Battlestar Galactica (New Series)

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  Leoben laughed and cocked his head a little as he looked over his shoulder. "You're not even interested in knowing the truth, are you? Maybe the Cylons feel exactly the same way you do, but about Mankind. I don't think they hate you, Adama—I think they fear you." He stopped to cough again. "How about you go first for a while?"

  Adama just glared.

  * * * *

  Galactica, Combat Information Center

  Colonel Tigh peered over the shoulder of Lieutenant Gaeta as the younger man hung up the phone. He'd just been conferring with Chief Tyrol, on the station. Gaeta looked up at the colonel. "The chief says we're looking at three hours minimum before we have all the warheads in our magazines."

  Tigh searched for an entry in the thick inventory book he was holding. "The book says there's also fifty tons of bundled—"

  The attention-tone interrupted him, and one of the junior officers at the dradis console called, "Action stations! Action stations!"

  Gaeta quickly checked his own dradis screen. "We have multiple contacts coming down through the storm, toward the anchorage." He turned back toward Tigh. "It looks like more than fifty ships."

  "Cut us loose from the station," Tigh ordered, and strode toward the command post. He tossed his inventory book onto the charting table and called out, "Launch the alert fighters." He picked up a handset for ship-wide announcement. "Set Condition One throughout the ship! Prepare to launch—"

  "Wait!" called Dualla, from the main comm station. "Wait—I'm getting Colonial signals now." She was pressing her earphone to her ear.

  "Confirm that!" Tigh said. He strode over toward the comm station and barked, "Don't just accept friendly ID."

  Just as he reached the comm station Dualla added, "Confirmed, sir. Incoming ships are friendly."

  Amazed, Tigh picked up the nearest handset and keyed all-ship again. "Action stations, stand down."

  Dualla continued, "The lead ship is requesting permission to come alongside, sir. They say . . ." she hesitated, listening closely, "they say they have the President of the Colonies aboard."

  Tigh turned to look back at Dualla incredulously. Slowly his expression changed to reluctant acceptance, as he realized he had to assume the report was genuine. "Grant their request," he said, his voice overlaid with skepticism. "Bring 'em into the landing bay." This had better be for real.

  "Oh, and Colonel," Dualla continued. "They say they also have Lee Adama . . . and Boomer. Both alive and well."

  Tigh blinked and rocked back on his heels. He tried like a sonofabitch not to break into a big grin. "Well, I'll be damned . . ."

  As President Laura Roslin stepped out of Colonial One into Galactica's hangar deck, it occurred to her that it had been barely a few days since she'd left this ship, fully expecting that the next time she boarded the vessel, it would be a museum in orbit around Caprica. And now it's the flagship of the surviving fleet of humanity. She remembered her argument with Commander Adama over whether the museum could be outfitted with a small computer network. She shook her head at the memory. Obsessive and controlling, she'd thought him at the time. But it turned out he'd been right about computer networks. Tragically right.

  There didn't seem to be anyone to greet them, except the deckhands who had brought up the stairs. She went down the steps, followed closely by Captain Apollo and Billy. The hangar seemed quiet, for a ship at war. "Where is everyone?" she asked the deckhand at the bottom of the steps.

  "Everyone except the stand-by crews are busy moving munitions aboard from the station," the deckhand said, gesturing toward the other end of the hangar. "Colonel Tigh said I should bring you to the officers' briefing room."

  "I see. And will Commander Adama meet us there?" Laura asked.

  "I don't think so, sir," said the deckhand. "There was an accident of some sort on the station, and I heard the Commander was tied up with that. Colonel Tigh is in command right now."

  "Very well. Can you show me to the briefing room, please?"

  Colonel Tigh arrived in the briefing room shortly after them. Laura watched from inside the room as Lee Adama met Tigh at the door. Tigh returned his salute and then just stared at him for a minute. He didn't reveal any emotion, but finally he shook Lee's hand and said, "It's damned good to see you alive."

  "I'm glad to be alive," Lee answered. He gestured toward Laura across the long table that bisected the room. "I believe you know Laura Roslin. President Laura Roslin."

