“Good to see you, Chief Tyrol,” said a woman who turned out to be Captain Renee Demeter. She had short hair the color of fresh brown earth and grass-green eyes. Her voice came through his earpiece. “We’re chronically short on repair staff and staff supervisors down here. Even with anti-radiation meds, we can’t keep people on the ground for long periods of time. Jim, take the Chief inside and show him around.”
“Sure, Cap.” Jim wore a gray crewcut and looked like he should be rolling a toothpick from one end of his mouth to the other. His clothes hung loosely on him, as if he’d lost a lot of weight lately. A lot of people in the Fleet had, Tyrol knew. Jim cocked his head toward the truck-sized hatch and went inside. Tyrol followed.
“What’s your rank, sir?” Tyrol asked.
Jim glanced over his shoulder. “I don’t have one, son. Civilian ship. If Cap tells you to do something, you do it. Come on, I’ll show you entry bay two. That’s where we need help.”
The hatchway opened into a cavelike space. Scoops the size of small trucks and laden with piles of blue-green goop cranked past them on a gigantic conveyer belt and disappeared into an opening in the distant wall. Half a dozen crewmembers, all in face masks, dashed about to tend the machinery. Water dripped from piles of algae and made salty, steamy lakes on the deck. The plating was slick, and Tyrol stepped carefully to avoid slipping. A scoop loader rumbled by, its bucket piled with goop. Abruptly it stopped, backed up, and jerked forward again, barely missing the main conveyer belt. Tyrol winced and automatically reached out a hand, as if he could stop the vehicle.
“Hey!” Jim boomed, his voice loud in Tyrol’s earpiece. “Watch it, Hyksos!”
Hyksos gave an odd wave from the driver’s seat and maneuvered the loader around again. Jim turned his attention back to Tyrol. Tyrol wiped a fresh layer of sweat from his forehead.
“The belts haul the goop into the processing area,” Jim said, cocking a thumb at the opening. “We run it through the rollers and mash it into sheets. We dry them, which makes them easier to handle, and send them out to some of the other ships for processing into food and medicine.”
“How’d you adapt mining equipment into handling algae?” Tyrol said. His interest was starting to perk up.
“Crushing, mashing, rolling—we did all that with rocks before. Now we do it with algae. We did have to add a couple of access corridors to help with air circulation and make it easier to move goop around, but the biggest job was cleaning the equipment first. The main problem is that the salt water gets into everything and eats it. And the algae is primitive stuff, only a few steps above protoplasm, so it gunks up everything the water doesn’t eat. Lots of constant maintenance. You arrived during one of the good times, when all four arms are hauling at capacity. Usually at least one of them is down.”
As if on cue, the arm made a terrible groaning noise, clanked twice more, and went still. A moan rose from the workers in the area. Jim clapped Tyrol on the shoulder.
“Go to it, Chief,” he said, and ambled away.
Two hours later, Tyrol’s front was wet through, and he was covered in green slime. His fingers were wet and wrinkled. It was a far cry from the carefully controlled environment of the Galactica, though he had to admit the lack of “fix it now now NOW” pressure was a nice change. He lay on his back, staring up at the secondary motor that was supposed to help haul the conveyer belt forward but wasn’t. Goop had clogged the air intake and destroyed the filter which had, in turn, put a strain on the pistons, which had—
Tyrol grimaced. Everything should be working now. “Okay, Ken!” he shouted. “Try it again!”
A pause. The motor sputtered and coughed. Tyrol held his breath. The motor coughed again, started to die, then caught. One more cough, and it settled into a steady purr. Tyrol pumped a quiet fist.
“Nice work, Chief!” the unseen Ken said into his earpiece.
A blob of goop plopped on Tyrol’s breathing mask. Tyrol jumped. His entire world had gone green. Great—a machine that had to have the last word. He rolled himself out from under the motor and sat up to wipe his mask clean.
“Tabra! Meltina par tewmell fa!”
What the hell? Tyrol pawed at his mask, restoring partial visibility.
“Chief! Watch out!”
Tyrol twisted in place and cleared the last of the slime from his mask. The scoop loader, its bucket now empty, was rushing straight toward him.
