[Battlestar Galactica Reimagined 01] - Battlestar Galactica

by Jeffrey A. Carver - (ebook by Undead)

  “All right, people, let’s be quick about this,” Tyrol called. “Cally, find the switches and generators and get some lights on in here.” Without waiting for the lights, they moved in through the great warehouse. Crates and larger containers were stacked everywhere, in an apparently random and hurried fashion. The crewmen flashed their beams around, finding munitions symbols and caution messages in large letters on most of the containers and caged storage areas. They were going to have to be fast but thorough, sorting out the ordnance that could be used on Galactica from that which couldn’t.

  Tyrol led the way, weaving among tall containers of unknown purpose, looking for ammunition for the Vipers, heavier cannon rounds for the ship’s defensive guns, missiles and warheads…

  Everything looked jumbled. He flashed his beam deeper into the maze. He sensed movement ahead, and was stunned to see a figure step out of a narrow alleyway. Tyrol shone his light quickly. It was a man—wild eyed, disheveled, and looking very desperate—and he was pointing a large automatic weapon directly into Tyrol’s face.

  Chief Tyrol nearly jumped out of his skin, but he recovered quickly. He sensed the others starting to crowd close. “Everybody hold back!” he ordered.

  The terrified man in front of him was trembling, the gun in his hand shaking, but not so much that he couldn’t blow Tyrol’s head off if anything spooked him. He looked like hell. He was a tall, rugged-looking fellow—but worn and ragged, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy. Though it was chilly in here, he was sweating. “I don’t want… any trouble,” he said finally.

  “Okay, let’s talk,” Tyrol replied.

  “But I’m not goin’ to jail,” the man barked.

  “What?”

  “Do you understand me?” He waved the submachine gun. “I am not… going to jail.”

  “Nobody’s taking you to jail! Just calm down.”

  For a moment, neither of them spoke. The man was pinned by about six flashlight beams against some large storage cases. “Frickin’ right, you’re not.”

  Tyrol knew he had to keep the man talking, keep him from losing control. “We’re not the police. We’re not here to arrest you. Now put your gun down.”

  “Yeah. Maybe. So who the hell are you?” the man gasped.

  “We’re from Colonial Fleet.” You know—the one trying to save your ass for you? “We just came… to get some equipment from the station,” Tyrol said. He gestured with one hand for emphasis. “You know—to get back in the fight.”

  The man laughed cynically. “What fight?”

  Tyrol blinked at him in astonishment. “You don’t know.”

  “Know what?”

  “There’s a war on,” Tyrol said, trying to keep his voice calm. He held out a hand. “Give me… your weapon.”

  “You think I’m stupid or something, is that it?” the man snarled. “You think I’m stupid, you expect me to believe that?” He suddenly started shouting. “I want passage out of here! I want a safe transport ship! With an untraceable”—he paused, abruptly sounding calm—“Jump system. Okay?” Then the calm vanished, and his shaking grew worse. “Now!!”

  “Look.” Tyrol answered in a tight voice. “I don’t have time to argue with you. So here’s the deal. We’ve got over two thousand people on that ship.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Now, if you think you can shoot every single one of us, fine. But if not… get the hell out of my way!”

  The man looked startled. He backed up against the boxes, and lifted his hand slightly off his weapon, appealing for restraint. Slowly, very slowly, he lowered the gun to his side.

  “Get his weapon,” Tyrol ordered, and at once three of his men were on top of the intruder, grabbing his gun and subduing him. Tyrol turned away in disgust. “If he moves, shoot him.”

  CHAPTER

  33

  Colonial One

  “Madame President, we’re picking up a signal from a stranded military craft. It’s a Raptor, from Galactica.” Captain Russo pointed to the dradis screen, where a small blip indicated the location of the other craft.

  Laura leaned over his shoulder to look. “From Galactica? Captain Apollo, do you know anything about this vessel?”

  Lee was reading the comm printout. “That’s Boomer’s Raptor. The last I heard, she was part of a squadron bound for reassignment on Picon. But it says here she has refugees on board from Caprica. Don’t ask me how that happened.”

