"Nothing to worry about," he said. But a Cylon laser torpedo came too close and the explosion sent Starbuck's ship rocking. He banked it over and away from the pair of Cylons, who continued pursuit.
"Boomer," Apollo said, "you give him a hand?"
"Again? Well, I'm trying."
Boomer swung over and began firing.
"Don't take too long, Boomer," Starbuck said.
Another explosion shook Starbuck's ship. Boomer got the attacker in his sights and pulled the trigger with a vengeance. The Cylon fighter made a thousand beautiful little pieces.
"C'mon, Starbuck, Boomer," Apollo yelled. "Let's triple-team 'em."
The three fighters quickly formed a triangular formation much like the one they'd used in blazing the path through the mine field, and they swept down together on the wall of Cylon ships, shooting left and right, up and down. Cracks seemed to form in the Cylons ranks. A series of explosions joined many of the close-flying craft. Apollo, Starbuck, and Boomer all together went into a tight turn and fled the counterattack.
"That's a few for the Atlantia," Starbuck said.
"And for Zac," Apollo said.
Other vipers from the Red and Blue squadrons came together and blasted away at the Cylon spacecraft. The wall of menace was quickly becoming a wall of fire and shattered fighters, Starbuck thought, as he swooped down on still another sitting duck target.
On the bridge the reports came in so fast that they were difficult to assimilate. Adama felt at the center of a vast network of communications.
"Commander! Scanner shows a series of mammoth explosions on the surface of Carillon. Half the planet is blowing up, looks like!"
A screen displayed the large fires on the planet's surface. Another one showed many explosions occurring in the sky above the mine.
"What're those?" Adama asked.
"Not sure, but we think it's the rest of the Cylon war party that sneak-attacked us down there. Appears they all didn't take off before the mine explosions started."
"Commander," Tigh report, "the Cylon Supreme Star Force seems to be retreating, at least for the moment. Should we give pursuit? All our pilots are begging to pursue."
Adama wanted to give the order to pursue, but it was too dangerous to let the vipers get too far away from the main fleet.
"No," he said, "we must conserve our resources. There's too much to do yet."
"Should I order the vipers to return to base?"
"No, we better go out and meet them. Contact the Rising Star and the other ships. Tell them we're all heading through the minefield corridor. We've got to get out of this trap, then set all ships for the hyperspace jump back. I don't know for sure what's going on down on Carillon, but we can't afford to take chances—we've got to get moving in case the whole planet blows up. It gets any worse down there and, what with a working minefield on one side and an exploding planet on the other, we'd be between the devil and the deep blue."
"Yes, sir," Tigh said. "I'm on it."
Adama raced around the bridge as they set their course for the minefield corridor. He barked orders, directing the assembling of the fleet, the tricky flight through the minefield, and the subsequent landing of the flight squadrons.
The new crisis developed almost as soon as all the ships were outside the minefield. The Cylons had reassembled, rebuilt their attacking wall, and were heading back toward the fleet.
Adama turned to Apollo.
"All right, Captain," he said, "what's our potential? Can we give them a good fight, Apollo?"
Apollo punched out the information on the board below the main scanner, examined the data that came up on the screen.
"I'm afraid not, sir. There's still too many of them. In the long run, they'd wear us down. If we hadn't just been through a fight, we might be able to do something, but just now—"
"All right, all right. After the last time, I hate like hell to retreat from another battle. I don't want the military record of the Galactica to be tainted again."
"Sir, it's hardly taint when we're saving what's left of the human race."
"That's what I said the first time."
"You have the knack of always being right."
Apollo and Adama exchanged smiles. Adama saw, over his son's shoulders, that his daughter endorsed Apollo's words.
"And anyway," Starbuck interjected, "you know the old maxim: we're not retreating, we're just advancing in another direction."
"All right then, we'll make the hyperspace jump in—"
"Sir, there isn't time," Tigh said. "The Cylons'll close in on us before we can all make the jump. We have to set up a diversionary action."
"The Red squadron'll take care of that," Apollo said, then waited for Adama's response. After a brief moment, the commander nodded agreement.
"All right," he said, "but the Galactica'll be the last ship to make the jump. Rest of the fleet'll go first. Apollo, you take your squadron out there and stall them, then get back here in time for the jump. Those are your orders."
"Aye, aye, sir!" Apollo began running to the elevators leading to the bridge, shouting back to Starbuck at the communications console, "Assemble Red!"
"Jolly and Greenbean're gonna love this," muttered Starbuck as he set the alert claxon ringing.
There was a moment of quiet on the bridge as everybody watched the pilots scrambling toward their launch cribs, and the fighters, now refueled and made ready by the Galactica's efficient flight crews, starting down the tubes.
Suddenly, as if to add insult to injury, Tigh shouted out, "Oh, my God!"
"What is it, Tigh?"
"This is terrible. I just sent a message back through the secret transmission channel to the rest of the fleet, the ships we left behind. They sent back this." He waved the report under Adama's nose. "An attack against them has just commenced. A group of Cylon warships're surrounding them and've begun firing."
"Have they any chance?"
"If they can hold off until we make the jump back there."
