The boy looked embarrassed, and as happy as a kid could look under these circumstances. Maybe he was just glad he had someone looking out for him.
Tyrol couldn’t stop grinning. “We can manage that…”
In another corridor, Billy was trying to lead Baltar to the CIC, but he didn’t really seem to know where he was going. Baltar followed him anyway, as they hurriedly strode along, turning this way and that. Billy occasionally said something like, “Ah, this way,” but within a minute or two would be confused again.
Baltar was confused, period. This ship was the gloomiest place he had ever seen. It was dark and claustrophobic, and the walls slanted inward toward a peak at the ceiling, so that he felt like he was walking through a triangular prism, in perpetual twilight. He wondered how long it took people to get used to it.
Ahead of him, Billy suddenly straightened and quickened his step. “Dualla!” he cried to someone in the corridor ahead. “Hi! Um, we’re kind of lost—again.”
Baltar squinted to see who Billy was talking to. A tall, striking crewwoman with exquisite olive-toned skin stopped in her tracks at the sight of them. She just stared at them for an instant, then ran toward Billy. “We need to get to the CIC—” Billy began, and then the woman he’d called Dualla grabbed him around the neck and planted a kiss on him. A long, urgent kiss.
Noticing Baltar, she finally broke from the clinch. She looked a little sheepish. Billy simply looked shell-shocked. Dualla regained her poise first and said, “It’s this way,” and strode past the two, leading them in the direction from which they’d just come.
Billy turned, dazed, toward Baltar. “I think she was happy to see you,” Baltar murmured. Billy nodded, then hurried to follow the impatiently gesturing Dualla.
Baltar stumbled along behind, envious and wondering what he had missed. Poor Billy. If you don’t understand it… don’t ask me to explain it to you.
Lee Adama was having trouble keeping a smile off his face, too, as he entered the hangar area, ready to take up his duties as chief pilot. There was someone he wanted to say hello to.
He found Kara Thrace under a Viper, on her back on a mechanic’s crawl, open toolbox at her side. She hadn’t noticed his approach, and he stood for a moment, wondering what the last day or so had been like for her. Rumor had it she’d had a big hand in saving Galactica. When she still didn’t notice him, he called down. “Hey!”
She turned her head to see who had called, and a strange look came over her grease-smudged face, as if she thought she were seeing a ghost. He smiled down as she slid out from under the Viper, and extended a hand to help her to her feet. They stood frozen like that for a moment: her hand in his, not exactly a handshake, but not that other way of holding hands, either. She was trembling, and trying to catch her breath, and looking as if she wasn’t sure whether to hug him or rub her eyes and go back to work. Finally she managed to force out, “I… thought… you were dead.” And for a moment, her face seemed to flicker between the grief she’d obviously been dealing with, and astonishment that he was standing there in front of her, alive.
Lee finally cracked a grin at the same time she did. “Well, I thought you were in hack,” he said, remembering that indeed she’d been in the brig that last time he’d seen her. He felt an impulse to grab her in a bear hug, and guessed she was probably feeling the same way. But he wasn’t sure he trusted his own feelings enough to do that—and besides, he was her senior officer now.
She laughed and nodded, and dropped her hands to her hips. “It’s… good to be wrong,” she said finally, with a vigorous nod.
He couldn’t resist a crack. “Well, you should be used to it by now.”
She grinned broadly. “Everyone has a skill.” And then she turned sober, and they just looked at each other with clear relief on both of their faces that they were still alive in the midst of this madness.
Finally he broke the silence, with a nod to the Viper. “So, how go the repairs?”
For a few heartbeats she didn’t move. Then suddenly she made an inner transition and became more animated, if uncomfortable. “On track. Another hour and she’ll be ready to launch.” She hugged herself with her bare arms and said, “So I guess you’re the new CAG now.”
“Yeah, that’s what they tell me,” Lee answered, a little self-consciously.
“Good!” Kara said. “That’s good. It’s the last thing I’d want.” She pressed her lips together, apparently thinking hard and looked him soberly in the eye. “I’m not a big enough dipstick for the job.”
