Battlestar Galactica (New Series)

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  "This just gets worse and worse," Colonel Tigh growled, standing off to one side of the corpsman, and also watching the body being carried past. "Now the Cylons look just like us?"

  "Down to our blood," Adama said. Though his face and hands had been scrubbed with antiseptic wipes, he still felt the slickness of the Cylon's blood on his hands; he wondered if he would always feel it. The corpsman pressed a piece of gauze to his forehead, and Adama held it in place with two fingers of his left hand. With his other hand, he wiped again at his right eye with a small towel.

  "You realize what this means?" Tigh muttered. "They could be anywhere. Anyone." He began pacing.

  "I've had time to think about it," Adama said.

  "So what do we do?"

  "I don't know." He'd had time to think, but he hadn't come up with any answers. Bowing his head, he changed the subject. "How are we doing on the warheads?"

  Tigh sounded a little more upbeat. "Magazine two secured. Magazines three and four within the hour." He thought a moment. "Something else . . ."

  Adama waited.

  Tigh finally let it out. "Lee . . . is alive."

  The commander's cabin seemed enormous, vacant, sullen as Lee walked through it, looking around. "Commander?" he called again. His father wasn't here. Lee turned to leave; then something caught his eye. It was a framed octagonal picture, taken probably twenty years ago, standing prominently on his father's table. It was a photo of his mother with him and Zak, taken when they were maybe eight and ten years old. He and Zak were smiling, full of life and hope, and his mother was . . . beautiful. He hadn't seen this particular photo in a long time. He stared at it, lost in thought.

  Funny, as a boy he had never thought of his mother as being beautiful or not beautiful; she was just his mom, his and Zak's. She was loving and dependable, but wasn't that what mothers were? He'd never really even thought of her as being his father's wife—not until the divorce, when she wasn't anymore. But she was still Mom, of course. Zak's death had hit her hard, very hard. He knew that since then, she worried twice as much about him as she had before. There were so many ways a fighter pilot—test pilot—could wind up at the wrong end of a funeral.

  He'd worried about her happiness, about her impending remarriage, about which he'd felt relief and contentment, glad to see an end to her loneliness. But while she had always worried about him dying in the service, he'd never imagined that she would be the one to die in a war, with thermonuclear bombs raining down on her world. She was almost certainly dead now—though he would probably never know for sure. He'd been so busy since the attack, he'd hardly slept. And he hadn't had time to think much about those he had left behind.

  His father was the only family he had left. And his father . . . His stomach started knotting, just thinking about his father. So maybe it was better that he didn't. Put the picture down and leave.

  That was when he noticed the movement to his right. His father had quietly walked into his quarters, and before Lee could even react, was standing at his side. His face was a mess, scraped and with a blood-soaked bandage taped over his left temple; that must have been some fight he'd been in. He didn't say anything to Lee right away, just looked at him, and looked down at the picture Lee was still holding, a hint of a smile on his face.

  Lee dropped his gaze back to the photo, and had to work to bottle up his feelings again. There would be another time to mourn his mother's death.

  "I'm sorry," his father said, as though reading his mind.

  Lee nodded. He placed the photo carefully back down on the table. "I, uh—gotta go," he muttered, and turned away.

  As he walked past his father, the commander's arm shot out and caught his, stopping his movement. Lee turned, surprised, not knowing what to say. Or what his father wanted to say. For a moment they both stood there, looking at each other in a kind of arrested shock. The air was heavy with things they might say to each other, things neither one of them was likely to say.

  As suddenly as the last movement, his father stunned him again by pulling him into an awkward hug. Lee resisted at first. How long had it been since he had last hugged his father, or wanted to? As his father's arms tightened around him, Lee stood rigidly at attention, fighting the emotions. But the feelings were deeper and stronger than his resolve: the pain and loneliness breaking out of their prison and bubbling up. Feelings he didn't want to admit to: longing for forgiveness; love for his father, buried almost beyond retrieval . . . but not quite.

