Battlestar Galactica

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Battlestar Galactica Page 10

by Jeffrey A. Carver


  Helo looked up in the gloom. “So we’re coasting?”

  She answered anxiously. “Best way to avoid attracting attention. No power signature. Go in a straight line.” As she talked, Helo had his hands clamped to his thigh, gritting his teeth against the pain. “Unless somebody actually gets close enough to see us, we’ll look like a chunk of debris on the sensors.” She stopped her machine-gun-like delivery for a moment to assess the readings on her instruments. “I think we have enough inertia to make it to Caprica’s ionosphere. Then we power up, and find a place to land.”

  “Nice,” Helo panted. “Nice thinking there.”

  Sharon checked their course one more time, then unbuckled to float back to help Helo, grabbing the first-aid kit on her way. “Frak, Helo, you’re hurt bad,” she said, bracing herself against a panel so she could tend to his wound.

  For a second, he looked as if he was going to make light of it—but as soon as she touched his leg, he gasped in agony. A piece of shrapnel, probably molten metal from the hull, had gone straight through his thigh. It must have missed the arteries, though, because the bleeding was slowing down. She had to cut the leg of his spacesuit, praying the cabin pressure would hold. Then she was able to get closure-patches on the wound and start wrapping cloth tape around it. “Hold still,” she said, grabbing a hypodermic. Before he could say a word, she’d stuck him full of antibiotic and painkiller.

  He sat back, breathing hard, as she handed the tape to him. “I have to check our position,” she said. Then with as much of a smile as she could manage, she added, “Stick with me, partner. We’ve got to get through this together.” She caught his hand and held it tightly until he nodded. “Good.” Because Helo wasn’t just her partner, he was her best friend in the world—Tyrol excepted, of course. She’d be devastated if anything happened to him. “Good,” she repeated, then turned and floated back to her pilot’s seat.

  Caprica was drawing visibly closer, and she was starting to be able to pick out something of the situation there. The world was slowly being swallowed up by murky clouds, and here and there lighting up with flashes of light under the clouds. Lords of Kobol, what’s happening? she thought. And then she realized: All those flashes were nukes going off on the surface of Caprica. The planet was being destroyed.

  “Helo,” she said shakily. Don’t tell him how bad it is, not yet. “We’re getting close to the atmosphere. I’m going to set up for entry. I think—” She checked her instruments again before continuing. “I think we can make it close to Caprica City. The city itself may be under attack, so I’m going to aim for the area just to the south.”

  “Okay with me,” he said. “Just so you do the flying.” He barked a laugh to mask his pain.

  “I will,” Sharon said. I will.

  And with that, she powered up the systems and began steering the Raptor toward a smoking, high-speed entry into Caprica’s atmosphere.

  CHAPTER 19

  GALACTICA, COMBAT INFORMATION CENTER

  The assembled personnel in the CIC stood silent and grave as Commander Adama, bulky microphone in his hand, addressed the ship. Adama’s voice echoed through the corridors. “Preliminary reports indicate that a thermonuclear device in the fifty-megaton range was detonated over Caprica City thirty minutes ago.”

  Though Adama could not see it from where he stood, all through the ship, shock waves reverberated among the crewmembers who had not previously heard the news. The Viper mechanics one by one stopped their work, reactors half-installed, their hands and their bodies seemingly drained of life. Caprica City, nuked … Caprica City was the ship’s home port, and to many of the crew, it was the city they called home. Many of them had family, friends, and other loved ones in Caprica City and the surrounding region. Caprica City … It was too shocking to grasp, that this city, their home planet, was being destroyed by the Cylon attack.

  Adama continued, “Nuclear detonations are also being reported on the planets of Aerilon, Picon, Sagittaron, and Geminon. No report on casualties. But obviously, they will be high. Very high.”

  On the hangar deck, holding a piece of test equipment in her hands, test equipment that right now felt meaningless, Specialist Cally asked without looking at anyone, “How many people in Caprica City alone?”

