And then he saw the small, folded piece of paper on his side table. Someone had left a note for him. He put on his glasses and picked it up. It was a single sentence, typed on Galactica printout paper. It was unsigned. It read:
THERE ARE ONLY 12 CYLON MODELS.
Adama stared at the note for a long time, stunned. Twleve Cylon models—and all indistinguishable from humans? Who would have left such a note? And why anonymously? And what could he do about it?
Not a damn thing that I can think of.
In the end, he refolded the note and put it away in his wall safe, all thoughts of sleep effectively banished.
We haven't escaped from them yet.
* * * *
Coda
The gaseous green storms of Ragnar continued to swirl, as they had for millions of years, and probably would for millions of years more. But around the Ragnar Anchorage, a fleet of ships had gathered: a looming Cylon base star and a buzzing horde of its attendants.
Inside the station, in a large storage room, a man sat huddled in misery. He was not lacking for food, or air, or water. But he was lacking for company. And he was lacking for even the remotest semblance of comfort.
The place smelled of rust, dankness, emptiness, and fear. Most of the gloomy light, such as it was, came from a weird shaft that went up through the ceiling of the room at the end where he sat. It looked a little like a gigantic coil spring, or a cylindrical cage, with a vague column of orange light going up its center. It was the most prominent feature of the room, but he had no idea what it was, nor did he care. Aaron Doral just sat in front of it, right where the soldiers of Galactica had left him to rot. The bastards. The inhuman bastards.
He was sweating profusely, though the room was, if anything, chilly. His skin color was pallid—greenish—and he was shaking. Something about this place was making him ill.
He started at the sound of a sudden crash at the other end of the room. A flare of light blazed through the crack in the heavy doors. Another crash, and more light. Smoke and steam billowed out into the room. Someone on the outside was using explosives or torches, or both. Finally the doors began to spread apart, with a screech of metal on metal. Outside he saw only bright light and fog. It was difficult to focus, but he squinted and finally saw what was coming in.
Two late-model Cylon centurions clanked into the room, shining stainless warriors with clawed hands and red-glowing Cyclops eyes scanning side to side. Doral tensed, feeling a strange confusion. He didn't quite understand what was happening to him. He should be terrified. Why wasn't he more frightened?
The centurions strode forward only a little way, then stepped aside. Apparently, they were here to guard the doors. So more Cylons would be coming. Yes, of course. It was starting to become clear. Even through the haze of the fog and the sickness, he was starting to understand.
A series of figures emerged from the light-haze, following the centurions into the room. They slowly became clear to him as they approached. There were three Cylons who looked exactly like Leoben, the agent whom Adama had killed. They were dressed identically in casual, almost sloppy shirts and pants. There were three of the . . . Number Six model. Yes, he recognized them now. Blonde, gorgeous, all three dressed in crimson skirt-suits. And there was one of the . . . Aaron Doral model. Him. His double. Dressed in an electric-blue suit, the way he often had dressed, when he was working on Galactica.
It was like a window opening in his mind, as he suddenly understood his relationship to all of the Cylon models. He knew now that he should speak, without waiting for them to speak. "We have to get out of this storm. The radiation . . . it affects our neural relays." He stood up to confer with them.
"Where did they go?" one of the Leoben models asked.
"I don't know. They were preparing for a big Jump," Doral answered.
"We can't let them go," said his identical model.
The first Number Six model, in a silken voice, agreed.
"If we do, they'll return one day and seek revenge." That was the second Leoben. The remaining Cylons spoke in turn.
"It's in their nature."
"We have no choice, in any case. We must find them. The Mission, the Project, require it."
"If they've Jumped out of known space, it could take decades to track them down."
A new figure entered the room at that moment, emerging from the haze outside. It was a female Cylon—brunette, petite, and beautiful. The easy smile on her face revealed her utter confidence. "Don't worry. We'll find them. And it won't take nearly that long."
