock it the frak off. We got customers coming today.” His voice boomed out across the bridge as the men stopped their tirade.

“Ya? Who's knockin? What do they want Cap'n?” A short balding man stood from the former weapons console, chomping on an unlit cigar. Despite his age and appearance, the other crewmen seemed to take notice and give the man a wide, respectful distance.

“Big wigs. Some military types. Need some spares for some of the older battlestars and some old fighters. This is big money, so don't frak it up over a woman.” Summers answered, glaring at the bruised crewmen still fuming with hostility. They made another pass at trying to fight, until the bald man's shotgun made a timely appearance, firmly ending the struggle with a warning shot that knocked out one of the bridge lights.

“Ya. You heard the Cap'n. Godsdamn frakwit sons'a'bitches. Clear the deck.” The bald man echoed. His obvious military training shown through the old, weathered exterior.

“You heard Jack, get off my bridge, frakwits.” Summers continued, taking a large gulp from his tankard before sitting back down on his self-proclaimed “throne chair.” Somewhere beneath the old CIC, the engines coughed, shaking the whole ship, as the core shutdown for the fifth time in a week. Summers didn't even care.

“Damn women, they just frak it up. Not sure having all these women around is good for this bunch.” Jack continued, lighting his cigar and taking a long puff.

“Tell me what IS good for this bunch, Jack? This ain't fleet command, and these sure aren't model officers.” Summers replied. Then again, Jack himself wasn't much of a model officer either, Summers thought. Kicked out of the Colonial fleet for some unknown reason, former Major Jack Stanton wound up here, at the ass-end of the universe. When Summers had pried a bit into the reason for his speedy departure from the Colonial Fleet, Jack had simply replied “I was just looking for some fun.”

“Yeah, what did 'I' frak up this time, huh?” An irritated feminine voice began. Long, flowing red hair flipped around from the form of a very attractive woman as she sauntered in. Her eyes were almost grey, her body slim and curvaceous at the same time, echoing the ideal form of Aphrodite. Summers felt himself mentally undressing her for a moment as she put her hands on her hips and frowned.

“Godsdamn it if you're not all a bunch'a pigs here. Look, the core is frakked up, we need some higher grade tylium, not this cheap badly refined junk you keep sending me.” She continued.

“We make this sale today, and you can have the best grade fuel in this system, hun.” Summers winked at her as she smiled seductively for a moment before reaching for the ale-soaked wrench still sitting on the deck. She tossed the tool with expert marksmanship, knocking the tankard from Summers' hand and spilling the ale everywhere.

“Don't call me hun, okay? My name is Jamie. But don't call me that either. I'm miss Ellison to you frakwits. And hey, get one of your lackeys to clean up that blood and booze, it stinks up here.” She laughed and turned around as the Captain stared at his First Mate.

“Still think it was a good idea to bring her on board?” Jack replied.

“At least she can take care of herself.”

3 Days before the attack, Battlestar Galactica, approaching the salvage yard.

Commander Adama stood in CIC, as professional as ever as he surveyed the DRADIS console with an expression of distaste. Saul Tigh stood opposite of him, obviously hungover and tired but still at least tolerably competent today. The DRADIS console above them was littered with readings from the salvage yard, pieces of many vessels scattered about the large decommissioned battleship hovering in the center of the ghostly formation.

“So refresh my memory, Bill. Why are we dealing with these parasites?” Tigh began.

“The conversion for the museum includes a requirement for a squadron of mark II fighters. This is the only salvage yard with enough of them in working condition. The Admirals want us to ferry some parts too.” The commander replied with an expression of mild annoyance. “I'd still rather not. Turning this ship into a museum and hauling cargo isn't my idea of a worthy mission for Galactica.”

“Well, we get to retire soon, I suppose.” Tigh replied in a moment of clarity.

“Sir, getting a message from the salvage yard, they are requesting to speak to you.” Gaeta spoke out with quick efficiency.

“Salvage Vessel Dreadnaught this is Galactica, Actual.” Adama began.

“Uh. Hi. We're ready for you. We've got your stuff.” An obviously drunk man began, belching mid-sentence. “You can come on over anytime and pick 'em up.”

“Saul, you deal with them. I'm going to my quarters. I have better things to do.” Adama answered as he handed the phone to his XO. “Remember, you're on duty.” The commander added with a touch of sarcasm.

“Just what the hell was that supposed to mean....” Tigh muttered under his breath, bringing the phone to his ear. “We're coming over now.”

