Battlestar Galactica (New Series)

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  In the final maneuver, it indeed looked effortless, as all but one of the squadron came together just shy of the aft end of the landing bay, then split off in a starburst formation. And spinning up through the center of them came Apollo, roaring directly over the landing bay, so that in the screen he seemed to fly nearly straight into the crowd, and right over their heads. Indeed, Laura and just about everyone else ducked involuntarily, and turned to watch on another screen as he disappeared up and out. The crowd—even members of the ship's crew who were here for the ceremony—erupted in spontaneous applause.

  As the Vipers regrouped and circled away, Aaron Doral once more took the podium. It was time to bring on the next speaker. This was the headliner, the person they'd all been waiting to hear from. As applause for the flying team slowly died down, Doral said, "And now, it is my great pleasure to introduce the last commander of the battlestar Galactica, a man who served on this ship as a young pilot during the years of the Cylon War, and later came back to command her through years of peace—Commander William Adama." With a gesture, he invited the commander to rise from where he sat among the gathered officers at the front, and to take the podium.

  Laura, sitting just on the other side of the podium, was struck once more by Commander Adama's rough-hewn good looks, rock-solid demeanor, and obvious intelligence. Despite their earlier encounter, Laura was eager to hear what the commander would have to say. He mounted the stage slowly and deliberately, and took a few moments, standing there before the assembly, as though reflecting on what he wanted to say. And then he began, in that deep, attention-commanding voice:

  "The Cylon war is long over." He looked out, as though to meet the gaze of everyone in the crowd, one by one. "Yet we must not forget the reasons why so many sacrificed so much in the cause of freedom." Pause to let that sink in. "The cost of wearing the uniform . . . can be high." And when he paused this time, it was for a long moment that stretched into several moments, while some in the crowd stirred restlessly, wondering if he'd lost his place in the script, or forgotten what he intended to say. Laura sensed that that was not the case, though, and waited with growing anticipation to see what this stubborn, unconventional man would say next.

  Adama finally, slowly, removed his eyeglasses and looked out over the gathered assembly. "Sometimes it's too high." Even from where Laura sat, she could see the pain behind his eyes. What was he thinking of, his crewmates who had died in the war? His son, who died in a tragic peacetime accident? Adama continued, "You know, when we fought the Cylons, we did it to save ourselves from extinction. But we never answered the question, Why? Why are we as a people worth saving? We still commit murder because of greed, spite, jealousy. And we still visit all of our sins upon our children."

  As Adama spoke, Laura could see members of the audience shifting a little with discomfort. She was surprised to discover how much she was moved by the questions Adama was raising. She could not have known it, but out in space, circling in a patrol pattern around Galactica, the Viper pilots were listening on the wireless, and one in particular, the one called Apollo, was also surprised by the commander's words. And even in the brig, Kara Thrace listened, wondering. And in the CIC, the officers on watch. And throughout the ship, everywhere crewmembers had a moment to pause in what they were doing and listen.

  "We refuse to accept the responsibility for anything that we've done. As we did with the Cylons—when we decided to play God. Create life. And that life turned against us. We comforted ourselves in the knowledge that it really wasn't our fault. Not really." He drew a breath. "Well, you cannot play God and then wash your hands of the things that you've created. Sooner or later the day comes when you can't hide from the things that you've done anymore."

  Commander Adama looked out over the audience, as though trying to decide what to say next. Finally, probably to everyone's surprise, and maybe even his own, he simply turned and stepped down from the podium, and walked back to his seat.

  Laura watched him pass, and as Doral got up to go make his closing remarks, Laura began to clap her hands. She wasn't sure exactly what had just happened there, but she knew that the commander had dared to speak a truth that most would rather have left unspoken. For a moment, the only sound was her hands clapping, and then the others took up the applause. By the time Adama reached his seat, it was strong and steady.

