Battlestar Galactica 1

by Glen A. Larson

  Boomer nodded and moved to a clear space, where he flipped open his communicator.

  "Now," Apollo said, "do any of you need immediate life-station aid?"

  An old woman raised her hand. Apollo nodded in her direction, and she began to speak in an unfamiliar tongue.

  "What's she saying?" Apollo asked Starbuck.

  "I think it's some kind of Gemonese dialect. I'm not up on it, maybe Boomer can translate."

  "Boomer's too busy just now. Does anyone here understand this woman's dialect?"

  A tall woman, almost the height of Starbuck or Apollo, moved to the front of the crowd. Her clothes were in shreds, and Starbuck noted that a trim, small-breasted and slim-hipped figure was suggested in those parts of the woman's body that were on public display. Although her face was dirty and smudged, and her dark hair disheveled, he suspected that, cleaned up and groomed, this lady would be quite a looker. Most likely, she would be a great beauty, he thought.

  "She says that her husband is feverish," the woman said laconically, in a deep voice that was almost sultry in spite of her messy appearance. She held her left arm at her side at what seemed to Starbuck a peculiar angle.

  "There something wrong with your arm?" Starbuck asked.

  She turned toward him. Her eyes were dark and it seemed to him that they glowed with emotional strength as she stared directly at him.

  "There are others in greater need than I," she said.

  "Get her out of here," growled a plump woman who had stationed herself to the right of Apollo. "She should be jettisoned with the dead."

  A number of muttering voices assented to the woman's opinion. Starbuck could sense a danger in their nastiness, an anger that could easily rise to open hostility.

  "You're right, Starbuck," Apollo said. "Her arm looks broken. Get her and the old man to the shuttle."

  Starbuck helped the old man and his wife to their feet, then took the injured woman by her good arm. He was conscious of the many obscenities and insults being released around him. Their jeering seemed to be escalating to a danger point. He might have to draw his weapon again, in spite of what Apollo had ordered.

  "Make daggit meat out of her," one woman shouted, and several voices assented. Starbuck did not look in their direction, although he kept a wary eye for suspicious movements in his immediate vicinity.

  "Dirty," another woman said.

  "Socialator," said a man.

  "No place for refuse," muttered a voice that clearly belonged to the professorial bearded man.

  A muscular man stepped up to Apollo as if he were spoiling for a fight.

  "It's a sin to starve us," the man said, "while the bureaucrats and politicians luxuriate in their private sanctuaries."

  "No one is in luxury," Apollo said, "I can promise you—"

  "I've seen it," said the slighter man, who joined the muscular one in his confrontation with Apollo. "I saw it with my own eyes aboard the Rising Star, before I was cast out and reassigned here."

  Boomer saved Apollo from answering by stepping to his side and announcing loudly, "Core Control is aware of the problem."

  "Then I can tell these people that food and water is on the way?" Apollo said.

  "They're aware of the problem!"

  "What is it?" said the professorial man. "You're keeping something from us, aren't you?"

  "Relief is on the way, I'm sure," Apollo said. "You have my word as a warrior."

  Starbuck had finally made his way to the bulkhead hatchway, but hesitated there in case Apollo needed his help. The woman and the old couple waited with him, their bodies clearly tense with apprehension that violence could erupt at any moment.

  "Your word as a warrior," said a plump woman. "You were the ones that brought us this death watch, warrior."

  Apollo looked back at Starbuck, motioned for him to get the woman and the old couple through the hatchway. He and Boomer began edging back to the opening as the space between them and the crowd narrowed.

  "Corrupt," the professorial man hollered. "The entire Quorum was corrupt. We were betrayed. Betrayed . . . by all of you."

  From the other side of the hatchway, Starbuck watched Apollo and Boomer get through the opening. Apparently just in time to save themselves from being trampled by the angry but frightened crowd. Boomer quickly shut the hatch and spun its wheels rapidly to shut off the compartment. Sounds of agony and anger could still be heard on the other side of the round portal.

  "My Lord . . ." Boomer muttered.

  "You said it," Starbuck said.

  Apollo's crew, who had remained in the engine room checking out solium leaks, gathered around, while Boomer told them what had happened in the passenger compartment. Apollo shook visibly. Starbuck moved to him.

  "What happened? Why aren't these vehicles being supplied? I know we're low and Adama's cut rations, but we're not this—"

  "I don't know!" Apollo hollered, his voice again a bit more strident than Starbuck was used to. "But something's gone wrong, and I've got to find out what."

  When the pounding began on the passenger side of the hatchway, Apollo ordered everyone back to the shuttle. He and Boomer took the controls, while Starbuck remained with the young woman and the old couple. As soon as they had put some distance between themselves and the old freighter, Apollo switched on the shuttle's communicator, and spoke angrily into its mike.

  "Alpha shuttle to Core Command."

  "Core Command. Go ahead, Captain Apollo."

  "Request clarification on food dispersal."

  There was a crackling silence before the Core Command voice replied.

  "No information available at this time."

  Apollo exploded with anger.

  "What're you talking about, no information available? God damn it, I just left a ship filled with starving people. They haven't seen a morsel of food in two days, and no water either. What in the twelve words is going on?"