The Raptor flight was relatively uneventful, though Tigh was impressed by the immense bulk of the retired battleship. His memory of the war included a number of fleet actions with the dreadnaughts, and as baseship killers they were as effective as any battlestar, but their reduced range, small fighter complement and inability to operate for long away from supply bases had relegated them to a secondary role. He felt a wave of nostalgia and a number of painful memories simultaneously with bittersweet emotion as his Raptor approached old warship. Sometimes he wondered if he was the same man who had fought in that war so long ago.

As if in reply, the docking bay opened, allowing the Raptor inside. Helo slowed the ship down to a crawl, gently approaching the bay on minimum power. Unlike a battlestar, this old ship had no flight pods, just a small docking bay that allowed for only a few fighter craft and no “combat” landings. This made them completely useless as fighter carriers. The armored door to the bay seemed to jam up for a moment before finally jerking shut. Some of the lights flickered, others didn't turn on at all, angering the old Colonel. He hoped Galactica would be spared this kind of dishonorable fate. As pressure returned to the docking bay, Tigh cautiously exited the Raptor, worried that the defective door would pop open to space at any moment. An obviously drunk man stumbled into the bay, followed by another older man... with a face the Colonel recognized.

“Major Jack Stanton... I ought to beat the crap out of you for what you pulled.”

“Saul? They didn't tell me it was you coming.” Jack replied, backing up towards the door as Summers looked on with confusion.

“Hey hey, we're all friends here, right?” Summers added. “We have your stuff.”

“This godsdamn piece of garbage tried to frak my wife...” Tigh began, his face turning scarlet with anger.

“Okay... Jack, how about you check in on miss Ellison.” Summers added hastily. Jack hesitated a moment before deciding on a quick retreat.

“That's the best idea I've heard all day.” Tigh answered. “Now where's the Vipers and equipment we're supposed to pick up?”

“You have the credits? I was promised 260,000”

“You'll get your godsdamn money when I get my godsdamn Vipers. Now go, get them ready for transport to my ship before I order her to start blowing holes in this flying cesspit.” Saul rattled off in anger.

“Okay, we can do that.” Summers replied simply, tapping the comlink near the hatch to the rest of the ship. “Hey look. Get those shipping containers out of the cargo bay. Transfer by wire to their ship...”

“What ship?” A crewman responded over the comlink.

“What the frak ship do you think it is? How about that giant frakkin' battlestar right next door?” The Captain answered in frustration.

“Okay, Cap'n.” The voice replied.

“Real nice operation you got here.” Tigh laughed, his anger receding finally.

“Yeah well this is what happens when you spend most of your profits on booze and babes.” Summers answered in a rare moment of lucidity.

“Don't I know it.” Tigh answered with a tone of understanding.

The cargo bay door opened to reveal a large number of support parts for the Vipers, obviously salvaged from non-functional fighters. The sight brought back painful memories from the war, and once again he found himself regretting Galactica's fate. Yet still better that she become a museum than be forgotten and poured over by frakwits like these junk collectors. Outside, the first of the Vipers were ferried over to Galactica and a part of the old Colonel wondered was saddened that they would never fly again, but then all good things came to an end, even a thing as mighty and majestic as Galactica herself.

2 Days before the attack, Salvage Vessel Dreadnaught, in orbit over Caprica.

“Well, we finally got paid. Now for some decent grade fuel.” Summers smiled, hauling a keg onto the CIC. “Tylium for the boat, and Ale for her crew.” He continued, to a resounding cheer.

“That should keep them happy for awhile, Cap'n.” Jack replied as crewmen lined up to tap the keg and guzzle ale. “But for us, how about some of that Ambrosia?”

“Beats this swill. But I have a price.” Summers expression turned grave.

“Yeah? What's that?”

“What was that business with you and... what was his name... Sligh? Tigh?”

“Yeah, Tigh. Saul Tigh.”

“Yeah, right.... so what was that about? You nearly queered the deal.” Summers continued, his voice beginning to sour with repressed anger.

“I didn't know it was Galactica coming to pickup the goods. There's not much of a story, though. His wife has frakked something like half the fleet over the years. I partook too, but had the misfortune of getting caught.”

“Is that why you were booted out?” Summers asked, sliding over a shot of ambrosia to the old colonial.

“Nah. But can't imagine it helped.” Jack replied, gulping down the ale with an expression of momentary disgust, before smiling. “Harsh stuff. Where'd you get it?”

“Buddy of mine runs a still down on Caprica.... You're not going to tell me, are you?” Summers poured another round of the amber beverage as the crew continued to banter, joke and attempt to otherwise get frakked.