  Tigh walked slowly around the table and approached her, without quite acknowledging the full meaning of Lee's words. "We've met, yes. Ms. Roslin."

  "She was sworn into office yesterday," Lee continued, "following the protocol—"

  "So I heard," Tigh said, interrupting him. He glanced at Lee with an expression of derision, as if to say, And you bought that? One day a schoolteacher and now the president?

  Laura decided it was time to cut to the chase. "Colonel Tigh, we are, as far as we know, the sole surviving fleet of Colonial ships. And we need your help. With food and medical supplies."

  Tigh fixed her with an incredulous gaze. "You can't be serious."

  "I'm not big on jokes today," Laura answered evenly. "May I ask where Commander Adama is?" She extended her arm, as if to ask, Is he waiting in the wings?

  "He's unavailable," Tigh said in a voice that was even flintier than usual. "We expect to hear from him soon. In the meantime, I'm in command."

  "Then," Laura acknowledged with a nod, "we should be looking to you to answer our requests."

  Tigh was suddenly afire with indignation. "We're in the middle of repairing and rearming this ship! We can't afford to pull a single man off the line to start caring for refugees!"

  Laura tried to control her own temper. She averted her head for a moment while she channeled her anger into determination. She swung back and said forcefully, "We have fifty thousand people out there, and some of them are hurt! Our priority has to be caring for—"

  "My priority is preparing this ship for combat." He looked at her squarely, and more than a little condescendingly. "In case you haven't heard, there's a war on."

  Laura drew a deep breath. I still have to be a schoolteacher, she thought. He can't see the truth in front of his eyes. "Colonel," she said evenly, stepping toward him. "The war is over. And we lost."

  Colonel Tigh smirked. "We'll see about that."

  "Oh yes, we will. In the meantime, however, as President of the Colonies, I'm giving you a direct order—"

  "You don't give orders on this ship!"

  "—to provide men and equipment—"

  Lee stepped forward and broke in suddenly. "Hold on, Colonel!" At that, Tigh turned around and stared at him in amazement. "At least give us a couple of disaster pods," Lee continued, in an even and reasonable tone.

  "Us?" Tigh said.

  "Sir," Lee continued, ignoring the implied reproach, "we have fifty thousand people out there. Fifty thousand. Some of them are sick. Some are wounded." He gestured earnestly. "Two disaster pods, Colonel. You can do that."

  Colonel Tigh answered very slowly and reluctantly. "Because you're the Old Man's son, and because he's going to be so damned happy you're alive—okay. Two pods. But no personnel." He turned away and circled around the table to leave the room. He met no one's eyes as he said, "You get them yourselves and you distribute them yourselves. And you are all off this ship before we Jump back."

  Lee stood near the doorway, and Tigh walked up to him. "You report to the flight deck," Tigh ordered. His voice sharpened. "You're senior pilot now, Captain."

  Lee raised his hand in a very precise salute. "Yes sir."

  Tigh returned the salute and strode away.

  Laura stood with her hands behind her back, gazing gratefully at Lee for a moment. When he finally turned and caught her gaze, she inclined her head with a faint smile, and nodded to dismiss him for the duties to which the colonel had called him.

  Chapter 38

  Galactica, Deck E Passageway

  Chief Tyrol wa
lked along one of the ship's corridors with a group of men carrying a rack of small warheads. He stopped, looking this way and that, his heart pounding. Where was she? He couldn't just leave the work he was doing; he couldn't leave his post. But he knew she was here somewhere, and he needed to find her, to see her. Now. He spoke in a distracted tone to the gunnery specialist who was flanking him with a clipboard. "As soon as you get the magazines loaded, I want a status report on Commander Adama's whereabouts."

  "Yes sir." The specialist made a note and continued on his way.

  Tyrol stood where he was for a minute, trying to figure out what to do. He was still absorbing the news that a civilian fleet had joined them—and that one of the ships was the Colonial transport that carried the new president—as well as two people they'd all given up for dead. Lee Adama . . . and Sharon Valerii. Boomer.

  The passageways seemed quiet, with people doing their jobs despite their exhaustion, but with no energy left for outward shows of emotion. There was no talking, and practically no sound. He gazed anxiously one way and then another.