  “She’s within rendezvous range,” Captain Russo said, glancing back for instructions.

  “Then let’s do it,” said Laura. “Captain Apollo, would you stay here to help with the details?”

  “Yes, sir.” Lee slipped into the copilot’s seat recently vacated by Eduardo, and put on the headset. Adjusting the wireless, he called, “Boomer, this is Apollo, do you read…”

  * * *

  Three and a half hours later, the Raptor was parked in the cargo deck, directly behind Lee Adama’s Viper. Lee stood at the bottom of the Raptor’s entry way, helping the refugees step down off the craft. They looked ragged, weary, and frightened. A woman about Lee’s age stepped down, anxiously looking for someone in authority. “Excuse me,” she said in a thick accent. “My husband—he’s in the Colonial Fleet. In Geminon?”

  Lee assisted her down. “I’ll see what I can do. If you’ll just head right this way…” He guided her to one of the other helpers, who was taking names and steering people toward the passenger cabin.

  “Have you heard anything of Geminon?” The woman’s voice trailed off in the distance, as she continued to ask anyone who might listen.

  “Come on,” Lee urged the next person.

  “Captain?” The hand at his elbow belonged to Boomer, Sharon Valerii. She seemed to need to talk, so he turned his spot over to a transport crewman and walked with her. A boy, maybe ten years old, was with her. She introduced him as Boxey—then launched straight into her tactical situation. “I’ve got two communication pods left, sir. But that’s it. No sparrows, no jiggers, no drones, no markers—nothing.”

  “Well,” Lee said, “at least you’ve still got your electronics suite.” He gestured at his father’s old Viper. “That old crate of mine can barely navigate from A to B.”

  Sharon contradicted him at once, and rather vehemently. “That old crate may have saved your life, sir.”

  Startled by her sharp tone, Lee said, a little sharply himself, “How’s that?”

  “The Viper Mark Sevens? The Cylons just shut them down, like they threw a switch or something—then wiped them out. All of them—including CAG—my whole squadron. Helo and I were just lucky to be far enough away.” Sharon’s voice caught, and she had trouble continuing. “When I was out there waiting… for someone to find me… I picked up comm chatter way off. It sounds like the same thing everywhere. Even the battlestars. The only ships having any success at all are either old, or in need of some major overhaul.”

  Lee blinked, trying to absorb that. He remembered his father’s insistence, bordering on obsession, about keeping networked computers off the Galactica … Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a lean-faced man with shoulder-length dark hair stepping down from the Raptor. He indicated the man with a tilt of his head. “Is that him?”

  Sharon looked over. “Yeah.” She suddenly raised her voice. “I hope he’s worth it!” She turned back to Lee, anger and hurt on her face. “Sorry, sir.”

  That’s the man who took Helo’s seat. “Don’t be,” Lee said. “I hope he’s worth it, too.” As the man passed behind him, Lee whirled and put a hand to pause him. “Doctor Baltar—Captain Lee Adama. The president’s asked to see you, sir.”

  Baltar looked confused, and then hopeful. “President Adar’s alive?”

  “No,” Lee answered. “I’m afraid Adar is dead.” Baltar’s face fell. “President Laura Roslin was sworn in a few hours ago.”

  “Oh,” said Baltar, suddenly less interested.

  “If you’ll come with me. She’s this way.” Lee nudged him on toward the stai
rs to the cabin.

  Laura was concluding a meeting with the captain of the liner they had recently docked with. Its passengers were now on board Colonial One, along with all the supplies they could move quickly. Reluctantly, they had abandoned the liner itself, which had exhausted its fuel while evading reported Cylon positions. The captain was just saying, “If there’s any way we can help, ma’am, any way whatsoever…”

  “Thank you so much,” Laura replied. She turned, spotting Apollo walking into the cabin with the female pilot of the Raptor, and a shell-shocked Gaius Baltar. She recognized him easily, despite the blood and grime on his face. Laura stepped forward. “Doctor Baltar, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said, extending a hand. “We met, at last year’s Caprica City Symposium.”

