Battlestar Galactica (New Series)

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  Arrogant bitch. Yeah, his wife was probably banging some other man right now. Wherever she was.

  "What were you doing on . . . ?"

  He hadn't spoken to her in the last month, and had no reason to think he'd speak to her in the next.

  ". . . girl there I know."

  "What girl don't you . . . ?"

  "The wife is just fine," Tigh said evenly.

  Lieutenant Thrace grinned and sipped from her mug. "Talk to her lately?"

  Tigh knitted his brow and scowled at his cards, pretending he hadn't heard. He raised his coffee cup to his lips, with an effort mastering the slight trembling in his hand. The whiskey burned as he swallowed.

  Lieutenant Thrace had turned back to the game. "All right. Thirty for me"—she threw in more chips—"and it looks like I'll have to bring this lovely little game to a close, because"—she slapped her cards down onto the table—"full colors! Ha-hah!" Grinning like a kid with candy, she began raking the pile of chips toward her.

  Tigh felt the fury rising in his chest. Thrace was doing a little dance in her seat now, singing and crowing. There were no words to express his disgust at her smug superiority. No words, but . . .

  With a roar, he stood up and shoved the table over onto her. Chips and cards flew across the room. Thrace looked startled for an instant, then lunged. Her fist landed on his chin before he could react, and he fell backwards over his chair, crashing to the floor. Stunned, and more than a little dizzy, he fought his way back to his feet, fighting off the helping hands of nearby crewmen. Thrace had been pulled back by Boomer and Helo, but she was struggling to break free. "I'm fine—I'm fine," she snapped. After a moment, they let her go. She pushed her hair calmly back out of her face, then lunged for him again. Helo grabbed her, and this time pushed her well clear of Tigh.

  The colonel gathered himself, summoning all of his faculties to speak clearly through the alcohol haze. At last he had her where he wanted her. He pointed a finger at Thrace, a deliberate calm tightly wrapped around the steel anger in his voice, controlling the quaver that threatened to betray his real condition. "You have finally gone too far. And now you're done."

  She sneered.

  "Lieutenant—consider yourself under arrest, pending charges. Report to the brig."

  Thrace never dropped the sneer, but she did give him the satisfaction of looking surprised. She bent down, picked up her fallen cigar. Obviously making a deliberate effort to look unperturbed, she glanced around the room with a slight smile. "Gentlemen," she said and, jamming the cigar between her teeth, turned and swaggered from the room.

  Tigh watched with scarcely contained fury. This time he had her. This time he would break her for good.

  The photographers would be arriving soon, and Commander Adama had to get ready. He pulled a clean dress uniform jacket out of his closet. "Are you really gonna press charges against Kara?" he asked, turning to look at Colonel Tigh.

  Tigh was sunk into an easy chair in Adama's stateroom. He looked anything but at ease. "For striking a superior officer? You're damn right I am." Tigh pushed himself up and walked across the room to Adama's desk.

  Adama grunted and refrained from saying a few words that came to mind. "I heard you started the day off pretty early." He was increasingly worried about Tigh's drinking problem. If they weren't both so close to retirement, he would be forced to do something about it. Saul had always been a drinker, but until the last few months, he had managed to not let it get in the way of his duties. Of course, until the last few months, his wife Ellen had been a lot more discreet about her infidelities.

  Tigh picked up the framed photo that Adama had received from the hangar crew earlier in the day. "I wasn't on duty," he said with quiet defensiveness. He studied the picture as he carried it back to the easy chair. "Now, where did you get this?" he asked in amazement.

  "Tyrol's deck gang scrounged it up." Adama still found it hard to believe. He sat on the edge of his bunk and began taking off his boots. "I couldn't talk you out of it, could I?"

  Tigh gave one of those silent snorts that Adama could have heard in the next room. "Not a chance. She's insubordinate, undisciplined—"

  Adama interrupted. "She's probably one of the best fighter pilots I've ever seen in my life. She's better than I am. Twice as good as you."

  "Like hell," Tigh growled. He tapped the photo. "How long ago was this?"