CHAPTER
7
“Drive the crazy car at pildani mufallan dar! Dalabren bay heslan duk!”
The voice in Tyrol’s earpiece made no sense, but he spared no time thinking about it. The scoop loader’s bucket, trailing shreds of green goop, was only a few yards away and closing. Tyrol’s heart jumped into his throat and his stomach clenched in fear. He scrambled to his feet, sending the wheeled creeper flying. No time to jump sideways—the bucket would clip him. Without hesitating further, he jumped straight up. The teeth of the bucket’s lower edge gouged the air where Tyrol’s shins had been. Tyrol grabbed the upper teeth with both hands. The metal bit into his palms and pain wrenched his shoulders as the loader’s forward momentum jerked his upper body backward. His lower body swung forward like a pendulum. He barely managed to bring his legs up so his feet slammed the back of the bucket instead of his knees. The loader motor growled like an angry bear. People shouted in his earpiece, but he was too busy to pay attention to what they were saying.
The loader rumbled across the deck plates, with Tyrol still clinging to the slimy bucket. The driver continued to shout incoherently. His movements were jerky, and neither of his hands touched the steering wheel. A glance over his shoulder showed that the loader was heading straight for the main conveyer belt. Scoops of blue-green goop continued to move down the enormous belt with mechanical unconcern. In a few seconds, he would be crushed.
“Turn!” Tyrol yelled at the driver. “Turn, you bastard!”
“Beelo! Frakking muzzle the dog’s myl feldan mool!”
What the hell? Didn’t matter. He wasn’t turning. That mattered. Tyrol swung his body sideways, trying to get his foot up to the teeth lining the top of the bucket. He missed, swung again, and managed to hook an ankle. His hands hurt like hell. A metal tooth slashed the side of his shin with burning pain. The conveyer belt was barely six yards away. Tyrol heaved himself up, cleared the upper teeth, and rolled across the top of the bucket just as it crashed into the belt. The noise smashed through him, and he bounced across the bucket to fetch up against the hydraulic pistons that moved the scoop up and down. Algae flew in all directions, splattering every surface in blue-green goop. The belt screamed like a thousand frightened horses and came to a stop.
Everything fell quiet. Tyrol clung to a piston, trying without success to catch his breath. He was breathing all right but felt like he wasn’t getting any air. His vision clouded. At last he realized it was because his breathing mask had been knocked slightly askew, breaking the seal. He braced himself against the bucket and reseated the mask. Air filled his lungs, sweetly plastic. Then several sets of hands grabbed him and hauled him gently down from his strange position on the scoop loader.
“You all right, Chief?” demanded Captain Demeter. She and several other workers were standing shin-deep in goop. “Frak, we thought you were a goner. How do you feel?”
Tyrol checked. Pounding heart, wavery vision, vague feeling of nausea, burning shin, aching hands. Nothing life-threatening, though he wanted a stiff drink, something better than the stuff he concocted at his own still. He tried to put weight on his injured leg and yelped. Demeter helped him sit, then carefully rolled up his trouser leg, bringing a fresh onslaught of pain. Tyrol gritted his teeth at the sight of the dirty, bleeding gash. Someone ran up with a first aid kit, and Demeter pressed a bandage against the wound. It hurt.
“This will control the bleeding,” she said. “Hold it there.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, obeying. “What the hell happened?”
“No idea,” said Jim, the
other person who had helped Tyrol clear of the loader. “Hyksos up there just went crazy.”
Tyrol looked up at the drivers seat. Two men were dragging Hyksos from his chair. The man appeared to be unconscious, though he twitched strangely Demeter had him hauled to a clear section of floor and bent over him. He continued to twitch.
“No obvious injuries,” Demeter said. “Our sickbay can handle basic problems, but this looks seriously strange. I think we’d better call a shuttle and have Cottle get a look at both of you on the Galactica.”
“It’s not like you to hide in your lab, Gaius.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“Really? You haven’t left this room ever since the lecture. Or rather, since the concert. Scared, Gaius?”
“Of course not!”
Number Six ran a long, cool finger down the bridge of Gaius Baltar’s nose and gave him one of her rare playful smiles. “You can’t lie to me, Gaius. I know you too well.”
