Chapter 1 – The End of the Line

DREADNOUGHT "ENDURANCE"

TAURON COLONIAL RESERVE FLEET

07:30 HRS

"Frak," Lieutenant Rick O'Neil growled, watching the slowly expanding patch of red on his chin as it blended with the white of shaving foam.

The light above the mirror in his wash room was defective, flickering on and off seemingly at random. As a result, his morning shave had become a clandestine affair, using the brief moments of visibility to run the razor over as much skin as possible before the bulb gave out again. But with haste came mistakes, as his father had once said.

He sighed and dabbed at the bleeding cut. He leaned forward, looking at his reflection in the steamed mirror. Even features, a clean jaw line, a straight nose, bright green eyes, dark hair still shiny and wet from the shower. Thirty five years old, and going nowhere fast.

The light flickered, struggled vainly to stay lit, then went out again.

He walked through to his living quarters, wiping off the last of the soap from his face and doing his best to stop the bleeding. In the course of its long life, this room had housed admirals, fleet commanders, great men and women from the days when the Dreadnought had ruled the skies. Now it was home to a lowly Lieutenant, holder of a meaningless command at the ass end of nowhere. It smelled of damp and old leather and age. Like his washroom light, and everything else on this ship, it was faded and worn out.

He stood still for a moment, listening. Normally a big ship like this would be filled with the sounds of activity: the clang of boots on the steel deck outside, the hum of machinery, the faint vibration of the massive engines, the blare of tannoy announcements. But here there was almost nothing - just the slight crackle as his washroom light blinked on and off. The ship was cold and quiet.

Snatching up his officer's tunic, he opened the bulkhead and stepped out into the hallway for the short walk to the CIC, buttoning the jacket up as he went.

Four other officers were there manning the consoles, looking as bored as he felt. "Commander on deck," one of them said, with no particular enthusiasm.

O'Neil almost smiled at the notion. Commander - of what?

The Endurance was a dead ship. Well, almost dead, but not quite. She was part of the collection of ancient, obsolete warships that formed the Colonial Reserve Fleet - or Rust Row as it was more commonly known. She had lain amongst the rows of silent vessels for eighteen long years since her decommissioning; an immense brooding monument to war.

In a few more years she would probably be broken up for scrap or used for target practice, but for the time being she lingered on in a state of half-life, maintained by a skeleton crew of two hundred whose job it was to keep her vital systems going. The reactor was kept ticking over, providing enough energy to keep the lights on and the air breathable. The massive gun batteries were inspected every few months, to ensure the ship could be reactivated in the event of an emergency.

What kind of emergency could justify sending a sixty year old warship into battle, he had no notion. Anyway, even if she wasn't old and worn out, her very concept was obsolete.

Endurance was the last of the Dreadnoughts. Almost as big as a Battlestar, she traded the flight bays that made it possible to land aircraft in favour of more powerful anti-ship guns and heavier armour. The idea was based on getting in close and delivering massive crippling broadsides like the ancient sail-powered ships of the line. She had fought in the last Cylon War, claiming three Basestars even as the deficiencies in her design were becoming apparent. Dreadnoughts could give and take a lot of punishment, but without fighter support they were nothing more than armoured coffins. Only four remained, and they were all here on Rust Row.

"I have the conn," O'Neil said automatically, looking around the big darkened room. Most of the systems were powered down to conserve energy and prolong their lifespans.

"You've been in the wars," Second Lieutenant Daniel Munro remarked from behind the ship's main console. As the second most senior officer onboard, he acted as the ship's Executive Officer.

Short, stocky, and with his receding hair shaved to the bone, he was a couple of months away from leaving the military. He was intelligent and competent enough, but he had no real ambition to get anywhere in the fleet, which was probably why he'd ended up here. He'd joined up because the military offered to pay his way through college. Now that he was approaching the end of his minimum term, he intended to leave and go into business as a commercial cargo hauler. Easy money, as he reminded O'Neil incessantly.

"Cut myself shaving," O'Neil said.

"What do you shave with? A bread knife?"