  Another long pause before the Core Command reply:

  "I'm sorry, shuttle Alpha. Core Command has no information available at this time."

  Apollo gave up and flipped off the communicator. Turning to Boomer, he said, "What is going on? What'd they tell you when you called in the food shortage?"

  "Same thing they told you. A vague acknowledgement of the problem, you might say."

  "Boomer, I'm getting a very uneasy feeling."

  It seemed to Cassiopeia that her broken arm had felt better since the Galactica's officers had removed her from that seething crowd. In the cramped spaces of the passenger compartment, the arm had been jostled too often, pinched in between shifting bodies. Now it seemed filled with a comforting numbness. Her emotional panic had subsided as well. Knowing that so many of those poor despairing people were conscious of her previous position as a socialator, she had been afraid that some of them might have taken out their frustration on her. There were many hidden weapons among that crowd. One of them might have been used on her. She felt much more relaxed now as she helped Starbuck interview the old Gemonese couple. When he had finished with that interview, he turned to her and said:

  "Now I'll need some data from you. That way the Life Center will be ready for you when we dock."

  "Life Center?"

  "Fancy name for sick bay. Don't fret it. Let's see. First I'll need your name and designation."

  "My name is Cassiopeia."

  "Lovely name."

  "I think so."

  "Designation."

  "I am designated a socialator."

  She saw the usual reaction in his eyes. She was used to it. Men from the other worlds, Capricans especially, had a good bit of prude in them when it came to discussing socialation.

  "It's an honorable profession," she said testily, "practiced with the blessing of the elders for over four thousand years."

  She wondered if she should explain to him the years of preparation to which she had been submitted—the endless courses concerning social behavior, human knowledge, and sexual techniques—before her lice
nse was granted and a man allowed to touch her. She decided that, although there was kindness in this handsome young officer's eyes, a warm look that conveyed the potential for understanding, she had better not martial the arguments that defended her profession.

  "I didn't mean to imply anything," Starbuck said. "I was just trying to figure out what all the excitement was about back on that barge."

  She smiled.

  "Those women were from the Otori sect among the Gemonese. They don't believe in physical contact between genders except when sanctified by the priests during the high worship of the sunstorm, which comes every seven years."

  "No wonder those little buggers are such good card players."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Nothing."

  He asked her several more routine questions before ending the interview.

  "Well," he said, "they'll be waiting for you with this information when we dock. Are you in pain now? Can I give you something?"

  "You've already been very kind."

  Starbuck's smile was engaging. She would have hugged him, if she had had two good arms to use for it.

  "What can I tell you, Cassiopeia?" he said. "It's my job. Also, I'm not of the Otori sect, right? And I've been getting these headaches." Obviously Starbuck knew of a socialator's abilities at curing mild illnesses with intricate massage techniques. "The pressure's getting to me, I suppose. I just need some kind of release." No, then, he meant something more than mere techniques of massage.

  "Make an appointment," she said, using her professional tone of voice.

  "I just might do that. I might just—might—uh—"

  His fumbling with the language made him all the more attractive to her. He looked like he might be acting the role of shy young officer. He had not seemed the type previously. Well, she thought, it would be fun exploring that particular line between reality and pretense.

  In order to collect his thoughts, Starbuck made an excuse to go to the command cabin of the shuttle. The woman had intrigued him from the first. Discovering she was a socialator excited him even more. He had heard about socialators, and often wondered about their arcane—some said even metaphysical—abilities. If things settled down, and he could shake the weariness that his incessant duties had brought him, it might be fun to take the glamorous Cassiopeia on a darkside shuttle ride. Athena, of course, would be angry. Lately the commander's daughter had been laying claims of ownership on him, and he didn't like that. Let her be angry, a good lesson for her.

  In the command cabin, Starbuck noticed that Apollo seemed unusually tense and angry. He was about to say something to the captain, when Apollo flipped on the communicator and broadcast to Core Command.

  "This is Alpha Shuttle changing course to rendezvous starliner Rising Star. Shuttle will proceed on to Galactica with patients for Life Station."

  He flipped the communicator off as angrily as he had switched it on.

  "What're you up to?" Starbuck said.

  Apollo's look threatened discipline for insubordination if Starbuck continued the familiarity. They had always been easy with each other before. What had gotten into Apollo? He was beginning to act like a tin-god version of his father.

  "If you don't mind my asking, Sir," Starbuck added.

  Apollo waited a moment before answering.

  "I'm stopping at the Rising Star, I think I can find out what's at the bottom of this conspiracy of silence there."

  Reacting to the rage in the captain's eyes, Starbuck decided not to ask what he meant by conspiracy of silence.

  After Tigh brought him the news that there had been several reports of near-riots due to the lack of available food, Adama sat for a long time, looking out the starfield at his scattered, vulnerable-looking ragtag fleet. The Cylons would tear those poor ships apart if they ever detected the camouflage field.

  "Father?" said a voice behind him. Athena. "Are you all right?"

  For a moment he did not want to talk to her, but her sad, pleading eyes forced the words out of him.

