He said, "Your record to date doesn't inspire great confidence, Baltar. You are, after all, a prisoner on a prison barge."
"Being captured was not my fault. I simply had incompetent followers."
Maga eyed him for a few silent seconds. "We do not intend to be your followers."
"Of course not," he said, head bobbing up and down in a reassuring way. "We are to be comrades, all equals in this."
"Good," Maga told him. "Then we can work with you. You had better be certain nothing goes wrong."
"Nothing will, I assure you."
Maga said, "When the time comes to escape, we will seem to die."
"Yes, I'm aware that you have the ability to feign—"
"We will talk of this again later." Maga returned to his stew.
In a shadowy corner of the vast Galactica Council chamber Starbuck leaned toward Apollo to remark, "I don't get these shenanigans at all."
"Hush up, good buddy," the captain advised, "and listen."
"I am listening, but it still doesn't make sense."
"I have a hunch it will shortly."
At the table, with nearly the full Council in attendance, Sire Domra was addressing Commander Adama in surprisingly cordial terms. ". . . The time is long overdue for us to honor you for your brilliant leadership in eluding the Cylons," he was saying. "You, more than any other individual, are responsible for our survival. And so the Council has decided to honor you with an award equal to your impressive achievement. An honor, I might add, that has not been bestowed on a living colonist in over a millennium." Beaming, he lifted an ornate medal from the top of the table. "Adama, we are proud to give you the Star of Kobol."
All the other Council members rose to their feet, applauding.
Over in the shadows Starbuck jumped up too, applauding vigorously. "About time these nitwits did something sensible," he said. Then he noticed that Apollo was sitting with arms folded. "Hey, what's going on? You don't seem too jolly about the honor they're heaping on your pop."
"Neither does he," said Apollo.
Adama had risen and was holding up his hand for silence. Slowly the applause died, the members sat again.
"I am, it goes without saying, deeply honored," the commander said. "I must, however, refuse."
Domra, his Council robes fluttering, got up. "Surely you can't mean—"
"Sire Domra, I mean what I say," went on Adama. "This is not the time for honors. Our quest is far from over; the danger is still great. I don't know if this Terra is the Earth we seek or not. I do know it is controlled by humans who are as ruthless and oppressive as the Cylons."
Midway along the left side of the table a handsome blonde woman of some forty years said, "I think the vision you offer, Adama, is the dark view of a warrior. It's understandable that you'd feel this way, yet yours is not necessarily the realistic view."
Adama told her, "Siress Tinia, those Eastern Alliance Enforcers are as hostile as any Cylons we have encountered."
"Perhaps," said the woman, "because they were greeted with laser pistols and not—"
"They greeted us with drawn weapons, damn it." Apollo was on his feet now, angry. "They'd already slaughtered—"
"Captain, you are not here to address this Council," warned Domra. "In fact, I have no idea why you and your military cohort are here at all."
"They are here at my orders to report in person on the Eastern Alliance," said Adama, "since the Council seems to have ignored their written report."
"We haven't ignored it, Adama," said Tinia. "We simply don't agree with it. It's a military evaluation, not a civilian one.
Clearing his throat, Domra said, "I might also mention, Commander, that I've met with Commandent Leiter and found him willing to negotiate a peace envoy to Luna Seven."
"Yes, I imagine he was more than willing," said Adama.
"We called this session to honor you," reminded Domra, settling uneasily back into his chair. "Not to argue with you."
"I don't treat you as a fool," Adama told him, "so don't treat me as one, Domra. You are here to retire me."
"That's far from the—"
"Just tell me what other motions were passed in my absence."
"Okay, Commander, you're being blunt, so will I," said Tinia. "We have voted an end to the emergency declared when the Cylons destroyed our colonies. From this centon forward, we are reverting to Council control of the fleet. Naturally, you'll retain your vote on the Council and command of the Galactica."
"I was wrong," muttered Starbuck in his corner. "They're bigger nitwits than ever."