  Almost against his will, he brought his own arms up to return the embrace, pressing his hands against his father's back. He could feel the contortions in his own face; he knew there were tears somewhere down there, wanting to get out. That wasn't going to happen, he was too strong for that—wasn't he?—but something was breaking down on the inside, because he felt a strange sense of gladness and release . . . a letting go. But of what? The years of anger? The walls he had struggled, labored to maintain? It was so hard to keep those walls up. Maybe he didn't have to do that. Wouldn't Zak have wanted it this way? Wouldn't his mother?

  At last, he and his father stepped apart. His father nodded in obvious gratitude, but still couldn't quite look him in the eye. And he knew then that his father was struggling as much as he was.

  Neither of them spoke as Lee left the cabin. But something had changed, and there would be no going back from it.

  Chapter 42

  Galactica, Conference Room B

  Billy Keikeya looked up from the notes he was organizing, as President Roslin paced the room. Since they'd moved the two disaster pods off Galactica and onto a small transport assigned the task of distributing the supplies (damned meager supplies!) to the rest of the fleet, President Roslin had been acting like a caged cat. And in fact, they were caged; there were two armed guards outside the room, by Colonel Tigh's orders. Theoretically they were there to ensure the president's safety. But it was perfectly clear that they were there to contain the president, to keep her from wandering the ship or making any further demands.

  At least they had been permitted to stay on board for a while. Tigh had rescinded his order that they get off the ship at once—probably thanks to Adama's intervention, though Billy wasn't sure which Adama.

  President Roslin paused to peer out the door of the meeting room. "What's wrong with these people, Billy? Are they so afraid to give up any power?" She turned and kept pacing.

  Billy hesitated to speak, but this very question had been weighing on him. He drew a breath. "With all due respect, Madame President . . . I think you may have overplayed your hand with Colonel Tigh."

  President Roslin turned toward him in surprise. "Excuse me?"

  Now he was in it. But though his face burned, he plunged ahead. "Well—when you tried to give Colonel Tigh a direct order—you know, telling him that he had to help us—"

  "I haven't forgotten what I said," she answered dryly, and with some impatience.

  "Right. Of course." Billy was starting to get a little flustered now, but he forced himself to finish what he had to say. "The point is, he's second in command on this ship—and the ship's in danger—and you suddenly forced him to make a choice between you and his commanding officer. He doesn't even know you. He's not going to—"

  "Obey me," President Roslin finished. "No . . . of course not." She turned around, pressing her palms together in front of her face. "Of course he wouldn't," she repeated. "Which I should have realized at the time." She suddenly looked strangely at Billy. "Have you been this smart all along, and I just never noticed?"

  Billy flushed, not knowing what to say.

  "I mean it," she said, rubbing her shoulder absently under the collar of her blouse. "Did I hire you because you were really smart?"

  "Well, I—" he stammered. "I did assume you'd read my résumé—so you would have known the work I—my background." He looked down at his hands, completely embarrassed now.

  "Well, I'm sure I did. But I have a confession to make. I was so overwhelmed, and there were so
many applicants, that I let Personnel make the pick." She chuckled. "Is that so—wait a minute!" She stabbed a finger in the air. "Are you the kid who won a Siltzer Prize for writing a paper on—on—?" She snapped her fingers, trying to remember.

  He finally broke down and grinned. "Diplomacy and Leadership Models. Yes."

  "And you've kept your mouth shut all this time?" She was laughing and shaking her head at the same time.

  "Well . . . you didn't ask. And there were a lot of other things to think about—"

  "Well, I'm asking now. You just became my most trusted advisor." President Roslin suddenly became serious. It was amazing; she was such a nice lady, just like his mother. But she could be tough as a street cop. "What do you think I should do with these people? These . . . leaders."

  Billy drew himself up and unconsciously straightened his tie, even though it was loosened around his neck. He knew exactly what he wanted to say; he'd been biting his tongue not to say it for hours. "Well—these are military people. Things like tradition, duty, honor—they're not just words to them, they're a way of life. You want them to accept your authority as President, you're going to have to make them see things in those terms."

