by Peter David
“Not that exciting, no sir,” Gaeta said, and there was a slight gasp in his voice indicating he’d been holding his breath . . . a tendency Adama could certainly relate to.
“Well . . . if they say any landing you can walk away from is a good one, the same can be said of a light-speed Jump. Well done, Mr. Gaeta.”
“Thank you sir,” sighed Gaeta, and there was ragged clapping and cheers from the others in the CIC.
But it was quickly silenced by a look from Adama. “Now that we narrowly survived, we need to give top priority to figuring out how the Cylons knew where we were going to be leaping to. If we have a bug or virus in our computer . . . if we have a security leak . . . we need to find it and plug it.”
“Aye, sir, I’m on it,” Gaeta said firmly.
Adama nodded and turned away, mostly so that no one else would see the visible relief flooding through him. Tigh stepped in close to him and said, “Good instincts on your decision, Admiral. About suspecting it might be a trap.”
“It doesn’t make sense, though,” said Adama. “Even if they were trying to get us to leap into an ambush . . . why shoot wide of our people? All it did was raise our suspicions. They could just have easily engaged us for real, we activate the FTL engines with the coordinates they already know, and bam, we’re in their trap. Why alert us to the possibility . . . ?”
“Perhaps the Cylons aren’t as clever as we give them credit for,” suggested Tigh.
Adama glanced sidelong at him. “If I’m given a choice between overestimating an enemy or underestimating . . . I’ll go with the former.”
“Me, I’m just glad the Pegasus was only a near miss instead of a disaster.”
Smiling ever so slightly in amusement, Adama noted, “People always say that. A ‘near miss.’ It wasn’t a near miss. It was a complete miss. It was a near hit.”
“As long as we didn’t take it up the aft, I’m satisfied with whatever it was.”
Adama nodded wearily at that.
Tigh turned away, intending to go and hover nearby Gaeta as he began running checks on his navigation system. But he paused long enough to say, “It never gets easier, does it.”
Staring at him blandly, Adama let the statement hang there for what seemed like forever, and then said, “I hadn’t noticed.”
On Colonial One, Laura Roslin was receiving an update from Adama over the phone of what had transpired. Her blood chilled as he described to her the horrific ambush that would have been awaiting them if they had been foolish enough to go leaping through space to the planned coordinates.
“Well done, Admiral,” Roslin commended him. “In this day and age, when it’s so easy to second-guess every decision people make about everything, it’s nice to know that this decision of yours was completely valid. No ‘down side,’ as it were.”
“As it were,” agreed Adama. He was willing to admit to himself that there had been a time when he literally couldn’t stand the sound of Roslin’s voice. He had been certain she was using the cloak of government to thrust humans into situations where their very existence was jeopardized. But over the past weeks, be it because of receiving deft and canny political advice from Roslin, or because of working with Baltar and that damned Cylon Sharon of all people (he’d been convinced he’d had a knife in his stomach the entire time he was speaking with her, due to the extreme belly aches he’d been enduring), he’d come to respect Laura Roslin greatly. Perhaps even . . . feel more than just respect. Not that this was something he intended to bring up to her, or even completely acknowledge himself. They both simply had too many responsibilities to risk entanglements of any sort. At least, that was what he kept telling himself.
“And you’re trying to determine how the Cylons knew where we were going to Jump to?”
“It’s being investigated even as we speak.”
“That’s a relief. The last thing we need is them working their way into our systems once more.” She added thoughtfully, “What about the Pegasus? My understanding is that their computer system would be far more susceptible to Cylon tinkering, since all their computers are linked.” The fact that Galactica’s computers were not linked one to another had been the ship’s salvation, since it meant that the Cylons could not readily infiltrate the computer network.
“You’re absolutely right, Madame President,” Adama agreed. “That is being investigated as well.”
“Good. Please keep close tabs on that, Admiral. I’m not entirely sure I trust Chief Garner to get the job done . . . or trust him at all, really.”