  Colonel Saul Tigh was one of those who had sat in stunned silence as his friend Bill Adama spoke. What the frak was Bill driving at? Tigh had known him for what—better than forty years? He never known Bill to stir needlessly at a hornet's nest, unless it was some bureaucracy that needed a kick in the ass. But this—they were supposed to be having a polite retirement exercise. They were turning the ship over to become a museum, not running for public office. As the commander sat down beside him again, Tigh leaned and muttered, under the sound of the applause, "You are one surprising sonofabitch."

  In response, Adama just turned his head and looked at him—with his familiar steady gaze, and almost, but not quite, with a smile.

  * * * *

  Galactica Departure Pattern

  The colonial transport accelerated smoothly out of the launch tube of Galactica, and proceeded at a stately pace away from the warship. A lone Viper came up alongside, then moved into position just ahead of the transport. The wireless call went from the fighter craft to the cockpit of the transport: "Colonial Heavy Seven-Niner-Eight, this is Viper Seven-Two-Four-Two. My call sign is Apollo, and I'll be your escort back to Caprica."

  Inside the old Viper's cockpit—his father's old Viper—Lee Adama was filled with mixed emotions as he flew away from Galactica. Relief, sadness, anger. Regret over some of the things that had been said, or not said . . . and some genuine astonishment over his father's words in that address to the VIPs. Some of the things the old man had said actually sounded thoughtful. That part about accepting responsibility . . .

  Lee shook off the thought. Don't get maudlin. And don't give him credit for things he wasn't really saying.

  The transport pilot answered, "Copy, Viper Seven-Two-Four-Two. Glad to have you with us."

  Another call came a moment later, this one from the squadron circling Galactica in formation, and visible to Lee at about ten o'clock high. "Viper Seven-Two-Four-Two, Raptor Three-One-Two. This is Boomer. Just wanted to say it was an honor to fly with you, Apollo."

  "The honor's mine, Boomer," Lee said in acknowledgment. For all that they'd had a rocky start, he and the Galactica pilots had flown well together. They'd earned his respect, and he hoped he'd earned theirs. "Where are you heading after Caprica?" How was it he had never asked that? Too busy thinking about other things, probably.

  "Right on to Picon after refueling," Boomer said. "Squadron's being reassigned there temporarily—then they'll be splitting us up. We plan on having a frakking good party before we go our separate ways, though. Are you sure you can't join us?"

  "Wish I could," Lee said. "I've been playing hooky with you kids for too long already, I'm afraid. Hoist a glass for me, though, will you?"

  "Roger to that. Have a safe trip, Apollo." As they signed off, the squadron formation changed course like a flock of birds, away from Galactica and in the direction of Caprica. The last of Galactica's active fighters; all the others were now part of the museum.

  Apollo lifted a hand to them in silent salute.

  In the cabin of the transport, a weary Laura Roslin was collapsed in her seat, eyes closed. A tired but still energized Billy sat beside her in the window seat. From a speaker overhead, a voice came from the cockpit: "Ladies and gentlemen, we are now en route back to Caprica. If you look out the starboard window, you might be able to see one of Galactica's old Mark Two Vipers, which is escorting us. That's the same Viper once flown by Commander William Adama, during the days of the Cylon War . . ."

  Laura smiled faintly, remembering the precision flying demonstration the Viper pilots had staged for them just a short time ago. She felt vaguely comforted to know that one of those
pilots would be flying alongside them as they returned home. She felt even more comforted to know that the pilot was Commander Adama's son, Apollo.

  Chapter 14

  House Of Gaius Baltar

  Baltar sat frozen, haunted, sweating, watching the newscasts on the video screens. He had seen numerous flashes outside on the horizon, but somehow those hadn't seemed as real to him as the newscasts. Surely, he had thought, the newscasts would tell the truth. Would somehow dispel this awful truth. But they hadn't. It was real.

  On the left half of the screen, Kellan Brody, the newscaster who had interviewed him just two days ago, was barely managing to keep up a brave front. ". . . Trying to piece together unconfirmed reports of nuclear attack. We don't have any further information yet. No actual enemy has been sighted . . ."

  On the right screen, a man was broadcasting frantically from the street. "Official confirmation that the spaceports have been hit. No spacecraft left that can leave Caprica. Our best advice is to stay inside—or if you must leave, head out into the country . . ."