  Kara Thrace answered, her voice barely audible, “Seven million.”

  Seven million. How many were already dead?

  Standing almost like a statue in the CIC, Adama continued, with barely suppressed emotion, “Mourn the dead later. Right now, the best thing we can do is get this ship into the fight.” He paused for a very long beat. “That is all.”

  And on every deck of the ship, crewmembers who had halted their work slowly came to, picked up their tools again, and continued their preparations to do exactly what their commander had asked.

  COLONIAL HEAVY 798, COCKPIT

  It seemed like a very long way, as Laura Roslin mounted the flight of steps—only about six steps in reality—that led to the cockpit door. She drew a breath and knocked. When the captain opened the door, she started; she was on edge, and she knew it wasn’t going to get better soon. “Excuse me,” she said to the captain, stepping past him into the cockpit. He was holding a printout in his hand, and his face was ashen. He backed away to let her into the cockpit.

  Once Captain Russo had closed the door again, she faced him. She thought she knew what was on that printout. “One of the passengers has a shortwave wireless,” she said softly. “They … heard a report that Caprica’s been nuked.”

  The captain’s face was immobile with shock; he seemed unable to answer.

  “It has, hasn’t it?” she asked, barely keeping her own expression together.

  The captain finally managed to reply. “Caprica and three other colonies.” He handed her the printout. His hand was shaking. Laura took the printout from him. With her other hand, she clasped his, and held it tightly. Stop shaking. We have to be strong. If we’re not, who will be? She looked at the printout, and saw that it was exactly as she had thought and feared. She wept inwardly, but pushed the feeling away.

  The captain turned from her, pulling his hand away. “I guess I, uh”—he rubbed his chin nervously—“should make an announcement or something.”

  You’re in no condition to be making an announcement , she thought. The last thing they need is to see their pilot shaking, the same way they are. “I’ll do it,” she said. “I’m a member of the political cabinet. It’s my responsibility.” She could see the relief on his face as he nodded. “While I’m doing that, I would ask that you”—she had to think a moment, about what she should or could do—“contact the Ministry of Civil Defense. See what we can do to help.” She made her voice sound deliberately upbeat on that last note. He accepted her offer with a desperate nod.

  After reading over the printout one more time, Laura returned to the cabin and stood at the front, where she could address the passengers. She motioned to Billy to stand with her. She drew a breath, let it out slowly, drew another. Then she began speaking to the passengers, in a quiet but steady voice. “The reports are confirmed. There has been a Cylon nuclear attack on at least four of our worlds—including the colonies Caprica … Picon … Aerilon … and Tauron.”

  The passengers were immediately up out of their seats, all talking at once—asking for more information, demanding to be taken home, or simply crying out in fear. Laura gestured with both hands for people to quiet down. “Please! Please stop. Please.” The cabin quieted, but only slightly. “I’m trying to reach the government now to get more information. In the meantime, we should all be prepared for an extended stay aboard this ship. So, uh”—she was thinking rapidly now, on her feet—“you, please, and you”—she turned, pointing to two of the flight attendants—“take an inventory of the emergency supplies and rations.” Both flight attendants nodded and began moving to their jobs.

  “Wait—wait a minute,” said one of the passengers. It was Aaron Doral, the public relations officer who had guided
her around the Galactica. He looked distrustful and belligerent; with his PR demeanor completely gone, he seemed a different person. “Who put you in charge?”

  Laura was momentarily caught off guard by the challenge. Around her, the faces of many of the other passengers were filled with sudden uncertainty as to her authority. She thought of how to answer, and decided to approach it—and Doral—head on. Just like a teacher being challenged by a student in a classroom. Walking toward him, she said, “Well, that’s a good question. The answer is, no one.”

  She pressed her lips together, holding the printout tightly in her hands. “But … this is a government ship, and I am the senior government official, so that puts me in charge, so”—she raised a hand to gesture to him—“why don’t you help me out, and go down into the cargo area, and see about setting it up as a living space?” Before he could answer, she turned away from his scowl and said to the others, “Everyone else, please—please—try and stay calm. Thank you.”