  And then he saw her, coming toward him down the corridor, passing the gunnery specialist. She saw him at the same moment, and stopped. With her she had a boy, about ten years old. She and Tyrol stared at each other in disbelief. Sharon suddenly began striding quickly toward him. He felt the molasses in his feet let go, and he moved toward her, too, quickening his pace until they met mid-corridor. They fell into a powerful embrace, heedless of whether anyone saw or cared—and Tyrol lifted her off her feet and swung her in circles. Then he put her down and cradled her face in his hands, and they gazed into each other's eyes with joy, as the long-held grief melted away.

  They kissed, hard, and then hugged for a very long time, swinging back and forth, as the bewildered boy ducked and danced out of their way.

  Finally Sharon broke from their embrace long enough to let Tyrol study her face, grinning. "There's someone I want you to meet," she said, with a laugh. She turned to the boy and put a hand on his shoulder. "New crewmember. Name's Boxey. He's gonna need some quarters."

  The boy looked embarrassed, and as happy as a kid could look under these circumstances. Maybe he was just glad he had someone looking out for him.

  Tyrol couldn't stop grinning. "We can manage that . . ."

  In another corridor, Billy was trying to lead Baltar to the CIC, but he didn't really seem to know where he was going. Baltar followed him anyway, as they hurriedly strode along, turning this way and that. Billy occasionally said something like, "Ah, this way," but within a minute or two would be confused again.

  Baltar was confused, period. This ship was the gloomiest place he had ever seen. It was dark and claustrophobic, and the walls slanted inward toward a peak at the ceiling, so that he felt like he was walking through a triangular prism, in perpetual twilight. He wondered how long it took people to get used to it.

  Ahead of him, Billy suddenly straightened and quickened his step. "Dualla!" he cried to someone in the corridor ahead. "Hi! Um, we're kind of lost—again."

  Baltar squinted to see who Billy was talking to. A tall, striking crewwoman with exquisite olive-toned skin stopped in her tracks at the sight of them. She just stared at them for an instant, then ran toward Billy. "We need to get to the CIC—" Billy began, and then the woman he'd called Dualla grabbed him around the neck and planted a kiss on him. A long, urgent kiss.

  Noticing Baltar, she finally broke from the clinch. She looked a little sheepish. Billy simply looked shell-shocked. Dualla regained her poise first and said, "It's this way," and strode past the two, leading them in the direction from which they'd just come.

  Billy turned, dazed, toward Baltar. "I think she was happy to see you," Baltar murmured. Billy nodded, then hurried to follow the impatiently gesturing Dualla.

  Baltar stumbled along behind, envious and wondering what he had missed. Poor Billy. If you don't understand it . . . don't ask me to explain it to you.

  Lee Adama was having trouble keeping a smile off his face, too, as he entered the hangar area, ready to take up his duties as chief pilot. There was someone he wanted to say hello to.

  He found Kara Thrace under a Viper, on her back on a mechanic's crawl, open toolbox at her side. She hadn't noticed his approach, and he stood for a moment, wondering what the last day or so had been like for her. Rumor had it she'd had a big hand in saving Galactica. When she still didn't notice him, he called down. "Hey!"

  She turned her head to see who had called, and a strange look came over her grease-smudged face, as if she thought she were seeing a ghost. He smiled down as she slid out from under the Viper, and extended a hand to help her to her feet. They stood frozen like that for a moment: her hand in his, not exactly a handshake, but not that other way of holding hands, either. She was trembling, and trying to catch her breath, and looking as if she wasn't sure whether to hug him or rub her eyes and go back to work. Finally she managed to force out, "I . . . thought . . . you were dead." And for a moment, her face seemed to flicker between the grief she'd obviously been dealing with, and astonishment that he was standing there in front of her, alive.

  Lee finally cracked a grin at the same time she did. "Well, I thought you were in hack," he said, remembering that indeed she'd been in the brig that last time he'd seen her. He felt an impulse to grab her in a bear hug, and guessed she was probably feeling the same way. But he wasn't sure he trusted his own feelings enough to do that—and besides, he was her senior officer now.

