Battlestar Galactica

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  Elosha echoed his words, and his tone.

  Satisfied at last, Adama stepped once more out of line and turned to face the assembly. “Dismissed!”

  An enthusiastic cheer went up, as the tension was finally released. Many of the crew hugged one another, or shook hands, or simply shook with relief. Some, a few, stood thoughtful and uncertain, wondering just what this new revelation meant.

  One of those wondering thoughtfully was President Laura Roslin. Her smile was tentative and brief. But whatever it was that troubled her, she said nothing about it then; let the moment be what it was, her eyes seemed to say.

  CHAPTER 49

  PILOTS’ QUARTERS, DECK E

  Kara Thrace wrenched off her boots with the jerky strength that comes from deep weariness. She sat motionless on the edge of her bunk for a little while, silently reliving the events of the last day or two. It seemed impossible to believe that they had gotten through it all, and the worst was over. At least she thought it was—for now.

  With a long, luxurious sigh, she stretched out full-length on her bunk to rest. She was wound so tightly, she couldn’t relax, though. She reached over her head to grip the headpiece of the bunk, and she pulled, trying to stretch her body. She wished she were a cat; then she could stretch properly. She was exhausted, physically and emotionally. The battle, the crazy rescue of Lee, the aftermath. Following their hair-raising landing, she and Lee had climbed out of their broken Vipers, and then simply clung to each other—she in relief and he in gratitude.

  After a minute or so, the discipline had kicked in—and they’d gone all awkward again, not daring to do something as radical as hug each other. But she knew one thing: Commander Adama had risked the ship, holding it for the two of them, and she knew that Lee knew that, too. Maybe things were finally on the mend between the two of them, Lee and his father. That alone would be cause for celebration.

  “You look comfortable,” one of her roommates said teasingly, on her way to answer a knock on the door.

  “Yeah, if no one bothers me, I may sleep for a week,” Kara answered, shutting her eyes.

  There was a brief silence, then, “Kara—Colonel Tigh to see you.”

  Bloody hell. She pushed herself up out of bed and into a posture vaguely resembling attention. She made no effort to remove the scowl from her face, though.

  Colonel Tigh entered the little cabin area. “As you were.”

  “I’m just trying to avoid another trip to the brig, sir,” she said tiredly, tilting her head in question. What the hell are you doing here?

  Tigh let out a breath. He seemed very uncomfortable. “Lieutenant Thrace,” he began. His gruff expression softened a little. “Kara. What you did out there today with Lee Adama … it was, uh … a hell of a piece of flying.”

  Did he come here to compliment me? What’s wrong?

  Tigh nodded, and there seemed to be a slight tic in his cheek as he struggled to make nice with Kara. Well, too frakking bad. Kara didn’t feel like making nice with him.

  In his trademarked growl, Tigh continued, “The commander has always said that you were the best pilot he’s ever seen, and … well, today you proved it.” He just looked at her for a moment, and she looked back at him. She didn’t give him an inch.

  “Now … about the other day … during the game …” He was struggling now. He looked as if he were about to pop a blood vessel in his head, trying to force the words out. “Well, maybe I was out of line, too. And I just …” He tried to force a smile. The tic in his cheek was getting worse. “I just wanted to say, um … I’m sorry.”

  Kara allowed a slight, sarcastic smile onto her face.

  “Well, don’t you have anything to say?”

  She felt an urge that she knew she should resist. She couldn’t, though. “Permission to speak off the record, sir?”

  “Granted.” He shrugged.

  She allowed a long moment to pass. Then: “You’re a bastard.”

  He began trembling, and shaking his head. “You just don’t know when to keep your mouth shut, do you? I’m offering you a clean slate here.”

  “I’m not interested in a clean slate with you,” she said, with a silky smooth edge to her voice. She was starting to feel cocky, and she let it show. “You’re dangerous. You know why?”

  His expression darkened. “This’ll be good.”

