She appeared to enjoy watching him squirm as he tried to keep his mind on the interviewer's questions. What was he saying? That it was only the irrational fears of those who could not put the past behind them that was keeping mankind from moving forward with the development of intensely interesting and useful technologies. Just because robotic inventions of a superficially similar nature had once gone awry didn't mean that humankind should forever be fearful. So much would be lost . . .
Baltar breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief as the interview ended, and his visage disappeared from the TV monitor. It had been an easy enough interview . . . until Natasi showed up and distracted him. "You!" he said, in a tone that he hoped sounded more amused than reproving. He really was quite eager to see her. Especially dressed the way she was.
"Me?" she asked coquettishly. She uncrossed her legs in a way that spiked his blood pressure instantly. "What have I done?"
"As if you don't know," he said, his voice cracking a little. "Would you like a drink?"
She shook her head. "I don't need one. Come here, Gaius. I want to see something."
"Mm?" he asked, standing up unsteadily.
"You heard me."
"Yes, I did. Now, what did you want to see?" He smiled with anticipation as she leaned forward at his approach.
She tipped her head back to look up at him, as her hands found him and began fondling him. "I wanted to see how glad you were to see me," she whispered.
"Very glad to see you," he sighed, shutting his eyes with pleasure. He slipped his fingers into her hair and bent to kiss her. "My Natasi, are you feeling particularly animalistic today?" he asked huskily.
By way of answering, she rose suddenly from the chair and pressed him backward, until she had driven him up against the nearby wall. She kissed him hungrily, and began pulling at his clothing. Soon she had him bare-chested, and her own blouse was on the floor. Her mouth eagerly sought his, and they stumbled into the bedroom, groping each other and kissing. "Mm, d'you miss me?" she murmured breathlessly.
He struggled to catch his own breath, not wanting to miss a single kiss. "How can you tell?"
A tiny laugh came from her throat as she placed her hands behind his neck and pulled him to her. "Mmm, your body misses me," she whispered, kissing him furiously, "but what about your heart? Your soul?"
"Yeah," he breathed. "Those too." He could not move his hands over her fast enough.
She rose on her tiptoes so that he could kiss her neck. She purred with pleasure. "Do you love me, Gaius?" she asked, without interrupting the passionate kissing.
"Uh—what?" His heart fluttered; he wasn't sure he had heard her right.
She stopped what she was doing and cradled his face with both hands. "Do . . . you . . . love me?" Her gaze penetrated his, penetrated the haze of his lust.
This time his heart didn't flutter; it froze in paralysis and even fear. Do you love me? Those were the words they'd never asked or given. This wasn't about love, this was about raw animal attraction, about kindred spirits in carnal lust. For a long moment, he didn't know what to say. Finally, because her eyes seemed starving for an answer, he murmured, "Are you serious?"
She held his gaze just a moment longer, then suddenly grinned. He joined her in a quiet laugh, and they began kissing again. "You had me . . . worried, there," he managed, so relieved he couldn't even speak. She didn't answer, but kissed him more feverishly than ever.
Without warning, she pushed him backward onto the bed, practically threw him. Stunned—he never knew she had that kind of strength—he lay helpless as she grabbed the waistband of his leisure pants, and ripped them off with a powerful jerk. He was beyond stunned; he was at her mercy. With another murmur of pleasure, she hiked up her skirt and swiftly mounted him. He gasped with ecstasy . . .
Natasi rocked back and forth on the writhing figure of Dr. Baltar. She peeled the rest of her own clothes off, panting with uncontrolled passion. "I'm hot, Gaius," she moaned. "I'm . . . so hot."
As their lovemaking mounted toward a climax, the wall behind her was warmed slightly by a peculiar, nearly invisible light. The doctor never saw it—and wouldn't have, even if he had been less distracted. The light was mostly infrared, with just a hint of gamma radiation. If his eyes could have seen it, they would have seen the glow of fiery embers, the glow of heating coils. It was a soft glow, but growing in intensity, growing with the woman's sexual fervor. Indeed, it came from, and illuminated, the spine of the gorgeous, naked being who was rocking and bobbing as she made love to Gaius Baltar.