  With that, she took Billy by the arm and pulled him aside. She handed him another piece of paper that the captain had given her. “All right—this is the passenger manifest.” Billy took it from her, and he was nodding, but he looked very shaky. His hand, like the captain’s, was trembling. She paused in her train of thought and looked at him closely, meeting his gaze. “Are you all right?”

  Billy straightened a little, and suddenly seemed energized. Too energized. “Yeah. Yeah.” He swallowed. “My parents … moved to Picon two months ago … to be closer to my sisters, and their families, and their grandkids, and …”

  Laura sighed deeply, but refused to let the pain onto her face. She gazed at Billy, letting him see her sympathy, but not weakness. At that moment, the captain appeared at the head of the aisle. “Madame Secretary—we’ve got your comm link.” She nodded acknowledgment, but before turning away, put a steadying, motherly hand on Billy’s arm. She made sure he registered the gesture, then hurried away to the cockpit.

  Seated in the copilot’s seat with a headset on, Laura tried to decipher what she was hearing over the wireless. It was Jack Nordstrom, an advisor in the president’s office, with whom Laura had worked for years. It was clear from his voice that Jack was exhausted, distraught, and probably frantic with worry about everyone he cared about.

  “Thank God you’re not here, Laura … thank God. It’s complete chaos. Never seen anything like it.”

  “Jack! Where is the president?”

  “The dust in the air. People wandering the streets.”

  She spoke deliberately, insistently. “Where … is … the president, Jack? Is he alive?”

  “I don’t know. I think so. We hear all kinds of things.”

  Laura let her breath out in frustration. “Have the Cylons made any demands? Do we know what they want?”

  “No. No contact. I’m pretty sure about that.”

  Insane. It was just insane. She struggled to ask this next question. “Has anyone discussed”—she paused and shook her head, then pushed on—“has anyone discussed the possibility of surrender? Has it been considered?”

  Jack answered immediately. “After Picon was nuked, and three other planets, the president offered a complete, unconditional surrender. The Cylons didn’t even respond!”

  Before Laura could think of an answer to that, she turned her head at a flash of rocket thruster, and out the cockpit window beyond Captain Russo, saw the Viper blast away at a sharp angle. The captain was talking to someone on another frequency. “Colonial Heavy Seven-Niner-Eight … where?” His hands worked at the nav and dradis screens as he listened. He looked scared. “What should we do?” He found what he was looking for, and his finger tapped a fast-moving blip on the dradis screen. “Uh … copy that.”

  His gaze jerked to meet Laura’s. His hand went to the throttle. “The Cylons have found us. There’s an inbound missile.”

  Laura craned her neck this way and that, trying to spot the missile. “Where the hell’d our escort go?” Together with the captain, she looked everywhere. “Is that it? It’s moving too fast.” We don’t stand a chance …

  Lee had the throttle of the old Viper pegged to the limit. How the frak did they ever win the first war, flying these crates? He was flying purely by the seat of his pants, trying to get in front of the missile. The projectile was fast, and it was flying a swerving, evasive course. And that was just what Lee was doing with the Viper, too.

  The darkness of space might have seemed a good place to try playing chicken with a deadly missile. Except the missile wasn’t after him, it was after the transport ship carrying a hundred or more people. Lee maneuvered smartly, pushing the aging fighter to its limits. He drew close, then swerved sharply into its path, and flew ahead of it, rolling and pitching, and finally breaking away from the course that was rapidly taking them both back toward the passenger ship. The missile followed him, locked on his engine heat. Good. Good. Lee maneuvered hard left, hard right, trying to keep it distracted. It was closing on him. I think it’s good.

