He looked up with a start, hiding both slips in his closed hand. It was the male copilot, pointing straight at him. “Aren’t you Gaius Baltar?”
Panicky, but covering, he answered, “Why, I haven’t done anything.” Why would that man be singling him out? Did the man suspect what he was about to do? Frantic, Baltar raised his hand and called out, “This lady has ticket number forty-seven.” He pointed to his left. “This lady here!”
“Would you come up here, please?” the military man said.
Bewildered, Baltar glanced at the old woman, whose face was beaming—and together with her, moved through the crowd toward the two pilots.
Sharon, too, was bewildered. Why was Helo calling that man forward? She could see the crowd stirring at this sudden change, and she had a knot of uncertainty in her own stomach. Stepping closer to Helo, she said, “What are you doing?”
He half-grinned awkwardly, and closed his eyes, swallowing hard. It took him a moment to get the words out. He reached out and took her hand. “I’m giving up my seat.”
Her stomach clenched, and her jaw. “Like hell.”
Helo squeezed her hand. His head bobbed as if he couldn’t control it. “A civilian should take my place.”
No! She spoke with as much force as she could muster. “You’re going.”
Helo gave her a moment to control herself and listen. His gaze was resolute. “Look at those clouds. Sharon, look at those clouds, and tell me this isn’t the end of everything.”
She glanced away and against her will, found herself taking in the view of the mushroom clouds in the distance. She looked back. “Helo—!”
“Whatever future is left is gonna depend on whoever survives. Give me one good reason why I’m a better choice than one of the greatest minds of our time.”
This is wrong! “Helo—”
“You can do this without me. I know you can. You’ve proven it.” His face was so earnest, imploring her. She didn’t know what to say. Was it possible he was right?
Sharon struggled to control her face, to hold back tears. Her partner, her friend… leave him on this doomed planet…? Is he right? Maybe not… but it’s what he wants. He squeezed her arm one last time, then released her. He had made up his mind, and there would be no talking him out of it.
Baltar and the old woman had emerged at the front of the crowd and were standing, gazing at them expectantly. The woman was smiling, and Baltar was looking tentative and uncertain. Sharon closed her eyes for an instant, and made up her mind. “Get on board,” she snapped, gesturing to both of them to move quickly. She turned to watch them board, then spun back to Helo.
The crowd were crying their disapproval of this sudden development. “Wait, wait, wait!” “What about us?” “Hey, wait!” Helo was already hobbling forward, arms spread wide, to keep them at bay.
“Stay back. Stay back!” He glanced sharply back at Sharon. “You’d better go!”
Feeling as if she had a knife in her heart, Sharon turned from him for the last time and hurried onto the Raptor.
Gaius Baltar wondered if he were dreaming. It was far too good to be true. Had he actually been given a seat on this ship? The angry crowd certainly seemed to bear that out. They were shouting, protesting the arbitrary decision to let him on board. He hadn’t waited to think about it, but had gallantly helped the old woman on board, and then gotten inside as quickly as possible himself.
He stood in the open doorway, staring out at the crowd of hopeless, doomed people. Standing in their midst was someone who hadn’t been there a moment ago. A gorgeous blonde in a stunningly low-cut, red spaghetti-strap dress, watching him with the kind of gaze a woman reserved for just one man. Natasi. His heart nearly stopped, then started pounding twice as hard as before. Was he hallucinating? Natasi’s dead. I saw her. She can’t be here. He stared in disbelief. He blinked and looked back. There was no sign of her. She had never been there. I hallucinated her.
Haunted by that momentary vision, and tormented by the sound of the crowd, he stumbled back into the craft as the military man yelled to the crowd, “Stay back! Stay back! It’s over!”
Something was surely over, but Baltar wished he knew what it was.
Sharon fought her way to the cockpit, not so much through the crowd of passengers as through the resistance of her heavy heart. She grunted instructions to everyone to buckle in. A boy, maybe ten years old, had taken the right-hand seat. Sharon buckled into the left seat. She snapped on the fuel valve and masters, started the pumps, and powered up the engines. The down-thrusters began kicking up dust from the ground.