Chapter 7
Galactica, En Route To Caprica
The immense, lozenge-shaped battlestar grew to resemble a fortress wall in front of the dome of stars, as the fighter-craft arrowed in smoothly on its landing approach. The pilot, Captain Lee Adama, was on a "high downwind approach"—named for a purely imaginary wind that the battlestar flew into like a seagoing aircraft carrier turning into the wind so that its planes could land. And indeed, the battlestar was very much like an aircraft carrier in space. In normal operations, it carried as many as fifty fighter, recon, and other spacecraft to support its mission; Galactica carried fewer now. Lee rolled his craft to permit a clear view out the canopy as he glided past the great ship's nose, and then her upper left flank. It was standard practice to make a visual inspection of the ship on approach, but also good sense: If you'd rather not fly into something, make sure you can see it.
For Lee Adama, it was a view of a ship he had not seen in a long time. Galactica's basic shape was pretty simple, a sort of boxy whale shape—but its surface was convoluted with ridges and canyons and a huge landing pod on either side. Some of its hull plating appeared pretty battered, and the ship as a whole looked scoured and worn with age, as he knew it would. Galactica was long past ready for retirement.
The voice in his helmet was clear and matter-of-fact: "Viper Four-Five-Zero, this is Galactica, approach port landing bay, hands-on, speed one-zero-five, checkers red, call the ball."
Lee thumbed the mic switch. "Galactica, this is Viper Four-Five-Zero. Check that. Did you say hands-on approach?"
"Viper Four-Five-Zero, that's affirmative. Hands-on approach."
"Copy, Galactica." That seemed a bit unusual. The last time he'd served on a battlestar, manual approaches were made only for training purposes or if there was a problem. Of course, that had been Atlantia, the newest battlestar in the fleet, not the oldest. "Port landing bay, hands-on approach, speed one-zero-five," he repeated back, as he applied braking thrust and began the flip-over-and-thrust-downward base-leg maneuver that would bring him to the level of the aft landing-bay door. As he rotated and pitched over again to face forward relative to the ship, the landing bay came into view, and along with it the landing guidance lights. The lights traced a welcoming line into the bay. "I have the ball." He applied thrust, to accelerate to final approach speed.
If he hadn't had other things on his mind, he might have enjoyed the hands-on approach. It was what flying was all about: man and machine, spinning and dancing through space. Right now, though, he was tired and preoccupied. He brought the Viper into the long, cavernous landing bay with practiced ease, slowing as he approached the red-checkered landing pad. He made the final maneuver, turning to use his thrust for braking, and popping side thrusters to line up on the pad. He felt the thump of contact, and killed the power.
"Skids down, mag-locks secured."
That was the LSO, the Landing Signal Officer, announcing the arrival—not so much for his benefit as for the deck crew's. The elevator pad he'd landed on was already lowering him into the hangar deck below. He could feel the Lorey-field gravity pulling him down into his seat.
"On behalf of Galactica, I'd like to welcome you on board, Apollo. It's an honor to have you with us."
Lee made a quick acknowledgment as he went quickly through the post-landing checklist. Confirm main thrust off, fuel flow off, maneuvering thrusters off, transponder off . . .
Minutes later, a tractor wa
s towing him from the elevator pad into the brightly lit main hangar area. He pulled off his spacesuit gloves, pressed the time-of-arrival button on the flight computer on his wrist, and took a moment to draw a deep breath. The flight was over; now the ordeal would begin.
The canopy lifted, and a deckhand reached in to help loosen his spacesuit helmet and lift it away. Lee took half a moment to gather himself and unbuckle his harness, then he climbed out of the cockpit and down the steps that the deck crew had pushed up. Other hands were already at work servicing his craft. And standing in front of him, dressed in the orange-and-black jumpsuit of the hangar crew, was a serious-looking young man, hand to his forehead in salute. "Good morning, sir. Chief Tyrol. I'll be your crew chief while you're aboard."
"Morning, Chief. Captain Lee Adama." He tried to make it sound polite, but he knew that his lack of enthusiasm probably showed.
