Battlestar Galactica

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  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.”

  “Very well,” Adama said, and looked back down at the printouts.

  Beside him, Tigh looked up, incredulous. “This is a joke! The fleet’s playing a joke on you. It’s a retirement prank!” When Adama didn’t respond, he pleaded, “Come on!”

  With the announcement phone in his hand, Adama finally looked at him. “I don’t think so.” Tigh looked bewildered. His jacket was open, and it was clear he’d been drinking.

  Adama raised the heavy microphone in his hand and keyed the attention-tone. He spoke clearly, but in a modulated voice as he addressed the entire ship. “This is the commander. Moments ago, this ship received word that a Cylon attack against our home worlds was underway.”

  He paused to let that sink in, then continued grimly, “We do not know the size or the disposition or the strength of the enemy forces. But all indications point to a massive assault against the Colonial defenses. Admiral Nagala has taken personal command of the fleet, aboard the battlestar Atlantia, following the complete destruction of Picon Fleet Headquarters in the first wave of the attacks. How—why—doesn’t really matter now. What does matter is that, as of this moment, we are at war.”

  Again he paused, and was well aware of the sober, frightened expressions on the faces of the crewmembers in the CIC, which he knew reflected reactions throughout the ship. He continued in measured tones. “You’ve trained for this. You’re ready for this. Stand to your duties. Trust your shipmates. And we’ll all get through this. Further updates as we get them.” He looked around the CIC, meeting the eyes of everyone nearby, wishing he could meet the eyes of every crewmember on the ship. They were all young, and with the exception of Tigh, none of them had ever been in combat before. “Thank you.” He released the PUSH-TO-TALK button and hung up the handset.

  Speaking to the crewmembers at nearby workst
ations, he began issuing orders. “Tactical—begin a plot of all military units in the solar system, friendly or otherwise.” As Gaeta acknowledged, Adama turned to Tigh. “XO!”

  “Sir.”

  Adama lowered his voice, as Tigh stepped to his side. “If we’re going to be in a shooting war, we need something to shoot with.” His gaze met Tigh’s.

  Looking stricken, as if he still couldn’t believe they were once again at war, Tigh said, “I’ll start checking the munitions depots.” He hurried away.

  Adama swung around again. “D.” Petty Officer Dualla was already looking at him. “Send a signal to our fighter squadron. I want positions and tactical status immediately.”

  “Yes sir,” said Dualla.

  “And get Kara Thrace out of the brig.”

  Following Commander Adama’s announcement, Chief Tyrol faced a circle of deckhands who all looked as if they’d been punched in the stomach. We are at war. The fear was etched in their faces; he felt it himself. Not a one of them had ever been in battle before, including Tyrol himself. No matter, he knew his responsibility: He had to be strong so that they could be strong. As he spoke, he turned in place to face the circle. “All right, people—this is what we do.” Keep turning. Meet their fears head-on. “We’re the best. So let’s get the old girl ready to roll—and kick some Cylon ass!” He smacked his hands together. “Come on! Let’s go! Move!”

  As the deck crew broke to their duties, preparing for the return of their squadron, Tyrol put his hands on his hips and muttered under his breath, “This had better be for real.”

  CHAPTER 16

  GALACTICA’S LAST ATTACK SQUADRON TWO HOURS FROM CAPRICA

  Sharon Valerii—Boomer—was in the right seat in the cockpit of the Raptor when the signal from Galactica came in. Helo, in the left seat, was spelling her at the controls. The Raptor, while somewhat slower and less maneuverable than the Vipers, was a more complex ship. It had room to carry a small complement of commandoes, and it was crammed with surveillance and intelligence-gathering equipment. The instrument panel in front of the pilot was easily twice the size of the panel in a Viper. In a space battle, the Raptor would be the one standing off at a distance, tracking the enemy and sending directions to the fast fighters. But in a landing operation, it could be in the vanguard, carrying soldiers to the front line.

  This was a low-key flight, ferrying the squadron of Vipers and the Raptor itself to their next assignment. For most in the squadron, it was a bittersweet departure. Sharon didn’t know anyone who didn’t have pangs about leaving Galactica and the command of William “Husker” Adama; but for most, there was also the challenge of the next assignment to look forward to. Many felt that they’d been in the public-relations business for too long. Galactica herself, as the oldest battlestar in the fleet, had been performing mostly ceremonial duties for years now. For Sharon, though, the departure was all bitter, no sweet. She’d barely had time for a proper good-bye with Galen Tyrol. She didn’t know when she’d see him again, or whether there was any possibility of maintaining their relationship.

  It was possible, she supposed, that it could be a blessing in disguise. Sooner or later, their affair on Galactica was bound to blow up in their faces, and at least now they would no longer be engaged in an illicit affair, Lieutenant Sharon Valerii with her subordinate officer, Chief Tyrol. And they wouldn’t be asking the whole deck crew to cover for them.

  Frakking small consolation.

  The wireless buzzed. It was Dualla, on Galactica. They’d spoken three or four times since the squadron had departed. This was no doubt just another cheek-in. “Raptor Three-One-Two,” Sharon answered. “What’s up, D.?”

  “Boomer, we’re recalling you! There’s been a massive Cylon attack throughout the system—all Colonies under attack, including Caprica! Repeat, we’re recalling your squadron. Please acknowledge.”

  Sharon exchanged horrified glances with Helo, in the left seat. She had to work very hard to keep her voice from quavering. “Galactica, Raptor Three-One-Two, roger. What are our instructions?”