“I already did. I was just looking for some fun.” Jack answered, downing the shot with a quick pound before spying the gorgeous red-head enter the old CIC. “Man, if she isn't a looker.”

“Do me a favor, keep your hands off this one.” Summers replied. “Space is cold. That one's colder.” But Jack wasn't listening any more, his eyes traveling up and down miss Ellison's lithe body with obvious interest. Surprisingly, the woman seemed to accept his mental undressing with delight. Odd, Summers thought, never figured she'd go for the bald guy.

“Captain, we're getting a hail from the surface. They are telling us that our orbital permit has expired and to clear the departure lane immediately.” One of the crewmen spoke up, her voice slurring slightly as she struggled to enunciate each word. She was a rather plain woman, not particularly stunning but still mildly attractive in a nerdy sort of way. Summers had kept an eye on her for quite sometime, wondering why a well-trained physicist would be hanging around this bunch. But years of experience told him to avoid prying too much into a woman's past, sometimes you really just didn't want to know. She had an obvious affinity for alcohol, but was otherwise very intelligent and useful in figuring out clever ways to salvage otherwise impossible hulks.

“Sandra, tell them we are having some uh... mechanical difficulties, and need a day to look into them.”

“They say if you don't get that frakking piece of antiquated crap out from their departure lane, they will have our salvage license revoked and send a battlestar to blow us all to space.” Sandra answered, punctuating that statement with a hiccup.

“Frakkin colonials.... no offense Jack... think they can do as they damn well please. Fine, bring us about as slow as you can manage, lets make a big show of limping out of here. It ought to piss them off a bit.” Summers winked at her.

“Okay. One-quarter engine power. Yay. Woohoo. Off we go.” Sandra answered sarcastically, rubbing her head slightly. “I'm gonna be hung over tomorrow. Ugh.”

“I hear there's a cure for that.” Summers smiled, gesturing toward his quarters. He turned to watch Jack attempt to pickup Ellison, expecting a bit of humor. Instead, his brow furled in concentration. Despite his drunken haze and obvious need to frak something, the captain swore he had seen her before, somewhere on Caprica. But her hair was supposed to be blonde, wasn't it? Sandra sauntered over and simply started kissing all over him with definite inexperience, breaking Summers' train of thought. As he escorted the physicist to his quarters, he felt an unease deep in his gut, like the kind he had when he was a child and Cylons descended upon his homeworld of Tauron, like the feeling he had before his first salvage vessel had been destroyed by Zarek's “freedom fighters.” It was not a pleasant feeling and it almost spoiled his evening with Sandra. Almost.

1 Day before the attack, Battlestar Pegasus, fleet shipyards

Standing perfectly erect, Admiral Helena Cain made an imposing sight, even more so in the hangar bay of the great battlestar Pegasus. As a salvage operator, Summers had seen his share of battlestars, but these newer Mercury-class ships were something else to behold. It was hard to imagine that his ancient dreadnaught was once a frontline warship of the same fleet which now held these powerful behemoths. Cain clicked her heels in annoyance, staring at the Captain with an expression of utter disdain. Even though she was shorter than the salvage captain, one wouldn't know it by the expression of complete and utter domination the woman held.

“Admiral Cain, I am Captain Summers.”

“I don't need to know your name. You have the parts we need?”

“Yes.”

“Then that's all I need from you. You have the requisition list, I assume?”

“Yeah, all of the invoices are in there. Fourteen class-D armor plates refitted for colonial battlestar use, three type-42 I-beam structural ribs and... whatever that other stuff is.” Summers replied, offering the printed invoices to the domineering admiral. Why she had even bothered to come down from CIC for this supply run of salvaged parts, Summers couldn't fathom.

“Good. Colonel Fisk will provide you with your... compensation, scavenger.”

“Our work is legal.” Summers replied defensively.

“So is prostitution, on Tauron.” Cain quipped without blinking an eye, turning on her heels as Colonel Fisk walked over, careful to maintain perfect military decorum, saluting his superior and coming to a halt as he gazed on the unshaven, unkempt captain offending the otherwise clean, military nature of Pegasus.

“Colonel Belzen is busy, so I get to deal with you.” The Colonel's perfect military stature relaxed somewhat as Helena Cain vanished from the hangar deck. “That's a Dreadnaught-class battleship you've converted, isn't it?”

“Yeah, found her about to be broken up by a Tauron scrapping company. It's hard to maintain a ship like that with my small crew, but we manage.” Summers answered.

