“Speaking in tongues as the result of divine possession?” Gaius scoffed. He inserted the needle into a vein and popped one of the ampules into the other end. Scarlet blood streamed into the little container. “Grow up, Chief. There’s clearly some microscopic agent at work. Since he was on Planet Goop when it happened, it seems logical to start there. Perhaps something in the algae.”
“Then why haven’t more people come down with it?” Tyrol countered. “Captain Demeter said no one else has been acting strange.”
“Any number of reasons,” Gaius said. He finished the current blood ampule and started another. “It might be an allergic reaction. Or perhaps it’s a combination of substances that only Hyksos has encountered.”
“How many of those you going to fill?” Cottle demanded.
Gaius looked down. He was working on his seventh ampule of blood. Grimacing, he pulled the syringe free, disposed of it, and handed three of the ampules to Cottle. “Can you get me urine and stool samples as well?”
“Why the hell not? You’re the vice president of the Colonies.”
The back of Helo’s head itched but he was standing at attention, so he forced himself to ignore it. The bustle of CIC swirled around him like a sandstorm, and the continual growl of the dradis sounded like a restless lion prowling the room. Tigh gave Helo a hard look.
“Captain Demeter reports that the harvest is complete,” Dualla said from her station. “The Monarch’s holds are completely full, and she’s commenced cleanup procedures. They should be ready to leave by the end of the day.”
“Thank you,” Adama said. “Send a report to the President. Lieutenant Gaeta, how much material did we end up with?”
“Once it’s processed, we should have enough to make current food stores last an extra two months,” Gaeta said. “We’ll also have more than enough antibiotics to end the strep breakout and restore the radiation meds to full supply.”
A ripple of applause and a few small cheers went through CIC. Adama broke into one of his rare smiles. Helo, who was still under the harsh light of Tigh’s glare, remained at attention despite the good news.
“What’s the status of the Cylon prisoner?” Tigh asked him.
“Nothing new to report, sir,” Helo said. “She’s still at large.”
Tigh continued to stare at Helo, who kept his face impassive. “Then keep looking, Lieutenant. I want that frakking Cylon found!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
Helo turned and stepped smartly out of CIC. The moment he was out of sight, he let himself sag against a wall for a tiny moment. Exhaustion pulled at every pore. When had he last had a good night’s sleep? He couldn’t remember. Four days ago, Sharon had escaped. Two days ago, he had brought Tyrol and that guy Hyksos back from Planet Goop. Tyrol had been injured, Hyksos had been unconscious. Rumor had it that Hyksos was now in sickbay, under restraint. When he was awake, he babbled, spouted nonsense, and tried to attack the doctor. As a result, he spent most of his time under sedation. Helo envied him. The day before yesterday, Tigh had announced that Helo knew more about “that frakking toaster” than anyone else on the Galactica, which meant Helo was now in charge of the search teams. The stress of his new duties combined with the worry about what would happen to Sharon if she got caught and what would happen to him if she didn’t get caught kept him awake long into his normal sleep cycle. Helo was caught between two rocks that were steadily rolling together. If Sharon was caught, Adama would no doubt order her immediate execution, baby or no. If she wasn’t caught, Tigh would make Helo the scapegoat. Becoming Tigh’s scapegoat was way better than Sharon dying, but Helo still lost. He and Sharon both.
This was, he acknowledged to himself, the reason he was searching for Sharon by himself instead of with a party of marines. If—when—Sharon turned up, the marines were likely to shoot first and ask questions later. Helo wanted to ask questions first. He had no intention of shooting.
The radio clipped to his belt squawked out orders as the search parties continued their work. Their movements had become mechanical, almost perfunctory. They had gone over every inch of the ship to no avail, and Helo was almost considering ordering the men to suit up so they could search the Galactica’s outer hull. Maybe Sharon had stolen a vac suit and was—
He shook his head. No way. Even Cylons needed to breathe, and she stood an excellent chance of getting caught every time she cycled an airlock to board and refill her oxygen bottle. Still, his new situation altered the way he looked at Galactica. Every alcove, every passageway had turned into a possible hiding place, every shadow became a black blanket of suspicion. And every moment he was aware that eventually a choice would leap out of the darkness and tear him in two.
