StarDestroyer.Net BBS

If you look at the original Battlestar Galactica, there is an almost fascist aspect to Colonial society. The civilian government is always wrong and martial law ensures the prosperity of the fleet. All of the main characters are in the glorified military (including Cassiopeia when she becomes a medic). Peace negotiation leads to betrayal several times, most notably in the pilot. I have decided to rewrite the series (or start and give up after a while) in a manner that better reflects this theme. Don't worry, I won't be shoving so many references in the future like I did in this installment. I credit An Analytical Guide to Television's Battlestar Galactica for planting the seed of my first fanfic. It's a great read for any fans of the old series.

Please help me fix any problems you see.

There are those who believe that life here began out there, far across the universe, with tribes of humans who may have been the forefathers of the Aryans or Nordic peoples. They may have been the genetic architects of the master race, or the lost civilizations of Hyperboria or Atlantis. Some believe that there may yet be brothers of man who even now fight for lebensraum somewhere beyond the heavens...

Battlestar Galactica: Struggle of a Star World

Part 1: War Council

A mighty fleet of starships rockets forward in space. Five gleaming ships, all battlestars, in a battle line. As they pass, each announces its name in bombastic panels mounted onto each fighter launch bay. Atlantia. Thule. Hyperborea. Schwabenland. Galactica. Aside from battlestars, the only other ships in the area are small shuttles. Each shuttle carries the most important members of the Colonial Chancellery to the Atlantia, flagship of Chancellor Adar of the Twelve Colonies of Aryans.

Council Chambers, Battlestar Atlantia.

The delegates, each representing one Colony, assemble around the great swastika-emblazoned table in the center of the chamber. While nearly identical in physical appearance, each member’s personal additions to their Warrior uniforms or councilor robes identifies their Colony. Around their necks hangs an encrusted swastika, the symbol of the Chancellery. Chancellor Adar enters the chamber and the other eleven smartly saluted, arms extended and palms flat. Nearly every blue eye glazed over with fanaticism. Adar returns the salute and seats himself facing a cardinal point of the swastika on the table, smoothing his black hair. The other delegates then seat themselves, three others choosing the other three points benefiting their ranks.

Commandant Adama, supreme military commander of the Colonial Fleet, is seated directly opposite Adar. Graf Baltar, the civilian foreign minister, sits to Adar’s left. Across from Baltar sits Uri, the other important civilian and head of the economic ministry. Adar looks sternly across the table.

“Commandant, report on the fleet,” he says.

Adama smiles slyly and says, “Chancellor, the Colonial Fleet is fully prepared for the ambush. All of our fighter patrols are landing aboard their motherships and I have ordered all engines shut down. Along with our camo-fields, this will reduce our sensor signature to nothing more than comet.”

“Excellent, Adama,” Adar says, his expression softening and starting to glow with sinister cheer. “And Baltar, what have you heard from our Cylon friends?”

Baltar nervously wiped his palms on his thighs and swallowed before answering, “The last transmission I got from the Cylon embassy back on Caprica said that their fleet was approaching our diplomatic ship Star Aldebaran. I, of course, told them that our fleet would be delayed.”

“At last, our thousand yahren rei–” started Adar.

“Sir, Chancellor, if I may?” mumbled Uri.

Adama rolled his eyes and sat back. Adar, equally displeased, turned to Uri and stared laser beams into Uri’s bald scalp.

“Yes, Uri? What is it?”

“Well, Chancellor, I was hoping we could discuss the reduction of arms production in favor of the civilian economy, sir?” Uri blubbered, unprepared to actually have Adar’s attention.

“A reduction in arms production?” sneered the Chancellor. Adama chuckled and Baltar gulped. The other ministers looked on with trepidation.

“Yes, Chancellor! I’ve submitted – resubmitted – my calculations on the state of the economy to your office. You haven’t read them?”

Adar involuntarily looked towards the waste disposal slot in the bulkhead, then back to Uri.

“No, I have not,” he answered truthfully. “Perhaps you would like to entertain the ministers with a summary?”

“Well, Chancellor, ministers,” Uri quickly scanned their faces but turned away from the discouragement, “If we continue the production of military equipment at our current levels–”

“Or increased levels,” interjected Adama.

“Oh, yes, anything near or above our level right now, Commandant,” Uri responded earnestly. “Anyway, if we continue at our current – or increased – levels, the economy will become more and more oriented towards heavy industries that we don’t have the resources to support.”