Tyrol was undeterred. "It's a real pleasure to"—Lee was already walking away, ducking past the other Vipers, but Tyrol hurried to keep up—"meet you, sir." Lee didn't answer. "I'm sure you've heard this before, but I'm a great admirer of your father's. The service is going to miss him when he retires."
There it was. It hadn't taken two minutes from his arrival. He tried to keep his true feelings in check. "Well, I'm sure someone will." Quick change of subject. "Is your auto-landing system down? I was hands-on for the whole approach."
Tyrol look puzzled and a little taken aback. "It's all hands-on here, Captain. There are no auto-landing systems on the Galactica." He paused, then added pointedly, "Commander . . . Adama's . . . orders."
Lee hesitated. What could he say? It was explain everything, or nothing. Finally, he simply said, "Is that right?" and walked away across the expansive hangar deck, leaving the crew chief standing perplexed behind him.
"Attention in the port hangar bay. Raptor touching down. Clear. The checker is red."
The craft coming in behind the Viper—one of Galactica's own—wasn't doing so well in the final positioning and flare for landing. Crew Chief Tyrol watched on a monitor, wincing, as the LSO rasped out instructions to the pilot to watch her drift and cut her approach speed. The craft was rocking back and forth on the roll axis, and more alarmingly, skidding first to one side and then the other as it approached the assigned landing point. Finally it slammed onto the landing pad with a jolt that Tyrol could feel all the way down on the hangar deck. "Frak," he muttered, and strode out to await the Raptor's crew as the elevator brought it down into the hangar.
Where the Viper looked like a flying stinger, the Raptor seemed more like a hunched-over beetle—not unbeautiful to anyone who loved flying machines, but definitely ungainly. The Raptor was a multipurpose tactical-strike/combat-coordination craft, an important part of Galactica's flying arsenal. It was also, at the moment, in the hands of the youngest rookie pilot in Galactica's squadron. Tyrol met the Raptor as it was being towed into its parking space, and hopped onto the side-flare of the hull that served as an entry platform, without waiting for the craft to come to a halt. He was met in the hatch by the pilot, a hassled-looking Sharon Valerii, known in the cockpit as Boomer. She was a strikingly attractive, petite brunette with Oriental features. Right now, she looked ready to kill someone.
He wasn't about to cut her any slack. "Nice landing, Lieutenant. I think they heard that one all the way up on the bridge."
Boomer glared at him and retorted in a rapid-fire stream. "Yeah, I'm gonna catch hell from the LSO. But it wasn't entirely my fault, Chief. The primary gimbal's acting up again."
Tyrol rolled his eyes, following her down off the Raptor to the hangar deck. "Oh, it's the gimbal's fault."
Exasperated, Boomer turned to her copilot and electronics officer, who was just emerging from the Raptor, clipboard in hand. "Helo, am I lying?"
Helo worked a wad of gum around in his mouth. "Gimbal looked bad to me."
Tyrol blew up. "I've pulled that gimbal three times and stripped it twice. The gimbal's not the problem. Sir." He stalked away from the craft, followed briskly by Boomer.
"You're not listening to me, Chief."
"Lieutenant, I listen very closely to what each and every one of my pilots has to say." Even the rookies, he thought but did not say aloud. He turned back to look at the rookie pilot, who happened also to be his superior officer.
Boomer had calmed slightly, but remained adamant. "You're not the one out there trying to bring in fifty tons of Raptor onto a moving hangar deck—with a bad gimbal."
Tyrol yanked open the swinging steel door to the tool room and yelled back at her as she followed him into the cramped, walk-in storage closet. "I've got ten years' experience—"
"Here we go!" she cried, slamming the bulkhead door shut behind her.
"—of breaking down and stripping every component of every system that's—"
Boomer chanted the rest of his tirade right along with him.
"—ever been installed in every spacecraft on my hangar deck!" As they berated each other, he was loosening and removing his tool belt—and she was yanking loose the hardware that secured her flight-suit.
He whirled around, dropping the act. Grabbing her by the front of her flight-suit, he pulled it apart from the neck down to the waist, and with her help, peeled it roughly off her shoulders and arms. Underneath, she was wearing a plain brown tank top. As he pulled her toward him, she grabbed his chin with one hand, pinching his cheeks together. "The gimbal—is—faulty," she growled into his face.