  She laughed softly. “Because you’re weak. Because you’re a drunk.”

  “You done?” His eyes were filled with anger again.

  She thought a moment, angling her eyes momentarily upward in contemplation. She cocked her head. “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re returned to flight status,” Tigh growled. Turning to walk away, he added, “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

  Kara watched him leave, torn between wanting to laugh and wondering why the hell it was she couldn’t keep her mouth shut around that man.

  COMMANDER ADAMA’S QUARTERS

  Laura Roslin knocked on the metal hatch door to the Commander’s quarters. “Come in!” she heard from the far side of the wall. She pushed the hatch open, stepped through, and secured the hatch again from the inside. She wondered how long it would take to get used to the awkward system of doors on this ship.

  Walking slowly into the room, she glanced curiously around Adama’s living space. It was very neat, with mementoes of service attached to the walls, and a surprising number of books. Old books. She didn’t know why that surprised her. She hadn’t pegged him as the reading type. And yet, why not?

  Commander Adama was dressed more casually than she had ever seen him; his formal service coat was unbuttoned, and he was wearing it more like a robe. He was kneeling on the floor at a wide coffee table, eating dinner from a bowl. Noodles and salad. He looked up at her thoughtfully as he sorted stacks of paper on the table. God, didn’t the man ever rest? “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” she said.

  “Not at all. Have a seat.”

  She sat, a little stiffly, on a bench sofa beside the table. She was aware that she was wearing the same maroon business suit she’d had on since before the start of the war. I wonder if there’s a laundry on this ship somewhere. She shook her head and brought her thoughts back to her reason for coming. “First thing, I suppose I should thank you for deciding to bring us—”

  “Listen, you were right,” he said, interrupting her. “I was wrong. Let’s just leave it at that.” He put down the papers in his hand.

  Startled, she nodded slowly. “All right.”

  He turned away for a moment to lift some books off the floor.

  She suddenly voiced the thought that had been on her mind for hours. “There’s no Earth,” she said, a faint smile on her face. “You made it all up.”

  Adama didn’t say anything. He took off his glasses and turned to face her again, wearily.

  “President Adar and I once talked about the legends surrounding Earth. He knew nothing about a secret location regarding Earth. And if the president knew nothing about it, what are the chances that you do?” She said it, not accusingly, but matter-of-factly.

  He straightened a little, his expression as impenetrable as ever. “You’re right,” he admitted finally. “There’s no Earth. It’s all a legend.” He put his glasses back on and turned to his stack of books once more.

  “Then why—?”

  “Because …” Adama suddenly looked to her like everybody’s favorite grandfather or uncle, passing a nugget of wisdom on to the next generation. “It’s not enough to just live. You have to have something to live for. Let it be Earth.”

  Laura felt a grin she could barely subdue sneak onto her face. She stood up and walked around, many emotions warring for control of her expression. She didn’t know precisely what she felt just now, but she certainly had to admire his guts. “How long can you keep it up as a pretense?”

  “As long as it takes. Until we find a planet that can sustain us, and start life over.”

  She nodded and smiled tightly. “They’ll never forgive y
ou for lying to them.”

  “Maybe.” He looked up at her. “But in the meantime, I’ve given all of us a fighting chance to survive. And isn’t that what you said was the most important thing? Survival of the human race?”

  Did I say that? Maybe I did. “Who else knows?” she asked, arms crossed.

  “Not a soul.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “All right. I’ll keep your secret. But I want something in return.”

  Leaning one elbow on a pile of books, he said, “I’m listening.”

  “If this civilization is going to function, it’s going to need schools, hospitals—however limited. Manufacturing and repair. Agriculture and mining. Service industries. Police. An economy. It’s going to need a government.” Her voice was soft, but her tone was adamant. “A civilian government run by the President of the Colonies.”