  Baltar nodded with a sort of hollow, practiced graciousness—and an obvious lack of recognition. “Oh yeah, of course, uh”—he gestured helplessly—“you’ll have to forgive me, I’m bad with faces.”

  “Oh, no,” she reassured him with a laugh. “It’s perfectly all right. I’m sure I wouldn’t remember me, either.” She smiled, wincing inwardly at her self-deprecation, and soldiered on. “Doctor, I need you to serve as my chief scientific consultant and analyst, regarding the Cylons and their technology.”

  He shifted position uneasily. “I’d be honored… Madame President.”

  Laura wasted no time in shifting gears. With a nod to Baltar, she turned and shook hands with the Raptor pilot, a beautiful young woman with epicanthic folds at the corners of her shining dark eyes. She looked tired and vulnerable. But sleep would have to wait. “Lieutenant Valerii? Is that right? Valerii?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “You’ve just come from Caprica, yes? Tell me your impressions of the situation there.”

  The pilot drew a breath. “Well, sir—from what I could see, the Cylons were targeting every population center with nukes. I doubt there’s a major city left, at this point. Helo—Helo and I stopped counting the number of mushroom clouds over Caprica City.”

  Baltar seemed to stir uncomfortably at that. Laura turned back to him. “Doctor, would I be correct in assuming that an attack of this magnitude will trigger a planet-wide nuclear winter?” Strangling and starving pretty much everything still living.

  “Uh, yes!” Baltar said, seeming suddenly to return to his senses. “Yes, fallout clouds are already drifting across the continents. And the dust thrown in the atmosphere—yes, they’re probably already altering the global weather patterns…”

  Laura nodded, and for a moment bent to look out the windows at the battered, distant globe of Caprica. Settling the situation in her mind, she straightened and said to Lieutenant Valerii, “I understand that your ship has a limited faster-than-light capability?”

  “Yes sir,” Valerii replied. “The Raptor’s designed to make short Jumps ahead of the fleet, scout for enemy ships, then Jump back and report.”

  “I want you to go out there and find as many survivors as you can and bring them back to this position,” Laura said. “We will then form a convoy. We will guide them out of the combat zone and into safety.”

  “Yes sir,” replied Valerii.

  But Apollo was frowning, and she knew what he was frowning about: Guide them out of the combat zone and into safety. And just where do you think is safe?

  Two hours later, Baltar was sitting alone in one of the leather first-class seats, a fold-down table in front of him, littered with printouts and comm messages. He was sorting through them, pen in hand, trying to make some kind of sense of what had been happening. He didn’t even know what he was looking for. But as long as he looked busy, he was halfway there.

  “I see they’ve put you to work,” said a lilting female voice.

  He looked up slowly searching his mind for any obvious aberrations. As he raised his eyes, he saw Natasi—Number Six, he corrected himself—sitting in the seat beside him, looking gorgeous in the red outfit, a seductive smile on her face.

  He looked intently back down at the papers, but barely saw them.

  “Ignoring me won’t help.”

  “You’re not here,” he murmured under his breath.

  “No?” she said brightly.

  “No. I’ve decided you’re an expression of my subconscious mind, playing itself out during my waking states.”

  That provoked a smile and a laugh. Tilting her head, she looked so achingly good, he wanted to jump on her right now. Except that she wasn’t there.

  “So I’m… only in your head?”

  “Exactly.” He looked down. He was not going to look at her—at least not directly.

  “Hm.” She raised an eyebrow and turned her face away for a moment. “Have you considered the possibility that I could very well exist only in your head? Without being a hallucination?”

  He could not resist looking at her; she was too devastatingly sexy. She was leaning forward now, the top of her outfit revealing far more than it concealed. He had to work hard not to tremble.

  “Maybe you see and hear me because, while you were sleeping, I implanted a chip in your brain that transmits my image right into your conscious mind.”

  The thought stung him with fear. Real, blinding fear. But he would not admit to it. “No, no—see, that’s me again.” He looked down with a smile. “My subconscious self is expressing irrational fears… which I also choose to ignore.” He took a nervous sip from his glass of soda, and tried to return to his work.