She held a straight face for a second, as he worked his mouth, trying to think of a comeback. When he couldn’t, she cocked her head to one side with a grin, and they laughed silently together. He managed to get his command face back on and said, “I’ll be in the squadron”—he choked a little—“ready room.” And he turned away and left her grinning.
He was just rounding the end of the Viper when he heard, “Hey!” He looked back. “Does your father know you’re still breathing?” Kara called.
Lee gave a little snort, once more at a loss for words. Finally he said, “I’ll let him know.” And this time he did leave. But he could sense Kara shaking her head behind him as he walked away.
CHAPTER
39
Ragnar Station, Maintenance Level Crossover
Although they seemed to be walking ever deeper into the bowels of the decaying station, Commander Adama had found a grime-covered directory marker that showed where they were: a hell of a long way from the armory, that was for sure. They already had missed two turnoffs that might have taken them back. It was upon making that discovery that Adama had taken the lead. From their present position, they just needed to get through this crossover section; then they could turn left and go up a level and start making their way back out along the next radial passageway. Damn good thing, too. Adama was sick to death of this place, with its leaky steam pipes and dripping condensation everywhere. It made him feel chilled. Leoben, on the other hand, was sweating more and more profusely, as if they were in a sauna.
They paused at a strange juncture where a couple of dirty window-ports actually gave them a view out into the atmosphere of Ragnar. The seemingly eternal green storm continued to rage, with lightning flash followed by lightning flash. The great counter-rotating wheels of the station churned around in the field of view like ancient water-wheels, endless grinding dust for masters long since forgotten.
Adama squinted for a few moments, then grunted and continued on his way. Leoben followed, with increasing difficulty and signs of illness. Adama was impatient at the pace, but did not drop his vigilance, or his awareness of where Leoben was at every moment. He was giving the “arms dealer” a little wiggle room, and waiting to see if Leoben would take a misstep.
As they descended a metal staircase into the deepest part of the maintenance section, Leoben staggered. Adama paused and looked back. Leoben was grimacing in pain. He swayed a little, then crouched down, wincing, and sat on the stairs a few steps up from the bottom. Adama watched him grimly, almost certain now that what he’d suspected was true.
Leoben’s skin was now tinged with gray and green. He screwed up his face as if the very air was poisoning him. “Ahhh—!” he gasped, rolling his neck in pain. “What is it about this place? What’s it doin’ to me?”
Adama stared coldly at him. “Must be your allergies.”
Leoben raised his sweat-beaded head and widened his eyes as he looked at Adama. His face glistened with sweat as he suddenly broke into a grin. “I don’t have allergies.”
“I didn’t think so,” Adama said in low, measured tones. He stepped a little closer. “What you’ve got is silica pathways to the brain—or whatever it is you call that thing you pretend to think with. It’s decomposing as we speak.”
Leoben didn’t deny it. “It’s the storm, isn’t it?” he managed. “It puts out something—something you discovered has an effect on Cylon technology. That’s it, isn’t it? This is a refuge. That
’s why you put a fleet out here. A last-ditch effort to hide from a Cylon attack. Right? Well, it’s not enough, Adama. I’ve been here for… hours. Once they find you”—he paused to shake his head—“it won’t take them that long to destroy you.”
Adama stared at him, anger building up like a pressure in his chest. Now that Leoben had revealed himself, Adama suddenly felt all the rage he’d been holding back rise like lava in a volcano. He didn’t know how the Cylons had come to look so much like humans, but he did know that they’d destroyed his world and killed his son and a lot of other good people along with him. And they were trying to exterminate all that was left of humanity.
As if he could read Adama’s thoughts, Leoben started to smirk. “They’ll be in and out before they even get a headache.”
Adama stepped forward suddenly and grabbed Leoben by the shirt front. “Maybe,” he growled. He pulled Leoben down from the steps and slammed him up against a pillar. “But you—you won’t find out, because you’ll be dead in a few minutes.” As dead as I can make you. Through clenched teeth he growled, “How does that make you feel? If you can feel.”