“I'm surprised she's still flying. Tough ship though. But enough of that, on to business.” Fisk continued, his expression slightly less demeaning than Cain's had been. He quickly signed the forms as Summers' crew tractored out the armor plates and ribbing from Dreadnaught's transport shuttle. Some of the ribbing as almost as long as the transport itself, it was hard to imagine these parts as tiny replacements for similar pieces on Pegasus.

“Colonel, not that I mind the business, but why us?” Summers asked, slightly annoyed at being sober. But it wouldn't do to be trashed on meeting with an Admiral on one of these new battlestars.

“Beancounters at headquarters decided that buying salvaged parts was a cheaper alternative to fabricating new ones. I might ask you where you found armor and ribbing of colonial fleet spec.” Fisk asked darkly, his eyes squinting slightly in suspicion.

“We discovered some wrecks from the Cylon war that had gone unnoticed. Some of the wreckage was from a battlestar, though we don't know which one. Will these parts still work on your ship?”

“Yes, armor and ribbing is pretty standard stuff, it's in good shape. Standard overhaul procedures often discover over-stressed components; it's a pretty easy swap.” Fisk gazed at the forms for a moment, running the numbers in his head. “You're not getting much for these parts, 52,000 credits is a bargain.”

“Your beancounters determined that any battlestar wreckage from the Cylon War was still technically colonial property since it was never decommisioned. They paid us a finders fee only. Better that than the black market and a possible firing squad, I say.” Summers laughed for a moment before realizing he was in polite company.

A woman with a technician's uniform scurried across the deck, obviously in some kind of hurry. She tripped over a carelessly discarded wrench, spilling her clipboard everywhere. Summers bent down and helped her collect the scattered paperwork, leaning upward again to look into her face.

“Ellison?” He asked, incredulously. The technician merely shook her head, collected her forms and quickly departed for some unknown task. Nonetheless, the ominous feeling Summers had earlier returned. The woman looked so much like his engineer, it was uncanny. What were the odds? Did the woman have a twin?

“Something wrong?” Fisk asked, good naturedly.

“A bit of deja vu. It's not the first time either.”

“Right... She's a nice looking girl, but I wouldn't try anything.” Fisk continued, his eyes following the attractive woman's departing ass with obvious interest.

“Why's that?” The Captain asked, his eyes glued to the same person, but for slightly different reasons. The unease was still there.

“Heh. She doesn't care for men. Believe me, I tried. Even Thorne couldn't get a go with that one.” Fisk laughed, rumbling basso echoing across the hangar deck as his eyes flicked briefly in the direction Cain had taken earlier. “Look, I'm about to go off duty, how about you join me for a drink, on our tab.”

“Better than watching these guys unload cargo. Whattya got?” Summers answered, happy for a drink to take the edge off. Dealing with the abrasive admiral had been somewhat tiring. That bad feeling in the pit of his stomach was still there. It would be easier to drown it in booze, and the Captain was never one to decline a drink in any event.

“Only the finest.”

Zero-Day, Salvage Vessel Dreadnaught, returning to salvage yard

Silence covered the bridge of the old battleship, leaving Summers alone on deck as the ship glided across space on sublight, only the humming of the ship and the gentle waves of the lone remaining DRADIS console keeping him company. He rubbed his temples slightly, trying to banish the headache from his hangover. Colonel Fisk certainly hadn't been idly boasting about Pegasus' stores of alcohol. Unlike a military vessel, most of the crew slept on a regular schedule, leaving the ship almost unmanned for long periods of time. His company could only afford around a hundred crewmen anyway, leaving Dreadnaught horrendously undermanned at all times.

The captain enjoyed such time alone with his ship, a vessel so old and battered only he could love her. How many battles had that once-mighty warship seen? Summers had seen the scorch marks on her hull plating, the clean areas where entire armor panels had been replaced and even a few stress points in her ribbing that belied serious battle damage at one point in time. Dreadnaught's gun batteries still dotted the outside of her hull, but the barrels had been filled, welded shut and rendered useless upon decommission. Only a handful of civilian-legal short range missiles remained, and even then only because Sagitarron pirate and terrorist activity had convinced the government to allow civilians limited defensive armaments. Not that any of them bothered Dreadnaught, the vessel's armor and sheer bulk had convinced most would-be pirates to steer clear.

The DRADIS console beeped, indicating a new inbound contact, snapping the captain from his moment of introspection. Space was vast, but shipping accidents still happened from time to time. Summers forced himself to his feet, dragging himself to the helm and adjusting course to steer clear of the incoming vessel. Oddly enough, the vessel, by now recognizable as an extremely large ship, battlestar-size, changed course to match his.

