COMMANDER'S LOG — ENTRY BY ADAMA
Entering these words is an act of optimism. The human race, in its entirety, now numbers only 50,000 souls. In a single day, in a matter of hours, the Cylons overrode the defenses of each of the 12 Colonies of Kobol. They rained down nuclear weapons. We offered unconditional surrender.
It was not accepted. The Cylons, it seems, have developed a warped imitation of religious belief. God is telling them humanity is too flawed to exist.
I go over and go over this, looking for more understanding, some clue to a weakness — to their fatal flaw. The Cylons can remotely attack and control networked computer systems. The Battlestar Galactica survived through the lessons of the past — I did not allow her to be vulnerable that way. All the other Battlestars, to the best of my knowledge, are gone.
We and a number of civilian vessels with faster-than-light hyperdrives retreated. Into a void where our fuel and supplies are limited, with little hope of replenishment.
Worse, I believe we have not escaped. I believe there are Cylons among us. After 40 years of silence, our robotic slaves — yes, that is the word — evolved to appear just like the humans they hate. They are no longer a recognizable enemy. Dr. Gaius Baltar, who by good fortune survived and serves as President Roslin's science advisor, has a method, he believes, for detecting the humanoid Cylons. But it seems hardly sure or foolproof.
My son, Lee, call-sign Apollo, and my best pilot, Kara, call-sign Starbuck, are alive. Thank God. I would have done my duty as military commander regardless of circumstances. But thank God they're alive.
One final thought, in this terrible moment in humankind's history: I feel an incipient, perhaps unconscionable excitement. It is selfish and I should not — too many and too much depends on my clear thinking.
But we sail now in uncharted waters. And I must believe that we will find the means and tools to fight the dragons in these latitudes