“Oh, I can feel more than you could ever conceive, Adama.” Leoben chuckled. “But I won’t die. When this body dies, my consciousness will be transferred to another one. And when that happens…” Leoben’s voice trailed off as if he’d run out of steam, and he groaned and slid to the floor. Adama released him to sit crumpled against the pillar. Panting for breath, Leoben continued in a strained whisper, “I’ll tell the others exactly where you are… and I think they’ll come, and they’ll kill all of you. And I’ll be here watching it happen.”
Adama squatted down slowly and shone his light up into Leoben’s ashen face. “You know what I think? I think if you could’ve transferred out of here, you would have done it long before now. I think the storm’s radiation really clogged up your connection. You’re not going anywhere. You’re stuck in that body.”
Leoben showed no reaction. “It doesn’t matter. Sooner or later”—and now he grinned through the pain—“the day comes when you can’t hide from the things you’ve done.”
Adama stared at him, stunned. How the hell did Leoben know that expression? Did he know those were the exact words Adama had used to end his speech at the decommissioning ceremony just a day or two ago—or however the hell long it had been?
Leoben’s head lolled back, as if he were about to pass out. Adama watched him, still at a loss for words. Maybe this was the end of the line for Leoben.
Suddenly Leoben’s hand shot out and seized Adama by the throat. It was no dying man’s clutch, but a vice grip, closing on Adama’s windpipe. Adama began to gasp.
Leoben straightened with a grin and stood up, raising Adama along with him—lifted him by the windpipe, until they were both on their feet. Unable to breathe, Adama whipped his lantern across in his right hand, trying to knock Leoben out with it. It barely glanced off Leoben—and an instant later, Leoben came back with a solid right to Adama’s jaw. That stunned Adama, but not enough to keep him from feeling himself being lifted completely off the floor by Leoben’s grip on his throat. Leoben held him there for what felt like forever. And then Leoben hauled back, and with a great roundhouse punch to the solar plexus, sent Adama flying backward to slam into a wall and land in a heap.
Adama forced himself up to a crouch. He saw Leoben walk slowly toward him, then stop at a vertical standpipe that came out of some kind of waist-high chamber. With a deliberate motion and apparent superhuman strength despite his debilitated state, Leoben grabbed the pipe and wrenched it loose from its upper mounting. Then he bent it back and forth until it broke off at the base. Steam billowed hissing out of the broken line. Leoben stepped forward and swung the section of pipe in a lethal blow.
It would have been lethal, except that Adama managed to duck out of the way. The force of the swing brought Leoben staggering into range, and Adama still had the lantern in his right hand. He brought it around in a sharp uppercut to the jaw. This time it connected perfectly, and Leoben staggered back. Adama was on him in a flash, with two more solid blows.
Shaken, Leoben stepped backward, to the stove with the broken pipe jetting steam. Adama forced him backward over the stove, until Leoben’s back was pressed directly over the steam jet. Leoben cried out, losing strength. He managed to break away from the steam—but not from Adama, who came at him again and again, swinging the heavy lantern in savage punches.
Leoben staggered and went down, and still Adama rained blows onto him. Blood was spattering now from the blows, but if anything that only increased Adama’s fury as he brought down on Leoben his vengeance for his son, and the millions of people killed, for the treachery, the death of everything he’d held dear…
Some time after Leoben had ceased moving, Adama finally stopped hitting him, and simply crouched over the body, glaring through the blood that spattered his face and eyes. And he rubbed his blood-slicked fingers together, shocked to realize that these twisted machines, these Cylons, didn’t just look like humans. They bled real, red blood, just like his.
CHAPTER
40
Galactica, Combat Information Center
Baltar had at last found himself in a place where he might actually be able to do some good—at the nav station on Galactica’s bridge, where he could try to make a start at finding out just what went wrong with the programming. Or rather, what Natas—Number Six—had done to make his code so vulnerable. At the moment, however, Lieutenant Gaeta, who seemed to be his liaison here with the bridge crew, was being rather chatty.