  “Raptor Three-One-Two, report your current position and tactical status. Scan your area for Cylons and estimate your time back to Galactica.”

  Helo was already out of his seat, climbing back to the instrumentation section. “I’m on it, Boomer, just give me a minute. Better put your helmet on.”

  Sharon managed to secure her helmet on her neck collar, but she was otherwise nearly frozen with panic. She was not just a rookie, she was the youngest pilot in the whole Galactica detachment. And because her Raptor was the Command and Communication center for the squadron, she had taken the call, and she had to pass the news on to the rest. Swallowing, she called the CAG, Jackson Spencer, lead pilot for the squadron.

  “I heard it, Boomer. Send Galactica all the data you can, and plot us a course back. Squadron, prepare for immediate course change.”

  Searching for Cylons was one thing. But they were far enough from Galactica that it was going to be hard to return with the fuel they had. Reversing course in space was a very fuel-intensive thing to do. “Helo!” she yelled. “What have you got?”

  “Holy frak, Sharon—”

  Before Helo could continue, the CAG broke in again. “Disregard previous orders. Boomer, inform Galactica we’ve detected a formation of Cylon fighters directly ahead. And I intend to attack.” Pause. “Boomer, do you copy?”

  Sharon saw the Cylon formation on her own dradis screen. The ghostly contacts had appeared out of nowhere. “Copy that,” she managed to reply to the CAG. Holy frak, is right.

  Helo was leaning over her shoulder, apparently sensing her alarm. “Ease up there, Boomer,” he said calmly. “Take a deep breath.” She gulped and nodded, and slowly relaxed her white-knuckle grip on the control stick. He patted her on the shoulder, through her thick spacesuit, and headed back to his instruments as she made the call to Galactica.

  “Stand by,” she said to Dualla, after giving the preliminary information. “Helo?”

  Back at the instrument panel, Helo was scanning the area. “I show ten—no, no, make that five Cylon raiders on course three-two-four mark one-one-zero, speed seven-point-one. Time to intercept …” There was a long hesitation. “Seven minutes.”

  “You don’t sound too sure.” That was the CAG.

  Sharon could see most of what Helo was coming up with on her own dradis display, though she couldn’t enhance the image the way he could. She answered for him, “There’s a lot of jamming going on out there. The Cylons are using a lot of sensor decoys. We’re sorting through them, but—”

  “Understood,” said the CAG. “Just take your time. Guide us in. We’ll do the rest.”

  “Yes sir.” Just do it one step at a time, Sharon thought, swallowing bile. One step at a time … into your first taste of combat. Don’t be scared …

  GALACTICA, COMBAT INFORMATION CENTER

  In the CIC, Gaeta was using colored grease pencils to mark out the tactical situation on a large light table, using readings from their own dradis, as well as information received from Atlantia. A series of lines traced the positions and courses of a number of Colonial forces, relative to the closest worlds. “So that would put our squadron about here,” he said, marking a spot in blue between Galactica and Caprica. “Now, it looks like the main fight is shaping up over here, near Virgon’s orbit. Even at top speed, they’re still over an hour away.”

  Adama frowned over the display. “Plot a course along this axis”—he traced a finger over the table—“and keep Virgon between us and the battle. We might be able to get pretty close before the Cylons are even aware—”

  As Gaeta acknowledged, Adama looked up and saw Dualla returning to the CIC, with Kara Thrace right behind her. Tigh was following Kara’s appearance with a frown. She tossed him a mocking half-salute, then presented herself soberly to Adama. “Commander?” This time her salute was thoroughly professional. “Ready for duty, sir.”

  “Good.” His voice was terse and gri
m; he didn’t have time to think about the nonsense between her and Tigh.

  Kara waited a heartbeat for Adama to say something more, then blurted, “Where the hell did the Cylons come from?”

  Adama looked up. “All we know for sure is that they achieved complete surprise. We’ve taken heavy losses. We lost thirty battlestars in the opening attack.” He said it matter-of-factly, but just voicing the numbers made his heart heavy.

  Kara didn’t flinch, at least not outwardly. But her voice conveyed disbelief. “That’s a quarter of the fleet.”

  “I need pilots, and I need fighters.” He stared hard at the plotting table, trying to see a way out of the seemingly hopeless situation.

  “Pilots you got. I just passed twenty of them, climbing the walls down in the ready room. But fighters—” She shook her head. The last active wing had left yesterday for Caprica and Picon. There were just a few Vipers, undergoing maintenance, last she’d heard.

  Adama turned to meet her gaze squarely. “I seem to remember an entire squadron of fighters down in the starboard hangar deck yesterday.”

  For an instant, Kara’s face was filled with incredulity—a squadron of obsolete, worn out, deactivated Vipers?—and then the incredulity gave way to resolve, as she realized the same thing he had. Those retired Vipers were their only hope. “Yes sir,” she said, saluting smartly—and spun away and left the CIC at a dead run.

  The starboard hangar deck had truly been turned into a museum, and had the subdued lighting of a museum gallery, with soft-focus beams aimed at the Vipers on display. Kara had a momentary feeling of invading the peace of the place, as she, the other pilots, and the hangar crew dashed onto the floor and began pulling down the velvet-rope guardrails around the meticulously placed Vipers. Then someone turned on the bright overhead floodlights, and the feeling vanished. Suddenly they were liberating fighting ships, ships needed on the front lines. Museum signs and placards soon littered the floor, torn in haste from the craft.