"Shut up, sir," he muttered, and pulled her into an urgent kissing embrace. She clutched him just as urgently. They kissed like forbidden lovers, tearing at each others' clothes as if they couldn't get enough, fast enough. There was, in fact, no telling how long they had, or when they'd get another chance—or whether they'd be caught this time, or the next. Neither of them spoke, not now, at least not in words. . . .
Outside, on the hangar floor, deck crewman Jane Cally paused in what she was doing, which was helping her crewmate Leonard Prosna into a spacesuit for a maintenance job. "Hold it," she said, trying to get him to stand still for a moment. Then, louder, "Hold up!" Prosna looked puzzled, but she wasn't speaking to him, she was yelling to Brad Socinus, who was heading for the Tool Room with a heavy toolkit in his arms.
"What?" Socinus asked. "Oh, don't tell me."
"Yeah, the groping light is on in there."
"Oh, frak me," Socinus said, looking for a place to set down the crate.
"Just put it over there," Cally said, pointing to a work bench that had a small, bare patch on top.
Socinus groaned and set the load down. "This is getting out of control, you know. Has the chief lost his mind?"
"Hey," said Cally, getting back to adjusting Prosna's spacesuit, "it's none of our damn business, is it?"
Prosna finally snorted. "It's our frakking business if he gets busted for banging his superior officer. They'll both get busted. You think that won't affect us?"
Cally started to reply, but finally shrugged it off with a shake of her head. They all knew Tyrol's affair with Boomer was highly illegal, and a mighty dangerous game. So far, they were all looking the other way, out of loyalty to Galen Tyrol. But how long could they protect him? How long before someone less forgiving—someone like the XO, say—found out what was going on? Maybe they were just hoping that the ship would be retired before it happened.
"Let's just hope they don't get caught," Cally said at last, having no other answer.
"Fat frakking chance," was all Socinus had to say.
The Squadron Ready Room was nearly filled with pilots when the CAG, Jackson Spencer, started the briefing. The Commander Air Group was the chief pilot for all the squadrons on the ship, and the one who was charged with seeing that all flying squadrons faithfully executed the orders of the ship's master, Commander Adama. It was the CAG who set both the tone and the rules, and if any of his pilots busted either, it was his job to bust them. That rarely happened with a crew as well trained as this one, though. Mostly his
job was to see that the flying went smoothly, and safely.
The CAG began the briefing with a review of the mission immediately before them: "Today's the main event. We have a formation demonstration—flyby maneuvers in conjunction with the decommissioning ceremony. I've got a few changes to the flight plan. Lieutenant Thrace is being replaced in the slot by Lieutenant Anders." There was no need to say why; everyone knew that Kara Thrace, Starbuck, was in the brig. "Also, we have Captain Lee Adama joining us, and he's going to be flying lead during the flyby, so . . . please, welcome the captain!"
That brought some applause, many turned heads, and a number of calls of welcome, as all the other pilots in the room craned their necks to see the flyer they knew by reputation, and to greet the man they knew to be their commander's son. Lee himself shifted in his seat, and forced an uncomfortable smile.
The CAG continued. "Now, thanks to Chief Tyrol and his deck gang, Captain, you're going to have the honor of flying the actual Viper that your father flew once, forty years ago." The CAG paused for a reaction from Lee.
Momentarily unable to speak, Lee fiddled with his pen for a few seconds. Finally, he said awkwardly, "Great. That's um . . . that's . . . quite an honor."
Around him, silent puzzlement registered at his apparent lack of enthusiasm; one or two of the pilots snorted softly. Let them, Lee thought. They don't know him the way I do. The CAG's face darkened almost imperceptibly as he responded, "Yes, it is, Captain. And personally I can't think of a better way to send this ship into retirement."
And personally you can't think of a reason why they would invite a jerk like me to a ceremony honoring my father, right? Well, I could name a lot of better ways to retire this old hulk. And the man you all look up to so much.
Lee managed another smile, and a nod.
Battlestar Galactica (New Series) Page 4