He scratched the back of his head. The itch had been bothering him a lot lately, and it helped keep him awake at night. Maybe he was getting a rash or something. That was all he needed.
Helo turned a corner, intending to head for the showers to see if washing would help, then abruptly changed course for deck five. He knew where Tyrol kept his still, and right now a good drink would settle his nerves. He was on duty, but it never stopped Tigh, and Helo was suddenly in a go-to-hell mood.
Deck five was in an unusual lull. Crewmembers were engaged in busywork—cleaning, sorting equipment, taking inventory. Off to one side sat the escape pod Peter Attis had arrived in. Tyrol was walking in a circle around it, examining with a critical eye. A slight limp hobbled his steps a bit. Helo wandered over.
“What’s going on, Chief?” he asked. “See something that’s going to explode?”
“No.” Tyrol wore a distracted expression. “There’s something about this pod that bothers me. Has since the day it showed up. But I can’t put my finger on it.”
“You’ve checked inside,” Helo stated.
“Of course. Thoroughly. With every instrument I have. Nothing.”
“Let me take a look,” Helo offered. “Maybe it needs a fresh pair of eyes.”
Tyrol gave him a look with hard brown eyes. The offer went a little beyond their shaky truce.
“Putting off looking for… her?” Tyrol said at last.
“Maybe.” Helo felt his face grow warm. “I haven’t had much luck.”
Tyrol flashed a grim smile of… understanding? He stood aside like a doorman. “Be my guest, sir.”
Helo stepped into the pod. It was basically a gray metal cube with rounded corners. Helo’s head brushed the ceiling, and he ducked instinctively. A simple control panel stood against the wall opposite the hatch, and two small ports looked out on deck five. A CO2 scrubber hung on one wall above a set of oxygen tanks. The interior smelled vaguely of machine oil. And that was all. Helo examined the controls. Environmental readouts, automatic distress signal, engine power control. Nothing else. The engine would shove the pod in one direction—forward. No way to steer. The pod was meant to be picked up quickly by a rescue ship, not to provide transportation. Helo stood there for a long moment. He turned in all directions. He pulled the front off the control panel and looked inside. He paced the walls and rapped on the ports. Then he went back outside. His head itched again, and he forced himself not to scratch.
“Well?” Tyrol said.
Helo shrugged. “Nothing. I don’t even get suspicious. Maybe you’re just reading too much into it because a copy of… of her was inside.”
“Maybe.” But Tyrol clearly didn’t believe it.
Helo’s radio squawked for his attention. “We’ve completed our search of the main galley, Lieutenant.”
With a sigh, Helo pulled the unit from his belt and spoke into it. “Continue on to the food storage area, then. And try not to die of boredom.”
“Roger that.”
He sketched a waved at Tyrol and started to move away, but Tyrol’s touch on the shoulder stopped him.
“Chief?” Helo said.
Tyrol leaned close. “I hope they never find her, too,” he murmured.
There didn’t seem to be
anything to say to that, so Helo just nodded and continued on his way. Helo skirted the edge of the main deck and headed for the storage rooms, pretending he was going to look there. Instead, he waited until no one was looking and ducked through a particular doorway. Freestanding metal shelves stacked with meticulously labeled parts stood in neat rows. Helo threaded a path to the rear. Behind a shelving unit stood a tangle of coils and drums. There was no smell—Tyrol had built a fan and filter system into the device to ensure the odor wouldn’t give him away. Helo, however, walked past it and knelt in front of a meter-high grate set into the back wall. He tugged once, and it came away, revealing a small open space inside. Tyrol actually kept two stills. Commander Tigh had discovered the first one. Instead of shutting it down and ordering Tyrol’s arrest, he had wordlessly begun taking a percentage of everything Tyrol made in it. When the percentage climbed to one jar in four, however, Tyrol had taken steps. He had scavenged enough parts to make a second still, one that created higher-quality stuff, and hidden that one more carefully. Tyrol now only made what he called “single malt engine cleaner” in the first still, and Tigh hadn’t yet caught on to the ruse.