“So let me get this straight,” Gaeta said, leaning over the nav console from its back side. “You’re saying that the Cylons found a way to use your navigation program to disable our ships?”
Baltar winced, and tried not to show it. “Essentially, yes,” he said, not really wanting to talk about it. “I think they’re using the CNP to infect your ships with some kind of computer virus, which makes them susceptible to Cylon commands.”
Gaeta pressed his hand to the stack of printouts he had placed here for Baltar’s reference. “Well, you can see we do have your CNP navigation program here on Galactica, but… our computers aren’t networked, so it’s never been loaded into primary memory or even test run.”
“Good,” Baltar said automatically, not really paying that much attention. Then he realized what Gaeta had just told him. “That’s good. Well, you shouldn’t have any problems, then.” He thought for a moment. “Still—I should purge all remaining references to it if they’re on your memory tapes.”
Gaeta nodded. “Right. I should probably retrofit the newer Vipers, as well—not that we have many left. Oh—here’s the checklist for the CIC computer.” He lifted an open notebook across the console and handed it to Baltar.
“Ah. Thank you.” Baltar began flipping through it, as Gaeta walked away.
After a moment, he realized Gaeta was still there, looking back at him uncertainly. Gaeta finally spoke. “It must be hard for you.”
Baltar looked up from the notebook, trying to shift gears. “What do you mean?”
Gaeta said softly, “Just having something you created twisted and used like this must be… horrible.” As Baltar stared at him, he continued, “The guilt…”
Baltar blinked. He sensed movement to his right, and there was Number—Natasi—Six—leaning in to speak softly to him. “I remember you telling me once that guilt is something small people feel when they run out of excuses for their behavior.”
“It is,” he said, trying to answer Gaeta, “hard. I feel… responsible … in a way…” Gaeta was nodding, his head bobbing up and down with understanding. Baltar was struggling to string words together: “…for what happened…”
“But you don’t,” Six said, right beside him. “That’s one of the reasons I fell in love with you. You have a clarity of spirit…”
Baltar was going mad trying to maintain a conversation with Gaeta, with Six whispering in his ear like this
. Gaeta obviously couldn’t see or hear her—no one else could—and her words didn’t even seem to be taking any time; Gaeta was still nodding like one of those dolls with a bobbing head.
“…not burdened by conscience, or guilt, or regret…”
“I bet,” Gaeta said, leaning a little farther toward him. “But… try to remember, it’s not really your fault. I mean—you didn’t mean for any of this to happen. It’s not like you knew what they were going to do.”
Baltar was shaking his head now, sweating. He felt like a little boy hauled on the carpet for doing something very bad, and he knew they were going to find out just how bad, soon. In the face of Gaeta’s earnestness, he tried to ignore Six, who was leaning in close to his ear in that low-cut red gown, whispering, “It’s not like you knew you were lying, not like you were breaking the law.” She straightened up and spoke louder. “Not like you cheat on women. Not like the world’s coming apart…” She turned and sat on the nav desk right in front of him and leaned into him again. “…and all you can think about is Gaius Baltar.”
His voice was shaky as he said to Gaeta, looking past Six and her dramatic cleavage. “No. No, I know… exactly what you’re saying. I do know.”
Gaeta seemed to accept that. “Right. Uh, just let me know if you need anything.” He nodded and this time when he turned away he actually left.
Baltar watched him go, waiting for his heart rate to subside. Unfortunately, Six was still right there with him.
“You know… I really do hope we make it out of here alive.” She gave him a warm, sexy smile and said in that husky voice of hers, “I think we could have a real future together.”
“Yeah, that would be special,” he said brusquely, turning his head away. Whether she was a chip in his brain or a psychotic hallucination, his only defense seemed to be to ignore her.
[Battlestar Galactica Reimagined 01] - Battlestar Galactica Page 19