  "You mean, wave the flag at them?" President Roslin asked, cocking her head.

  "Almost. You have to observe the protocols and traditions of the service. And . . . you have to be the president. All the time. Every minute. Stand up to them. No, make them stand up to you. Don't lose your temper with them. But demand their respect. Demand that they honor the constitution that put you in office. The constitution they're sworn to uphold."

  She was looking at him with very thoughtful eyes now. "I see."

  "And . . . one more thing."

  "Yes?"

  "Don't ever let them think they're your equal. Because the minute they think they can walk over you, or think you're not really the president . . ." He paused.

  "We're finished," she said. She blinked and looked away for a moment. Then she gazed at him. "Thank you, Billy."

  Baltar sat at the end of a small wooden table in Commander Adama's quarters, practically the only place he'd seen on this ship that, while lit in a subdued fashion, didn't seem oppressively gloomy. He was waiting for the commander and Colonel Tigh—both gruff, no-nonsense men—to talk their talk with him. He was, to say the least, nervous, and trying hard not to show it. He was praying—well, not really praying, but hoping fervently—that Six, or his hallucination of her, would not intrude while he was meeting with the two most senior officers on the ship. On the ship, hell—in the fleet. Most senior military officers left in the entire civilization, for that matter. And here he was, trying to pretend that he was answering the call to civic duty. Ready to help the fleet in any way he could! Just ask!

  He was afraid they would ask. Afraid they'd ask too much.

  And yet . . . at the same time, a most wonderful thing had just happened. Commander Adama had been attacked by a Cylon man, a Cylon who looked just like a man. They hadn't come right out and told him yet, but he just knew that was it. The truth would be out soon—that piece of it, anyway—and he, Baltar, didn't have to sweat bullets trying to figure out how to slip the information out. No, he could concentrate on implicating his fall guy, through whom he could reveal the presence of that insidious-looking Cylon device in the CIC. Now, if they asked him to do what he thought they might . . .

  The commander had a sizable bandage on the side of his face, near his left eye, but he was sitting apparently at ease at the table; maybe it was because of his son, Captain Apollo, coming back from the dead. Plus, they were in his cabin, his comfort zone. Tigh, on the other hand, was pacing—and the pacing was making Baltar even more nervous. He snatched a look up and over his shoulder as Tigh paced back into sight, waving one of his ubiquitous paper printouts. "Ship's doctor says, at first glance, everything in Leoben's body looked human"—Tigh finally slid into a seat (thank the gods!) and shoved the paper over to Baltar—"internal organs, lymphatic system, the works."

  Which Baltar already knew. While the autopsy had been underway, he had been given samples of hair and skin and one hour to test them in the ship's limited laboratory. Spectrographic analysis of the samples, both before and during controlled incineration, had revealed nothing of interest. At least nothing that he could identify. Then again, chemical analysis was far from his specialty. He was going to have to fake it if he wanted to be able to "prove" that Doral was a Cylon.

  Baltar suddenly realized that there had been a pause, and they were both looking at him. He marshaled his thoughts and his scientific jargon. Had anyone actually said to him that Leoben, the man Adama had killed, was a Cylon? No. "Right. Well, uh, the tissue sample yielded unique chemical compounds during cremation that revealed the nature of the sample to be synthetic." He paused, and feigned thoughtful surprise. "So he was a Cylon!"

  "Yes, he was," Adama said, in a gravelly voice. He paused, then added, "And now we have a problem."

  "Big one," Tigh said.

  "If the Cylons look like us," Adama continued, "then any one of us could be a Cylon."

  Baltar held his look of shock. "That . . . that's a very frightening possibility."

  Adama didn't argue. "We need a way to screen human from Cylon. And that's where you come in."

  "Me?" Careful, not too eager now.

  Tigh came in with a growled, "Rumor has it, you're a genius."

  "Well, I, uh . . ." He bobbed his head awkwardly, practically shedding humility like cat hair. "I'll certainly give it my all . . . Commander."