Adama turned toward Starbuck.
"Lieutenant?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Assemble the Blue Squadron. I want it ready for a fight as soon as we make the jump."
"Aye, aye, sir!"
Starbuck, waving back at Athena, made his run to the elevators.
For the next few minutes, as the fleet made preparations for the hyperspace jump, and Apollo's squadron blasted away at the Cylon attackers, and the Blue squadron made ready then settled themselves into gee-couches for the hyperspace jump, the bridge of the Galactica was ablaze with activity.
The timing had to be exact, and it was. As Apollo's squadron returned to the Galactica after their hit-and-run assault, the initial prejump mechanisms were set. After the returning pilots were safely ensconced in gee-couches, the jump was made.
A long moment passed, then suddenly the Galactica found itself in the middle of the Cylon attack on the rest of the fleet ships. Starbuck and his squadron raced to their launch cribs, boarded their ships, and catapulted themselves into the battle. The Cylons, so adept at ambush, seemed surprised at finding themselves under sudden and unexpected fire.
If the Cylon's Imperious Leader could have viewed the battle activity aboard the Galactica, he would have been struck by the contrast on his own ship. Even the messages along his communication network had dwindled since the humans had begun fighting back, and winning. The losses on the Cylon side had no correspondence with any defeats in their previous history. Since his third-brain had more time than usual to contemplate the nature of his defeat, he could trace his mistakes quite far back. It occurred to him that his supreme mistake seemed to be dealing with humans in the first place. However he tried to interpret the meaning of the defeat, his mind returned to the havoc wrought by the human pest.
The universe had been in order until the humans had started asserting themselves. Even then, the Cylons had avoided actual encounters for some time. When they had tried to convince the humans to leave those areas in spa
ce they had usurped, the humans had not listened to reason. There had been no solution but war. Although the Cylons had made the first attack, it was in fact the humans who had precipitated the war by their stubborn interference in Cylon affairs and their refusal to give up their colonies and go back to whatever sector of the universe they came from.
The leader tapped the memories of previous leaders and examined every dealing the Cylons had had with the enemy. They were like a disease, these humans. Once they had infected an area with their presence, there was no cure; the disease spread until it touched all life forms. In that way they had infected the Cylons and brought them to this low point in their history.
The defeat of both Cylon task forces by the small contingent of human fighters had shocked the leader, especially the way his ships had fallen prey to the diversionary action of Captain Apollo and his crew. Embarrassing. The leader felt a pang of anger when he thought of Apollo—the man was, after all, the son of the hated Commander Adama, the prime source of all the human victories. Who would have expected, for example, that he would return to his near-derelict ships traveling slowly through space and ambush the Cylon attackers—the final horrendous defeat that Imperious Leader now had to consider. The whole campaign might have been salvaged if it had not been for those two men, Apollo and Adama. It was the leader's keenest desire now to rid space of these two reckless humans. He would experience great pleasure if he could personally torture the two men, father and son.
Well, he still had a chance at killing Apollo and Adama.
But, no, it was wrong to think such hateful, vengeful thoughts. It was unworthy of the possessor of a third-brain. He should not be brooding over the series of defeats, he should be planning the new strategies of attack.
Gradually, the truth of his position dawned on him. Any other Imperious Leader, realizing the import of the defeats he had suffered, would have resigned the position immediately and ordered his own death. It was the only logical thing to do. His death should be the price for allowing the humans to survive when their annihilation had been certain. But he could not do that. No, he must survive. It was essential. He must pursue the hateful Adama and Apollo, and the rest of their verminous race, to whatever part of the universe they would now travel to, with their renewed strength and their supplies of new fuel. All reports indicated that, after the defeat of the Cylons, they had taken their hyperspace and hyperspace-converted craft and vanished from their formerly camouflaged pocket of space. They had not been located since. Well, he would locate them. And he would go after them again. And he would slaughter them. He could not die until that final annihilation had taken place. He could not allow himself the questionable privilege of suicide as a historical failure.
It occurred to him that other leaders would not have had these qualms about giving up the position and dying. They would not have hated, they would not have desired revenge so obsessively. Why was he driven so, he wondered. And suddenly he knew why. He had been dealing with the humans so long, thinking like a human so long, that he had become like a human. His desire for revenge was quite humanlike. That was the final defeat, perhaps, that he had become like his enemy. Well, so be it. He would destroy what had become human within him by destroying the humans themselves. Adama, he would kill personally. For now he must wait.
Adama raised his silver goblet to signal a toast. All around the table that formed a circle in the middle of the bridge, the crew, civilians, and council became quiet. He took a moment to gaze at them, then past the gathering at the starfield portal beyond them. It seemed as if the stars in this part of space glittered more than any he had ever seen. He felt optimistic, hopeful.
"I toast our victories and the achievement of our goals," he began.
"Hear, hear," said Councilor Anton, who was sitting to Adama's right.
"And I ask you to remember for a moment the various men and women who died in the Cylon invasion of the twelve worlds and the subsequent events in which the members of the Galactica fleet acted so valiantly."
During the moment of silence many of the assemblage bowed their heads in prayer. Adama resumed his speech.
