"No!" Baltar shouted. "You can't! You still need me!"
"Need you. That is unlikely."
"I have—I have information. Please. My life for my information."
Always willing to bargain, Imperious Leader thought, this human would never stop desperately offering trades.
"What is your information?"
Baltar pulled away from the centurions and approached the pedestal. There was a surprising arrogance in his walk.
"My life?" Baltar said.
"Your life," the Leader said. An easy promise. Easy because he had no intention of keeping it.
Baltar looked to each side as if he suspected he could be overheard. By whom?
"At the spacedrome on Caprica . . . when your centurions were collecting and exterminating survivors, one of them gave me information."
"Oh? On what grounds?"
"That I save the man's life."
"Did you?"
"Of course not. I beheaded him myself."
"Oh. Interesting. Go on. What did he tell you?"
"Many humans escaped, he said."
"But how could that be?"
"They escaped in ships, anything they could find. A handful of survivors. And you haven't located them."
"Perhaps you are right. But they would have neither fuel nor food for a prolonged voyage."
"He told me they were heading for a rendezvous with a surviving battlestar."
"A battlestar!"
"Yes. He said it was the Galactica."
"That can't be! I will not allow it."
"I don't know what you can do about it."
"Make it my business to destroy those ships. And their previous Galactica. As I will destroy you now."
"But my information . . . you promised . . . you said—"
"Dispose of him."
The centurions seized Baltar and began to drag him out of the chamber.
"You can't do this to me!" Baltar shouted.
"I would remind you that this is exactly what you did to your informant."
As he awaited his centurion's return with the announcement that Baltar's head had been separated from his body, Imperious Leader contemplated the man's loathsomeness. By human standards, the trader was evil. To humans, evil was a relatively simple concept. A measure of premeditated malice, a dose or two of harmful action, some negative thoughts that did not conform to a standard that would change eventually anyway. The kind of trivial feelings that guided Baltar, traits like weakness and selfishness, were equated too easily with the idea of evil in human minds. To them, Imperious Leader would be evil, which certainly measured the absurdity of their view.
The centurion returned, and announced that the human traitor had been beheaded and his body had been disposed of—out of a chute through which normally flowed Cylon garbage.
Imperious Leader ordered his network to root out and destroy the surviving humans, with special attention to the complete disintegration of the battlestar Galactica. As his centurions began sending out the message, the leader allowed himself a momentary surge of gratification. He was close to his goal now. With the annihilation of the humans, order could be returned to the universe, and he was the founder of that new universal order. Although he would not have admitted his feelings to be akin to Baltar's repulsively human selfishness, he could not help but acknowledge to himself that his place in Cylon history had been strengthened considerably by the imminent removal of the human pest.
Adama prayed that his rising hopes were not unreasonable as he oversaw the assembling of his ragtag fleet at the chosen coordinate points in space. Many of the survivor ships were decrepit, scarred vehicles, to be sure, but more of them had slipped through Cylon lines than he had expected. Reports showed that almost twenty-two thousand ships, representing every colony, color, and creed of the twelve worlds, had been dredged up as the result of the communications and physical searches initiated by his people. They might not exactly be suited for combat, but at least they were ships. They gave the human race, now reduced to a miniscule fraction of the population that had flourished in the twelve words, another chance. A chance to survive, a chance to—someday—defeat the Alliance.
As he watched reports come in on various screens, he was mildly amused by the signs on the battered sides of some of the rescued craft. Trans-Stellar Space Service. Gemini Freight. Tauron Bus Lines. The new fleet consisted of ships of every assortment, size, and shape. It might not look like much, but it was all he had.
"You look like the catlet that swallowed the underbird," Athena said, referring to a famous Caprican children's story. She smiled slyly. How long had she been standing there observing him?
"And you're rude for a subordinate whose sole claim to rudeness is that she's the commander's daughter."
She turned toward the starfield, and swept a hand across their immediate view of several of the odd-looking ships.
"That's quite an array of squadrons," she said. "Or are you even going to divide them into squadrons? You could put all the transportation vehicles into one, all the moving-van ships into another, all the sanitation—"
"That'll be enough, young lady."
"It's all just a roundabout way of asking you what you're planning."
Troubled by the question, he turned away from Athena. The move did him no good. Starbuck hovered nearby, slightly in front of a puzzled Colonel Tigh. In the shadows the newswoman, Serina, sat beside Apollo, their backs to the communications panel.
"All right," he said, "you all want some kind of an explanation from me. All right. I've got this idea."
"Idea?" Athena said, a bit too hopefully for her father's pleasure.
"It's just this. Long ago, I've no time concept of how long, and it's not important, there was an earlier civilization, a race from which we're descended. It's all in the secret history books, but I doubt if any of you have been privileged to inspect them."
They all shook their heads no.
"Well, our parent race left their home and set out to establish colonies throughout the universe. Many planets were settled but—because of dangers inherent in the individual planet or unpredictable disasters that wiped out colonies—only a few were successful. Finally, the twelve worlds were discovered, exploration showed them to be supremely habitable, and the remnants of all the other colonies were moved here. New colonies were established and, as you well know, they thrived. Now, those of us in this collection of motley ships are all that's left. We represent every known surviving colony, except one—"
"Except one?" Athena asked. "I don't understand what you mean. As far as I know, each of the twelve worlds had survivors and we've managed to rescue them."