  "Keep this to yourself for now," Tigh warned. "We don't want to start a panic, or have people begin accusing their neighbors of being Cylons because they don't brush their teeth in the morning."

  Baltar nodded. "I'll be very discreet."

  Yes, I will.

  As Baltar and Tigh were leaving his quarters, Commander Adama suddenly called Tigh back. "Colonel."

  Tigh hesitated and returned to the table. "Sir."

  Adama scratched his forehead next to the wound, carefully. "Colonel, the president is still aboard, is that correct?"

  Tigh snorted. "The schoolteacher? Yes, she is. Shall I have her—"

  "No. No." Adama turned away from his old friend for a moment, and gazed across the room to a small display case where he kept some of his medals, dating back to the first Cylon war. A long time ago. But the fight to defend the Colonies, and their rule of law, had never ended. With his back still turned to his friend, he said, "Saul, whether we like it or not, Laura Roslin is the duly sworn-in President of the Colonies. She was the forty-third in line of succession, and she stayed to do her duty." Adama turned to face his XO. "She stepped up to the job, Colonel. And as long as she's legally in office, it's our duty to treat her as President. Is that understood?"

  Tigh's face was strained as he held his emotions in check. "Yes, sir."

  "That'll be all. Let me know when the magazines are ready."

  "Sir," Tigh said, and turned smartly and left.

  Adama watched him until the door was closed, then sat down, grimacing. His forehead and ribs hurt like hell. And so did his head. He wished he felt as certain as he had just sounded to his XO.

  Chapter 43

  Port Hangar Deck

  Kara Thrace sat in the cockpit of the Viper, completing the pre-launch checklist. The Viper she'd flown last was still undergoing major repairs; this one was still shiny and clean from the museum floor. It too bore the call-sign "Raygun" on its cockpit. But it would be flying as "Starbuck" this trip.

  It was going to be a very short trip.

  "You understand the mission?" Lee Adama asked, walking up beside the cockpit.

  Of course, you dipstick! We just went over it about five times! Grinning to conceal her irritation, she signed the checklist, handed it to the deck hand on the other side of the cockpit, and recited to Lee, "Put my head outside the storm, look around, listen for wireless traffic, come home."

  "No heroics. This is strictly recon.
Look, listen, return."

  She rubbed her eyebrow. "You don't have to worry about me. My taste for heroics vanished about the time I engaged that first Cylon fighter." She looked over at Lee and met his gaze straight on.

  Lee nodded and turned away. On the other side of the craft, the deck crew removed the access ladder. Kara straightened in her seat, ready to close the canopy. Suddenly it just came out; she wasn't planning to say it, but she couldn't hold it in any longer. "Lee—" Still staring straight ahead, she waited until he turned. "Zak failed basic flight."

  Lee came back to stand under the cockpit. "What?" he asked, incredulous.

  "Or at least he should have. But he didn't." Kara finally turned her head to look at him. Why are you telling him this now? Now, of all times? "Because I passed him," she continued. "His technique was sloppy, and he had no feel for flying, but I passed him. Because he and I . . . because I felt something, and I let that get in the way of doing my job. And I couldn't fail him." This was so hard to say, but not as hard as it had been to keep it inside all these years.

  Lee gazed at her in stunned disbelief. "Why are you telling me this? Why . . . why now?"

  She stared at him as long as she could, until finally she could meet his eyes no longer. "It's the end of the world, Lee," she said, in a hard-edged tone that was intended to be sardonic, to mask how much it had been weighing on her. "I thought I should confess my sins."

  Before he could think of anything to say—indeed, he was speechless—she clamped her helmet down over her head and secured it. "Set!" she yelled angrily over the wireless to the controller. As Lee continued to try to absorb that bombshell, she grabbed the canopy and slid it back into the shut position.

  Lee had no choice but to step back out of the way, as the crew began to move her into launch position.

  * * * *

  Deck B Passageway

  The armed security team marched quickly down the passageway, automatic rifles at the ready. Captain Kelly was in command. The order had just come, straight from Colonel Tigh, and they'd been told to be fast about it.