Adama gazed at him, feeling emotions he had practically forgotten. How long had it been since he had looked his son straight in the eye? So many thoughts in his mind, and too much weariness to sort it all out. He finally just nodded. “Let’s save this for another time, son. I think we’ve pulled off enough miracles today, don’t you?”
Lee took a moment to react to that, and returned the nod. “Maybe so. Good night, Commander.”
“Good night, Captain.”
As Lee turned away, Adama closed the door and breathed a sigh of relief and satisfaction. He was finally ready to think about sleep. He didn’t think he had ever felt so ready.
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.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book took my life by storm, in a way. I had seen the SciFi Channel’s Battlestar Galactica miniseries and enjoyed it very much. But it wasn’t until the chance to write a novel based on the show came along that I became immersed in the Galactica world. The opportunity arrived just as I had completed the first draft of a long-delayed novel in my Chaos series, and it seemed the perfect way to ventilate the mind and experience a complete change of pace for a little while. Thanks go to Jim Frenkel, my editor, for introducing me to the whirlwind—and to my family for welcoming the whirlwind into the house and supporting my crazy work schedule while I tamed it. (And a special familial thanks to Julia, who helped me brainstorm it.)
This novel is my interpretation of a story created by others. It’s a good story, and one I enjoyed working with. For that, I thank the creators of the show, Ron Moore and David Eick, and the marvelous actors and crew who so vividly brought the story to life on the screen. I’d also like to thank Cindy Chang at Universal for being so ready to find answers to the smallest questions.
A novel is a different beast from a movie, and there are special challenges in telling a story that’s satisfying to readers while remaining faithful to the original show. For help with that, I thank Craig Gardner, Richard Bowker, Victoria Bolles, and Mary Aldridge for their willingness to read many pages fast, and for their helpful and insightful comments.
Finally, I’d like to thank you, my readers, for your patience and interest—especially those of you who have been waiting so long for another book from me. Here’s one I hope you’ll enjoy!
BATTLESTAR GALACTICA NOVELS FROM TOR BOOKS
Battlestar Galactica by Jeffrey A. Carver based on the teleplay written by Ronald D. Moore and Christopher Eric James based on a teleplay by Glen A. Larson
The Cylons’ Secret by Craig Shaw Gardner based on the TV series created by Ronald D. Moore based on a teleplay by Glen A. Larson
OTHER TOR BOOKS BY JEFFREY A. CARVER
The Infinity Link
The Rapture Effect
THE STAR RIGGER UNIVERSE
Star Rigger’s Way
Panglor
Dragons in the Stars
Dragon Rigger
Eternity’s End
THE CHAOS CHRONICLES
Neptune Crossing: Volume One
Strange Attractors: Volume Two
The Infinite Sea: Volume Three
“He’s got nukes!”
Three missiles streaked away from the Cylon. Starbuck reacted in a fury, opening fire from her Viper, following the arcs of the missiles with a continuous stream of tiny rockets. One missile exploded. She swerved ever so slightly. A second missile exploded.
The third was too far away, moving at high speed toward the battlestar. “Galactica!” Starbuck called desperately. “You’ve got an inbound nuke! All Vipers, break break break!”
There was nothing the fighters could do for Galactica now except try not to get caught in the explosion …
“Right bow, left stem—emergency full power! Main thrust emergency full!” As Commander Adama snapped the commands, he knew the maneuvers weren’t enough. They were going to take a nuclear blast in the flank. Very softly he said to his old crewmate Tigh, “Brace for impact, my friend.”
“I haven’t heard that in a while.” Tigh replied grimly.
“Collision alarm!” Adama shouted. Klaxons started sounding throughout the ship. All any of them could do was brace, and pray.
The missile struck the ship on the port side, and it’s nuclear warhead lit up the sky …
“It’s all been said before, but I’ll say it again: Battlestar Galactica is much, much better than you can possibly imagine. The battle scenes are claustrophobic and paranoia-inducing; the power struggles are complicated and nuanced like the ones you find on The Sopranos; the stakes are always high, and there’s an incredible amount of action in each episode.”
—Salon.com (on the television series)
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 hammerlock.
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 the 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 unkept 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.
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