"I'm not talking about the twelve worlds. No, I refer to a sister colony far out in the universe, perhaps not a colony at all, perhaps the planet from which our race originated. Whatever, it's only remembered through ancient writings. I'd show some to you but they, too, were destroyed by the Cylon assault."
"Okay," Athena said, "we all know something about this. It's been a part of our mythology for years—about an origin place called Earth, sometimes Garden of Earth, although that's never made much sense to me, it seems—"
"It may not be mythology, Athena."
"But it may be."
"Well, we'll see."
Adama was irked by his daughter's proddings. He had been excusing her recent shows of temperament on the grounds that she had been through so much misery since the beginning of the Cylon doublecross, but now he wondered if it was time to combine parental with military discipline and speak to her harshly.
"It's my intention," he resumed, speaking more slowly to test his own patience word by word, "to seek out that last remaining colony—call it Earth if you must. Whatever you call it, it may be the last outpost of humanity in the universe, perhaps a civilization like our own, perhaps with people just like us. We can ask their help in rebuilding and, perhaps, warn them of the Alliance and their goal of eradicating mankind."
"But, if the Allianc
e hasn't discovered them yet, maybe they're safe from attack. Maybe we shouldn't even—"
"Athena! It's the only solution we have. The Alliance is going to chase us across the universe. Lieutenant Starbuck, you have a question."
"Yes, Sir. If we're talking about this same colony, this mythological colony, well, I don't think anybody knows where it is. Even if we did, we barely have enough fuel to—"
"A very good point, Lieutenant. We have to find a fuel source, then. A fuel source and extended provisions for a long journey."
Colonel Tigh came forward.
"Commander, this is hardly a fleet of sturdy, well equipped soldiers, up to battling the universe. I mean, most of these people barely got away with their lives. They're emotionally and physically unprepared for the kind of journey you are proposing . . ."
Apollo stood up and spoke.
"Sir, less than a third of these ships can make light-speed. It could take us generations to find Earth."
"Ah, but you're talking about it as if you believe in it, or at least in the possibility of it. It's a sign that it's worth seeking out. We'll find it because we have no choice. No choice. If we mark time in this corner of the universe, the Alliance'll find us. No, we'll travel only as fast as our slowest ship, we'll be only as strong as our weakest brother."
"Your rhetoric is attractive but I think we should fight."
Even Apollo was turning against him. Well, no matter. He had to persevere.
"We're the only surviving battlestar and our pilots are up to the task of protecting the whole fleet. Let's leave it at that. You may speak your mind at the next council."
"Thank you, sir."
Serina leaned forward and spoke in the style of her journalistic profession.
"I'm a bit vague on this business, star mythology was never my best subject." Which meant, of course, that she knew a great deal about it and was pretending ignorance in order to draw him out. "You say that this thirteenth colony, or parent world, is named Earth, and it may be somewhere out there in the universe, still populated and still amenable to receiving returning colonial inhabitants."
Adama turned back to the starfield, as if an easy answer to Serina's question was spelled out there in rusty letters by the decrepit vehicles. He felt like an ordinary seaman searching the horizon for a glimpse of sail.
"I think there is a real world called Earth and that it is out there and will welcome us," he said finally. "I believe it is there."
"Belief is a word associated more strongly with hope than fact," Serina said, adding a belated "Sir."
"Belief, hope," Adama said, "they're all we have, all we've ever had."
"Forgive my scepticism, Commander Adama, but you're asking us to join you on a religious quest."
"Perhaps."
"You can't go off on a religious quest when we—"
"I can," Adama said, "and I will."
He made a long survey of their puzzled faces.
"And you'll go."
When he saw that Serina was about to protest again, he said softly:
"There's no other choice."
FROM THE ADAMA JOURNALS:
I realized one thing about leadership during the period of exodus from the twelve worlds. A leader, no matter how benevolently he regards himself, has to be something of a tyrant. If he lets everyone in on every phase of his plan, allows them complete access to all information so they can see the overpowering odds against them, he takes the risk they'll become too discouraged to perform the little jobs that bring us forward through all the tedious phases. Human resilience is a marvelous quality, and we proved that during our time of reorganizing our society, repairing our damage, converting our ships to hyperspace power, building up the hopes of our people even while we reduced their food rations. I had faith in our resilience, but knew it worked best when the goals were limited. The emotions of people who are struggling with the aftermath of tragedy can be stretched to a breaking point if too much is demanded at once. So I had to remain a tyrant, remain aloof even from my friends and family. More than once my own resilience was put to task. No wonder tyrants so often turn mad.
CHAPTER FIVE
"I need sleep in the worst way," Starbuck moaned, as he and Boomer briskly made their way across a narrow walkway that hovered over a maze of tubing and pipes.
"Worst way, best way, any way," Boomer muttered. "I just want to get off this lousy duty detail."