This comment surprised Adama. “Why not, Madame President? Do you have information I’m lacking? Is there reason to doubt his capability as an officer?”
“No to both,” she admitted. “But considering that we wound up almost assassinating Commander Cain, and considering Commander Fisk was fronting a black market operation, you’ll understand if I don’t exactly have the highest hopes for the Pegasus command squad.”
“Understood.”
She imagined that Adama was smiling as he said that. He had the loveliest smile.
Then an image hammered its way back into her memory. She jumped into the pause that had crept into their conversation to ask, “Admiral . . . I have a rather odd question for you.”
“It’s been an odd day, so it fits right in.”
“If I told you that Sagittarius was bleeding, what would that suggest to you?”
He didn’t reply immediately, except to laugh low in his throat and say, “Well, the question certainly lived up to the advance billing.” He considered it for a short time, and then said, “Given that Sagittarius is the ancient name for the colony Sagittaron . . .”
“Yes?”
“I’d say if anyone was going to cause any sort of bleeding in connection with Sagittaron, I’d probably look no further than Tom Zarek to be the cause.”
Laura Roslin could have hit herself in the side of the head in frustration. “Of course,” she said. “After all, he’s the representative to the Quorum of Twelve for Sagittaron, gods know why.”
“I’m only wondering why it is that we’re talking in symbolism and metaphor.”
“It . . .” She waited a moment, not wanting simply to spill everything that was going through her mind at Adama’s feet. She had her own problems, and she had to deal with them. “I was just . . . wondering . . . what the image might suggest. That’s all.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes, Admiral,” she said calmly, almost with an air of indifference. “That’s all.”
She could picture him shrugging as he said, “Very well. That’s all, then. Galactica actual over and out.”
There was a click as he hung up the phone, and yet Laura Roslin stared at the disconnected receiver for a good long time, wondering if Adama had a point and Tom Zarek was somehow up to trouble again.
CHAPTER
4
Tom Zarek—freedom fighter, untrustworthy schemer, hero, villain, all depending upon whom one talked to—had continued to make his home on the Astral Queen, despite the fact that as the representative of the Quorum of Twelve, he was entitled to far more luxurious accommodations. He chose not to avail himself of them, for he felt it vital to keep as much of his connection to the “common man” as he possibly could.
On the other hand, he wasn’t stupid. He had far outgrown the small, confined cell that had been his home ever since he had been elevated from mere prisoner to his colony’s (or, more correctly, what remained of his colony’s) most prominent figure. So he had taken for his office and quarters what had been the lodgings of the warden/captain of the Astral Queen. Since the events of the prisoner uprising, the administrators had decided that the best idea would be for them to make themselves as scarce as possible.
This left something of a power void in the day-to-day affairs of the prisoners themselves. Naturally they had turned to Zarek to make certain that some degree of order was kept in their existence, and Zarek had obliged them. Much of his time was spent on ov
erseeing disputes. Not as a judge, certainly: Zarek was far too rebellious by nature to allow himself to become so authoritarian. He was, instead, a mediator. He always managed to find a common ground, and his method of bargaining was rapidly become legendary. If one of the parties didn’t like the compromise that Zarek proposed, then his sergeant-at-arms would break the complainer’s kneecaps. If they both complained, both parties got their kneecaps broken. Zarek had announced this policy and, at first, the prisoners had thought he was joking. They were disabused of that notion the first time two moaning disputees were seen crawling out Zarek’s door. Their agony drove home the point with far greater force than anything Zarek could have said.
There was some minor rumbling about trying to take down Zarek rather than submit to such a means of oversight. But that notion went away once the residents of the Astral Queen came to the realization that Zarek’s death would create a power vacuum, and if that happened, the bodies would start stacking up like cordwood in the subsequent struggle for dominance. One might despise the way a dam is constructed, but no one is stupid enough to shoot the guy who’s got his finger in it preventing the water from flooding through.
