“I know I don’t.”
“Because any sane man wouldn’t. It’s been, what—twenty, twenty-two years?”
Adama placed the piece of paper on top of the chart, studying the figures. “We train for this,” he said without looking up.
“Training is one thing,” Tigh said, leaning over the table toward him, and continuing in a low voice, “but… if we’re off on our calculations by even a few degrees, we could end up in the middle of the sun!”
Adama finally looked up. “No choice. Colonel Tigh, please plot a hyperlight Jump from our position to the orbit of Ragnar.”
Tigh capitulated, but not happily. “Yes sir.” And he moved off to plot the Jump. Adama watched him, with a twitch of a smile.
No sooner was Tigh gone than Petty Officer Dualla was at his side, delivering yet another printout. Her eyes were wide, her face tense, her usually melodic voice hoarse. “Priority message, sir.” She stood at attention, waiting, as he read it. Lords of Kobol. He felt the blood drain from his face. He pulled off his glasses, working through the implications in his mind.
At another station, he could hear the XO giving orders, “Engineering—spin up FTL drives one and two.” As the engineering officer acknowledged, Colonel Tigh continued, “Lieutenant Gaeta, break out the FTL tables and warm up the computers.” To the CIC at large, he announced, “We are making a Jump!”
The crew had barely begun to absorb that when Adama raised his voice to make his own announcement. “Admiral Nagala is dead. Battlestar Atlantia has been destroyed. So has the Triton, Solaria, Columbia… the list goes on.” He lowered his head.
Tigh walked toward him. “The senior officer. Who’s in command?”
By way of answering, Adama turned to Dualla. “Send a message… to all the Colonial military units, Priority Channel One.” Dualla wrote on a clipboard. “Message begins: Am taking command of fleet….”
CHAPTER
28
Colonial One
President Laura Roslin peered over Captain Russo’s shoulder as he called, “Geminon liner Seventeen-Oh-One, this is Colonial Heavy Seven-Niner-Eight.” Captain Russo looked back over his shoulder at the newly sworn-in president and amended his call. “No, strike that. This is Colonial One.” Laura registered that with a slightly stunned expression. Clearly, this was going to take some getting used to.
“Go ahead, Colonial One.”
“We have you in sight, and will approach your starboard docking hatch.”
“Copy, Colonial One. Thank the Lords of Kobol you’re here. We’ve been without main-power for over two hours now.”
Lee Adama, meanwhile, was bent over the secure message console, watching something come in. He tore it off and read it silently. He pursed his lips thoughtfully.
“What is it?” Laura asked.
Lee held it out and read dryly, “To all Colonial Units, am taking command of fleet. All units ordered to rendezvous at Ragnar Anchorage for a regroup and counterattack. Acknowledge by same encryption protocol.” Lee hesitated, mouth half open, then concluded, “Adama.”
Laura pulled the printout from his hand and looked at it soberly. She thought a moment, then lifted her chin and turned to Lee. “Captain Apollo. Please inform Commander Adama that we are involved in rescue operations and we require his assistance.” She felt a smile twitching on her lips. This was going to be interesting. Would he obey his new commander-in-chief? “Ask him how many hospital beds they have available, and how long it will take him to get here.”
Lee looked stunned once more. “I, uh—”
“Yes,” she said.
After taking a long time to consider her words, Lee said, “I’m not sure he’s going to respond very well to that request.” A smile touched his lips, too, matching hers.
“Then tell him,” she said, “it comes directly from the President of the Twelve Colonies, and it’s not a request.” She let her voice sharpen ever so slightly on the last words.
The two transport pilots swiveled their heads in surprise, then went studiously right back to what they were doing.
“Yes sir,” said Lee. As she started to leave the cockpit, he continued, “And sir?” She paused to listen. “Apollo’s just my call sign. My name’s Lee Adama.”
“I know who you are.” She smiled, this time letting a moment of genuine warmth come through. “But Captain Apollo has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” Without waiting for an answer, she headed back to the passenger cabin.
