Battlestar Galactica (New Series)

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  In quick succession, three missiles streaked away from the Cylon. Kara saw it and reacted in fury. "Come on!" she screamed, and came around faster and sharper than she'd ever managed in her life. She opened fire on the Cylon, and it exploded. But its missiles were in flight. Kara didn't even pause for breath, but continued her tight circle, following the arcs of the missiles.

  It was impossible, nobody could shoot a missile out of flight with a cannon. But that didn't stop her from trying. She fired a continuous stream from her machine cannon, tiny rockets pouring out, a hail of fire chasing the missiles.

  One exploded. She swerved ever so slightly, flying with deadly precision. A second missile exploded.

  The third was too far away, and it was inbound at high speed toward Galactica. Another Viper streaked past going the other way; she nearly hit it with her cannon.

  "Galactica, you've got an inbound nuke! All Vipers, break break break!"

  There was nothing they could do for Galactica now except veer out of the way and try not to get caught in the explosion . . .

  "Right bow, left stern—emergency full power! Main thrust emergency full!" Commander Adama snapped the commands, doing the only thing he could to try to evade the missile. As he watched the screen, he knew it wasn't enough. They were going to take a nuclear blast in the flank. Very softly he said to his old crewmate Tigh, "Brace for impact, my friend."

  "I haven't heard that in a while," Tigh replied grimly.

  "Collision alarm!" Adama shouted. Klaxons started sounding throughout the ship. All any of them could do was brace, and pray.

  The missile struck the ship on the port side, and its nuclear warhead lit up the sky.

  Chapter 24

  Galactica, Burning

  Starbuck winced in pain at the dazzling light from the nuclear explosion, but her Viper was far enough from Galactica to avoid sustaining further damage itself. She took a moment to regroup her thoughts, then made a fast scan to see if there were any more Cylons in the area. It seemed either she had destroyed the last one, or any others had left.

  "Vipers, set up a patrol around the ship," she ordered the surviving members of the squadron. "I'm going in to inspect the damage." She fired her thrusters and flew in toward the ship, passing the floating hulks of two dead Vipers on her way.

  There was no time to mourn them now; Galactica was burning. Kara flew alongside the port flight pod, close and slow enough to get a good look. " Galactica, Starbuck. If you're reading me, the forward section of the port flight pod has sustained heavy damage." It was a terrible sight, but it could have been a lot worse. She saw a lot of crumpled hull plating, and fire erupting from several compartments in the flight pod. Debris, smoke, and vapors were billowing into space. After a nuke, she was surprised the ship still had a port flight pod. "Galactica, you've got violent decompression all along the port flight pod. Do you read me? Galactica?"

  There was no answer, but that could mean anything from an antenna being knocked out of alignment to the whole crew being dead. Kara kept a tight control on her thoughts and her flying, and kept circling the ship, reporting in the blind. It was all she could do.

  * * * *

  Galactica, Combat Information Center

  The CIC was damaged but mostly intact. Crewmembers were moving quickly, tending to the injured, hoisting fallen equipment off the floor, and trying to get meaningful information out of partially damaged consoles. Ship-to-ship transmission was out, though they could just make out Starbuck's scratchy reports. Adama was trusting to the remaining Vipers to protect the ship from outside dangers while they dealt with the emergencies on the inside.

  Adama's neck was craned, as he squinted up through his glasses at one of the few working monitors, above the light table now being used for damage assessment. "Radiation levels within norms. The hull plating kept out most of the hard stuff." Beside him, Tigh was using a grease pencil to correlate damage reports on a large transparent schematic of the ship.

  Gaeta called out more reports as they came in. "Sir, port stern thrusters are locked open. All bow thrusters unresponsive. We're in an uncontrolled lateral counterclockwise spin."

  "Send a DC party up to aux control," Adama said, "and have them cut all the fuel lines to the stern thruster."

  Tigh spoke as soon as he was finished. "Okay, we have got buckled supports all along the port flight pod, and chain reaction decompressions occurring everywhere forward of frame two"—he paused to check the printout in his hand—"two-fifty."

  "That's a problem," Adama said grimly. It was a massive understatement; if that went unchecked, they could lose all launch and recovery capability, at the very least.

  "Kelly says he's got three uncontrolled fires. That's why he hasn't been able to stop the decompressions."

  Adama ran a finger along the diagram. "If the decomps continue along this axis, they could collapse the port pod." He looked up at Tigh, his face grave. "Saul—take personal command of the DC units."