"I had a feeling something like this was in the wind," said Apollo.
At the Council table Siress Tinia said, "From now on, Commander, a civilian member of the Council will assist you. To assure us that our edicts are implemented properly."
Adama asked, "And who is to be my . . . aide?"
She inclined her head toward him, smiling. "I have that honor," she replied.
Lieutenant Starbuck had an extra bounce to his walk, provided by the anger he was feeling. "You should've told them where they could stuff their medal, Commander."
Adama slowed and stopped in the corridor that led away from the Council chamber. "I know what you're feeling, Lieutenant," he said quietly. "But I won't allow that kind of talk in my command."
"But he's right," put in Apollo, anger showing in his voice. "Hobbling you with a civilian aide, that's crazy. Pretty soon they'll go even furth—"
"You two are among the finest warriors we have," cut in Commander Adama. "But you're forgetting your oath. We obey the civil government, no matter what."
Lieutenant Starbuck chomped on the end of his dead cigar for a few seconds. "Sorry, sir," he said finally. "But what do we do now?"
Adama started walking again. "What warriors have always done," he answered. "Our job."
CHAPTER THREE
Some of the prisoners shuffled and slouched as they returned to their cell block from the prison ship mess hall. Commandent Leiter and his men, however, moved in crisp military fashion with shoulders thrown back and heads held high.
Moving along in their wake, surrounded by Maga and his crew of outlaws, Baltar smiled faintly to himself.
From up ahead in the grey corridor a buzzer sounded. The security guard stationed midway up the corridor crossed to the wall communicator and activated the response switch. "Grid Deck Epsilon," he said.
"This is Control," said a voice out of the talkgrid. "The Alliance prisoners are to be moved to the holding grid for transfer. At once."
"Yes, sir." The guard signaled the security man who was herding the prisoners. "They want the Alliance prisoners up on the holding grid right away."
"Damn, they could've told us while we had 'em on Beta Deck," mumbled the man. "Okay. Leiter, you and your buddies hold it right here. The rest of you prisoners, move on into your cells."
Baltar slowed, glancing at Maga.
The shaggy man gave a furtive nod.
The man next to Maga gasped, clutched at his chest and stumbled. He made a growling, moaning noise, arms and legs jerking. Then he fell to the metallic floor and was still.
The guard who'd taken the message tugged out his lasergun. "Back off, the rest of you," he ordered the prisoners. "What the hell's the matter with him?"
"It's the chow," muttered someone down the line. "It'll kill anybody."
The other two guards got their weapons out. "Don't try anything, the rest of you guys," warned one.
Baltar was shaking his head from side to side, staring down at the fallen prisoner. "This man is seriously ill, sir," he told the approaching guard. "I'm afraid he may even be . . . dead."
"I don't need your medical opinions, Baltar. Stand aside."
"Suppose some plague is loose on this barge," said Baltar. "We may all die and I for one—"
"Shut up, back off." The guard jabbed at the air between him and Baltar with his pistol. Then he dropped to one knee beside the sprawled prisoner. "Hell, I can't find a
pulse on this guy."
"C'mon," said another of the guards, edging nearer. "There's no reason why—"
"Well, he isn't breathing and there's not a flicker of a pulse."
"It's a plague," said Baltar. "We'll all catch it."
"Plague," muttered someone down at the end of the row of prisoners.
The third guard said, "The rest of you get into Baltar's cell here. We better get in touch with the Med Techs and—"
"Another one!" cried Baltar as Maga himself collapsed to his knees.
Body jerking, the shaggy man tumbled over. He hit the corridor floor with a thump and ceased to breathe.
"Damn, what the devil's going on?" The kneeling guard reached out and felt Maga's wrist. "He's dead, too."
"Okay, okay," said the third guard. "Don't panic, Winship. We'll shoo these prisoners into a cell and then—"
"I'm not going into a cell with all of them," insisted Baltar. "There's a highly contagious disease loose on this damn ship and—"
"Keep quiet," suggested Winship, getting to his feet and pointing his gun at Baltar.