Outside the cockpit, she could see Helo hobbling, still holding his sidearm, driving the crowd away from the ship. You’re leaving your best friend to die. Tears began streaming down her face, and she had to look away. Just do your job. She focused on the flight controls, and drew a deep breath. Applying power, she began lifting the Raptor from the ground. It strained, with the full load of passengers.
At the edge of the crowd, a man suddenly broke free and ran to the ship and threw himself onto the side platform. Sharon felt the Raptor lean a little, and compensated with the thruster control. She saw Helo turn and point his weapon at the man. Helo shouted something, inaudible to Sharon—then fired his gun. There was a flare, and the man spun, falling from the side of the ship. Relieved and horrified at the same time, Sharon applied more thrust. The ship rose more quickly.
From the swirling cloud of dust, Helo looked up at Sharon and raised a hand in farewell. She pressed her own hand to the windshield. Good-bye, Helo.
Then she pushed the throttle forward, and the Raptor lifted quickly away from the hillside and began its climb back into the skies of Caprica and the deep darkness of space.
CHAPTER
26
Colonial Heavy 798
In the cockpit of the transport Laura Roslin and Captain Lee Adama listened, riveted, as the wireless broadcast replayed. Captain Russo reached above his head to fine-tune the signal. Out the window was darkness, and the stars, and the distant orb of Caprica.
“This is an official Colonial government broadcast. All ministers and officials should now go to Case Orange. Repeat: This is an official Colonial government broadcast. All ministers and officials should now go to Case Orange.”
There was a sharp intake of breath from Laura. Lee and the two transport pilots turned to her, as she struggled to maintain her composure. Sitting on a jump seat behind the copilot, she still had the blanket wrapped around her shoulders; she looked worn and very tired. “It’s an automated message,” she said, answering their unspoken question with a low, even voice. “It’s designed to be sent out in case the president, the vice president, and most of the cabinet are dead or incapacitated.”
Lee stared at her, stunned.
Laura, however tired or overwhelmed she might have felt, continued without missing a beat. To Russo she said, “I need you,” and she paused for a heartbeat, “to send my ID code back on the exact same frequency.”
Russo barely managed to voice his response. “Yes, ma’am.”
“D as in dog, dash—”
As she recited the code, Captain Russo punched the keys on the comm unit.
“—four-five-six, dash, three-four-five, dash, A as in apple.” Laura swallowed. “Thank you.”
Lee followed her with his gaze as she got up and left the cockpit.
After a minute, he left the cockpit himself and walked slowly back through the cabin. It was an eerie sensation. It was like being on any passenger liner, in the quiet of night, except that this passenger liner was witnessing the end of the world as they knew it. He walked until he found the row where Laura was sitting, alone, in a backward-facing leather seat. Out the window, the universe seemed eternal and changeless. Eternal maybe; but not changeless. Lee took the position facing her, and sat on the edge of the seat, resting his hands between his knees. He took a deep breath, and let it out, meeting her gaze as she opened her eyes. Her sense of shock was almost phys
ical, surrounding her like an aura.
He gathered his thoughts for a moment, then asked, “How far down?”
She answered quietly. “Forty-third in line of succession. I know all forty-two ahead of me, from the president down. Most of us served with him in the first administration.” Resting her head back, she seemed to leave the hopeless present for a moment. “Some of them came with him from the mayor’s office. I was there with him on his first campaign.” She wrinkled her nose. “I never really liked politics. I kept telling myself I was getting out, but… he had this way about him.”
Lee smiled faintly. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt humbled that she would be confiding in him.
“I just couldn’t say no,” Laura concluded with a pained chuckle. She shifted her eyes to look up at Captain Russo, who had just appeared, bearing a printout. He handed the octagonal piece of paper to her without a word. She looked at it, nodded, and handed it back to him. “Thank you,” she whispered.