It was the Sharon Valerii model. The Boomer model.
"By your command," murmured a Number Six.
With that, they turned. And with the ailing Doral model, they walked out of that place, followed by the steel warriors.
Minutes later, the base star detached from Ragnar Station. It rose, at once majestic and malign, wheeling up through the swirling clouds. Once free of the atmosphere, it accelerated at high speed into the dark emptiness of interstellar space.
The hunt for the remnants of humanity had begun.
Here's a sneak peek
at the next exciting
Battlestar Galactica
novel
The Cylon's Secret
BY CRAIG SHAW GARDNER
Coming in August 2006
Twenty Years Later
The Edge Of Explored Space
Saul Tigh looked at the crisply pressed sleeve of his Battlestar uniform—the uniform that had saved his life. Well, he guessed the uniform and Bill Adama were equally responsible.
It wasn't the first time Adama had pulled Tigh's fat from the fire. Frak, he remembered the first time they met, at a dive of a spaceport bar. Tigh had gotten in a bit over his head with some of the jerks he had been shipping out with.
"He's a real-deal war hero," one had said. The other had called him a "freight monkey." The second one had laughed. "No high and mighty Viper pilot no more."
Tigh had seen this kind of jealousy before. He got up to leave. But the scum wouldn't let him.
"War's over, soldier boy," one of them said in his face. "Why you gotta keep going on and on about the war all the time?"
Tigh had had enough. "You're the one who can't stop talking about it," was his reply.
The other guy stared at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
And Tigh let him have it.
"You didn't serve because your rich daddy got you a deferment. That's why you're always trying to prove you're a man—but you're not. You're a coward."
Tigh meant every word. And as soon as he said them, he knew he was in for a fight. He ducked the first guy's fist, and got him spun around into a hammer-lock.
That's when the bartender pulled the shotgun on him.
Tigh swung his crewmate between himself and the gun as another man came out of the dimly lit side of the bar to knock the gun from the barkeep's hands.
Maybe, Tigh thought, he had somebody on his side for a change. He added a little pressure to the grip on his opponent. It reminded him, in an odd sort of way, about fighting hand-to-hand with the Cylons all those years ago.
"See," he said very softly, close to his crewmate's ear. "You wouldn't know this, but although Centurians are tough, their necks have got this weak joint. Not very flexible. Add pressure in just the right direction and it snaps. Human neck's more resilient. Takes a little more force."
The man who had grabbed the bartender's gun stepped fully into the light.
"You flew Vipers?" the man asked.
And that was the first time Tigh saw Bill Adama.
"Yeah, that's right," Tigh replied.
"Me, too," Adama said. "So what's your plan here?"
Tigh looked down at the man still in his grip.
"Don't really have one," he admitted.
Adama glanced first at his rifle, then back at the other men in the room. "Well, let's see," he mused. "I've kind of committed myself here, so—you pop that clown's neck, I have to shoot his buddy here and probably t
he bartender too . . ."
"Sweet Lords of Kobol," the bartender whined.
"Shut up," Adama snapped. He turned his attention back to Tigh. "After that, well—I don't know what we do. Personally, I tend to go with what you know until something better turns up."
Tigh eased up on the man's windpipe. "Safe play is to let them go, I imagine." Maybe, Tigh realized, he had let things get a bit out of hand.
"Probably," Adama agreed.
Tigh let his guy go. Adama uncocked the shotgun. He looked at the bartender.
"I'll keep the pepper gun for now."
Adama introduced himself then, another veteran kicked out of a military that no longer needed him, and told Saul he'd just signed on to the same crew that Tigh was shipping with.
Bill Adama and Saul Tigh clicked from that moment on. They traded war stories and watched each other's back on three different cruisers—each one a little better than the one before—over the course of a couple years they went from taking whatever loose cargo small shippers wanted to haul to working with one of the premier shippers in the Colonies. Bill was good at getting both of them to nicer berths, talking up their experience and pushing up their wages. Before Adama had shown up, Saul was sure that piloting those runs from cargo ship to backwater planet and back again was the most dead-end job anywhere. But as the ships, the cargoes, and the destinations improved, so did his view of the future.