“Does this guy want a collision?” The captain muttered to himself as he adjusted course again.

Insurance fraud in shipping “accidents” was common enough, but why use such a large ship? Pirates generally preferred fast, smaller craft, and certainly none operated anything the size of a battlestar. Even then, they rarely operated in Caprican space. For a moment, Summers wondered darkly if the ship might be a Cylon basestar. But that couldn't be right, they were long gone. The DRADIS continued beeping as he stared at the “unknown contact” with rapt interest. Deciding the situation didn't sit right, he grabbed the CIC phone.

“Wake up. I need bridge crew now.” Summers spoke loudly.

It was only a few minutes before the first of his groggy crewmen showed up on the bridge, and of course it was Jack. Did the man ever sleep?

“What's going on, Tom?”

“Look at that. It's been chasing us for awhile. Thought it might be pirates.. but...”

“No... Course, speed.... approximate size and configuration...” Jack furrowed his brow for a moment as he studied the DRADIS and computer readouts. “Oh.. FRAK. Jump. Now.”

“What's going on Jack.”

“That thing has a center axis, dual primary hull design. It's a basestar. I recognize the general configuration from flight school.”

“That's not possible.”

“Don't argue with me. Jump. Now!” Jack said, staring at the DRADIS.

“Okay okay. I need a few minutes to do the calculations.” Summers vaulted over the FTL console, wiping off the dust and grime.

“We don't have that much time. They are launching fighters... probably raiders. Baseship is turning away, going to let the raiders do the dirty work. I'm arming our missiles.” Jack yelled, falling back into military routine out of ingrained habit. His fingers worked the weapons console rapidly, sending commands to the ships handful of missile batteries.

“We only have a few.”

“Yeah, I know. I'll make them count.” The ex-military man replied quickly. “Look, if this gets nasty, just jump us, blind, anywhere.”

“This can't be that bad. Are you sure that's a basestar?”

“Sir, with all due respect, shut the FRAK up if you want to live through this.” Jack said angrily, finally reaching the salvage captain.

Summers maneuvered the ship expertly, throttling the ship up to flank speed, trying desperately to reach the relative safety of the salvage yard as he ran through the calculations. Vibrations echoed throughout the ship as missile impacts hit the armor plating, shaking the old battleship as she trudged through the growing battle. Jack waited until the last possible moment before launching a missile spread that claimed four of the attacking raiders in quick succession.

“Whatever this is, we're not a priority target. They will be attacking colonial fleet installations with their main attack waves. We're just an interesting sideshow. Hopefully.” Jack added, firing off another wave of missiles. This time the raiders were expecting the attack, and quickly eliminated most of the missiles. Still, another raider vanished from the DRADIS console. “We don't have much time. Another wave is inbound.”

“I'm steering us into the salvage yard, that should make things more difficult for them.” Summers replied. He didn't have much combat experience, and even that was limited to fighting off pirate attacks, but he knew how to fly his ship better than anyone. Dreadnaught glided through the haphazard wreckage, forcing the raiders to dodge the ruined hulks and floating debris. Summers twisted the old battleship on her long axis, diving underneath a particularly large wreck, nearly scraping the bottom of the derelict. Jack took advantage of the situation and launched his final spread of missiles, destroying several raiders and forcing the others back temporarily.

“That's it for our missiles. We need to get out of here before they send more.” Jack continued as other crewmen ran up to the bridge. Sandra was there, her unkempt hair frizzled and ragged, her body still wrapped up in a blanket, worry and puzzlement drawn across her face. Summers looked around for Ellison, but the attractive engineer was nowhere to be found. Where was she?

“What's happening?” The scientist asked quickly,.

“We're under Cylon attack.” Summers answered, his voice a deadpan.

“Impossible!”

“Nothing is impossible.” Jack replied. “How are we on the calculations, Cap'n.”

“Almost ready.”

“Good. Because the radiological alarm just went off. We have inbound nuclear missiles.”

“What?” Sandra gasped as other crewmen dove for their stations with fear.

“Almost there....” Sweat dripped from Summers' brow as the missiles closed on Dreadnaught, like the specter of death coming for them. Space was cold, merciless and unforgiving. Every salvager knew this, it was an axiom as old as spaceflight. Flying ever-closer, the missiles approached the old battleship as time seemed to slow for the captain. With the last number in place, he twisted the FTL key immediately, and for one agonizing moment he thought they weren't going to make it. Then the world faded, stretching impossibly long and incredibly short at the same time, like the very essence of existence was being torn and reformed like putty.