Day 16, Battleship Dreadnaught, Deep Space, Unknown Location

“Give up the fight and learn to surrender.”

It was a voice all too familiar to him, the melodious feminine tones echoing through the corridors of his vessel, taunting him, driving him mad. Every dream was the same, an empty ship filled with bodies and that horrendous woman laughing. Again and again it was always the same, the cycle never ending, like the story of man and the stars. This time he reached for a gun, seeking her blood in a deadly game of cat and mouse. He hunted her, a predator stalking dangerous prey, in control of himself. There she was, Ellison, the Cylon monstrosity herself. His finger clutched the trigger like a lifeline as the gun clicked empty.

Captain Summers awoke with a start, his forehead drenched in sweat. As he slowly recovered his senses, he reached for the bottle of ambrosia, taking a long pull from the half-empty bottle. Truly, he wasn't sure which was worse, reality or the recurring dreams of that Cylon bitch. He was no stranger to nightmares, of course, living as he did on the very edge of civilized space, but these were something different. Death had followed in his wake many times, never quite finding him, but somehow this machine thing managed it every time. Still, life was a battle every man was fated to lose at some point.

Yawning briefly, he reached for his jacket, foregoing the usual luxury of a shower. Supplies were limited and there just wasn't enough water to go around. His salvage crew was never known for having a pleasing scent, but at this rate the ship would smell something like a cesspit if they didn't solve the water recycling problem. As if punctuating his thoughts, someone knocked lightly on the door, the rapping on the metal matching rhythm with the pounding headache in his skull.

“Yeah, it's open” He rattled off, his voice raspy.

Captain Isard stepped in, his uniform superbly pressed and immaculate. How he had managed that miracle, Summers couldn't say. He supposed military men had their own ways of spit and polish they could maintain even in a sewage treatment plant, if they had to.

“What's on your mind, Isard?” Summers asked warily. Conflict between the salvagers and the colonial survivors had been rather frequent and some part of him was just waiting for the inevitable hammer to drop.

“Wanted to discuss the command arrangements, sir.” He spoke simply as Summers frowned. “I have an idea that might help us both.”

“Go on.” Summers answered simply as he shoved his boots onto his unwashed feet, his nose twitching in annoyance at the stench therein.

“Way I see it, this is your ship. But the colonials are my men. I'm figuring some kind of compromise, you say where we go, when we go there, command your salvage teams and all that.” Isard continued carefully.

“And you? I hope you're not planning a coup, Captain.” Summers' voice took on a dark edge.

“Nothing of the kind. I would command all military ops. If we're in battle, I give the orders. It's a matter of tactical experience. Everything else is up to you, when we're not fighting I'll follow your orders.” Isard added. For a moment he let the silence linger, then continued. “Look, this isn't for my benefit really. Elena has a lot of supporters, not enough to throw us out an airlock but enough to cause trouble. This will shut them up. They won't feel like they are taking orders from a Civvy. No offense.”

“I'm good with it, on one condition. We don't go start a battle without my say so. I don't want you all leading us on some damn crusade to annihilate the Cylons or some frakked up shit. Your men are yours, I don't want any part of them anyway, just keep them under control.” Summers followed up with a swig of ambrosia, frowning at the slowly emptying bottle. He smiled for a moment and reached for a shot glass, pouring some of the amber liquid in and pushing it down the table towards Isard.

“Let's drink on it.” The old captain smirked with amusement.

“I'm on duty...”

“Yeah, well your superiors aren't here to bust your ass. Your kind shake hands, fine and good. My kind, we drink to a deal. Besides, it's good liquor. When it's gone it's gone forever, so enjoy.” Summers nodded briefly as Isard reached for the drink, clinking his shot glass with the old captain's bottle.

“To the colonies, may they rest in peace...” Summers said solemnly.

**

CIC was really beginning to shape up. The center console had replaced the old captain's chair and a bank of monitors had been installed above it. DRADIS readings swept across the monitors, the hum almost comforting to the colonials. Salvage techs were still working on some of the consoles, but to to the untrained eye, it almost look like the command center of a modern battlestar. Sandra knew the changes weren't just on the inside, either. Dreadnaught's full armaments had been nearly restored, eighteen kinetic mounts and countless point defense weapons had been reactivated. Her missile launchers had been resupplied and reloaded, thought probably for the last time. Far beyond the wildest of expectations, two functional nukes had been discovered on the old Atlantia wreckage, giving the battleship some real teeth.

Pride swelled within Sandra, for the first time in almost a decade. Her parents had considered her a failure, a geek in a family of political figures, an embarrassment and a drunk. All of her life she had longed to be important, not as some politician's trophy or some rich guy's set of walking tits, but for her mind. It was ironic that the old world had to blow up for that to happen, but it had happened anyway. She tapped her still for the last drop of booze, swishing it around in her cup for a moment before downing it, enjoying the comfortable warmth before getting back to work. Summers walked in, his jacket unbuttoned, rubbing his forehead with obvious annoyance. As he saw her, he smiled slightly and stared with an air of primitive desire. Well, it was nice to be needed for one's mind, but the tits were a nice bonus to have when your entire species was on the verge of extinction.

“Mornin. I see you got something a bit better than coffee going on there.” He smiled as he leaned against a console seat.