  "Me?" Tigh asked, his face registering sudden appprehension.

  Gaeta interrupted at that moment with, "Sir, the stern thruster's still locked open." He gestured with a printout. "We need you."

  And I need you, Saul. This is no time to frak around. Adama eyed his old friend, painfully aware of just how far he had fallen to the booze and self-pity. But he had to put his faith in the man now; he had no choice. In a low voice, he said, "You're either the XO or you're not."

  At those words, Tigh stiffened, clearly struggling with his self-doubts. "Yes, sir," he said. Adama turned and strode away with Gaeta, leaving Tigh to make up his mind.

  On the far side of the CIC, Chief Tyrol and Captain Kelly had arrived at a dead run from the hangar deck and were working furiously to coordinate the repair teams from the damage control station. Most of the remote videos were shorted out, but the alarm board was still functioning. A wall schematic of the ship, it used rows of indicator lights to display which sections were affected by decompression and fire.

  In the one functioning video display, they could see disaster unfolding on Port Deck D, Frame 32. The fire there was advancing rapidly, filling the compartment with smoke and toxic fumes. Something exploded with a bright flash, blowing out through the hull. Three more alarm lights lit up on the DC board. In the monitor, they could see that only two men in the crew of fifteen had breathing gear, and those two were frantically trying to herd the others out of the doomed compartment. One of the deck hands had grabbed a phone handset right next to the sending camera. He was choking in the smoke. "Chief! We're losing pressure! The port pod—it's buckling! We need help—!"

  The screen went white, and static filled the voice line. Tyrol cursed, just as Colonel Tigh stepped into view behind him. "Report," demanded the XO.

  "Another compartment losing pressure," said Kelly. "We just lost the monitor and comm."

  Tyrol pointed to a line of pressure-alarm lights on the DC board. "There's structural buckling all along this line! We've gotta get those fires out!"

  "I know! I know!" Kelly snapped.

  The phone rang, and Tyrol picked it up, covering his other ear to hear.

  Kelly continued, pointing for Tigh's benefit. "Fire suppression's down. Water mains are down. We've got gravity fluctuations all through the compartments. We're trying to fight the fire with handheld gear, but—"

  Tyrol interrupted, relaying another report. "We've got another decompression on Deck D, close to the port pod!"

  Kelly turned to Colonel Tigh. "What are your orders, sir?" He waited for an answer. "Sir?"

  Tigh stood motionless, a hundred thoughts clamoring in his mind. Sweat broke out on his upper lip as he struggled to make a decision. He knew what needed to be done, but they'd never forgive him for it. He'd never forgive himself. He turned, without quite being aware of it, and across the CIC saw Bill Adama hunched over a table with Gaeta, planning whatever needed to be done to solve the thruster problem. Bill's voice, harsh and unyielding, echoed in Tigh's mind: You're either the X
O, or you're not.

  Beside him, Kelly stopped waiting for an order from Tigh, and leaned in to Chief Tyrol. "All right, listen," he said quietly, "I need you to take the rest of your DC teams down from the landing bay, to give them a hand . . ."

  Tigh turned back to them, suddenly realizing what Kelly was proposing. "There's no time! Seal off everything forward of Frame Thirty and start an emergency vent of all compartments."

  Tyrol lowered the phone in dismay. "But wait, I've got over a hundred people trapped up behind Frame Thirty-Four!" He pointed to the display on the board. "I just need a minute to get 'em out!"

  "If we don't seal it off now, we're gonna lose a lot more than a hundred men," snapped Colonel Tigh. "Seal it off! Now!"

  Tyrol exploded with anger. "They just need a minute!"

  "WE DON'T HAVE A MINUTE!" Tigh bellowed. "If the fire reaches the hangar pods, it'll ignite the fuel lines and we'll lose the ship! Do it!"

  Nearly apoplectic with rage, Tyrol keyed the phone for an all-ship announcement. He clearly had to fight to get the words out. "All hands. Seal off . . . all bulkheads twenty-five through forty. That's an order."

  * * * *

  In the burning compartment, a deckhand with a respirator and an air tank on his back was shouting to the others, "Get out of here now! Go! They're gonna vent the compartment! Let's go! We need everybody out!" As he yelled, he waved a chemical fire extinguisher, trying futilely to put out the closest flames. But flames were everywhere. Gravity was shifting, throwing everyone off balance. It was impossible, and getting worse by the second.