  She moved languidly from the seat beside him to sit on the table with his papers. Slowly and deliberately, she crossed her legs in front of him. “What are you working on?”

  He was struggling desperately now. “If you were really a chip in my head, I wouldn’t have to tell you that, would I?”

  “Indulge me,” she murmured, leaning in closer.

  He rubbed his bristly chin with one hand. Swallowing, he said, “I’m trying to figure out how you managed to pull off this kind of attack. You seem to have virtually shut down the entire defense network without firing a shot. Entire squadrons lost power just as they engaged the enemy. The CNP is a navigation program, but you—uh—you made changes to the program, you said you were building in… back doors for your company to exploit later.”

  “All true, in a sense,” she replied.

  “That was your job.”

  “Officially.” She cocked her head slightly. “Unofficially, I had other motives. We had something, Gaius. Something…” She searched for the word, and smiled. “Special.”

  “This is insane.”

  As she continued, her voice trembled with emotion. Her eyes were vulnerable, full of hurt. “And what I want most of all… is for you to love me.”

  “Love you?” he whispered.

  “Well, of course, Gaius. Don’t you understand?” She reached out and stroked his cheek, curved her hand behind his neck. “God is love.” Using both hands, she pulled him forward and kissed him. He could no longer resist.

  “No!” he cried, suddenly coming to his senses. Alone in his seat. Around the cabin, a few people looked oddly at him. He just smiled awkwardly, and drew a quivering breath, and looked helplessly out the window. Finally, with unseeing eyes, he forced his gaze back down to his work.

  CHAPTER

  34

  Ragnar Station, Ammunition Depot

  The munitions warehouse was chaotic with activity. Forklifts were hauling away large pallets of ordnance for loading onto Galactica. Under the glare of overhead floodlights, the crew were checking everything they could find for possible use on the ship. A small tractor towing carts of lightweight bombs sped past an elevated forklift with a towering pallet of smaller explosives. “Hey! Hey! Hey!” Chief Tyrol shouted. “Take it easy, guys! Just slow down!” He looked like a nervous wreck, but he seemed to be keeping things under control.

  Commander Adama took it all in with his eyes even as he walked across the depot floor, talking to Leoben, the man they had found hiding in the back. He was telling Leoben a little about what
had been happening—not for Leoben’s benefit, but in hopes of loosening him up a little, getting him to talk. Leoben had yet to give a convincing explanation of what he was doing here. Adama had some suspicions; but he wanted to tease what he could out of the man before he jumped to any conclusions.

  “We don’t know much more than that,” Adama said over the noise, casting his voice over his shoulder to Leoben, who was walking with an armed guard behind him. “It’s just imperative that we get our equipment and get out of here.” He stopped and peered up at some high shelves, then down at a bulkhead door in front of him. He pointed. “What’s in there?”

  Leoben shambled up to stand beside him. He shrugged. “Stuff.”

  Adama glanced at him in annoyance. He gestured to Leoben to help, and they pulled the large hatch open. It was dark inside the compartment; he couldn’t see a thing. “Need a light.” As he reached back to take a lamp from one of the crew, he said to Leoben, “Where’s your spaceship?”

  Leoben gestured awkwardly. “Docked on the other side of the station.”

  Adama gave him another sharp look. His crew had scanned the station for other ships on their way in. It was possible they’d missed one, if it was small. But not likely. In the background, he could hear Tyrol shouting, “Be careful! Don’t stack ’em so high!” Adama glanced that way for a moment, then back at Leoben.

  The man was fidgeting, and sweating profusely. He held out his hands toward where the loading was going on. “Okay, those warheads over there”—he gave a little laugh—“okay, here’s the deal. They would have brought a nice price on the open market.”

  Adama just stared at him for a moment. “So you’re an arms dealer, huh?”

  Leoben shook his head, not in denial but as if to ask why that should be a problem. “People have a right to protect themselves, I just supply the means.” He spread his hands in innocence. But he was still trembling.