  Adama shrugged, wiped his face and neck with a towel. "Must've been about twenty, twenty-five years ago. I don't know." He put the towel down. "Listen. I'm not going to defend what she did. Especially the crack about your marital problems. But you did kick over the table first."

  "I did not . . ." Tigh stopped suddenly and paused in thought. "Unless I did."

  Adama just looked at his old friend for a moment, thinking of the long years they'd been together—of all the bar fights, all the Cylon fights, all the battles with military bureaucracy. Tigh had always been the one with the incendiary temper, and Adama the one to intervene with a cooler head. "You did. What do you say you drop the formal charges and just let her cool her heels in the brig until we're home."

  Tigh sat silent for a beat or two, then—by way of conceding—said, "You always did have a soft spot for her. Damned if I can see why."

  "Yeah, I guess I'm just a crazy old man," Adama said with a soft smile.

  "Yeah," said Tigh. Beneath the gruffness of his words, Adama knew, was the unspoken trust between men who had been together through war and peace, honor and shame. "You sure as hell are. Just like me. No wonder they're about to put us both out to pasture."

  Adama laughed. "A couple of old warhorses, eh?"

  Tigh grunted. "More like a couple of old mules, if you ask me."

  Chapter 4

  Caprica Medical Center, Caprica City

  Caprica City, capital of the Caprica Colony, largest city on the planet Caprica, was a modern metropolis. Traffic flowed nonstop through the air, along the ground, under the ground, and on the water offshore. Its skyscrapers and towers jutted into a blue sky. It was the epitome of hope, prosperity, and human achievement. The sight of the skyline was enough to make the heart soar.

  All of this was visible right outside the window of the waiting room. Sitting silently in a leather armchair facing an unoccupied desk was an attractive forty-eight-year-old woman named Laura Roslin. She had a soft-featured, oval face and dark, shoulder-length hair. She wore a conservatively cut dress of a light periwinkle blue. Her gaze, deep and intelligent, was frightened. Though her eyes were apparently focused outside the long bay window, Laura Roslin saw none of the majesty of the great city. All she saw were the pale yellow saffron blossoms just outside the glass. So lovely. So fragile. Her thoughts were in turmoil. When is he going to bring me those results?

  As if in response to her thoughts, the door behind her closed with a reverberating thud. She closed her eyes and listened to the doctor's footsteps as he crossed the long room toward the desk where Laura sat. Who in the world got the idea that a doctor's office should be in a room the size of a small gymnasium? Could it possibly be more impersonal?

  The doctor came around the desk, glanced into the file folder in his hand, then closed it before speaking. His expression was sober, and she already knew what he was going to say. "I'm afraid the tests are positive," he said quietly. "The mass is malignant. We'll do all we can, of course. But I have to be honest—it's advanced well beyond the point that we can have much hope . . ."

  White noise filled Laura's mind as she looked at him, nodded, looked away, tried to hurl her thoughts as far away as humanly possible. Get away, get away from here . . .

  "I'll contact the specialists at the Caprica Institute—"

  She couldn't stand to listen anymore. Laura forced herself up out of the chair, forced a pained smile. "Thank you, Doctor. If you'll excuse me, I have a flight to catch."

  "Dr. Roslin, please call me as soon as possible. Any further delay will just . . ."

  She barely heard him, as she
hurried across that long floor toward the exit.

  * * * *

  Colonial Transport 798

  Buckled in, waiting, thinking, waiting. Staring out the window at the sunlight burning on the launch tarmac. She really had had a flight to catch. Off planet, to meet a warship. If only she could fly away from reality. Dear Gods. Why? Why me? Why cancer?

  There was movement beside her, and she looked up to see a slender young man dressed in a jacket and tie, with a large briefcase, standing nervously in the aisle beside her. She tried to smile, but didn't feel as if she'd succeeded. "Yes?"

  "Secretary Roslin?" He paused. "I'm Billy Keikeya." Another pause. "Your new assistant."

  "Ah." That took a moment to process. Yes, the human resources people had promised her a new assistant in time for the trip. She hadn't thought she'd be meeting him for the first time on the transport, though. "Well, then, hello. Have a seat." She rose to let him past to the window seat, and extended a hand. He shook hands and sat down in one slightly awkward motion. He was a good-looking boy, with curly brown hair and an alert demeanor. But he couldn't be a day over twenty, and he was probably overwhelmed to be making a trip like this on his first day on the job.