Eventually, the two had gone their separate ways, with Adama wanting to stay closer to Caprica and his new family, but they had never lost touch. Tigh stood up for his friend when Adama got married, and had visited Bill on Caprica after the birth of each of Adama's two sons. But Adama had done more than find a life beyond the shipping lanes. Adama had gotten himself back into the service, with a captain's rank on a Battlestar. Without Bill talking up the team, Saul found the shipping jobs weren't quite so good. So his best friend kept moving up, while Tigh found himself shipping out on one lousy freighter after another.
Not that Tigh had expected to be in that situation for long. When Adama got himself back into the military, he promised to bring Tigh along. All of a sudden, Saul had had big hopes for his future. The Battlestar brass had turned him down three times for reenlistment, sure; but they had turned Adama down twice. Not enough positions open in a peacetime navy, was the official line, even for the most honored of veterans.
But then, despite every door that had been slammed before them, his best friend was back in uniform. Adama had stayed on top of the news, kept in touch with an old Battlestar crony or two, listened for the first mention of an expansion of the fleet, and—bang—had talked himself back into a job. With Bill Adama, Saul realized, anything was possible.
Anything but keeping close. Saul realized Bill was busy now, what with a full-time military career and a family back planetside. Tigh hadn't wanted to bother his old buddy unless he had to—reminding Bill of un-kept promises just wasn't his style. Tigh even stopped sending those short, joking missives they had usually used to keep in touch. The messages had stopped coming from Adama as well. He hadn't heard from his best friend in the better part of a year.
When the two of them had been close, it had given Tigh a reason to keep going, a reason to hope. But all these months of silence had led Saul back into his bad habits. He always drank, he guessed, but back with Bill he had kept his carousing to off-hours. Now he drank all the time.
It had cost him his job. As crappy as the last freighter had been, they couldn't harbor a drunk. They had canned him halfway through their run, and left him to rot on Gemeinon. Maybe even Adama couldn't talk his superiors into taking a middle-aged man—an old lush, really—like Tigh back in the service. Saul still thought Bill's offer had been a nice gesture, but it had been far too long since he had put on a uniform. Who would look at him now?
So he sat for a month in his rented single room, using up the last of his money, cut off from the stars. Without somebody like Adama around, Saul had been drifting, lost. He had thought about wiring his old mate one more time, to see if there was any hope. He had decided to spend the money on alcohol instead. Saul was already fresh out of hope.
He could only see one option—to end it all. He'd drink himself into a pleasant stupor. Liquid courage, that was what they called it. Then he would pour the rest of the bottle over his clothes and strike an open flame.
He had always wanted to go out in a blaze of glory. He was ready to burn.
And then the knock came on the door. When Tigh had been at the lowest of the low, he'd opened the damned door and seen—not Adama—but a couple of men in uniform, informing him that he was back in. Adama had been promoted. They needed someone to fill his old position. Saul Tigh had been William Adama's personal recommendation.
In two weeks, he'd be Captain Saul Tigh, serving on a Battlestar.
Now Saul was convinced Bill really could do anything.
He had been back in the service now for a little over two months. He had been surprised at how easily he had slipped back into the military routine, how natural the rhythms of a ship seemed, even though he had been away from them for close to twenty years.
Before that? Well, maybe that was better forgotten. For years he had tried to forget what had happened in the war. Why not forget his own little war with the bottle?
He was a captain now, assigned to train all the new pilots who shipped on board the last time they stopped on Caprica. Twenty-three pilots, nineteen of them green recruits—nineteen youngsters who would learn to eat, drink, and sleep with their Vipers before he was done.