O'Neil raised an eyebrow. "The moment I start giving a frak about your opinions, I'll ask for them, Danny," he said. "Now tell me, what's on the duty roster today?"

Munro grinned as he consulted the roster. "Let's see. We've got an engine work-up at thirteen hundred. Then..." His grin broadened. "We have a bunch of trainees coming aboard this afternoon. DRADIS technicians."

O'Neil rolled his eyes. As if pulling duty on this old bucket wasn't bad enough, they had to suffer the indignity of watching trainees poke around the CIC like it was some kind of adventure playground. Being a semi-retired vessel filled with mostly obsolete gear, Endurance was a perfect training ground for cadets to get their hands dirty. It didn't matter if they broke things - which they usually did - because it was considered expendable anyway.

"Great. Can't wait for them to start screwing things up." He poured himself a cup of coffee from the urn on the chart table. At least the coffee was usually good here. He turned to Samantha Tyler, the ship's communication's officer. "Any update on the spares list I sent off?"

It might have been a bad posting, but he still took his duties seriously. His first action on arriving aboard Endurance had been to do a complete inventory of the ship's systems and stores. He'd been shocked by the disparity between what was on listed paper and what actually existed in reality. The ship had been missing vital components, spares and tools that it desperately needed. Despite frequent requests for replacements, only a trickle of gear had arrived from the fleet depots. The official reply was always the same - it was needed elsewhere.

And he could guess where - the Battlestars. The damn things chewed up as many spare parts in peace time as the Dreadnoughts had used up in war. They were too big and too complicated.

"Nothing yet, sir," Tyler replied, confirming his suspicions.

Unlike most of the crew here, Samantha was actually pretty good at her job, and had a promising career ahead of her - it was just bad luck that she'd drawn duty here for three months. Still, successfully completing a tour in the Reserve Fleet without going insane generally boded well for your officer assessment.

"Another day in paradise," O'Neil said, taking a drink of his coffee. It was strong and bitter.

*****

The engine work-up went pretty much the same way these things always went - the reactor power was ramped up, the ship's massive sub-light engines were filled with energy, everyone crossed their fingers and prayed that they didn't overload and blow a hole in the side of the vessel, and then they were shut down. Endurance's old heart was still beating.

Alone in his quarters once more, O'Neil poured himself a brandy from the bottle he kept in his desk. Six months ago he would have balked at the idea of drinking on the job, but a lot could happen in six months. A hell of a lot.

Taking a drink of the potent alcohol, he powered up the computer terminal on the desk and checked his incoming messages. There was one, from Jessica. His heart leapt.

Dear Rick,

I wish I could write to you with better news, and I know this is the last thing you probably want to hear right now, but I need to tell you something. I've met someone... who and how, it doesn't matter. What does matter is that I care for him, a lot. I think we really have something together.

I'm sorry to have to tell you like this, but it's the only way I can reach you out there. I don't if you're upset, or angry, or something else, but be honest with yourself - you know things haven't been the same between us since... well, since what happened. This is something you need to work out yourself. I can't follow you any more.

Goodbye,

Jessica.

O'Neil sighed and closed his eyes. He'd seen this coming. In some part of his mind, he'd known she was slipping away from him, but to see it there, so cold and clinical on the monitor, was the final confirmation. The woman he'd been with for two years now was out of his life. For good.

He took another drink, a deeper one this time.

Half an hour later, O'Neil emerged from his quarters and strode into the CIC, in a foul mood. The DRADIS technicians had arrived and were being shown around the CIC - six of them, four men and two women. All young, all eager to learn, and all curious about the old relic they found themselves aboard. Robert Greene, the ship's own DRADIS operator, had removed one of the access panels on a terminal so they could take a look inside.

Ignoring them, O'Neil returned to the chart table.

"You okay?" Munro asked.

"Never better," he lied. "You get that update on Gun Battery Five?"

Munro shook his head. "The gun captain hasn't reported in yet."

"What's the matter with him? He's had three frakking hours," O'Neil said through clenched teeth. He was in a bad mood anyway, and the alcohol was making it worse. "I could have built a frakking gun battery in that time."