“It's not Caprican Ambrosia, but it'll get you trashed.” She said dryly. “So what's the story on the toilet paper?”

“Would you believe Atlantia had functional nukes, good rations, but not a single roll of usable TP?” Jack laughed as he sauntered in, taking his station. The ex-officer had donned a uniform again, if only to mingle among the military survivors.

“Figures.” Sandra frowned. “Good news is we were able to transfer some of the water recycling equipment from Atlantia. Some of it was smashed pretty good, but I think we can setup something rudimentary. Say, 75% efficiency.”

“So no showers still. Well that stinks.” Jack added.

“Tell me about it. This ship never exactly smelled like a flower field on Caprica, though. We'll get used to it.” Summers rubbed his forehead again, looking up at Sandra's still. “Nice of you to set that up on the bridge.”

“Figured we need it the most.” Sandra answered, finishing her cup and frowning slightly at the aftertaste.

“The refugees on the lower decks would probably disagree. But frak them anyway, they can build their own damn booze-maker.” The old captain answered. “Well not much else we can do here, get Isard up here, it's time we bail on this grave. This place still gives me the frakkin creeps.”

**

Model 005, serial number 34891-A was alive, or at least in the sense that an advanced multi-core CPU could be alive. Electrical current found its way along the motherboard, activating systems that had gone dormant long ago. Devoid of new input, unable to signal others, 34891-A had gone into suspend mode decades ago, conserving power for the time it might be considered useful. The centurion powered up, his red eye scanning the space around him for the source of his awakening.

Centurion 34891-A had been cast out into space when his basestar had been destroyed in battle with Atlantia's battlegroup, leaving his otherwise intact body floating uselessly in the depths, unable to maneuver, and there he had remained for over forty years. Power reserves had fallen greatly in that time, and the centurion didn't even risk a full self-check. His body rolled uncontrollably but finally his eye latched on to the thing which had triggered his reactivation. Sensors had detected a Dreadnaught-class Colonial battleship near the edge of the debris field obviously engaged in salvage operations.

That data didn't compute. Battleships were not salvage vessels, and assuming the war between men and machine still waged, it would be a waste to use a capital ship in such a manner. Something must have changed in the intervening years. His mind immediately sought our other centurions that might be nearby, but none responded. When he had gone into suspend mode, there were a few others surviving cylons nearby, but they must have run out of power long ago. With no method of attacking the Colonial vessel and no means of escaping his floating prison, 34891-A activated his long range transmitter. Perhaps there were Cylon vessels nearby. There hadn't been forty years ago, but with Colonials operating in this region again, it was remotely possible that Cylon vessels might be within reception range, looking for the battleship.

“Model 005, Serial Number 34891-A reporting to any Cylon forces in sector 654-G. Colonial battleship present in area, Dreadnaught-class, engaged in salvage operations.” The centurion broadcast the message across space and seeing little point wasting any additional power, shutdown non-critical systems again, suspending himself to wait for when he might be needed again.

**

“FRAK! What the hell do you mean the FTL's broke?” Summer screamed, his previously good nature melting away with red-faced frustration.

“You know, it hadn't been used or even maintained in forty years. Quite honestly, I'm surprised it's worked this well so far.” Sandra's pride turned to annoyance as she stared at the monitor.

“Can it be repaired?” Isard asked calmly.

“Yeah. It's an alignment problem. Most FTL drives have to be aligned periodically, and this hasn't seen an realignment since she was decommissioned. Give me say a dozen techs and a few hours, and we can get on our merry frakkin way.” Sandra answered sarcastically.

“Godsdamn crap. Alright, I'll get you your techs. Jack, I need you on this one, get your best people. I don't need to tell you how bad being stranded is right now.” Summers ordered.

“Nah, pretty sure that's obvious, Cap'n.” Jack answered, turning over the tactical panel to one of Isard's men. For his part, Isard frowned, glancing at the DRADIS with sudden worry. He grabbed the phone and held it to his mouth, barking out orders to the surviving fighter jocks in the battleship's small hangar bay.

“....yes, I know how many Vipers we have. Launch them all, I need a CAP right now. One ECM Raptor. Get a move on, people.” Isard ordered. He wiped the perspiration from his brow and glanced over at Summers. “Sir, we need to be ready if the Cylons should...”

“I'm not an idiot, Isard. I'd have said the same frakkin thing if you hadn't beat me to it.” Summers interrupted. “I don't have all your fancy training, but hell, space trains people well enough anyhow. You might want to launch our makeshift gunboat too.” He pointed out. The colonial officer nodded in reply, reaching for the phone again...

“Picking up a short EM burst, some kind of transmission, I think. Can't understand it, though.” Isard's comm officer spoke up.

“Source?” Summers asked suspiciously.

“I don't know, somewhere in the debris field, I think.” The officer's voice was confused.

“Probably some machinery in the wreckage. We messed with a lot of stuff out there, some if might still have some power.” Isard offered.

“Right...” But Summers couldn't shake the worry. There was a reason he never came back here even when things were good. The place just didn't sit right with him, as if it wasn't quite dead. That instinct of his had saved him many times before, but he had ignored it this time. As he stared at the FTL readout, he knew there would be trouble, as certainly as he knew that thing from his dreams was still out there someplace, watching him. Sandra's swill offered only temporary reprieve from the lingering uneasiness, and none at all from the nagging headache.