  Adama stood up slowly and began buttoning his coat. He looked down at the books, then slowly raised his eyes to her. “Run by the president, huh? So you’d be in charge of the fleet’s civilian concerns. Military decisions would stay with me. Is that what you’re saying?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  Finished neatening up his jacket, he took off his glasses. “Then … I’ll think about it … Madame President.” And he extended his hand to her, and after a moment, she extended hers in return.

  DECK C STARBOARD CORRIDOR

  Gaius Baltar strode along, not really sure where he was going. He was still waiting for his heart to slow down. He still couldn’t believe that the fleet had escaped the Cylon attack. Whatever happened now, it would have to be better than what almost happened, back there at Ragnar.

  Of course, they would still be expecting him to come up with a Cylon detector, which was not an easy problem, not an easy problem at all …

  Rounding a comer, he found Six waiting for him. His heart sank. She was, of course, dressed in the red outfit that was clearly calculated to drive him mad with desire. Not this time, though. He was too tired physically, and too tired of her games.

  She greeted him with a smile that seemed more sardonic than usual. “Your escape is a temporary one at best,” she said, in a tone that now seemed insufferable. “We will find you.”

  “Yeah, you can try.” He pushed past her. “It’s a big universe.”

  She followed him. “You haven’t addressed the real problem, of course.”

  “Yes, yes,” he answered with an impatient glance back. “There may be Cylon agents living among us, waiting to strike at any moment.” He kept up his pace.

  “Some may not even know they’re Cylons at all,” she said. “They could be sleeper agents programmed to perfectly impersonate human beings until activation.”

  He wheeled to face her. “If there are Cylons aboard this ship, we’ll find them.” He nodded and turned to continue on his way.

  “We?” She came around in front of him, causing him to stop. “You talk like you’re one of them, now. You must know that you can never be one of them—not really. Not anymore.” She reached out, as though to touch him, but didn’t quite. “My sweet Gaius, you have no idea how important you are … how important your mission is.” She lowered her head slightly, and her voice became a little sterner. “You’re not on their side, Gaius.”

  He tensed at those words, and as she moved as though to embrace him, or maybe even kiss him, he answered through clenched jaw, “I am not … on anybody’s side.”

  That seemed to take her by surprise, even to hurt her. He walked past her again. But this time she made no attempt to answer, or to follow, as he continued on his way.

  CHAPTER 50

  GALACTICA, AT THE END OF THE DAY

  Colonel Tigh strode into his private quarters, grim determination on his face, determination fueled by rage. Indignation. Shame.

  He loosened his jacket, taking the familiar steps over to the top right drawer of his desk. As he had done so often in the past, virtually every day of his life for years, he lifted out the bottle of whiskey and raised it to the light. It was a fairly new bottle, three-quarters full. If he were going to follow the usual pattern, he would take out a glass and pour. And the fire as it went down would dull, somewhat, the pain of all the years, and the pain of his absent wife, now almost certainly dead.

  This time, to his own surprise, he did something different. He carried it over to the wastebasket, half full of crumpled papers—and he dropped it in. It hit the bottom of the basket with a clunk. He walked away from it, scowling. But he felt a little happier, a little prouder.

  Boxey Wakefield still felt uncertain, finding his way around the area of the enlisted quarters. He really didn’t know where to go, or what to do with himself. But there was one room he knew how to find, and that was the pilots’ lounge. He hesitated outside in the corridor for a minute, peering in through the open hatch. He could see Sharon in there—Boomer, they called her.

  She glanced over and caught his eye with a wisp of a smile. She was playing cards with some of the other pilots. With a motion of her head, she invited him in. He entered, feeling his heart pound, his shyness suddenly overwhelming. These looked like serious people, these pilots—and they were all looking at him with what seemed like amusement. Never mind that, Sharon’s expression seemed to say. She gestured to him to come around and take a seat beside her.

  Sharon put a hand on his shoulder, and passed him a plate of cookies. Or rather a plate that had had cookies, and now had just one. He reached out for that last cookie and took a bite.