  "I can't say I'm all right, no. If anybody said to me he was all right just now, I'd set him up for a psychiatric examination, special treatment—"

  "Doesn't sound like the warrior I'm used to. What happened to the joy of living to fight another day?"

  "I took a tour belowdecks. The commander appearing to cheer up the passengers, you might call it. You should've seen their faces. Desperate, looking for a chance to live. And here I am, the commander, the authority figure. I could make the choices, I could say who's to live, who's to die, pass out priorities like chits in a lottery. One woman, with a baby in one arm, grabbed at me with the other. I didn't know what to say, I didn't—"

  "Father, don't."

  "No, I have to say it, Athena. I don't want this anymore, don't want what they so felicitously call the responsibility of command. Let someone else do it, let someone else take up the burden . . ."

  Adama turned in his chair. Athena sat next to him, guided his head to her shoulder. She felt odd in this comforting position, as if she had become possessed for a moment by the spirit of her mother, Ila.

  "Easy, father," she whispered. "Listen. If it hadn't been for you, we'd all be gone now. Instead, many are saved. It's extraordinary. Look out on that field of stars. It's the most beautiful sight I've ever seen. Look at our ships. If you look at them technically, sure they're old, rusty, beat up, battered. But they contain life. Life searching for a new world, a place to be and grow. Happiness, a future."

  Adama started to protest, wanted desperately to say it was time for him to pass leadership to someone else—but, for a moment, he was caught by the view outside. He saw it as Athena had described, and it was awesomely beautiful.

  Apollo left Starbuck to pilot the shuttle back to the Galactica and took Boomer with him onto the Rising Star. Lieutenant Jolly, who had been alerted to Apollo's arrival, joined them in a dimly lit corridor that connected the liner's two baggage areas. Apollo was astounded at the information that the chubby officer provided.

  "Contaminated?" he said incredulously. "That's impossible. Weren't the provisions checked before they were boarded?"

  "For radiation, yes," Jolly said, "but there was no time to check for Pluton poisoning."

  "You mean all this food is worthless?" Boomer said.

  "We can't be sure of that," Apollo said. "Not yet. Pluton breaks down the structure of the food. Jolly, have your crews go through every container. Chances are some of the supplies were shielded enough from the bombs to be saved."

  Jolly did not look particularly confident.

  "This is the third ship I've checked so far," he said. "It isn't looking good."

  "Salvage anything you can," Apollo ordered. "Even scraps will help."

  "What do we do with the rest?"

  Apollo found it difficult to speak the words of his reply:

  "Jettison it. And keep the lid on the problem. If people find out we haven't any food we're going to have a mutiny on our hands. C'mon, Boomer, something I want to check out up in elite class."

  Apollo charged up the iron step ladder as if in response to a full alert.

  Serina came around a corner in a hallway and bumped into the briskly walking man. As they backed away from each other, Serina started to laugh at the awkwardness of their situation, but Apollo's cold look made her think better of it. She changed the laugh to a smile, and then waited for his response. He just continued to look at her, his opaque blue eyes showing no emotion. Serina was as impressed with the look of the man now as she had been when they had first encountered each other back on Caprica. With his obviously strong body and broad shoulders, his light brown hair so carefully groomed that its strands might be arranged by the book, his ruggedly attractive face whose hint of cynicism suggested vast experience in so young a man, he appeared to be just the type you could rely on in an emergency, and these days she anticipated emergencies on a regular basis. In spite of his impressive look, however, there was a definite note of arrogance, a dr
awing back from that which shouldn't be touched, hinted at by his stiff bearing and in the way one corner of his thin-lipped mouth turned down.

  She held out a hand, which he took with a definite lack of eagerness for the social amenities. She wondered if she dared ask him for help.

  "My name is Serina, Captain Apollo," she said amiably.

  "I remember your name," he said brusquely.

  "Come down off your epaulettes, Captain. I need to talk to you."

  "Look, Miss Serina, I'm very busy now, I've got to—"

  "Far be it from me to interfere with your duties. Goodbye, Captain."

  She whirled around and started to walk away from Apollo.

  "Wait a minute," Apollo said, then turned to the young, black officer who was standing slightly behind him.

  "Boomer, why don't you go on up to elite class and see if there's anything going on we should be concerned about."

  Serina, recalling the ugly plushness she had observed on her single visit to elite class, considered telling Apollo he wouldn't like what he would find there, but decided the captain would see it for himself soon enough. After the black officer had left them, Apollo turned to her and said:

  "Well then, what can I do for you?"

  In spite of the cool politeness, he sounded quite irritated with her.

  "Please come with me," she said. "It won't take long."

  She led him down a series of hallways which normally housed the lowest-class passengers on the Rising Star. People were crowded into its narrow cubicles.

  "I'd've thought a celebrity like you'd do a little better than this," Apollo said. "A neat little compartment of your own on the elite levels."

  "I was offered that, from several men whose approaches were quite subtle. Anyway, I had no interest in pulling space. I took what I could get fairly."

  "I believe you."

  She was startled by the warm sincerity of his comment. She might like this captain, after all, even if he did have a ramrod up his spine.

  "I want you to help me with the little boy," Serina said.