They were a good bunch of kids. He just hoped they never had to be tested in battle.
The Cylons had almost broken humanity. Humanity would never allow anything like that to happen again.
Tigh sighed and hauled himself off his bunk. Enough of the introspection. The last time he had gotten this deep in thought, he'd ended up looking to light himself on fire.
He was on duty in twenty minutes. He'd stroll up to CIC, see if anything was happening, before he chewed out the troops. These days, he liked to get out and stretch his legs. Saul just wanted to walk down the corridors of the Battlestar—his Battlestar.
He looked up at the sound of Klaxons. A voice came over the shipboard wireless, instructing all senior staff to report to Combat Information Center at once.
That meant they'd found something—something serious.
Well, so much for the stroll. He shut the door behind him and quick-marched down the corridor.
It was time to do his job.
Today he had a purpose. Today somebody else could look over the edge.
* * * *
Colonel William Adama looked up from the star charts spread before him. A dozen others busied themselves in other parts of the CIC, the huge, central space that served as the beating heart of the Battlestar. He was surrounded by stations that handled navigation, communication, air filtration, artificial gravity, and every conceivable line of supply, both for ship functions and the needs of the crew—every piece of that complicated equation that kept a starship alive and running. Each of the many tasks was overseen by a member of the operations crew, working with their own individual computer designed to perform that specific assignment. Before the war, they had networked the computers together to run all the ship's functions. But the Cylons had learned to subvert those networks and turn them against their human crews, shutting down life support, exploding fuel tanks, even plunging whole spacecraft into the nearest stars.
The CIC was still filled with gray metal panels and a thousand blinking lights. But each panel had a living counterpart, men and women who specialized in each individual task and shared their knowledge with those around them. Rather than let the machines do their work, they were forced to network the old fashioned way, as human beings.
And all of those specialists reported to Bill Adama.
Adama looked quickly about the room before glancing back at his map. He allowed himself the slightest of smiles. Everyone around
him seemed engrossed in his or her different job, a dozen different pieces of the great human machine that ran this ship.
He was still trying on the fit of his new executive officer position. In the two months he had held this position, the Battlestar had certainly run well enough, even though, on some days, he didn't feel quite up to speed.
"Sir!" the dradis operator called. "We have a large ship, just within range, moving erratically!"
Adama turned to the comm operator who controlled the ship-to-ship wireless. "See if you can raise them."
"Aye, sir!"
Some days, the XO position came with a few surprises.
These last two months, Galactica had been exploring the edges of what they called "known space," hopping from one solar system to the next, looking for worlds, moons, even asteroids where humans had been before. Until now, they hadn't found much at all.
Before the Cylon rebellion, humanity had spread far and wide, each of the Colonies claiming their own little corner of space and defending those claims against all others. Some of those territorial disputes were what had brought on the inter-Colony wars of a century past—battles that had also led to the invention of the original war machines, the Cylons.
Back before the Cylon conflict, humanity had lived under an uneasy truce. Every Colony pushed at the limits imposed on them. Some built secret installations to give them an advantage over their Colonial foes. Some secrets were so deep, even the Colonies' own citizens knew nothing about them—hidden installations run by a few individuals in government or the military; it varied from world to world.
And then the Cylon War came to dwarf all their petty disputes—a war that almost killed them all.
"Any luck with that comm?" Adama asked.
"No sir. No response at all."
They hadn't found much of anything at all this far out—until now.
"Let's take the Galactica in a little closer. See if we can find out anything else about this ship."
Maybe they had really found something this time.
With the Cylon conflict fresh in their minds, the Twelve Colonies had been eager to cooperate, and the Battlestars had been able to repair much of the immediate damage from the war, cleaning up asteroid fields that had been littered with mines, reopening supply stations and mining operations, even relocating survivors. But years had gone by now since the Cylons had disappeared. A whole new generation was growing up—a generation which had never seen a Cylon.
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