* * *
Galactica, Combat Information Center
Throughout the CIC, tension was growing as the enlisted crew ran through checklists and startup procedures for the FTL Jump, with Gaeta and Tigh overseeing their work. Commander Adama was sidetracked from his study of the planetary and tactical charts by Petty Officer Dualla handing him a printout. “It’s from Colonial One, sir,” she said.
“Colonial One? What the hell ship is Colonial One? The president’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Yes sir,” said Dualla evenly. “The new president, by succession, is former Education Secretary Laura Roslin. That’s the first part of the message.”
“The first part? What’s the second part?” Adama put his glasses back on and read the printout. He squinted at the message in disbelief, and as he reread it, his jaw tightened with anger. “Is this a joke?” He looked at Dualla. “Are they within voice range?”
“Yes sir,” said Dualla. She already had her headset on, and she sidled around a corner of the console to the transmission panel. “Colonial One, this is Galactica …”
Lee Adama was sitting in the copilot’s seat in the transport cockpit, awaiting the call from Galactica. He knew it wouldn’t take long. Of all the conversations in the universe he could imagine, this was probably the one he least wanted to have. The thought of it was crowding all other thoughts from his mind, including ones that kept trying to come back, such as, were all his friends on Caprica dead now, and what about his mother and her fiancé? These things weighed heavily on the back of his mind—and yet, the scratchy voice on the wireless drove them once more out of his thoughts.
“Colonial One, Galactica… Galactica Actual wishes to speak with Apollo.”
He had to struggle to get his breath. What was his father going to say? As if he didn’t know. “This is Apollo. Go ahead, Actual.” He pursed his lips and waited for a reply.
It was a minute or so in coming. Captain Russo fiddled with the wireless tuning, as if worried that they were missing the signal. Finally they heard Commander Adama’s voice:
“How are you”—they could hear the commander clearing his throat—“is the ship all right?”
Lee could not keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “We’re both fine. Thanks for asking.” Captain Russo glanced over at him, but said nothing.
“Is your ship’s FTL functioning?”
Lee glanced at Russo, who nodded. “That’s affirmative.”
“Then you’re ordered to bring yourself… and all your ship’s passengers…to the rendezvous point.” Pause. “Acknowledge.”
Lee hesitated. “Acknowledge… receipt of message.”
“What the hell does that mean?” the distant voice thundered.
“It means, ‘I heard you’,” Lee said impatiently.
His father’s voice sharpened. “You’re going to have to do a lot better than that, Captain.”
“We’re engaged in rescue operations. By order of the president.” Your commander-in-chief.
“You are to abort your mission immediately.”
Lee winced. “The president has given me a direct order.”
“You’re talking about the secretary of education. We’re in the middle of a war I And you’re taking orders from a schoolteacher I” Adama’s voice shook the little wireless speaker; his anger practically jumped out into the cockpit of the transport.
Lee was aware of the president coming back into the cockpit, and listening to the conversation. But before he could either gauge her reaction or repl
y to his father, a beeping sound from the dradis display interrupted the argument.
“We’ve got trouble,” Captain Russo said.
“Uh, stand by, Galactica.” He leaned toward Captain Russo. “What?”
Russo tapped the dradis screen. “Inbound Cylon fighters.” He reached and pressed a series of switches. “Spinning up FTL. We have no defense against the fighters. Eduardo, give me a plot.”
At that, President Laura Roslin came forward, putting her glasses on. “How long till they get here?”
Russo look startled at her reappearance. “ETA, two minutes.”
“He’s right,” said Lee. “We have to go. Now.”
“No,” said Laura, shaking her head.
“Madame President, we can’t defend this ship—”
“We’re not going to abandon all these people.”
“But sir—if we stay—”
“I’ve made my decision, Captain.” She spoke clearly and unemotionally, her eyes focused outside the cockpit, searching for the Cylons.
