She turned away, then, to take a seat alone at the back of the first-class compartment. There was no room in her thoughts now for the living; there were too many dying, and she could only be with them just now.
In the cockpit, Lee was in the right seat alongside Captain Russo, with Eduardo on the comm and nav panel at the rear. They were going through the pre-Jump checklist with grave efficiency. From the overhead speakers, voices were coming in from all over the fleet. Voices crying for help, for mercy…
Captain Russo gave Lee one last look of regret before letting a shield slide over his emotions: “Set the SB trajectory.”
“Colonial One! For God’s sake, you can’t just leave us here!”
Lee determinedly ignored the voices. “SB set.”
“Cycle cryo-fans.”
“Colonial One, this is Picon Three-Six-Bravo. I can’t believe you want to leave all these people behind …”
Lee’s fingers worked the board. “Cycled.”
“At least tell us where you’re going! We’ll follow at sublight.”
Captain Russo glanced at Lee, then reached up to the comm panel to send a reply.
“No,” Lee said, reaching as though to stop him physically. “If they’re captured, then the Cylons know, too.”
“I’ve got fifty people on board! Colonial One, do you copy this?”
Captain Russo struggled for a moment with indecision, then lowered his hand, realizing that Lee was right. “Spinning up FTL drive now.”
Lee: “All ships—prepare to Jump on our mark. Five…”
The time stretched…
“Colonial One, please respond!”
“Four…”
“May the Lords of Kobol protect those souls we leave behind.”
“Three…”
Alone in the passenger compartment, Laura sat listening to the comm exchanges. Her thoughts had nowhere to go, her feelings were spun into a suffocating web, her ears were ringing with the sounds of desperation and fear, her gut was tied into a knot so tight she feared if she moved so much as a muscle, she and her world would spin apart into a thousand pieces. Why me… why me…? And why them… the innocent…?
Aboard the Space Park, it was a little before dinnertime, and young Cami sat on her favorite bench under her favorite tree, whiling away the time with her rag doll. A lot of the people had left the park, but she liked it too much to leave. “Don’t worry, Jeannie,” she reassured her doll, dancing her on her head. “They’ll come and get us when it’s time to eat… they’ll come and get us…”
In the dark of space surrounding the shifting fleet, there was a sudden change. With a series of flashes, half a dozen vessels popped into the local space. They were moving at high speed, directly on a course that would take them into the fleet.
“I’ve got dradis contact—inbound targets heading this way!”
Lee kept the count steady. “Two…”
“Isee them, too. Are they Colonial?”
Lee knew exactly what they were, and there was no way he could accelerate the count; he could only sit tight and pray. “One.”
“Oh my God, they’re Cylons!”
“Mark.”
“I hope you people rot in hell for this—.”
* * *
Laura felt the tears rising into her eyes, against all her inner bulwarks. There was no turning back.
It was done.
She could feel space begin to fold inward around her…
Throughout the fleet, dozens of flashes of light marked the Jumping of ships away from the fleet, away to somewhere else in space. At the same moment, a rapid-fire series of flashes came from each of the Cylon fighters. Long white streamers arced out in great, spreading bundles as the missile painted their pretty, deadly tracers across the sky. It took only moments for each and every one of them to find their targets.
The sky began to light up with exploding spaceships.
In the garden, Cami gently smoothed out Jeannie’s hair. She had noticed some flashing out in space, through the overhead dome. That probably meant that some of the ships were going home. She was happy for them; it was about time. Maybe, she hoped, her ship would go home soon, too.
And then her sky turned white, like the sun up close. And she felt nothing, nothing at all.
PART THREE
THE FINAL
GATHERING
CHAPTER
37
Somewhere in Ragnar Station
The passageways seemed to be getting narrower and narrower the farther they walked, with Leoben leading the way and Commander Adama close behind. Rows of pipes and ductwork lined the walls, from deck to ceiling. The deeper into the station they went, the more claustrophobic it felt. Adama couldn’t be sure he wasn’t being taken on a long walk to nowhere. Although he had questioned Leoben about the route they were taking, it was nearly impossible to keep his sense of direction here; there were too many little jogs and turns.
They had been walking for maybe twenty minutes, when Leoben suddenly doubled over, gasping. Adama came up behind him. “You all right?”
Leoben stood up, shaking his head. He was dripping sweat. “Fine. It’s just something about this place…”
He looked as if he meant to continue, but he didn’t. “What about this place?” Adama asked.
“Ever since I got here, something in the air”—Leoben gestured with his hands—“affects my allergies.” He let out his breath and started walking again. “You always keep me in front, don’t you—military training, right? Never turn your back on a stranger, that kind of thing?” He ducked through a bulkhead opening. “Suspicion and distrust, that’s the military life, right? War? Hatred? Jealousy, revenge, cruelty?”
“So you’re a gun dealer/philosopher, I take it, right?” Adama answered.