She pulled the blanket off her shoulders and began putting her wine-red jacket on. Lee followed her movements with narrowed eyes as she said to Russo, “We’ll need a priest.”
Elosha, the priest who had officiated at the decommissioning ceremony, was among those passengers returning—as they had once thought—to Caprica. She stood in the center of a small knot of news reporters, who were also among those returning from their coverage of what had seemed a soft news story, the transformation of a fabled fighting ship into a museum. Now they had their cameras and microphones trained on Elosha and Laura Roslin, to witness the transfer of presidential power.
Elosha was a handsome, dark-skinned woman of about forty, wearing a deep blue dress and a matching blue headband. She held one of the sacred scrolls in her hands, and pulled it open. Soberly, she said, “Please raise your right hand and repeat after me…”
Laura raised her hand, with a great sense of weight and sadness. Lee Adama stood just behind her, to her right, watching with what she suspected was disbelief. Billy stood behind her, to her left, lending silent support, as did Captain Russo, behind Elosha. Aaron Doral was a frowning presence, several layers of people back.
“I, Laura Roslin…”
She echoed, her voice quavering, “I… Laura Roslin…”
“…do now avow and affirm…”
Her voice steadied a little, as she repeated the words.
“…that I take the office of the President of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol…”
“…that I accept the office of th—” Her voice broke on that, and she had to stop and gather herself again. “That I accept the office of the President of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol…” and she continued, following Elosha, “and that I will protect and defend the sovereignty of the Colonies… with every fiber of my being.” Her voice strained on those last words, as the weight of the responsibility she was taking on hit her like a mountain avalanche.
She paused, waiting for Elosha to offer the concluding words. She pushed her hair back nervously with her raised hand, and glanced momentarily at Lee Adama. Did she have his support? She thought she did. He seemed solid, intelligent, capable, and uneager for personal power. She wanted to trust him, and she prayed that there were more like him. She was going to need all the help she could get from people like that. They all were going to need help. From the Lords of Kobol, and from each other.
CHAPTER
27
Galactica, Fire-Gutted Holds of Deck D
Chief Tyrol could barely keep his emotions in check as he watched the men carry out the bodies of the dead, and begin the cleanup of the devastated compartments. The stink of smoke and death filled the air. Tyrol’s stomach was churning. He couldn’t have said which was the target of his worst fury—the Cylons or the XO. Those people who were being carried out were all good men and women; many of them were his personal friends. None of them deserved to die. They had put their lives on the line freely—but to what purpose? So that the XO could snuff them like so many candles? We could have gotten them out! It didn’t have to be this way!
In the CIC, Commander Adama stood under the main bank of monitors, listening to the XO’s report. He had a lot of information on the pieces of paper spread out on the planning table, but he wanted to hear it directly from Tigh. The bottom line was that the ship was safe—for now. Hull breaches were being repaired, buckled supports could be straightened or replaced, and the landing bay would soon be able to receive the returning Vipers.
What he hadn’t heard yet was the cost in human life. He put on his glasses. “What was the final count?”
“Twenty-six walked out,” Tigh said grimly. “Eighty-five didn’t.” And that didn’t include the three Viper pilots lost in this battle—or the CAG’s entire squadron wiped out before it could return to them. Tigh took a breath and, hefting the munitions-supply notebook, continued, “There’s a munitions depot in the Ragnar Anchorage.”
Ragnar. Deep in a storm cell in the atmosphere of a gas giant planet. “Boy, it’s a super-bitch to anchor a ship there,” Adama said.
Tigh was undeterred. “Well, the book says that there are fifty pallets of class-D warheads in storage there. They should also have all the missiles and small-arms munitions we nee—”
“Go verify that.”
Tigh straightened. “Sir.” He handed the munitions-supply book to Adama and strode away.
If we can verify anything it’ll be a miracle, Adama thought, hefting the book in his hand. But a miracle is just what we need. That and some ammunition.