  She laughed and nodded, and dropped her hands to her hips. "It's . . . good to be wrong," she said finally, with a vigorous nod.

  He couldn't resist a crack. "Well, you should be used to it by now."

  She grinned broadly. "Everyone has a skill." And then she turned sober, and they just looked at each other with clear relief on both of their faces that they were still alive in the midst of this madness.

  Finally he broke the silence, with a nod to the Viper. "So, how go the repairs?"

  For a few heartbeats she didn't move. Then suddenly she made an inner transition and became more animated, if uncomfortable. "On track. Another hour and she'll be ready to launch." She hugged herself with her bare arms and said, "So I guess you're the new CAG now."

  "Yeah, that's what they tell me," Lee answered, a little self-consciously.

  "Good!" Kara said. "That's good. It's the last thing I'd want." She pressed her lips together, apparently thinking hard and looked him soberly in the eye. "I'm not a big enough dipstick for the job."

  She held a straight face for a second, as he worked his mouth, trying to think of a comeback. When he couldn't, she cocked her head to one side with a grin, and they laughed silently together. He managed to get his command face back on and said, "I'll be in the squadron"—he choked a little—"ready room." And he turned away and left her grinning.

  He was just rounding the end of the Viper when he heard, "Hey!" He looked back. "Does your father know you're still breathing?" Kara called.

  Lee gave a little snort, once more at a loss for words. Finally he said, "I'll let him know." And this time he did leave. But he could sense Kara shaking her head behind him as he walked away.

  Chapter 39

  Ragnar Station, Maintenance Level Crossover

  Although they seemed to be walking ever deeper into the bowels of the decaying station, Commander Adama had found a grime-covered directory marker that showed where they were: a hell of a long way from the armory, that was for sure. They already had missed two turnoffs that might have taken them back. It was upon making that discovery that Adama had taken the lead. From their present position, they just needed to get through this crossover section; then they could turn left and go up a level and start making their way back out along the next radial passageway. Damn good thing, too. Adama was sick to death of this place, with its leaky steam pipes and dripping condensation everywhere. It made him feel chilled. Leoben, on the other hand, was sweating more and more profusely, as if they were in a sauna.


  They paused at a strange juncture where a couple of dirty window-ports actually gave them a view out into the atmosphere of Ragnar. The seemingly eternal green storm continued to rage, with lightning flash followed by lightning flash. The great counter-rotating wheels of the station churned around in the field of view like ancient water-wheels, endless grinding dust for masters long since forgotten.

  Adama squinted for a few moments, then grunted and continued on his way. Leoben followed, with increasing difficulty and signs of illness. Adama was impatient at the pace, but did not drop his vigilance, or his awareness of where Leoben was at every moment. He was giving the "arms dealer" a little wiggle room, and waiting to see if Leoben would take a misstep.

  As they descended a metal staircase into the deepest part of the maintenance section, Leoben staggered. Adama paused and looked back. Leoben was grimacing in pain. He swayed a little, then crouched down, wincing, and sat on the stairs a few steps up from the bottom. Adama watched him grimly, almost certain now that what he'd suspected was true.

  Leoben's skin was now tinged with gray and green. He screwed up his face as if the very air was poisoning him. "Ahhh—!" he gasped, rolling his neck in pain. "What is it about this place? What's it doin' to me?"

  Adama stared coldly at him. "Must be your allergies."

  Leoben raised his sweat-beaded head and widened his eyes as he looked at Adama. His face glistened with sweat as he suddenly broke into a grin. "I don't have allergies."

  "I didn't think so," Adama said in low, measured tones. He stepped a little closer. "What you've got is silica pathways to the brain—or whatever it is you call that thing you pretend to think with. It's decomposing as we speak."

  Leoben didn't deny it. "It's the storm, isn't it?" he managed. "It puts out something—something you discovered has an effect on Cylon technology. That's it, isn't it? This is a refuge. That's why you put a fleet out here. A last-ditch effort to hide from a Cylon attack. Right? Well, it's not enough, Adama. I've been here for . . . hours. Once they find you"—he paused to shake his head—"it won't take them that long to destroy you."