  Sharon grinned at him, and he grinned back. Suddenly, for a moment anyway, he didn’t mind being just a kid here.

  Kara Thrace was finally unwinding, hanging her uniform shirt in her tiny closet. As she did so, she noticed once more the photo of Zak and her, with Lee folded behind, tucked into the mirror frame. When she’d thought Lee was dead, she’d flattened the picture so that she could mourn the two brothers together. When he’d come back to life and become her senior officer, she’d felt funny about it and had refolded the picture. Now, she flattened the photo once more and replaced it in the mirror frame, smoothing the crease with her finger. That felt right now, and she didn’t think she’d be changing it again.

  She reached up onto the shelf and felt around until she found one of her few remaining cigars. Lighting it, she flicked her lighter shut and puffed a few times in satisfaction, gazing at the photo. Then she walked over to her bunk and stretched out, puffing, contemplating the day.

  Not a good day, certainly. But she, and many of the people she loved, had come through it alive. There was that to be said for it.

  And there was Earth, somewhere in their future, and so there was that, too.

  For a long time she lay there puffing, surrounded by a thick cloud of pungent blue smoke.

  Throughout the ship, life was returning to … not normal, because normal could never again describe the lives of these people of Galactica … but something that felt more like life, something sustainable.

  Repair work proceeded everywhere throughout the ship. In the landing bay, Captain Kelly was overseeing the removal of Vipers from the landing area, in some cases untangling craft from each other before they could be moved to the elevator pads and lowered to the hangar deck for servicing. The landing pod itself needed substantial repairs—not just from the Ragnar battle, but from the nuke that nearly took the ship out in the first engagement.

  Below decks, Chief Tyrol was hard at work pulling together a flyable squadron of Vipers. They’d lost eight fighters at Ragnar, and another fourteen were seriously bent, bashed, or busted up. The CAG’s Viper, Apollo’s, was the worst trashed of any that had come back; but Tyrol was damned if he was going to let the CAG lose his ship. His crew was working industriously—some, like Cally, working extra hard to fill a space in themselves that would otherwise be devastating.

  In the Combat Information Center, Lieutenant Gaeta was gearing up to juggle just about everything: repairs to the battle-shattered CIC, formation operations with the fleet, cons
tant vigilance for Cylons, and plans for the next Jump. He was tired, but he figured he could manage a little longer on caffeine; let the ones who had been on the first line of the fight get their rest first.

  Dualla, on the other hand, knew she needed a break, and she wisely took it. Let the superheroes be the superheroes. She walked the corridors of the ship, just glad to be alive. Still, she was definitely surprised to find Billy in the passageway, surrounded by eager female crewmembers, a big grin on his face. D. didn’t stop to say anything; she just walked by with a beaming smile. And her smile grew broader when Billy saw her, and came running after her, calling her name.

  Colonel Tigh sat in his quarters, studying the three-quarters full bottle of whiskey that he had retrieved from the trash can. He hadn’t drunk any. But it was a damn good bourbon, and who knew when he would have a chance to acquire more. It seemed a sin to waste it. To waste his fine whiskey—his poison, the thing that would destroy him if he didn’t destroy it. He stared at it, his hands clasped over his belt, his thumbs twitching nervously. He had done pretty well this last day without it; the XO had returned. But would he stay?

  Didn’t he, after all, deserve a little reward?

  Commander Adama and Lee walked together toward Adama’s quarters. They were both bone-tired, but this was a good end to the day, to talk with his son whom he thought he had lost—twice in the space of twenty-four hours. It was good to talk, even if the talk was entirely about the work, the ship, the command. As Adama opened the hatch to his quarters, Lee concluded his report:

  “Tomorrow I’ll begin a formal combat patrol around the fleet.”

  “Good,” Adama said, turning to say good night. “I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

  Lee hesitated. He clearly wanted to say more, but it just as clearly was very difficult for him. “I—listen, it’s just I—it’s been so long—”