He stared at her in disbelief for a moment. She was as pigheaded and irrational as his father. “You’re the president,” he said, peeling off his headset and climbing out of his seat to squeeze past her.
She looked startled at his sudden departure. Eduardo moved quickly from the jump seat back into the copilot’s seat. “All right, then,” she said.
“Permission to go below?” Lee asked, on his way out. He didn’t wait for an answer. He had less than two minutes to act before the Cylons would destroy them. She might think that he was jumping to his Viper—probably even hoping that—but he had another idea. A ridiculously long shot, but what other choice did they have?
He made his way at a run, down to the cargo deck. He had seen a small control panel down there…
In the CIC, an enlisted man darted from the remote sensor console over to where Lieutenant Gaeta was working on the FTL solution. After a hurried conference, Gaeta darted just as quickly to Commander Adama’s side. Tigh followed his movement with concern. “Sir,” said Gaeta, “we have remote sensor telemetry from Captain Apollo’s position, and two enemy fighters are closing in on her port…”
Oh frak no. Adama grabbed the headset he had torn off in disgust a minute ago, and tried to reach Colonial One. “Colonial One—this is Galactica! Apollo—you have inbound enemy fighters coming toward you! Get out of there! Apollo! Lee—get—Lee—!”
The bloom on the dradis screen told him he was too late.
In the cockpit of the transport, Laura saw and felt a blinding blast that hurled her against the back door of the compartment and took the world away.
In the CIC, the dradis display flickered, sorting through static, then went clear, showing no signal returns from the area where a minute ago there had been two civilian craft and two hostiles. Then the screen went dark, as the remote sensors were caught by the blast. They were all gone. Sensors, ships, everything.
Adama watched in disbelief, and finally bowed his head. He could say nothing. He could only fight to keep the pain from showing on his face. Lee. Gone. Why? Why Lee? He stood that way for a very long time.
Finally he heard Gaeta’s voice through the inner static of the pain: “Estimate a fifty-kiloton thermonuclear detonation.”
Nuke. Fusion bomb. Your only hope was to Jump out of there. Why didn’t you? Adama’s face creased with pain. But he could not, dared not, show any more emotion in front of the crew. Not now.
Gaeta’s voice continued, “Cylons moving off. Sir.”
Around him, everyone was silent. Everyone wishing they could help, wishing they could change it, wishing they could just say something. Eventually Tigh came up behind him and rested his hands on Adama’s shoulders. And stood with him. Just stood.
The others slowly returned to their posts.
Adama, bracing himself on the plotting table, forced out the words, in a low, tortured voice: “Resume… Jump… prep…”
As everyone moved, slowly, Tigh raised his voice and snapped the command: “Resume Jump prep!”
Soon the attention-tone sounded, and Dualla’s voice echoed throughout the ship. “Attention all hands. Jump prep underway. Set Condition Two throughout the ship. Set Condition Two throughout the ship.”
Chief Tyrol watched on a monitor, holding his breath, as the last of the Vipers came in for a landing. There was no way this could be an easy landing, not with all the buckling in the landing bay caused by the nuke. But this particular approach was heart-stopping; it was Starbuck, and her ship was not controlling properly in slow flight. She was yawing wildly, nearly hitting the side of the bay. It bounced and skidded as she hit the deck. Finally the Viper came to a stop on top of the hangar elevator, and Tyrol’s crew wasted no time bringing it down for servicing.
When Tyrol got a close look at the condition of the fighter, he was beside himself. “Lieutenant! What did you do to my Viper?”
Starbuck was just coming down from the cockpit, yanking her flight-suit jacket open. She looked exhausted; her flight-suit was soaked with sweat; her face was an angry scowl. Squinting up at the tail section of the Viper, she saw what the chief was so upset about. “I wondered why the engine gave out,” she said matter-of-factly. A big chunk had been torn out of engine number one, the topmost engine in the cluster, and along with it a good part of the vertical stabilizer. It was a miracle she and the whole craft weren’t a cinder now.