“And what’s your point?” asked Adama. “More heavy industry equals a more powerful fleet equals more resources from conquest.”

Uri steeled himself before responding to the greatly-respected Adama. “Well, Commandant, what if our military exhausts our supply of tylium before we can secure a new source?”

Adama shot out of his chair. “Felgercarb! You insult our Fleet and slap every Colonial Warrior in the face! Chancellor?”

Adar closes his eyes slowly. “Let him get it out, Adama,” he chastens.

Adama collapses in his seat, arms folded across his chest. He fingers the emblem of the Chancellery and glares at Uri, the implication clear to the rest.

Conversely, Uri became more confident, “We have no significant natural sources of tylium within our borders, despite how admirably extended they were by our Warriors. I predict a collapse of our economy if we don’t invest billions of cubits into light industry and commercial goods. We export nothing and import everything!”

“Such is the nature of tribute, Minister,” growled Adama.

“Adama has a point,” added Adar. “We have the military force now, and we will use it to extract what we need from others at no cost.”

Uri’s confidence boils over. “Like we did at Molecay? Where is Commandant Cain now, two yahren later? Blasted across hectares of space, probably.”

Adama flushs red and clenches his hand over the swastika medallion. Baltar looks at the chronometer with urgency and speaks.

“Chancellor, perhaps we should table this debate now. We’ll be passing Cimtar soon,” he says in his best negotiation tone.

Adar nods. “I concur. This council is dismissed, man your ships.”

They all rise with Adar and salute once more, then break. Baltar anxiously pushes his way towards the door, but slows himself self-consciously. Adama marches briskly, but Adar takes him aside. Uri scurries out of the room to his shuttle, hoping to relish every moment without Adama before Adama joins him for the trip back to Galactica.

The council chamber empties except for Adar and Adama. Adama paces impatiently.

“What?” he asks bluntly.

“Peace, my child,” sooths Adar. “I will not have my supreme commander distracted in the most important engagement in the history of our struggle.”

Adama breaths deeply, the red leaving his face. “I am not distracted, merely prepared for battle,” he says, the sinister smile returning to his face.

Adar smiles back and claps him on the shoulder.

“Not a battle, Commandant. I do believe Graf Baltar’s final solution for the Cylon problem will be quite a massacre.”

This is different from the usual classic BSG stories. Adama has the aggression of an attack dog and Baltar seems as jumpy as the new Dr. Baltar. Keep going!

Yay, my first responce! In case anyone thinks it is ridiculous, it's supposed to be.

Please keep this story going. It actually makes more sense then the original Galactica Series.

StarshipTitanic wrote:Yay, my first responce! In case anyone thinks it is ridiculous, it's supposed to be.

This isn't ridiculous at all. It's like the Third Reich in space. What more could you ask for!?

may yet be brothers of man who even now fight for lebensraum somewhere beyond the heavens...

Twelve Colonies of Aryans.

final solution for the Cylon problem

Hooray, my ego has been stroked enough to write a second part. It will be posted within a few days. Sincere thanks to everyone who has posted and anyone who is reading.

I hope I'm not boring anyone with the exposition of the about-faced characters. The plot will start with a bang in the next part, as anyone familiar with either BSG can tell.

Part 2: Approaching Cimtar

Shuttle GAL 356, Atlantia Port Landing Bay

Sire Uri sits in the passenger compartment of the shuttle, sweating underneath his magisterial robes. He eyes Athena, the Commandant’s daughter and pilot of the shuttle. Athena is busy preparing the shuttle for launch by punching buttons and flipping switches on the imposing cockpit console. The engines whine as they charge. Uri can’t help but take in her physical beauty as she worked. The long, flowing black hair she didn’t have to cut as one of the perks of being the daughter of a commandant on his ship, strong cheekbones, and under the blue tunic of her uniform two beautiful–

Athena turns around to glare at the old man her father hates so much. Uri jumps and quickly looks down.

“Relax, old man. I’m a good pilot,” she says.

Uri smiles, his shame undetected. Uri knows Athena has a reputation for being one of the dimmer laser cannons in the weapon battery, but she is still dangerous. She also has the reputation of being her father’s top informant. Like a crawl-on, she weaves a web of deception and lust to trap her victims for denouncement and execution.