Leoben stopped to lean back against some pipes, laughing. Then he lurched off again, still breathing hard. “I’m an observer of human nature, that’s all. In my line of work, I see things that don’t get mentioned in polite society. When you get right down to it, humanity is not a pretty race. I mean, we’re only one step away from beating each other with clubs—like savages, fighting over scraps of meat.” He glanced back at Adama. “Did you ever think, maybe we deserve what’s happened to us? Maybe the Cylons are God’s retribution for our many sins. Hubris—that’s Man’s greatest flaw. His belief that he alone has a soul, that he’s the chosen of God.”
Adama grunted. “You told me a little while ago you were a Geminon theist. Don’t you believe God gave Man his soul?”
“Maybe. But what if”—Leoben paused to lean against the wall and wait for Adama to catch up—“what if God decided he’d made a mistake—that Man was a flawed creature, after all? And he decided to give souls to another creature—like the Cylons.” He chuckled and lurched back into motion.
That made Adama flare with annoyance. He called after Leoben in a harsh voice. “God didn’t create the Cylons! Man did.” Leoben paused to hear him out. “The Cylons are just devices. Technology that’s gotten out of control. And I’m pretty sure we didn’t include a soul in the programming. So there’s no loss if we kill every last one of them. Let’s go.”
Leoben laughed and cocked his head a little as he looked over his shoulder. “You’re not even interested in knowing the truth, are you? Maybe the Cylons feel exactly the same way you do, but about Mankind. I don’t think they hate you, Adama—I think they fear you.” He stopped to cough again. “How about you go first for a while?”
Adama just glared.
Galactica, Combat Information Center
Colonel Tigh peered over the shoulder of Lieutenant Gaeta as the younger man hung up the phone. He’d just been conferring with Chief Tyrol, on the station. Gaeta looked up at the colonel. “The chief says we’re looking at three hours minimum before we have all the warheads in our magazines.”
Tigh searched for an entry in the thick inventory book he was holding. “The book says there’s also fifty tons of bundled—”
Gaeta quickly checked his own dradis screen. “We have multiple contacts coming down through the storm, toward the anchorage.” He turned back toward Tigh. “It looks like more than fifty ships.”
“Cut us loose from the station,” Tigh ordered, and strode toward the command post. He tossed his inventory book onto the charting table and called out, “Launch the alert fighters.” He picked up a handset for ship-wide announcement. “Set Condition One throughout the ship! Prepare to launch—”
“Wait!” called Dualla, from the main comm station. “Wait—I’m getting Colonial signals now.” She was pressing her earphone to her ear.
“Confirm that!” Tigh said. He strode over toward the comm station and barked, “Don’t just accept friendly ID.”
Just as he reached the comm station Dualla added, “Confirmed, sir. Incoming ships are friendly.”
Amazed, Tigh picked up the nearest handset and keyed all-ship again. “Action stations, stand down.”
Dualla continued, “The lead ship is requesting permission to come alongside, sir. They say…” she hesitated, listening closely, “they say they have the President of the Colonies aboard.”
Tigh turned to look back at Dualla incredulously. Slowly his expression changed to reluctant acceptance, as he realized he had to assume the report was genuine. “Grant their request,” he said, his voice overlaid with skepticism. “Bring ’em into the landing bay.” This had better be for real.
“Oh, and Colonel,” Dualla continued. “They say they also have Lee Adama… and Boomer. Both alive and well.”
Tigh blinked and rocked back on his heels. He tried like a sonofabitch not to break into a big grin. “Well, I’ll be damned…”
As President Laura Roslin stepped out of Colonial One into Galactica’s hangar deck, it occurred to her that it had been barely a few days since she’d left this ship, fully expecting that the next time she boarded the vessel, it would be a museum in orbit around Caprica. And now it’s the flagship of the surviving fleet of humanity. She remembered her argument with Commander Adama over whether the museum could be outfitted with a small computer network. She shook her head at the memory. Obsessive and controlling, she’d thought him at the time. But it turned out he’d been right about computer networks. Tragically right.
There didn’t seem to be anyone to greet them, except the deckhands who had brought up the stairs. She went down the steps, followed closely by Captain Apollo and Billy The hangar seemed quiet, for a ship at war. “Where is everyone?” she asked the deckhand at the bottom of the steps.
“Everyone except the stand-by crews are busy moving munitions aboard from the station,” the deckhand said, gesturing toward the other end of the hangar. “Colonel Tigh said I should bring you to the officers’ briefing room.”
“I see. And will Commander Adama meet us there?” Laura asked.
“I don’t think so, sir,” said the deckhand. “There was an accident of some sort on the station, and I heard the Commander was tied up with that. Colonel Tigh is in command right now.”
“Very well. Can you show me to the briefing room, please?”
Colonel Tigh arrived in the briefing room shortly after them. Laura watched from inside the room as Lee Adama met Tigh at the door. Tigh returned his salute and then just stared at him for a minute. He didn’t reveal any emotion, but finally he shook Lee’s hand and said, “It’s damned good to see you alive.”
“I’m glad to be alive,” Lee answered. He gestured toward Laura across the long table that bisected the room. “I believe you know Laura Roslin. President Laura Roslin.”
Tigh walked slowly around the table and approached her, without quite acknowledging the full meaning of Lee’s words. “We’ve met, yes. Ms. Roslin.”