Starbuck shrugged.
"I don't know. I get a kick outta being an investigator, makes me feel like a real detective. So I look at it this way. It isn't the worst duty in the fleet, asking a lot of questions. I hear they're gonna send some poor guys from Beta Section crawling around on the outside of some old skybus looking for a solium leak."
"Mmmm . . . how'd they miss us for that detail?"
"Beats me."
Like most fleet warriors, Starbuck hated the thought of a solium leak. A derivative of the fuel source, Tylium, the solium compound was less volatile but more insidious, since it was often difficult to detect until it was too late.
They left the walkway and entered the freighter's engine room. Turning a corner, they came upon Captain Apollo, who was concentrating on an electronic measuring device as his crew pointed solium detecting wands in various directions.
"What have we here?" Starbuck said.
"I don't think I wanta know," Boomer replied.
Apollo looked up from the measuring device and glanced angrily at the two new arrivals. Starbuck's body tensed. Apollo's emotions were unpredictable these days, since his father had begun assembling the ragtag fleet.
"Would you two knock it off?" Apollo said. "I'm trying to listen for solium leaks."
Starbuck and Boomer looked quickly toward each other, then turned in unison, intending to retreat to the walkway.
"'Bye," Starbuck said.
"Halt," Apollo said.
The two men stopped in their tracks.
"Apollo," Starbuck said. "That stuff is dangerous. I don't want any part of it. I mean, these old ships shouldn't even be flying."
"There wasn't really any choice, was there? How many people did we have to leave behind for lack of ships, do you imagine?"
"Nobody knows."
"But you can be sure there were a lot, all left to be exterminated by those lousy Cylons. So—unless you want to volunteer permanent assignment on this tub, which incidentally shows every sign of adaptability to hyperspace conversion, you'll help survey each and every ship in the fleet for damage. And that means look for solium leaks. Or I'll be tempted to loan you out to Beta Company."
Without waiting for any response from Starbuck or Boomer, Apollo abruptly turned, picked up the measuring device, gestured toward his crew, and walked toward the ship's bulkhead.
When he was out of hearing range, Boomer whispered to Starbuck:
"Keep talking, old buddy, and you're going to get us in real trouble."
"Ah, he's got a fly up his exhaust tube. I don't know what's going on with everybody. They're all going felgercarb, if you ask me. Ten thousand light years from nowhere, our planet's shot to hell, we're running around looking for leaks in old buckets, our people are starving, and you're worrying about me getting us in trouble. What's the matter with you? What's the matter with everybody? I say we might as well live for the day. We haven't got many of them left!"
They followed Apollo through a bulkhead hatch into a passenger compartment. At least it was a passenger compartment now, whatever its original function might have been. Starbuck was at first struck by the thick feeling of the air, which seemed to resist inhalation. Small wonder. The room was packed with people—old, young, crippled, babes in arms. Some of them lay on the floor, clearly exhausted and spent. Others pressed up against packing crates. Still others had transformed the crates into their own private shelters. As the crowd took note of Apollo's presence, many of them reached toward him, their smudged fingers clutching and clawing at the young officer.
"Back," Apollo said
. "Please, stay back."
The crowd looked as if they might jump onto Apollo, but were apparently checked by the move of Boomer and Starbuck to the captain's side.
"Where is the food?" a bedraggled and obviously desperate woman shouted. "What is it that's happening? We haven't had water in two days! Two days!"
"Please!" Apollo shouted. Starbuck had never heard Apollo's voice become so strident. "I'll be glad to help each and every one of you. But stay back. Starbuck, Boomer . . ."
Starbuck drew his sidearm. He raised it toward the ceiling to display it for the threatening crowd.
"Put it away, Starbuck," Apollo said. "These people are already in battle shock."
"Yeah? Well, in another couple moments they'da been using you for a doormat, Captain."
"Where is the food?" an emaciated old man screamed. The phrase was quickly becoming a ritual to these suffering people, Starbuck noticed. "Why haven't we seen or heard from anyone in two days?"
"What the hell's going on?" another man said. "Have we been left behind?"
Apollo took a deep breath and gestured for silence. The crowd quieted down.
"You haven't been left behind," Apollo said in a level voice. "There must be some problems in distribution. But it'll be corrected, I promise you that. Just be grateful you're alive and please give us a chance to adjust and find out what your needs are."
"We need food, that's what we need," the emaciated man said in a whining voice.
"And medicine," said one of the women. "There are wounded here, with us."
"That's one of the reasons we're here," Apollo said. "To check these things out, find out what your problems are."
"The problem is," said a professorial, middle-aged man with a beard, "the problem is we're all going to die."
Apollo sighed.
"No," he said, "no one is going to die. Now, it'll take a little while but we're just now finding out how many of us have survived—"
"Hardly the fittest," the professorial man said bitterly. Apollo chose to ignore the man's sarcasm.
"We need to know what your skill levels are," Apollo continued, "so that we can utilize them in helping each other. Boomer, get on the communicator and let Core Control know these people haven't had any food or water in two days."
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