“If I perish on the way back, I doubt it will be pilot error,” Uri muses.

“Oh Uri,” says Athena, grinning wide. “You would be dead by now if my father wanted you dead.”

Athena moves her hand to brush her holstered laser pistol. Uri’s eyes widen and he looks off into the distance. Colonial Warriors are always armed, Uri ruminates, whether they were shooting down Cylons, piloting a mundane shuttle, and even off duty. In fact, Uri thinks, he never saw a Warrior in civilian clothes. Are they ever off duty?

Adama storms aboard, and Uri’s bowels clench. Uri sighs with relief as Adama passes him without looking and sits besides his daughter.

“Take off!” Adama barks to a startled Athena, who immediately complies.

Shuttle THU 314, Thule Starboard Landing Bay Approach

Graf Baltar grasps the shuttle control stick, his palm slick with sweat. His mind continually questions the wisdom of insisting he pilot his shuttle alone, for he has no piloting experience. The necessity outweighs his fears, for no member of the Thule’s crew can know his terrible secret.

Baltar laughs and says, “How strange it is to be afraid to die in a crash rather than soon afterwards. In the battle.”

He listens.

“Silence, eh? Very well. I should enjoy the quiet before the battle starts.”

The lumpy bulk of the shuttle drifts past the atmosphere screen of the landing bay opening and the automated landing sequence begins. Baltar breaks his grasp on the control stick and wipes his hand on his robes. He watches the flight crew scurry out towards the shuttle and sighs.

“Is it fair to them? Hush now, they might hear.”

The hatch opens with a hiss in the rear of the shuttle. Baltar jumps up from his seat and crosses the cabin quickly before a nosy slave can enter.

Before exiting, he looks through an open hatch in the deck that leads to the darkened cargo bay. “Wait here as long as you can.”

“By your command.”

Viper Probe, En Route to Cimtar

Two sleek Viper fighters shoot through space. They fly side by side, engines burning, scanners active. They are approaching the planned “negotiation” rendezvous point in the murky space surrounding Cimtar, a moon-sized asteroid. Their mission is absolutely critical for the propaganda side of the ambush.

Captain Apollo, son of Commandant Adama, watches his scanner monitor. The five battlestar icons on the extreme edge of the screen blink out in unison, a sure sign of a camo-field activation.

“Looks like the fleet’s ready. Computer’s estimating their course.”

The five icons blinked back, representing the estimated position of the fleet. As the battlestars had ceased acceleration, the estimation is precisely accurate.

Apollo smiles. The fleet under his father’s command waits only for his own signal to attack. Waves of pride wash over him. He looks at the cloud growing in the distance directly ahead, imagining the Imperious Leader’s personal ship amid what remained of the shattered Cylon Alliance fleet.

“We should make contact within a few centons, Zac,” he says.

Zac, Adama’s third child, is the typical hotshot pilot itching for combat. His inclusion in the mission, replacing the seasoned veteran Starbuck who Apollo had originally chosen, was purely a political ploy by Adama. With all three children in the military, Apollo thinks, his father appears to be the ideal Colonial. And someday, Apollo mused, he would inherit the mighty Adama’s mantle.

Apollo self-consciously raises his hand to his head, but it naturally hits his helmet. Apollo thinks of his brown hair and its connotation of impurity. He shakes his head; it won't matter so long as he has the political position inherited from his father. No one noticed Adar's raven thatch so prominent in his omnipresent portraits.

“Good. I wish I could see the face of their leader when we blast them out of the frakking sky,” said Zac, his bloodlust practically dripping from each word.

“Zac, Cylons don’t have facial expressions,” Apollo corrects, smiling at the thought of the stoic Cylon mask twisted in fear.

“Cylons are worse than the mongrel races,” Zac said, parroting a typical line of propaganda taught to Colonial Warriors at the officer academy.

“Because they can’t feel their inferiority,” finishes Apollo.

The two pause in silence, letting their hate subside. A small warning alarm sounds in their cockpits.

“Did you see it?” Apollo asks.

Zac snaps back to their situation.

“No, it was too quick. I think it was in the cloud.”

They both look into the enormous nebula ahead. The churning, blue cloud was the only spatial anomaly that could hide the Colonial fleet for the ambush. If someone was already there, the mission could be jeopardized.

Zac looks over at Apollo. “Maybe it’s them,” he suggests.