“She was sworn into office yesterday,” Lee continued, “following the protocol—”
“So I heard,” Tigh said, interrupting him. He glanced at Lee with an expression of derision, as if to say, And you bought that? One day a schoolteacher and now the president?
Laura decided it was time to cut to the chase. “Colonel Tigh, we are, as far as we know, the sole surviving fleet of Colonial ships. And we need your help. With food and medical supplies.”
Tigh fixed her with an incredulous gaze. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m not big on jokes today,” Laura answered evenly. “May I ask where Commander Adama is?” She extended her arm, as if to ask, Is he waiting in the wings?
“He’s unavailable,” Tigh said in a voice that was even flintier than usual. “We expect to hear from him soon. In the meantime, I’m in command.”
“Then,” Laura acknowledged with a nod, “we should be looking to you to answer our requests.”
Tigh was suddenly afire with indignation. “We’re in the middle of repairing and rearming this ship! We can’t afford to pull a single man off the line to start caring for refugees!”
Laura tried to control her own temper. She averted her head for a moment while she channeled her anger into determination. She swung back and said forcefully, “We have fifty thousand people out there, and some of them are hurt! Our priority has to be caring for—”
“My priority is preparing this ship for combat.” He looked at her squarely, and more than a little condescendingly. “In case you haven’t heard, there’s a war on.”
Laura drew a deep breath. I still have to be a schoolteacher, she thought. He can’t see the truth in front of his eyes. “Colonel,” she said evenly, stepping toward him. “The war is over. And we lost.”
Colonel Tigh smirked. “We’ll see about that.”
“Oh yes, we will. In the meantime, however, as President of the Colonies, I’m giving you a direct order—”
“You don’t give orders on this ship!”
“—to provide men and equipment—”
Lee stepped forward and broke in suddenly. “Hold on, Colonel!” At that, Tigh turned around and stared at him in amazement. “At least give us a couple of disaster pods,” Lee continued, in an even and reasonable tone.
“Us?” Tigh said.
“Sir,” Lee continued, ignoring the implied reproach, “we have fifty thousand people out there. Fifty thousand. Some of them are sick. Some are wounded.” He gestured earnestly. “Two disaster pods, Colonel. You can do that.”
Colonel Tigh answered very slowly and reluctantly. “Because you’re the Old Man’s son, and because he’s going to be so damned happy you’re alive—okay. Two pods. But no personnel.” He turned away and circled around the table to leave the room. He met no one’s eyes as he said, “You get them yourselves and you distribute them yourselves. And you are all off this ship before we Jump back.”
Lee stood near the doorway, and Tigh walked up to him. “You report to the flight deck,” Tigh ordered. His voice sharpened. “You’re senior pilot now, Captain.”
Lee raised his hand in a very precise salute. “Yes sir.”
Tigh returned the salute and strode away.
Laura stood with her hands behind her back, gazing gratefully at Lee for a moment. When he finally turned and caught her gaze, she inclined her head with a faint smile, and nodded to dismiss him for the duties to which the colonel had called him.
CHAPTER
38
Galactica, Deck E Passageway
Chief Tyrol walked along one of the ship’s corridors with a group of men carrying a rack of small warheads. He stopped, looking this way and that, his heart pounding. Where was she? He couldn’t just leave the work he was doing; he couldn’t leave his post. But he knew she was here somewhere, and he needed to find her, to see her. Now. He spoke in a distracted tone to the gunnery specialist who was flanking him with a clipboard. “As soon as you get the magazines loaded, I want a status report on Commander Adama’s whereabouts.”
“Yes sir.” The specialist made a note and continued on
his way.
Tyrol stood where he was for a minute, trying to figure out what to do. He was still absorbing the news that a civilian fleet had joined them—and that one of the ships was the Colonial transport that carried the new president—as well as two people they’d all given up for dead. Lee Adama… and Sharon Valerii. Boomer.
The passageways seemed quiet, with people doing their jobs despite their exhaustion, but with no energy left for outward shows of emotion. There was no talking, and practically no sound. He gazed anxiously one way and then another.
And then he saw her, coming toward him down the corridor, passing the gunnery specialist. She saw him at the same moment, and stopped. With her she had a boy, about ten years old. She and Tyrol stared at each other in disbelief. Sharon suddenly began striding quickly toward him. He felt the molasses in his feet let go, and he moved toward her, too, quickening his pace until they met mid-corridor. They fell into a powerful embrace, heedless of whether anyone saw or cared—and Tyrol lifted her off her feet and swung her in circles. Then he put her down and cradled her face in his hands, and they gazed into each other’s eyes with joy, as the long-held grief melted away.
They kissed, hard, and then hugged for a very long time, swinging back and forth, as the bewildered boy ducked and danced out of their way.
Finally Sharon broke from their embrace long enough to let Tyrol study her face, grinning. “There’s someone I want you to meet,” she said, with a laugh. She turned to the boy and put a hand on his shoulder. “New crewmember. Name’s Boxey. He’s gonna need some quarters.”
[Battlestar Galactica Reimagined 01] - Battlestar Galactica Page 18