"I hope that out of this—all this tragedy—will come some good. I am sure we have not seen the end of treachery, either human like Count Baltar or alien like the Cylons."
He glanced toward Sire Uri, who slid down a bit in his seat, secretly glad not to be included on the commander's list of villains. Perhaps his resignation from the council had soothed Adama's anger toward him.
"I wish to take this occasion," Adama continued, "to officially announce my acceptance of the job as president of the council, and thank you for electing me."
"We didn't elect you," Councilor Anton interjected. "We merely took back and tore up your resignation."
"Be that as it may, I thank you. Now we go seeking a place for our race, a place to settle and people in peace. A place in the universe where we can test our potentials again. Perhaps we may find it on the planet our mythology calls Earth. I see no one scoffs when I mention Earth this time. Perhaps now you believe that our little ragtag fleet can do it, can perform this lonely quest as we flee from Cylon tyranny, discover anew the shining planet Earth. Ladies and gentlemen, as a toast I give you . . . hope."
They all drank and the meal, a simple feast prepared from food grown in their agricultural project during their brief stay on Carillon, commenced. Many in the company marveled at how much better this simpler fare was than the exotic delicacies fed them by the Ovions. The councilors, especially, agreed. Paye, through blood analysis, had established that Lotay had drugged the councilor's foods, making them susceptible to ideas they would not otherwise have entertained.
Serina, seated two places away from Adama, leaned his way and spoke.
"You really do believe we can find this place, this Earth, don't you, Commander?"
"Yes, I do. I realize what you're implying with your journalistic question, Serina—that we are chasing a dream. Sometimes dreams are worth the chasing. Along the way, who can say what we may find, what we may learn."
"Don't mistake me, Commander. I am on your side."
"I appreciate your saying that. There have been times recently when I was not entirely sure who was on my side, including some who were quite close to me."
Athena put a consoling hand on her father's arm, and Apollo nodded.
"But let's not, while everything is tranquil and our needs are being adequately supplied, dwell on such matters. It is a time for joy."
"I'm all for that," Starbuck said.
"Yes, aren't you?" Athena said, with a meaningful glance toward Cassiopeia, who was seated across from her.
"I am at peace with you," Cassiopeia said.
"See that you stay that way."
"No."
Athena glared at her, then broke out laughing.
"Okay," she said, "you're on."
"You sound like me," Starbuck said.
"Ten to one I don't," Athena said.
"Hey Starbuck," Boomer called from a seat farther down the table, "when you going to pay me off for saving your life out there?"
"But I saved your life right after that."
"And I saved your life again right after that, bucko."
"Swallow your fuel line, Boom-Boom."
Starbuck and Boomer's performance added to the party's festive air.
Apollo leaned toward Serina and whispered, "This is supposed to be a celebration. You look a bit down in the mouth."
"Does it show?"
"Yes, it does, and you're too pretty to look sad."
"Drop the military strategy, please. You know I'm receptive to you without it."
"Sorry, can't easily get rid of my military instincts."
"Try."
Apollo smiled. Serina could barely resist that smile.
"Sure," he said. "But you haven't explained the sad look, Serina."
She looked down at her plate of food, swirled an asparagus stalk around with her fork.
"Wel
l, it's—it's Boxey. You know how close I am to him, and, well, I just can't be happy with him so miserable."
"I noticed he didn't look so cheerful out in the hallway not long ago. What's wrong?"
"It's Muffit Two. Boxey's moping about losing him."
Apollo hit his forehead with the palm of his hand.
"I forgot! How could I? I promised him I would—"
Serina touched Apollo's arm.
"You couldn't be expected to do anything about it, not with battles going and—"
"But I did do something. Where's Wilker? Wilker? Where are you?"
From far down the table the doctor yelled back, and stood up.
"Did you bring it?" Apollo asked.
"Of course," Wilker hollered back. "Just waiting for you to tell me what to do with it."
Wilker held up a large leather case.
"All right," Apollo said, and turned back to Serina. "Where's Boxey now?"
"I'll get him."
Serina was gone only a short time. She came back, dragging the obviously reluctant boy by the arm. Boxey appeared very downcast.
"Hey trainee," Apollo said, "what's got you down?"
As he addressed the boy, he signalled Wilker to come down the table.
"I'm okay. I wanta go back to my cubicle," Boxey said.
"But you're invited to our victory feast," Apollo said.
"Don't want anything to eat. I'm not hungry."
"Okay, we'll let Muffy take your place."
"Apollo!" Serina hollered.
"Doctor Wilker, you got the goods?"
"Right here."
"Open the case."
The doctor opened the case, and Muffit Two hopped out, right onto a plate of mashed potatoes. Extricating his paws from the food, he leaped into Boxey's waiting arms. The boy's face was completely transformed; his eyes glowed with happiness.
"You were saying?" Apollo asked Serina.
"What did you do?"
"Easy. Muffy's a droid, after all. All Doctor Wilker here had to do was straighten out a few wires, replace a few parts, patch on a new bit of fur here and there . . . right, doc?"
"It's a fairly easy repair job."
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