The younger man saw the dangerous gleam in his eye. "I'll get an update from him ASAP."

"You tell him if I don't get a full report in twenty minutes, I'm coming down myself to kick his lazy ass off this ship." He turned and looked around the room at the unlit monitors and the flickering lights, sick of being here in the middle of nowhere. Sick of this ship, sick of fighting bureacracy and deteriorating equipment, sick of this pointless duty, sick of the Colonial Fleet.

At that moment, there was a loud bang, a shower of sparks, and suddenly the room was plunged into darkness.

"What was that?" a voice called.

"What's going on?" another shouted.

"Calm down! It's okay." A moment later, the lights flickered back on to reveal Greene glaring at one of the cadets with long-suffering patience. "And that's what happens when you short out a main bus breaker, Cadet Walker."

"I'm sorry, sir," the young man said, blushing. A few of his comrades laughed at his mistake. No harm done. Anyway, it was an old ship. Who gave a frak what they broke?

It was too much for him. Before he knew it, O'Neil was off and moving. He rounded the chart table, strode across the CIC, past the navigation consoles and up to the DRADIS terminals where the small knot of cadets were standing.

"Gods damn it! What the hell are you doing to my ship?" he demanded, boiling with rage.

The cadet, a tall young man with blonde hair, stared at him, face frozen in shock and fear. "I... I'm..." he stammered.

"You don't know, do you? Just another useless cadet who can't tie their shoe laces without help. Gods, who'd you frak to get this job?" O'Neil shook his head. "You stay the hell away from my DRADIS consoles until you can tell your ass from your elbow!"

With that, he turned and strode out of the room.

*****

Therefore, I hereby resign my commission, effective immediately.

Yours sincerely,

First Lieutenant Richard O'Neil

He stared at the words on the computer screen - not much to say for a ten year career, but there it was. The message was written, and a single press of a button would send it off to Fleet Headquarters at Caprica.

He was done with military service. The rest of his career would be assignments just like this one, he knew. Maybe after years of dutiful service, he might graduate to supply ships or refuellers, but he'd never again serve aboard a Battlestar. He'd rather have nothing, make a clean break and start a new life. Maybe he'd follow Munro's example and get into the hauling business.

He took another drink of the brandy, grimacing as it lit a fire inside him. It was good stuff - strong, rich and expensive. But it brought him no comfort tonight.

He was about to send the message when there came a knock at his door. Frowning, he switched the monitor off.

"Come!" he called, not bothering to put his jacket back on.

The bulkhead door opened, and to his surprise, Samantha Tyler was standing there.

O'Neil rose from his chair. "Sam. What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if I could have a word with you. In private."

He frowned, but beckoned for her to come forward. "Come on in."

She stepped over the threshold and closed the steel door behind her, then walked into the centre of the room and just stood there, looking around with a mixture of curiosity a strange element of sadness, as if she could see O'Neil's predecessors mourning what had become of their quarters.

"You said you wanted to talk," he prompted.

The young woman took a deep breath and raised her chin a little. "I came to see if you were all right after... what happened earlier. You were pretty steamed up in there."

"Yeah. I was."

"You want to tell me about it?"

He sighed. "Take a seat."

The young woman walked over to the worn leather seating area and lowered herself down, as if testing her weight. O'Neil refilled his glass and held the bottle up. "Drink?"

"It's a little early for that, don't you think?"

He shrugged and took a drink. "Frak it. I'm off the clock." He sat on the edge of his desk and looked at her for a moment. "Let me ask you something. You always want to be in the service?"

She thought about it for a moment, then nodded. "I guess so."

"Why?"

"When I was eight, my dad took me to see a Battlestar for the first time. It looked so big, so powerful and safe. I wanted to be a part of that."

"So did I. I used to sit out in the yard at night, staring up at the stars and imagining being up there." His eyes held a wistful look for a moment, then he blinked and it was gone. "Now here I am." He looked around the spartan room, at the flickering light in his wash room. "Not quite what I imagined when I was a kid." He shook his head. "This is no way for a ship to end up."

She shrugged. "Better than being scrapped."