  From the far end of the compartment came shouts and banging. "The bulkheads are closed! Let us out!" Men were crowded up against the end bulkhead, where the smoke was thick but the flames had not yet reached. They were hammering on the locked bulkhead doors. "Let us out!"

  But there was no escape.

  Colonel Tigh inserted the key into the emergency vent switch and twisted it. He stepped back grimly to watch the board.

  Deep in the ship, relays tripped and motors surged. Dozen of large air vents opened. On the outer hull, hatches blew open, releasing enormous gouts of fire and smoke from the flaming compartments. Along with the fire, dozens of dying crewmen hurtled out into space like so much debris, tumbling head over heels into space, before vanishing into the darkness. It was all over in a few moments. The flames went out as the last of the air vented from the savaged compartments.

  At the damage control board Tigh, Tyrol, and Kelly waited in stony silence until the board indicated all clear—fires out, temperatures dropping toward normal, pressure zero in the vented sections and holding steady in all others. Finally Kelly affirmed what they all saw: "Venting complete. Fires are out."

  Tigh stared solemnly at the board, not meeting their eyes. He knew damn well what they were thinking. But he told them anyway: "If they remembered their training, then they had their suits on and they were braced for possible vent action."

  Chief Tyrol, too, was staring at the board, a haunted expression on his face. "There were a lot of rooks in there."

  "No one's a rook anymore," said Tigh, and turned away to return to the CIC.

  Chapter 25

  South Of Caprica City, Somewhere In The Hills

  Gaius Baltar fidgeted as he stood amid the crowd of people near the Raptor spacecraft. He couldn't believe he had gotten this far. He had driven only about four miles before the crush of people crowding the road, and the obstruction of abandoned vehicles, had made it impossible to drive any farther. He had abandoned his car, like many before him, and taken to the hills on foot.

  He was several hours into his hike when someone shouted that they saw a Colonial spaceship coming down—landing in the hills to the southeast. Without hesitation, Baltar joined the breakaway mob that ran in that direction, hoping for rescue. Why else would anyone land a ship within a thousand miles of this madness, if not to look for survivors?

  The discovery that it was a military craft, downed for emergency repairs, had been a blow to the crowd, and to Baltar himself. So much for his perfectly reasonable hope that someone had miraculously come down to give him a ride off the planet. But then, against all odds, the Raptor crew had agreed to a lottery, to take three adults plus some children to safety. Perhaps God—if there was such a being, and he laughed silently at the notion—wanted to help him to safety, after all.

  Numbered pieces of paper had been distributed, and one person, a middle-aged woman, had been selected so far. Two more chances to go. Baltar bit his lip, sweating.

  The female pilot reached into an open toolbox lying on the ground in the sun. The box was filled with torn pieces of paper, each bearing a number. Baltar himself held the number 118. The pilot straightened, holding up a single piece of paper. "One twenty-seven." She gazed over the anxious crowd. "One two seven."

  In the front of the crowd, a dark-haired woman in her twenties raised her hand, holding her own slip of paper. "Here." The pilot waved her forward. "Thank you, Lords of Kobol," the woman murmured, stumbling toward the Raptor. She dropped the slip of paper into the hand of the injured male copilot as she passed him. "Thank you. Thank you," she muttered over and over, softly, as if unable to quite believe her good fortune.

  Baltar watched her darkly as she walked up the ramp into the ship, then shifted his gaze as the pilot pulled out another slip. "Last one." She stood up, scanning the crowd. "Forty-seven. Four seven."

  There was a stirring, as people throughout the crowd looked disconsolately at their own numbers and shook their heads in despair. Baltar looked unhappily at his own, his heart sinking. And then, almost like a gift from Heaven, a white-haired old woman touched his arm and said, "Excuse me." Her skin was wrinkled, and her clothes were worn and faded. "I forgot my glasses, I must have left them somewhere. Could you please . . . read this for me?"

  Baltar glanced at the glasses neatly resting on top of the old woman's head, and took the slip of paper from her. Even before he read the number, he had a deep, gut feeling of what it was going to say. He felt no surprise, but only vindication, when he read, 47. Unbelievable. So this was how God—such a silly notion—was going to save him? By sending an old woman in his place? A woman who would probably die from the stress of takeoff? No, it defied all reason to see it that way. The woman would believe whatever he told her. And what future did she have, anyway? He was just fumbling with his paper and hers, when he heard, "Hey!"

  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.