Apollo frowns and says, “It doesn’t feel right, but I’ll try. Greetings, this is Captain Adama of the battlestar Galactica. We are here to escort your honorable Leader as a gesture of good faith.”

The two listen. Their fighters enter the cloud.

Apollo’s heart starts to beat faster. “Greetings, this is Capta–”

“Apollo! Look!”

Apollo glances down at his scanner to see the source of Zac’s terror. Thousands upon thousands of contacts, all of them Cylon Raiders, and all of them in the path of the five battlestars.

A very inventive approach. I look forward to more.

Since the crew of the Galactica are now Space Nazis, does this mean the Cylons are the good guys now? Or is the coming battle like one between Nazi Germany and Stalinist Russia, a battle between an evil empire and a marginally less-evil empire? Are there any sympathetic characters in this fanfic?

Sidewinder wrote:Since the crew of the Galactica are now Space Nazis, does this mean the Cylons are the good guys now? Or is the coming battle like one between Nazi Germany and Stalinist Russia, a battle between an evil empire and a marginally less-evil empire? Are there any sympathetic characters in this fanfic?

All will be answered. BSG has a huge cast, it will take a little for me to get to them all.

Part 3: Ambush

Caprica, Capital Planet of the Twelve Colonies of Aryans

Serena, star reporter of the Propaganda Ministry’s news arm, stands in front of the gigantic peace pavilion. The word “PEACE” is spelt out in flowers behind her. Thirteen separate tents, one for each colony plus one for the Cylons, are arrayed in a giant semi-circle around the central plaza. The news crew is about to begin the broadcast, and Serena waves to her son standing behind the cameraman.

Boxey waves back and smiles. Muffit, a Hyperborean Shepherd daggit, senses the excitement and barks. Boxey pets his daggit and straightens his Space Scout uniform. He shines his record nine merit badges for Denouncement with the cuff of his shirt.

The cameraman starts a countdown and Serena prepares herself for a momentous newscast.

“Hello fellow Colonials, I’m Serena and this is the News Ministry’s continuing coverage of the historic peace conference between our Twelve Colonies and the Cylons. We’re reporting live from the Pavilion on Caprica. At this moment our fleet, personally led by Chancellor Adar, should be reaching the diplomatic ship Star Aldebaran to commence negotiations…”

Viper Probe, En Route to Cimtar

Zac’s nervous voice whispers through the comm speaker.

“I count over a thousand, Apollo. We can’t outfight that!”

Apollo’s paralysis from terror didn’t extend to his mouth.

“Turn around and turbo all the way back to Galactica, now!”

“Shouldn’t we send a signal?”

“No! They’ll spot us!”

“What about the fleet?”

“We can warn them once we’re out of range, now turn around!”

The two Vipers spun around on their axis and great plumes of ionized gas shot out of their tri-pulse engines. A squadron of Raiders gave chase.

“Apollo, they spotted us!”

Apollo glanced at his scanner and quickly counted.

“It’s only a squadron, we can blast the pogies out of them. Brake on three microns. One. Two.”

The Vipers appear to stop in space relative to the Raider squadron. The Raiders shoot by.

“Blast them!” Apollo shouts.

“Frak! Apollo, I got a problem!”

Apollo vaporizes the Raider closest to him and then gives chase to two more. He soon blows them apart with carefully-aimed twin laser blasts.

“Zac, why aren’t you moving?”

Zac’s Viper simply continues in a straight line.

“I– I think something shorted out when I braked.”

Zac’s Viper turned lazily and fired, blasting another Raider apart. The two Vipers emerge from the cloud followed by less than half of the Raider squadron. Apollo darts behind Zac and destroys another Raider, and then another. The Raiders retreat back into the cloud.

Apollo flies under Zac’s Viper and looks for damage. A large part of the engine assembly is blasted out from the inside.

“What happened, Zac?”

“I don’t know, I think I blew something when we braked.”

Apollo hisses, “Fraking lazy slaves. They’ll get punished when we’re back to the Galactica, Zac.”

A pause, then, “I don’t know if I’ll make it back, Apollo.”

Apollo looks at his scanner and sees contacts start to emerge from the cloud. A thousand, minus a few, Raiders emerged and began their advance.

Apollo glances once at his brother’s damaged ship and says, “Good luck, Brother, but I need to warn the fleet.”

“I understand, Apollo.”