Helo poked his head into the space behind the grating. The still, compact and efficient, purred softly to itself beside a pile of jars filled with clear liquid. Helo reached for one—and froze.
“Hello,” said Sharon Valerii.
CHAPTER
8
Billy Keikeya poked his head into the section of Colonial One that served as Laura Roslin’s office. “Sarah Porter is here, Madam President.”
“Thank you, Billy,” Laura said. “Show her in.” Billy ducked back out and President Laura Roslin pulled herself upright in her chair. Gods, she was so tired. Gravity pulled at every limb with twice its normal strength, making every movement a struggle. And she ached all the time, whether she was awake or asleep. It was a deep, cold feeling, as if an icy dragon were gnawing at her bones. One day it would bite all the way through them, and she would keel over like a tree with severed roots. It had been going on for so long, she had forgotten what it was like to be pain free. Laura wanted nothing more than to pull on some old sweats, wrap herself in a soft bathrobe, and lie on the couch watching something mindless until she drifted into a restless sleep—or death. Instead she found herself on a chilly ship, an unwilling leader to the last remaining shreds of humanity left in the galaxy while implacable enemies chased them from sector to sector.
A wan smile crossed her face. Playing the martyr again, Laura? she thought. She had had several opportunities to hand the reins of government over to someone else and had waved aside every one. Hell, she had fought to remain president. Like all teachers, Laura had been trained to lead, but it wasn’t her preference. She would much rather let someone else handle all the stress and nonsense while she worked quietly in the background. In her teaching days, she never chaired committees—unless no one else was willing to take the job. Or was qualified for it. She remembered the day Nick Liaden, her department head, had announced his retirement and Helga Upton had announced her intention to take over his position. Horrified, Laura spent her prep period running from classroom to classroom to see if anyone else planned to challenge Helga. Everyone refused. The thought of cold, officious Helga in charge made everyone unhappy, but no one was willing to step up. This one worked two other jobs and didn’t have time. That one was pregnant and would be going on leave soon. A third was a new teacher, completely unqualified. So Laura had strode into the principal’s office to announce that she wanted the position. He had been all too glad to give it to her, and Laura had spent four years in that capacity. Her experiences had given her many skills that she still used today.
Except none of those experiences had given her the skills to cope with dying. Laura reached for a pencil, intending to toy with it, then decided it wasn’t worth the energy. Sometimes she felt as if she had accepted her impending death, other times she felt a gut-twisting terror that kept her awake late into the night. The concert two days ago had bolstered her spirits for a while, returning her to a time when her biggest worry was whether her students’ math scores were going up or down. The boost in her mood hadn’t lasted, however, and now, frankly, she was feeling pretty shitty all around. The last person she wanted to talk to was Sarah Porter. But duty called.
The curtain that covered the doorway parted and Sarah strode into the room like a thunderstorm laden with hail. She was a dark-skinned, full-bodied woman who preferred short hair and favored chunky gold earrings. Currently, she represented Geminon on the Quorum of Twelve, and Laura had mixed feelings toward her. Geminon had a well-deserved reputation for conservative political parties that tried to mix religion into government, and Sarah represented her people well. She had been one of Laura’s most vociferous opponents early in her presidency, then had abruptly become a firm supporter once the Scrolls of Pythia had revealed Laura to be the fabled dying leader who would lead humanity to its new homeland. As an experienced politician, Laura was always willing to accept a supporter, but as a human being, Laura had a hard time pretending to like someone who had once professed to hate her.
And behind her…
Behind her came a tall, dark-haired man with the look of someone who had once been hard and handsome but had now gone rather to seed. Lines softened his sharp features, and his nose looked a little too big for his face. His expression was as bland as a mayonnaise sandwich, but Laura Roslin wasn’t fooled for a moment.
“Tom Zarek,” she said. “I thought my appointment was with Sarah alone.”