Chief Tyrol circled around behind. “We’re gonna have to pull the whole mounting. Get the high-lift.” He stepped up to Lieutenant Thrace. “How did you manage to even fly this thing, much less land it?”
She seemed to be getting angrier by the moment. She yanked off her gloves. “That’s not something I want to think about right now. Where’s Prosna? He has to get that frakking gimbal locked, or I’ll have his ass.”
Chief Tyrol looked at her. “He’s dead… sir. He died in the fire.”
Suddenly she was a lot less like “Starbuck” and more like a stunned Kara Thrace. “How many did we lose?”
“Eighty-five.”
Kara absorbed that shocking figure for a second, and her face narrowed and seemed to harden. “Right.” She turned and strode away.
“Oh, Lieutenant,” Tyrol called.
She turned darkly.
With difficulty, Tyrol said, “I don’t know if you heard about Apollo, but—”
She looked completely defeated. “What?”
He couldn’t say it. He could only look down, imagining how the Old Man must be feeling right now. His last son…
She suddenly got it. The blow, oddly, made her stand a little straighter, as though in defiance against the stream of bad news. “Right,” she said. Swallowing, she began again to leave, then once more turned back. “Any word on Sharon?”
This time it was Tyrol who felt utterly defeated. He knew the score, even if no one was willing to say it. “No, sir,” he said, looking up to examine the tail section of another Viper.
Kara hesitated, nodded, then headed off to the wardroom.
Tyrol suddenly felt paralyzed, surrounded by people, machines, things that urgently needed to be done. He could barely stand up straight, much less lead the crew. Specialist Cally, who had observed the exchange, stepped closer. “You okay, Chief?” she asked in a strained voice. She had only just hauled herself back together, after losing Prosna.
Tyrol couldn’t answer. No, I’m not okay. Neither are you. None of us is. Finally he found his voice enough to whisper, “Get back to work.” And he turned and walked quickly away.
CHAPTER
29
Raptor 312, Caprica Escape Orbit
Sharon Valerii, too, seemed less like a “Boomer” just now and more like a sorrow-weary young pilot. In order to conserve fuel and avoid attracting unwanted attention, she had cut propulsion once she’d achieved a transitional high orbit from which escape velocity was just a short burn away. There was little flying to do at the moment, but she couldn’t help fiddling and checking.
<
br /> When a scan of the area revealed no Cylons nearby, she decided to risk launching a communications drone. The ten-year-old boy she’d brought aboard was still sitting in the right-hand seat, watching her every move. Her hand on the launch button, she counted down, “Three… two… one… launch.”
There was a little shudder through the deck, and a momentary flash of light as the drone streaked out from the bottom of the hull and twinkled off into space. “Drone deployed… and transmitting,” she said to the boy, watching the drone’s stats.
“Now they’ll come find us?” he asked in a small voice.
“Hard to say. There’s a lot of interference around here,” she said, lifting her voice a little to sound more optimistic than she felt. “A lot of noise. It keeps my wireless from working.” She fiddled with the electronic controls, then added, “Hopefully, once that communications pod I launched gets far enough away from here, a Colonial ship will pick up the signal and start looking for us.”
The boy was silent for a bit. Then he asked, “Is everyone on Caprica dead?” He looked at her with imploring eyes, asking to be corrected.
“I don’t know,” Sharon admitted, in a muted voice. A lump swelled in her throat as she thought about Helo.
The boy seemed to accept that. “My dad’s in the Colonial fleet,” he said. “His name’s Colonel Wakefield. Maybe you know him?”
Sharon hesitated a moment, then shook her head.
“He’s a diplomat. He goes sometimes to that station where the Cylons are supposed to meet us.” The boy looked very thoughtful, very vulnerable. “They never did, though—did you know that?”
Sharon nodded.
“They told me he’s missing. But I think he’s dead, too.”
Sharon smiled briefly, despite the sharp pang the boy’s words gave her. “What’s your name?”
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