  As Laura settled herself back in her seat, Billy bent forward and extracted a thick three-ring binder from his briefcase. "Sandra at the Education Ministry main office sent this briefing book to give you."

  "Thank you," she whispered, resting it in her lap without looking at it. She looked back out the window, past Billy, eyes blurring. She was barely aware of the captain asking all passengers and flight attendants to fasten their seat belts: "We are preparing for departure to Galactica, with an expected flight time of five and a half hours . . ."

  As the transport lifted from the launch pad and roared skyward, she rested her head against the cushioned seat back and shut her eyes tight.

  * * * *

  "Uh—Dr. Roslin?"

  She blinked, realized they'd been talking and she hadn't heard a word he'd said. "What? Oh—I'm sorry. What were you saying?"

  Billy looked a little puzzled at her lack of attention, but he said nothing about it. Instead he continued, "I also sent the president a copy of your speech for Galactica's retirement. Hopefully he'll have chance to review it. But . . . there is a thirty-minute time delay between the Galactica and—"

  "Excuse me," Laura said abruptly. She jumped up from her seat and hurried up the aisle, leaving a startled Billy behind her. Too much. Too much. She ran into the lavatory and shut the door behind her. In privacy at last, she leaned back against the door and breathed. Just breathed, and stared up into nothing. Fear and despair rose in her like poison in her bloodstream, threatening to choke her. She gasped, fought for air, each breath feeling as if it would be her last. She desperately wanted to cry, to flood the room with tears of grief and anger; but just as urgently, she fought against it, fought against giving this thing even that much of a victory. How dare you invade my body, how dare you!

  With a muffled gasp of anguish, she pulled open the front of her jacket, exposed the white blouse that crisscrossed over her breasts. She thrust her right hand under her jacket, covering her left breast, covering the lump that was growing, the traitorous part of her that was devouring her body, devouring her life.

  Damn damn damn damn damn. . . .

  Chapter 5

  Riverwalk Market, Caprica City

  Clear breezy day, bright sunshine in a blue sky. Crowds of people milled about in the outdoor marketplace, enjoying the warmth of the perfect spring afternoon. One person felt differently about it, however—though you wouldn't have known from the way she looked around the crowd, tossing her shoulder-length, bleach-blonde hair with the movement of her head, or from the look of the bright hazel eyes taking in everything around her. Most people, male or female, would have called her stunningly beautiful. She wouldn't have disagreed, but she might have called it part of her job description: form follows function.

  She walked casually and with no particular destination for the moment—but with a curious air of purpose, as though she did not yet know what she was here to do, but knew that it would be revealed to her when the time came. And that time, she had a feeling, would be soon. She brushed her fingertips along the blossoms of a lilacan bush, and gazed over the reflecting pool that formed a lovely interruption in the lines of the marketplace.

  Something lay ahead for her; she sensed it. Her gaze wandered over the pedestrians moving about, and fell on a very small child in a stroller. How darling. She felt drawn to it immediately. She stepped closer and gazed down on the helpless thing. The sight stirred something in her heart, and it must have showed on her face, because the child's mother, standing just a few feet away, noticed and stepped closer with a tentative smile, taking the handle of the stroller instinctively, protectively.

  "How small they are," murmured the blonde woman, more to herself than to the mother.

  "I know. But they grow up so fast," the mother replied, casting her own loving gaze down on her child.

  The two shared a beaming moment together, and then the woman gestured. "May I?"

  There was a moment of hesitation, and then: "Sure." It was the kind of "sure" that guaranteed that the mother would be watching every move the woman made. As she should. The blonde woman might have been unmarried herself, but she absolutely approved of protective parenting—even if, in the end, parents had to die to make room for the children.

  The mother scooped her child gently out of the stroller, cradling it for a moment before carefully placing it in the arms of the blonde woman. Such a small bundle.