“I asked to come,” Tom said. “As a witness.”
“Witness to what?” Laura asked.
“What transpires here,” Sarah said.
Laura didn’t like the sound of that at all. She briefly considered calling Billy in to throw Tom out, then dismissed the idea. Tom had spent considerable time in jail for inciting riots—and worse. He was an old-school revolutionary who distrusted all government on principle and who had a distressing amount of charisma that he could turn on and off like a light switch. It was currently set to “off,” but Tom could fire up a crowd like no one Laura knew—except perhaps Peter Attis—and she envied Tom that talent even when he used it against her, as he had done. He had started a revolution among his fellow prisoners on the Astral Queen, a process that had ended up with Tom not only being granted his freedom, but also grabbing a seat on the Quorum of Twelve as the representative of Sagittaron. If Laura tossed Tom out of this meeting, he would raise hell about it in the media, and there was no way Laura could come away from it without looking bad.
“As you like,” she said. “Please sit.”
They did. Tom’s face remained neutral, but Sarah wore an angry expression Laura knew well because it had often been pointed in Laura’s direction. Laura tensed, which took energy she couldn’t really spare.
“I hate to bother you with this,” Sarah said, “but I don’t know what else to do.”
A wary bit of relief threaded through Laura. Porter wasn’t here to cause Laura trouble, then—at least, not directly. So why Tom’s presence?
“What’s on your mind, Sarah?” Laura asked in her sympathetic voice.
“A fringe group that calls itself ‘the Unity’ has been causing problems,” she said. “Especially on the Tethys and the Phoebe.”
“Problems?” Laura asked. “What sort of problems?”
Porter’s expression was set like stone. “They’re spreading like can—like weeds. They stand in the corridors and local gathering places and preach.”
“What do they preach?” Laura noticed the switch from “cancer” to “weeds”, but pretended not to. Sudden exhaustion swept over her, and she had to fight to keep from slumping in her chair. Uh-oh. The day was turning into a bad one. Her treacherous body did that to her, switching her from functional to exhausted without warning.
A look of disgust crossed Porter’s face. “They wear red masks so we can’t tell who they are and they preach that all the
gods are merely multiple aspects of a single god. They preach that the single god is a being of love and kindness and that nothing else exists. This is heresy, Laura! Heresy and blasphemy! The Scrolls are very clear on—”
“I don’t need a lecture on comparative spirituality, Sarah,” Laura interrupted gently. “Though I have to say the ideas as you’ve presented them make me… uncomfortable. And they sound familiar.”
“Of course they do,” Porter spat. “Peter Attis sings about it. His songs are all over the radio now, especially that ‘You’re the Only One’ song. These Unity people have taken it as some sort of spiritual call. Haven’t you heard him? It seems like he shows up somewhere on the radio four or five times an hour.”
“I haven’t noticed,” Laura admitted. “I went to the concert, and I have to say I enjoyed it very much”—until the escaped Cylon showed up, she added mentally—“but I really haven’t had time or inclination for the radio lately.”
Throughout this exchange, Tom remained silent. Laura’s attention was on Sarah, but she was aware of Tom, much like the way a feeding rabbit remained aware of a hawk wheeling overhead. His presence made no sense, and it nagged at her like a hangnail that had almost come free. She was dying to ask what his real purpose was, but knew that would be a mistake. It would put him in the position of holding information she clearly wanted. Better to let him think she didn’t care, rendering his information worthless and forcing him into a position of lesser power.
“Keeping in mind that we do have freedoms of speech and religion in the Colonies,” Laura said carefully, “I need to ask—have the Unity people broken any laws?”
Long pause. Still Tom didn’t speak.
“No,” Porter said at last. “Their demonstrations have been peaceful and orderly so far. And so far they’ve agreeably moved out of the way whenever someone has asked. A few fights have started, but never by the Unity. Other people always hit first.” She folded her arms. “People get upset and angry wherever the Unity goes. Perhaps we can arrest them on the grounds that they instigate unrest.”
[Battlestar Galactica Reimagined 04] - Unity Page 11