So it was that Zarek’s position and status were perfectly safe by dint of the fact that, although they didn’t one hundred percent trust him, they distrusted each other far more.
At least, that was the status until the day that the civilian fleet had yet another narrow escape from the Cylons.
Although the ships were spread out, it was still hard to keep secrets, especially when something unusual happened. And certainly the Galactica nearly plunging into the heart of a star fell into the category of “unusual.” The fact that the civilians had come extremely close to losing their best means of protection against an implacable enemy had not gone unnoticed, and a number of Zarek’s “constituents” were demanding to know just what the frak had happened.
Zarek was moving quickly down a corridor, accompanied by Cortez, his sergeant at arms, and a handful of petty functionaries. This, in and of itself, was not unusual. There were several people following Zarek as well, constituents peppering him with their concerns. This was also not unusual. What was unusual was the volume and vociferousness with which they were speaking.
The largest and loudest of them was a man Zarek had known for some time, a bear of a man named Luther Paine, who seemed bound and determined to live up to his last name. Zarek kept walking, since it had been his experience that—if he stopped—it made it much harder for him to extricate himself. So he was walking and talking at the same time. “I hear what you’re saying, Luther.”
“I don’t give a damn that you’re hearing what I’m saying,” Paine told him sharply. “I want you to listen to what I’m saying! I want you to find out what in the name of the gods happened with this latest invasion!”
“I already know what happened, and so do you,” Zarek said. “We were attacked, we escaped. End of story.”
“End of story! We almost saw the Galactica go up in a ball of flame, and then the Pegasus almost collided!”
Violating his own determination to keep moving in the face of hostility, Zarek turned and faced Paine. He wanted to try and end this quickly, before it began to spiral out of control. Paine was someone to whom the prisoners listened, and he didn’t need this idiot running all over the place, stirring things up. “The key word there is ‘almost.’ Almost doesn’t mean a thing. It’s results that count, and the result was that we got away. If you don’t like the way we did it, feel free to pop over to the Galactica and tell Adama yourself.”
“I shouldn’t have to! You’re our frakking representative! You should be the one who tells him! Or are you afraid to?”
This last comment riled Cortez, and he took a step forward with his fists tightly clenched. The two men were built about the same, and it was anybody’s guess who would come out on top if they came to blows. Zarek put a hand out in either direction, wanting to keep the men apart. “I’m not afraid of Adama. You know that,” he said tightly to Paine.
“Oh yeah? And how, ’zactly, am I supposed to know that?” Paine’s tone remained defiant, and he kept tossing glances at Cortez as if to verify just where Cortez was in relation to himself.
“If I haven’t been afraid of entire governments . . . if I haven’t been afraid to be jailed for my beliefs . . . what makes you think I’m afraid now?”
Paine’s jaw twitched back and forth a couple of times. He didn’t drop his gaze, but he amended, “Maybe not afraid, then. Maybe just too damned comfortable.”
Zarek rolled his eyes and started walking again, and Paine followed behind. “You,” said Zarek, “have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, don’t I? Pretty cushy status you’ve got for yourself now, huh, Zarek? Member of the Quorum. Gone all legitimate now. Angling for the presidency. Maybe you and Adama have something worked out. You stay out of his business, he stays out of yours. Maybe you figure it’s not smart to make too much of a ruckus now because you’re trying to climb up the ladder. Leave the guys on the lower rungs behind while trying not to piss off the ones standing at the top.”
“Yeah, that’s it, you’ve got me all figured out,” said Zarek with obvious exasperation. “Look, Luther, I’ve listened to you, I’m considering what you’re saying. My guess is, the Quorum of Twelve is going to have some of the same questions as you. I don’t need to go running off on my own. I’ll have eleven other representatives, and we’ll get a lot more done and a lot more answers if we operate as one instead of all of us flying off in all different directions. There will probably be an inquiry, and we’ll find out at that point what went wrong, and make sure it doesn’t happen again. Will that do it for you?”