  "So light." The baby give a plaintive squeak, and she calmed it with a light touch, stroking its cheek. "So fragile. Shh-shh-shhhhh . . ." She soothed it again. "You're not going to have to cry much longer," she whispered.

  The mother, nervous again, reached out. "We really should be going." Nearby, a man was looking over the heads of the intervening people, trying to wave her over. The father, no doubt. The woman smiled and passed the child back to its mother, who cradled it reassuringly, and then returned it to the stroller.

  The woman leaned forward, to take one more look. "It's amazing how the neck can support that much weight," she said, marveling.

  "Yes—" the mother started to say, but was interrupted by her husband calling, "Centura! Honey!" She looked away to catch her husband's eye and wave. "Come on!"

  "Okay!" called the mother. "Give me a moment."

  The interruption was quite enough time for the blonde woman to reach down one last time into the stroller, to slip her hand beneath the baby's neck, and to make one quick, silent movement. You won't have to suffer any longer.

  She straightened and smiled sweetly, sadly at the infant. Then, not meeting the mother's suddenly worried expression, she turned and walked quickly away. She could feel the tension behind her, the inexplicable fear, as she put distance between herself and the mother and child. No more suffering. Not for you.

  As the mother's scream of horror rent the afternoon peace, the blonde woman did not look back. Her brow was furrowed, though, and her heart was filled with a mixture of sadness and regret, but above all a certainty of the rightness of what she had just done.

  I have spared you, little child.

  Chapter 6

  Near Caprica City, Home Of Gaius Baltar, Ph.D.

  Overlooking the calm waters of King's Bay Inlet, not far from Caprica City, the residence of Gaius Baltar was a model of elegance and simplicity. Its clean, modern lines harmonized beautifully with the shoreline and the breathtaking expanse of the inlet waters. Inside, the clean design continued. The rooms were spacious and light, decorated with an impeccably tasteful eye for detail.

  In the living room, Gaius Baltar himself was seated in a comfortable leather-upholstered chair, pensively sipping a glass of Olympia spring water, while an attractive TV anchor introduced the interview segment in which he was about to take part. Kellan Brody's face could be seen in the right-hand half o
f the TV screen that dominated the far wall of the living room; his own image was in the left-hand side. Dr. Baltar was apparently lost in his thoughts, paying little attention to the TV, while she completed her introduction:

  "For those of you just joining us from the Pyramid Game on Geminon, welcome to The Spotlight—our weekly interview program devoted to people making news on Caprica. Today, we're talking with Doctor Gaius Baltar. Doctor Baltar has been the winner of three Magnate Awards over the course of his career. He is a media cult figure and a personal friend of President Adar's. He is currently working as a top consultant for the Ministry of Defense on computer issues. But he's perhaps best known for his controversial views on advancing computer technology. Doctor Baltar—again, welcome."

  Baltar nodded with suave grace. He was a trim, narrow-faced man with dark, collar-length hair combed straight back from his forehead. His relaxed posture and body language spoke of one who was used to the spotlight and to attention from admiring fans. He spoke effortlessly. "Thank you, Kellan. And firstly may I say"—he smiled with just the right amount of debonair charm for the camera—"how lovely you're looking. And secondly, what an absolute pleasure it is to be on the show."

  "Well, we're delighted to have you with us." Ms. Brody seemed to blush ever so slightly. "Could you summarize your views for our audience?"

  "Yes. I'd be happy to. My position is very simple. The ban on research into artificial intelligence is, as we all know, a holdover from the Cylon wars. Quite frankly, I find this to be an outmoded concept. It serves no useful purpose except to impede our efforts . . ."

  As Doctor Baltar spoke, the front door of the house opened quietly, as a tall, slender, stunningly beautiful woman with shoulder-length blonde hair stepped into the house. Her name was Natasi, and she was expected. She was dressed in a sheer blouse and skirt combination that kept no secrets about the jet black lingerie she was wearing beneath. She closed the door silently, so as not to disturb the interview, and approached Baltar slowly from the side living-room entrance. A mischievously seductive smile flickered across her lips as she watched him finish the interview. She settled into a chair just out of range of the camera pickup, but in perfect view of Dr. Baltar, and she crossed her legs provocatively.