  Kellan Brody: "Officials are saying that there doesn't seem any doubt—" She turned suddenly, terrified by something she'd just seen or felt—and the screen went white with static.

  The man on the right screen flinched at a dazzling flash from off-camera—then hunched against a sudden gale-force wind that blew debris sideways past him. An instant later, that screen went white, too.

  Gaius Baltar bowed his head. "What have I done?" he whispered. He looked up again at the blank screens. What have I done? He sat, shaking, for a few moments, tears welling in his already reddened eyes. What . . . have . . . I . . . done?

  Finally he stood up, the feeling of finality washing over him. "There's no way out," he whispered.

  Natasi walked to him from behind. "I know." She moved to place her hands comfortingly on his shoulders.

  He wrenched away from her. "Sure you know! That's your doing, isn't it?" He strode away, furious, despairing. Then something occurred to him. "Wait. Wait, there has to be another way out of here. Wait! You must have an escape plan, right? You're not about to be destroyed by your own bombs, are you? How are you leaving?"

  At that instant, a blinding flash came through the windows, from somewhere over the water. He cried out in pain and bent double, covering his eyes. Behind him, Natasi continued to talk calmly. "Gaius—I can't die. When this body is destroyed, my memory—my consciousness—will be transmitted to a new one. I'll just wake up somewhere else in an identical body." She was touching him now, caressing his neck and cheek, in a way that ordinarily would have been comforting. It made him nearly insane.

  Fighting back tears, horrified at the thought he was about to voice, he said, "You mean there's more out there like you?"

  She faced him closely, and said very matter-of-factly, "There are twelve human-type models. I'm Model Number Six. There are many like me."

  This was too much to bear. He began sobbing. "I don't want to die. I don't want to—"

  "Get down." Interposing herself between him and the window, she shoved him to the floor—an instant before an enormous wall of wind and water rose up and smashed through the side of the house, destroying it like a plaything.

  Baltar knew only a moment of pain and terror as he was hurled across the room by the force of the blast. Then he knew only darkness.

  * * * *

  Caprica Orbit

  High over Caprica they circled, the Cylon raiders, lobbing nuclear warheads down onto the planet. From a distance, there was a certain kind of surreal beauty to the rain of death; from a distance, no one could hear the screams, no one could feel the pain or know the fear or quail in the face of certain death. Unless it was the Cylons themselves. Could they? That was a question no human could answer. And the Cylons weren't speaking to humanity. The Cylons were eradicating humanity.

  From space you couldn't even hear the booms, or feel the rush and suck of wind, the blaze of hard radiation. It was just a silent display of flash . . . flash . . . flash. . . . Even the flashes were somewhat concealed, half hidden from view by the thick cloud cover. But there was no mistaking them, either, if you happened to be in orbit around the planet, as many spacecraft were. Caprica was dotted with flashes deep in the cloud cover, and as the mushroom clouds grew and spread, the cloud cover thickened until from orbit it looked like a continuous murk surrounding the world.

  For human spacecraft in orbit, or nearing the planet, the prognosis was no better than it was for Caprica itself. The raiders that were not busy lobbing bombs were just as busy hunting and killing humanity's spacecraft. It was no match: Few of the spacecraft were armed in any way, and even those that had weapons were hopelessly, hopelessly outmatched. It was over quickly for most of them. For those that somehow escaped notice, the reprieve seemed too good to be true, and for most of them it was. Most of the reprieves ended all too soon, with sudden detection, and a fiery death.

  Meanwhile it seemed that the planet could hardly sustain any further punishment. Flash . . . flash . . . flash.

  And still it continued.

  Part Two

  Armageddon

  Chapter 15

  Galactica, Cabin Of Commander Adama

  It had been a very long day, full of speeches and strong emotion. Adama was sitting at his desk in his undershirt, taking a few minutes to unwind with a good book before turning in for the night. It was a history book, A Time of Changes: Five Colonial Presidents Before the War, an old favorite about a series of influential leaders of Caprica in the years leading up to the Cylon War. He was really just leafing through it, recalling passages he had read many times before. The ceremony today, and the thought he had put into his speech (such as it was in the end—his own critique was that he had sounded disjointed and inconclusive), had put him in a mind to peruse stories of a time when things were very similar to today, and at the same time very different.