“You think I’m afraid,” Gaius snarled. He typed madly at a computer terminal in an attempt to ignore the lush blond woman who had draped herself over the arm of his chair. “You think I’m scared to go out there because people will laugh at my failed—yes, failed—lecture. Well, I’m not. I’m a bloody celebrity. There is always some lackwit who finds humor in the trials and tribulations of the famous. It’s part of the price of fame, and I’ve been dealing with it for years. I’m not afraid.”
“Absolutely, Gaius.” Number Six got up and stretched like a lazy tiger. Her stunning red dress clashed with the harsh light and utilitarian machinery of the lab. “You’re not afraid of public humiliation, that much is obvious.”
“Good.” Type type type. “I’m glad we agree on something. If you don’t mind, I need to finish these resource-use projections, now that we have algae coming in.”
“You’re not afraid of public humiliation,” Number Six repeated. “You’re afraid of the opposite.”
A small ripple of doubt slipped down Gaius’ spine. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re afraid,” Number Six said, “that no one will notice you at all.”
Gaius stopped typing.
“Peter Attis, grabbing all the attention,” Number Six continued. “It isn’t fair, Gaius. He hasn’t your mind. Your brilliance shines like a nova, and his is—”
“Dark matter,” Gaius muttered. “Black and omnipresent.” He straightened in his chair. “But I’m not afraid of him—or of being ignored.”
“Then prove it,” Six offered reasonably. “Go for a walk. I hear sickbay’s a terribly interesting place this time of year.”
“Is it?” Gaius muttered. “Look, I have no intention of…”
But she was gone.
Gaius set his mouth and went back to typing, trying to ignore the knots in his stomach. She was not always right. She had nothing better to do than bait him. But gods, she was so beautiful—and completely his. A hidden flower with soft petals no one else could touch. And she had given him good advice. Plenty of times. Hell, back on Caprica she had saved his life.
He glanced at the door, then back at the screen. His resolve firmed. Gaius Baltar was not a puppet for Number Six to jerk around, not a fly caught in Six’s web. He was himself, his own man.
Keys continued to clatter under his hands. “You don’t own me,” he said aloud.
The room remained empty. Click-click-clack-click. The computer keys chattered like teeth. Stupid frakking Galactica didn’t even have basic vocal interface.
“You don’t own me,” he said again, then braced himself for Six’s soft touch on his back, her quiet voice in his ear, her moist tongue on his neck. But it didn’t come. He looked at the computer screen. A jungle of gibberish took up four pages. Not one word made sense.
“Oh, the hell with it,” he muttered. He grabbed his suit jacket and stormed out of the lab. A few minutes later, he was just outside the main entrance to sickbay. Uncertainty stole over him like a cold hand. What was he supposed to do—stomp in to sickbay and demand they show him something interesting?
Shouts from inside jarred him into action. He shoved open the door and ran inside. Sickbay was set up like a hospital triage unit, with curtained alcoves serving as both examination and treatment areas. The curtains did nothing to shut out noise, and Gaius easily located the source. He dashed down to the third alcove on the left and yanked aside the curtain. Dr. Cottle, his white hair disheveled, was struggling to hold down a patient Gaius didn’t recognize. A medical technician was assisting, as was Chief Galen Tyrol, of all people. Tyrol’s lower leg sported a bandage.
“He was unconscious a minute ago!” Cottle yelled. “Get him two milligrams of ativan. Move!”
One of the patient’s flailing arms caught the medical technician across the bridge of her nose. She staggered and went down to one knee, blood gushing from one nostril. The patient managed to sit up. Tyrol flung himself bodily across the man, who went down but continued to struggle on the bed.
“Billal mulistarken far!” the patient shouted.
“Shut up, Hyksos!” Tyrol yelled back.
Cottle managed to get Hyksos’ ankles into restraints, but he was still fighting convulsively. The med tech was trying to get up, but the blow had clearly dazed her. Cottle caught sight of Gaius.
“Don’t just stand there, you idiot!” he barked. “This man is having a seizure. The ativan is in the cabinet. Get it!”