"Is it? At least then, it's over," he said. "It's the end. Endurance is just a curiosity now - something for cadets to poke their heads around in. She's a ship of war. She should go out on her feet, fighting, not like this. Not lingering on with no purpose. She deserves better."

"Mind if I ask you a question?"

He took a gulp of brandy. "Shoot."

"How the frak did you end up out here?"

He grinned, amused by her forthrightness. "That's a long story."

"My next watch doesn't start for two hours."

Before he could say anything further, the intercom on the wall buzzed, its tone harsh and demanding. Setting down his drink, he yanked the chunky receiver out of its cradle. "Yeah?"

"Rick, it's Danny. I think you'd better get to CIC right now." There was a hard edge to the man's voice that he'd never heard before during their long days of maintenance and sheduled drills.

"On my way."

Thirty seconds later he hurried into the control room, with Samantha right behind him. Unlike the barely concealed boredom of before, CIC was alive with crewmen, all clamouring for information. It was chaos.

"What's going on, Danny?" he asked. "Someone pull another breaker?"

Munro looked at him, eyes wide. "We're under attack."

O'Neil might have laughed if he hadn't seen the younger man's face. "What? By who? The Cylons?"

"We don't know. All we know is we're under attack and taking heavy losses. At least a quarter of the fleet's been destroyed in the opening wave. Admiral Nagala's transferred his flag to Atlantia. Picon Shipyard's been hit, and we're getting reports of nuclear detonations on the surface of Caprica."

"My Gods," Samantha gasped.

"This had better not be a joke, Danny," O'Neil warned.

"Listen to it yourself." He moved over to the communications console and flicked a couple of switches. Immediately the room was filled with the sounds of Colonial military transmissions.

"This is Triton. We're losing power! Electrical system failures across the whole ship... need air support... What happened to Alpha Squadron? Get... Can't get a firing solution... Multiple missile hits... We can't take many more... Damage control! Decompression forward... Losing structural integrity... She's going down! My Gods..."

"Shut it off," O'Neil ordered. He'd heard enough. The chilling voices disappeared, plunging the CIC into silence.

"What are we going to do, sir?" one of the crewmen asked after several moments.

"My Gods, my family's on Caprica," another said, face blank with shock. With that, the CIC erupted in shouting as panic started to take hold.

"Hey! Quiet down!" O'Neil yelled. "Quiet down!"

The room feel silent, young officers staring at him in shocked silence.

"I know what you all must be feeling," he began. "Believe me, I'm feeling the same thing. We all have friends and family out there, but we're still Colonial officers and we have a job to do. Right now I need you to put those thoughts aside until we get through this. Take your stations, please."

"But what are we going to do, sir?" a young ensign asked.

O'Neil looked over at Munro, his heart pounding. What were they going to do? They were at war, and stranded aboard a decomissioned ship. What could they do? Endurance was in no kind of shape for fighting a war. She was in no kind of shape for doing much of anything.

And then, just like that, his own words, spoken in such haste only minutes before, replayed in his head.

She's a ship of war. She should go out on her feet, fighting, not like this. Not lingering on with no purpose. She deserves better.

"Give me One MC." He picked up the intercom for a ship-wide broadcast, not even sure what he was doing, or what he was going to say. He looked around the room, at the pale, frightened faces waiting for him to say something that would make everything better.

"Crew of the Endurance, this is Lieutenant O'Neil, acting ship's commander," he began. "We've just received word that our military forces, and the Colonies, are under heavy attack - we don't know who or why. As of this moment, we are at war." He paused, letting that statement hang in the air for a few moments. "Fleet Headquarters was first to be hit, but it's inevitable they'll target us sooner or later. We can't let that happen. I want all bridge officers to report to the CIC immediately. Set Condition One throughout the ship. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill."

He clicked the microphone off and replaced it on its stand, then turned to Munro. "What was our projected timeline for combat reactivation?"

The younger man frowned. "Six weeks, give or take."

"We don't have that long, Danny."

Such was his shock and surprise, he actually laughed a little.

O'Neil's sharp look soon silenced it. "I'm not kidding. Move."