Tyrol continued his walk-through, knowing that he probably hadn’t seen the worst yet. He was right. It was confirmed when he stepped through a bulkhead door and found Specialist Cally in her yellow fire-fighting suit, slumped against a wall, cradling Specialist Prosna’s burned and blackened body. She was weeping, unable to speak. Tyrol didn’t try to speak to her, didn’t know what to say. Cally and Prosna, besides being his two best crewmembers and friends, had been a close-knit couple. He knelt in front of her, laying a hand on her arm, trying to give comfort where none could be given.
Cally looked at him beseechingly, for just one moment her eyes asking him to make it different somehow. In that moment, his thoughts fled to the other battle, the one none of them had seen, but had only heard through Sharon’s garbled transmission: an entire Viper squadron destroyed. And then the ominous silence following Sharon’s report that she too was under attack. He held no hope for changing that outcome or this one.
Finally, he lifted Prosna’s lifeless weight from Cally, and let her get to her feet. Weeping with nearly silent shudders, Cally helped him lower Prosna to the deck and lay him straight. There he would have to lie, until the stretcher teams came to remove him with the rest of the fallen.
Tyrol gave her shoulder a tight squeeze, then urged her out with him. She needed to be somewhere else, and he needed to make his report to Commander Adama.
Tyrol’s voice was hoarse as he said to the commander, “Do you know how many we lost?”
Adama’s response was abrupt. “Yes.” No emotion showed on his face, as he studied the planetary maps laid out on the strategy table. “Set up a temporary morgue in Hangar Bay B.”
Tyrol stood trembling, trying to form the words of protest. Finally he managed, “Forty seconds… sir. All I needed was… forty seconds.” He drew a ragged breath. “Eighty-five of my… people… and I told…” He swallowed and tried to control himself but couldn’t. “I told that sonofabitch…”
Adama swung around to face him straight on, eye to eye. In a low, iron-hard voice he said, “He’s the XO on this ship. Don’t you dare forget that.”
Trembling, Tyrol nodded.
Adama continued, his voice low and hard. “Now, he made a tough decision. Had it been me, we would have made the same one.”
Tyrol struggled to keep from shaking. In a near-whisper, he implored, “Forty seconds… sir.”
Adama held his gaze a heartbeat longer. “Resume your post, Chief,” he said, and walked past Ty
rol and on across the CIC.
Tyrol stood in shocked disbelief for a fraction of a second, then strode away to return to the cleanup. On his way out of the CIC, he passed Colonel Tigh just entering. He swerved around him with a dark, silent look and hurried on to make himself as busy as possible.
Adama watched as Tyrol departed. Sympathy would have to wait. They had something more important to worry about, which was defending their civilization against catastrophe. He needed Chief Tyrol as much as he needed Tigh, and he had confidence in the man—hell, he had brought Tyrol onto the ship at a time when no other skipper would, because of a single mistake in the past that had cost lives. He’d brought him aboard because Tyrol was the best spacecraft mechanic he had ever met, and a good leader. But right now there was no room for anything but absolute respect for authority. Saul Tigh was facing a similar test—and appeared to be passing it.
Tigh was standing across the table from him, giving him the latest information. Adama brought his attention back. “Munitions depot confirmed, but we have two problems,” Tigh said.
“One, the Ragnar station is at least three days away at best speed. Two, the entire Cylon fleet is between here and there.” Tigh shook his head.
Adama absorbed that for a moment, then called out into the quietly bustling center, “Specialist!”
“Sir,” answered the voice of Navigation Specialist Johnson, behind him.
“Bring me our position.”
“Yes sir.” Johnson appeared at his side, laying a sheet of paper in front of him.
Adama picked it up and studied it. Across the table, Tigh was eyeing him, and starting to shake his head. He had guessed what Adama was thinking. “You don’t want to do this,” Tigh said.
[Battlestar Galactica Reimagined 01] - Battlestar Galactica Page 13