Gaius hurried to the cabinet, fumbled it open, and scanned the scantily stocked shelves for ativan. The ampules were in alphabetical order, allowing him to find it quickly. He snatched up a syringe, jammed it into the ampule’s rubber top, and yanked the plunger back to two milligrams, then glanced at Hyksos and added another half a milligram for good measure. No sense in taking the chance he might hurt himself—or Gaius. Hyksos managed to shove Cottle aside with his free arm, and the doctor crashed into a tray of instruments. Metal flew in all directions and the tray crashed to the floor. Tyrol was still lying across Hyksos’ body. Hyksos continued to thrash, shouting incoherent nonsense. Baltar hesitated. He didn’t want to get close. What if Hyksos bruised him? Or worse?
“What are you waiting for?” Cottle said from the floor. “Inject him!”
Gaius took a deep breath and lunged. He got Hyksos’ left wrist and trapped his arm. Both Hyksos and Tyrol smelled like stale ocean water. Gaius couldn’t help wrinkling his nose as he shoved the syringe into the skin—forget sterilization—and rammed the plunger home. Hyksos continued to babble and shout for a few seconds as Cottle and the med tech got to their feet. Then Hyksos’ struggles grew weaker. He fell silent, and his body relaxed. Cottle instantly locked down the wrist restraints and Tyrol slid off the patient’s body. He winced when his injured leg took weight.
“Frak!” Tyrol gasped. “What the hell is wrong with him?”
“He was unconscious all the way back from Planet Goop, you said?” Cottle asked. He handed the med tech a towel, and she gingerly pressed it to her face. “You better get some ice for that.”
“He was out like a light,” Tyrol said. “He muttered a lot, though. Gibberish.”
The med tech left. Gaius edged closer for a look at Hyksos, curiosity winning out over caution. Hyksos was a brawny, redheaded man covered with a crop of new freckles. No doubt working outdoors in the harsh sun of Planet Goop had brought them out. The man twitched and muttered in his sleep. Gaius put out a finger and touched his forehead. It was a little on the warm side.
“What’s your initial diagnosis, Doctor?” he asked Cottle.
“He’s agitated and he has a slight fever,” Cottle replied shortly.
“That’s it?” Gaius scoffed.
“I haven’t run any tests yet, Your Majesty. You want to do something useful, draw some blood and do some tests. Otherwise, get the hell out of my sickbay.”
Gaius drew himself up. “I am the vice president of the Colonies.”
“And I’m God of this sickbay. Either shit or get off the c
rap-per. I don’t have all day.”
Gaius whirled to stomp out and almost crashed into Number Six. He froze. Six didn’t say a word, but a small smile played around the corners of her mouth. With skill borne of long practice, Gaius pretended that he had spun around so he could grab another syringe and a set of blood ampules from the cabinet. Six backed up to give him room, and he gave her a hard look. She met his gaze for a moment, then walked slowly out of the alcove, her hips switching as she went. Gaius watched her go and felt his groin tighten as it always did. As she knew it always did. He spun again and turned back to the bed.
“Scarlet fever, drug withdrawal, dengue hemorrhagic fever,” Cottle was muttering. “Epilepsy? No, not with a fever.” He pried up one of Hyksos’ eyelids and shined a light on the eye. The pupil contracted normally.
“Is whatever it is contagious?” Tyrol asked nervously.
“How the hell should I know, son?” Cottle said. “If it weren’t for the fever, I’d say his mind snapped. All I can say right now is that if you get the sudden urge to babble, haul your sorry ass down here before you hurt someone.”
Tyrol hesitated. “I’m from Geminon, you know.”
“Uh-huh. So?” Cottle wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Hyksos’ arm and pumped. Gaius rolled up the sleeve on Hyksos’ free arm and swabbed the inner elbow with disinfectant. He was a biologist by training, with extensive knowledge of microbiology. He wasn’t a medical doctor, but much of the training overlapped. Drawing blood and running some tests were no challenge, but his curiosity was aroused. Besides, Number Six had hinted a visit to sickbay might benefit him, and he was hardly going to pass up the chance that she was right.
“My mother was an Oracle,” Tyrol continued. “And sometimes the Lords of Kobol would… they would enter her body and make her speak. Sometimes she would say something understandable, but most of the time she sounded like Hyksos here.”
[Battlestar Galactica Reimagined 04] - Unity Page 10