Before the other two guards could begin moving the prisoners clear of the fallen men, another man dropped to the floor.
Winship holstered his gun, spun on his heel and ran for the wall communicator. "I'll get the Meds down here. We're going to need breathing gear, heart stimulators, the whole damn works!"
The other two guards moved closer to the three bodies.
"What could have hit so many of them all at once?" said one of them.
The other was crouching, frowning over Maga's seeming corpse.
All at once Maga's powerful hand swung up, caught the guard's gun hand and wrenched his weapon away from him. "Strike!" he cried.
The other two dead men came back to life and tackled the second guard.
The guard at the communicator reached for his holstered pistol, but before he could tug it out, two prisoners caught him. One kicked him hard in the midsection, sending him against the wall and producing a hollow thunk.
Maga efficiently broke the neck of the guard with whom he'd been struggling. Nodding, he arose with the dead man's gun in his hand.
Baltar glanced around the saw that the other two guards were also dead. "Lord, that was fast," he said.
"Not as fast as it should've been," said Maga in his growling voice. "Captivity has slowed us down."
Colonel Tigh was uneasy. He kept glancing around the bridge of the Galactica, eyes moving from Adama in his command chair to Siress Tinia, who hovered behind the chair, and then away again. "Stupid notion," he said under his breath. "Sticking him with a Council nursemaid who simply—"
"Beg pardon, sir?" inquired a female junior officer who was standing nearby. "Were you addressing me?"
"Hm? Oh, no. I was just . . . praying."
"Seems like a good time for it." Smiling faintly, she moved over to a readout panel.
Tinia rested one hand on the back of Commander Adama's chair. "I really think we'll be able to—"
"Commander," barked the communicator in front of Adama. "The Council is requesting a shuttle to transfer prisoners from the prison barge to the Galactica."
"Granted," said Adama. He swiveled around in his chair and beckoned to the black colonel. "Colonel Tigh, select four warriors to act as escort."
"Yes, sir," said Tigh, brightening some.
"Just a micron, Colonel, if you would," said Tinia.
Tigh, frowning deeply, came over to them. "I have to get—"
"I don't see any need for a warrior escort," the handsome siress said. "I'd like you to reconsider that order, Adama."
"You don't see the need?" Tigh took a step back. "You want us to bring dangerous prisoners here without so much as—"
"Easy, Tigh," cautioned Adama as he rose out of his chair. "Siress, I can't allow a shuttle to carry prisoners without taking precautions."
"I realize that," she said, "but Council security will be quite sufficient."
"Council security?" Colonel Tigh shook his head. "They couldn't keep a lapdog from escaping off a zoo ship, let alone—"
"Colonel," said Adama, "you're going to give Siress Tinia the impression we're not in a cooperative mood." He smiled briefly. "Very well, Council security will do. Assign Lieutenants Boomer and Sheba as shuttle pilots, Colonel."
After a few seconds Tigh replied, "Very well. Whatever you say, Commander." He turned on his heels and walked off.
"I think you'll realize," said Tinia, "that you've made the wisest decision, Commander."
"We'll see," he answered.
CHAPTER FOUR
Baltar tucked the lasergun into the holster of the gunbelt he'd just strapped on. "Trust me, my friend," he said to Commandent Leiter.
They were in a storeroom of the prison ship. Confiscated weapons were kept here and these weapons were now being reclaimed by Maga and his men and by Leiter's warriors.
The commandent, a slim pistol resting on his palm, stood facing Baltar. "I don't like what I've heard thus far," he told him. "But proceed."
"First we destroy the communications center of this scow," Baltar said, his hand rubbing at the new holster. "Then we take over the landing bay. The shuttle will be arriving at any moment."
"And then?" inquired Leiter.
"Then we make a little trip to the Galactica."
Leiter shook his head. "No, that's foolhardy," he said. "We should head for Luna Seven from here."