  The comm set buzzed twice. A metallic voice, distorted by the tiny speaker in the ceiling, said: "CIC to commanding officer."

  Reluctantly, he set the book down and reached across to the wall for the phone. He pulled the bulky handset on its cord back to where he was sitting. His voice sounded tired and gravelly. "Go ahead."

  The voice in the phone was Gaeta's. "I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but we had a Priority One Alert message from Fleet Headquarters. It was . . . transmitted in the clear."

  Now that was odd. "In the clear?" Adama pulled off his reading glasses. Priority One, not encrypted? Damned odd. "What does it say?"

  Gaeta sounded as if he were having to work hard to keep his voice steady, also odd. "Attention, all Colonial units. Cylon . . . attack . . . underway. This is no drill."

  In that instant, Adama felt as if he had entered another world, another dimension. It felt too unreal to respond to, or even entertain as possible. The moment seemed to stretch like a rubber band—and then suddenly it snapped, and he was back in the present. He fought to find his voice, as the full realization of what Gaeta was saying penetrated. "I'll be right there," he said at last, and hung up the phone.

  For a moment, he could not rise. Cylon attack. War. After all these years. So much bloodshed. And now, again . . . with us again. . . .

  In his own cabin, Colonel Tigh was reclining on his bed, in a melancholy frame of mind. Mellow, though—he had several shots of good whiskey under his belt. His left hand held a photograph of his wife, Ellen, a beautiful picture from a time when they'd been happy, when she'd been happy, when she hadn't been off frakking around with every man who caught her eye. In his right hand, Tigh held a lit cigar. Slowly, methodically, he brought the fiery tip of the cigar into contact with the back of the photograph, right about where her face was. And slowly, satisfyingly, it was burning through the face of the photo—right through the image of her eye, in fact. Dear Gods, this feels good, you miserable bitch . . .

  At that moment, the ship-wide alert buzzer began sounding. Tigh looked around in alarm. What the hell . . . ?

 
; In the hangar, Cally and Prosna had been vacuuming and swabbing the deck. In the maintenance shed, Tyrol was looking over some disassembled Viper parts. The buzzer sounded, and everyone looked up in puzzlement. The attention-tone was followed by Gaeta's voice from the CIC: "Action stations. Action stations. Set Condition One throughout the ship. This is not a drill." There was no one on the hangar deck who was not astounded to hear those words. People everywhere scrambled to get rid of what they were doing and race to their stations. "Repeat: Action stations. Action stations. Set Condition One throughout the ship. This is not a drill."

  "Not a drill!" shouted Prosna, hurrying to put down the mops and pails he was carrying. "He can't be serious."

  "Sounds like it to me," Cally said, racing with him.

  "What are we gonna shoot with? The ship's got no ammunition." They hurried into the utility room to get rid of the cleaning gear.

  Outside, Tyrol was pulling himself together and starting to do the same with his people. "All right, people, let's go! Let's get this hangar bay ready for possible incoming!" All over the hangar deck, and throughout the ship, people were now running with real purpose. A genuine Condition One alert should have been impossible; the ship had just been officially retired. Be that as it may, the crew were moving fast, following old routines. What else could they do?

  In the CIC, Adama stood at the situation table, studying the comm printouts. Tigh came striding in, calling, "What've we got? Shipping accident?" No one answered him, though a lot of people were talking.

  Adama handed him the top printout without saying a word. He was sternly silent, his mind wheeling to take in all the information he had seen, and to pull together a plan. It made no sense; all of this was supposed to have been behind him. But it wasn't, and now he had to put everything else out of his mind and think what to do. As Tigh read the report, Gaeta hurried to the commander with an update. "Condition One is set. All decks report ready for action, sir."