Luther Paine sounded as if he wanted to say something else, but instead simply replied, “Yeah. Yeah, that does it for me fine.”
“Good. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting scheduled with . . .”
His main office, used for conferences and meeting with various dignitaries, was just ahead. Cortez stepped forward, preparing to open the door for him, and that was when an explosion—sounding all the louder because it was within a confined space—went off just a few feet away from Zarek. He was nearly deafened from the noise. He was stunned to see Cortez drop, clutching at his right shoulder, blood welling up between his fingers. The others who had been walking along with him scattered as quickly as they could.
“On second thought, it’s not fine,” snapped Paine.
His eyes were wide and he had a crazed look on his face. Zarek didn’t know what the hell had gotten into him. It wasn’t as if Zarek didn’t have the respect of every man on the Astral Queen. The only thing that occurred to him was that this was some sort of bizarre power play. That Paine was hoping to move up in power and prestige by taking down the guy who was one of the top players. If Zarek was dead, Paine could make up anything he wanted in terms of an excuse for doing it. Who knew if Paine perhaps represented some sort of growing belief that Zarek really was becoming too much of the “establishment”?
That, however, was a consideration for a future time, presuming there was one.
“Where did you get that gun?” Zarek demanded, deciding that the best thing to do was act as if he was totally in command of the situation.
Paine looked slightly taken aback that Zarek wasn’t daunted by having a weapon pointed at his face. “Black market,” he snapped. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
“If you’re waving it in my direction, that makes it my business.” He looked down at Cortez. “You all right?”
“I’ll live,” growled Cortez, looking daggers at Paine.
“You go right on telling yourself that,” Paine snapped back.
That was when the door to Zarek’s office opened and a man emerged from it. And emerged. And emerged.
That, at least, was what it seemed like to Zarek. The man was gargantuan, as large an individual as he had ever seen. His shoulders were half again as broad as P
aine’s, and his bare arms had muscles that looked as big as Zarek’s skull. He had a head of red hair and a bristling red beard that was a slightly darker hue. His simple white shirt was having a difficult time, strained as it was covering his massive chest, although his dark green trousers hung loosely. He seemed to radiate confidence, as if he were certain there was no challenge he could not undertake. More: that if he undertook it, he would succeed in whatever the endeavor was.
“Is there a problem here?” he asked, his voice rumbling like thunder.
Zarek could not recall a time in his life when he had been at a loss for words, but there was a first time for everything, and this was it.
Even Luther Paine seemed daunted. Rallying quickly, he said fiercely, “This isn’t your concern.”
“Oh,” was all the man said. “All right.” For half a heartbeat, he turned as if he were about to walk away. Then his arm reached across the distance between him and Paine before Paine had even registered that the behemoth was moving toward him. His huge hand enfolded Paine’s as if it was an adult’s hand firmly grasping a child’s, and then he squeezed. His expression never changed. There was an audible crack that was partly muffled by the giant’s hand, and Paine let out an ear-splitting scream.
“Pardon me,” said the giant, easing past Zarek. Very carefully, he pried Paine’s now broken fingers from the gun, one digit at a time. Paine clutched his hand, his eyes wide, and whimpered in shock and pain. The giant held the gun carefully between his thumb and forefinger and passed it over to Zarek, who wordlessly received it. “I don’t think,” said the behemoth, “that he’ll be firing this anytime soon.”
Zarek tried not to look as stunned as he felt. Several of the followers who had fled were now slowly returning. Having heard the scream, their curiosity had overwhelmed their sense of self-preservation. Taking control of the situation, Zarek said, “Take them to the infirmary.” He paused, and then added, “Get Cortez down there sooner. Feel free to take your own sweet time with Luther. Cortez . . . keep your hands off him, as tempting as it may be to do otherwise.”