"We will, my friend," Baltar assured him. "After we settle some debts."
"You have a personal vendetta with those aboard the Galactica," said the commandent, dropping the gun into its holster. "But my men and I do not and I don't intend to risk our lives for a cause that has not a thing to do with us. We must return to our homeland."
"I have a more practical reason for what I mean to do," said Baltar, heavy eyebrows almost coming together. "We don't stand a chance of getting beyond the edge of the fleet without being challenged. And the shuttle will not be a match for viper ships."
"I'm not certain I agree with—"
"We have to disable the Galactica," said Baltar. "Or at the very least take enough hostages to assure we won't be interfered with."
"I still feel—"
"Maga, you can see the wisdom of what I'm saying, can't you?" Baltar appealed to the shaggy man.
Lumbering closer to them, Maga said, "We'll follow your plan, Baltar," he said. "For now."
Lieutenant Boomer was whistling with his tongue pressed against his teeth. "Wonder how come I get all the picnic assignments these days."
Shaking her head, Lieutenant Sheba said, "It must have something to do with your winning personality."
"You think you're kidding, but I am charming," the black lieutenant assured her as he scanned the controls of the shuttle they were piloting between the battlestar and the prison ship. "I been taking lessons from Starbuck."
Sheba laughed. "You have to have a cigar before you can be as charming as he is."
"I tried that, but the smoke—"
"Ahum," said one of the two Council security guards. He and his slightly pudgy partner were sitting in the shuttle passenger seats behind Boomer and Sheba. "I think I better mention that you two are to stay here in the cockpit when we dock."
"Says who?" inquired Lieutenant Boomer.
"Look, Lieutenant Boomer, it's a Council order."
Boomer frowned. "I was planning on stretching when we got there. And maybe scratching my backside. Do you think that's okay, or shall I contact the Council and get permiss—"
"We know how you feel," said the guard. "But the Council just doesn't want to have any more trouble."
"We didn't have any trouble until the Council started sticking its nose into this," said Boomer.
The slightly pudgy guard said, "You know very well that the last time any of you warriors confronted these Alliance people there was a fracas."
"That fracas," said Sheba, glancing back over her shoulder at the guard, "may have saved yo
ur butt."
"That isn't the Council view," said the guard, shifting in his chair.
The other guard cleared his throat again. "Shouldn't you be contacting Approach Control about now, Boomer?"
Snorting, Boomer took his hands completely off the controls. "Who's flying this thing? Me or you guys?"
"Hey!" said the guard as the shuttle began wobbling and then banked steeply to the left.
Boomer crossed his arms.
The shuttle swooped off course, wiggling and shimmying.
"C'mon, Boomer," said the pudgy guard, clutching his seat with one hand and his safety gear with the other. "Quit fooling around."
"We're only doing our job," said the other guard.
"Yeah, that's what they all say," said the black lieutenant. He waited a few seconds longer and then resumed control of the ship.
It leveled out, jerked and got back on course.
"You ought not," suggested the pudgy guard, wiping his perspiring forehead, "to get personally involved in these things, Boomer. I mean, we all have different tasks to perform and sometimes there's going to be a conflict. That—"
"Yeah, yeah," said Lieutenant Boomer, cutting him off.
Smiling, Sheba flipped the talk toggle on the dash. "Prison Barge Approach Control," she said. "Calling Prison Barge Approach Control. Galactica Shuttle here, requesting landing instructions."
After a few seconds a voice came out of the speaker. "Galactica Shuttle. You are clear to land in Alpha Bay."
"Understood," answered Sheba. "Alpha Bay it is."
Boomer glanced at the dash. "You must really excite that guy, Sheba," he said. "His voice sounds all nervous and excited."
"That's probably because he knows you're at the controls," she said. "They've been watching your approach on their scanners and that'd scare anybody."
"Maybe," said Boomer.
Battlestar Galactica 9 - Experiment In Terra Page 2