Apollo punches the Turbo button on his control stick, but he can’t help but note his lack of remorse. He switches the comm off and thinks aloud.

“Only Athena and me now,” he says. “And father’s growing so old.”

Apollo’s face twitches as he keeps a smirk from blooming across his face. His thumb finds the Turbo button and he presses down hard.

Bridge, Galactica

Adama stands at the center of the Galactica’s bridge. Consoles radiate around the central platform, each glowing with activity.

“Colonel Omega, report.”

Colonel Omega, Adama’s second in command, spins in his chair to face the Commandant.

“Maintenance Team D has fixed the breach in our camo-field. We are now fully masked. Sensors confirm that the other four battlestars have completely masked their signature.”

Adama nods his approval and says, “Good. Any word back from Apollo and Zac?”

Athena, now at her sensor station, turns to Adama.”

“Negative, sir. Wait. Wait, I think I’m getting something.”

Adama tenses.

“Put it on speaker.”

“Cap…lo…repor…”

Adama marches up to the speaker. The entire bridge crew seems to listen intently.

Athena whispers, “He’s coming into range now.”

“…Cylons, thousands of them. They’re waiting for us, I think it’s an ambush. Zac’s Viper malfunctioned and I had to leave him. I repeat, this is Captain Apollo reporting…”

Adama switches the speaker off.

“Athena, give me telemetry at my station.”

Bridge, Thule

Baltar sits in the command chair of the Thule. To his right is a console with a set of emergency alarms displayed on a screen. His hand rests on a button beside the screen. His eyes close, then open. He depresses the button and a klaxon rings out.

The bridge, tense with anticipation of the battle, explodes into action. His colonel reads off a list displayed on his screen.

“Graf, sensor show several power failures in our section! We have to evacuate to the secondary bridge before battle!”

Baltar shoots out of his chair.

“Yes, evacuate the bridge! Evacuate!”

Every crewmember leaves their station and files towards the door. Baltar stands by the door and urges the crew on. Within thirty seconds, the bridge is empty but for Baltar. His colonel turns around, but Baltar punches the door activator and it slides shut. The colonel looks on with confusion and urgency, but Baltar simply shoots the door’s console off the wall with a laser.

Baltar turns and dashes back to his station. He punches up the camo-field controls and hits “Deactivate.”

“Lords help me, I’ve doomed us all.”

Bridge, Galactica

Adama and Omega hunch over the center console. Their tactical screen shows thousands of Cylon Raiders emerging from the turbulent clouds of space gas around Cimtar. Just in front of them is a single Viper contact, Zac. About midway between the Cylons and the fleet is Apollo’s Viper.

Omega’s eyebrows furrow. He indicates the mass of Raiders and says, “We can’t defeat that many Cylons, but if we keep our camo-fields up we can drift right past them. Once we’re at a safe distance, we’ll turn around and head back to the Colonies.”

Adama nods, but his response is interrupted by Athena’s urgent cry.

“Father, the Thule! It’s camo-field is off!”

“What?!”

Central Chamber, Basestar, Periphery of the Colonial System

Three silver centurions march through the sliding, transparent doors into the giant central chamber. Such spacious chambers are reserved for only the highest-ranking Cylon commanders. The central chair spins around to reveal an IL-series Cylon, the most intelligent model.

The centurions make a short bow. The center one steps forwards.

"Our ambush force reports contact with the Colonial Fleet at Cimtar. The Colonial Baltar has successfully disabled a camo-field."

The lighted spirals of the IL-series' brain seemed to glow and pulse with greater intensity. His silken voice is a stark contrast to a centurion's harsh delivery.

"Excellent news! Let the liberation begin!"

"By your command," is the reply.

I'm afraid that this will go on hold for the immediate future for at least a week. Sorry to all of my loyal fans!

Boo! Hiss! A week?
Just when it was getting interesting!

I'm just wondering what has become of Boomer and Tigh..

Cao Cao wrote:Boo! Hiss! A week?
Just when it was getting interesting!

I'm just wondering what has become of Boomer and Tigh..

The next part will feature them in a surprising role that I've alluded to.

EDIT: Thanks for showing your opinion! I really appreciate it, I can't stress that enough. Please, anyone reading, help me make it better if you can.

I can hardly wait for the next chapter.

Sean Mulligan wrote:I can hardly wait for the next chapter.

Don't necro, spammer.