  Close enough, and far enough from the transport. Lee gripped the stick tightly, and with a quick application of thrust, chopped the throttle and flipped the Viper one hundred eighty degrees around. Now he was flying backward in front of the missile, gazing straight down the barrel of its nose. It was arcing toward him, fast. He sighted, waited just the right amount of time, then opened fire with both rocket-cannons. A hail of glowing projectiles flew out from his Viper. A heartbeat later, the missile exploded.

  He felt elation for one more heartbeat. And then the concussion from expanding gas and debris hit him. The Viper caught it squarely under the nose and flipped nose over tail, tumbling. The instruments flickered once, then went dark. Lee cursed, struggling to bring the Viper back under control. It was all he could do to get the tumble stopped, then slow his movement away from the transport. He was out of the fight. He had no more maneuvering capability.

  Frak!

  There did not seem to be any other Cylon missiles in the area, though, and he caught a glimpse of the transport, dwindling. It was safe, for the moment. He thumbed his mic. “Krypter, Krypter, Krypter! This is Apollo to Colonial Seven-Niner-Eight. I’m declaring an emergency. My systems are offline. I need assistance.”

  And then he could only wait

  CHAPTER 20

  SOUTH OF CAPRICA CITY

  Miraculously, part of the house was still standing. Even more miraculously, Gaius Baltar was still alive. Bruised, bleeding, he sat up coughing amidst the concrete debris and shattered glass. His ears were ringing, and his eyes were gritty with dust. They nuked my house. I just survived a nuke. It was unbelievable.

  It was far from over, though. He could hear the sounds of distant explosions, and twice as he looked around he winced at a sudden flash of light. None as close as the burst that had destroyed his home. Not that that one was really so close. It must have been thirty klicks away. He suddenly remembered, with a shudder, the video images of Caprica City being bombed. How many people had died in the last hour? How did I manage to survive? What did I do to deserve survival? Nothing …

  With that thought, he suddenly remembered Natasi, the way she had shoved him to the floor and thrown her body over his. He’d still been tossed across the room by the force of the blast. But without her actions, he wouldn’t have survived. “Natasi!” he shouted, in a panic. He scrambled up to look for her. “Natasi!”

  He did not have to look far. Her broken body lay where it had been thrown against the far wall. Her neck was twisted at an unnatural angle, her body was bleeding where she had been hit by flying debris. He approached her slowly, somberly. “Oh, Natasi,” he said, his voice breaking. He knelt beside her, and gently stroked her hair. “What did you do? You saved me. You saved my life. Why did you do that?” For a moment, his rage of just a short time ago was forgotten. He lowered his head and shook with grief and terror. What had happened to his life? Why had the world so suddenly gone insane? Was it really all his fault?

  Another n
uke flashed behind him, making him flinch. It felt a little closer, close enough to shake the ground. He had to get out of here. No more time to mourn what he had lost—the one he had lost. And come to think of it, now that he was starting to emerge from the mental haze that had fallen over him, she was not just the one he had lost, but the one who had brought this all upon them. He began to feel the rage close in again. The rage and shame. He pushed himself away from her body in disgust, heaved himself up one more time, and looked around wildly, trying to make a plan. Head for the hills, he thought. That meant going south, and east.

  Grabbing a jacket, he ran for the door—what was left of it. Halfway through the shattered opening, he suddenly turned back and rummaged through the debris in the remnant of his living room until he found what he was looking for: his leather briefcase, with summaries of all his recent work. All the classified information, the information he had given to Natasi. To the enemy. He didn’t know what difference it made, but he wasn’t going to leave it lying around the house, where anybody could find it. Where they could find it, and know what he had done.

  With that tucked under his arm, he ran to his car. He would drive until he could go no farther—which probably would not be very far. And then he would go on foot. And if necessary, he would crawl, to get away from this nightmare … .

  No one was going to criticize Sharon for her landing this time. It had been a bruising reentry, through Caprica’s upper atmosphere. They’d broken out of the clouds not more than a few thousand feet above ground level. She’d steered clear of the obvious nuke attacks, while getting them reasonably close to Caprica City, in case there was some good they could do there. (Clearly out of the question now.)

 

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