"Well," Lee said, "at least you've still got your electronics suite." He gestured at his father's old Viper. "That old crate of mine can barely navigate from A to B."
Sharon contradicted him at once, and rather vehemently. "That old crate may have saved your life, sir."
Startled by her sharp tone, Lee said, a little sharply himself, "How's that?"
"The Viper Mark Sevens? The Cylons just shut them down, like they threw a switch or something—then wiped them out. All of them—including CAG—my whole squadron. Helo and I were just lucky to be far enough away." Sharon's voice caught, and she had trouble continuing. "When I was out there waiting . . . for someone to find me . . . I picked up comm chatter way off. It sounds like the same thing everywhere. Even the battlestars. The only ships having any success at all are either old, or in need of some major overhaul."
Lee blinked, trying to absorb that. He remembered his father's insistence, bordering on obsession, about keeping networked computers off the Galactica . . . Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a lean-faced man with shoulder-length dark hair stepping down from the Raptor. He indicated the man with a tilt of his head. "Is that him?"
Sharon looked over. "Yeah." She suddenly raised her voice. "I hope he's worth it!" She turned back to Lee, anger and hurt on her face. "Sorry, sir."
That's the man who took Helo's seat. "Don't be," Lee said. "I hope he's worth it, too." As the man passed behind him, Lee whirled and put a hand to pause him. "Doctor Baltar—Captain Lee Adama. The president's asked to see you, sir."
Baltar looked confused, and then hopeful. "President Adar's alive?"
"No," Lee answered. "I'm afraid Adar is dead." Baltar's face fell. "President Laura Roslin was sworn in a few hours ago."
"Oh," said Baltar, suddenly less interested.
"If you'll come with me. She's this way." Lee nudged him on toward the stairs to the cabin.
Laura was concluding a meeting with the captain of the liner they had recently docked with. Its passengers were now on board Colonial One, along with all the supplies they could move quickly. Reluctantly, they had abandoned the liner itself, which had exhausted its fuel while evading reported Cylon positions. The captain was just saying, "If there's any way we can help, ma'am, any way whatsoever . . ."
"Thank you so much," Laura replied. She turned, spotting Apollo walking into the cabin with the female pilot of the Raptor, and a shell-shocked Gaius Baltar. She recognized him easily, despite the blood and grime on his face. Laura stepped forward. "Doctor Baltar, it's a pleasure to meet you," she said, extending a hand. "We met, at last year's Caprica City Symposium."
Baltar nodded with a sort of hollow, practiced graciousness—and an obvious lack of recognition. "Oh yeah, of course, uh"—he gestured helplessly—"you'll have to forgive me, I'm bad with faces."
"Oh, no," she reassured him with a laugh. "It's perfectly all right. I'm sure I wouldn't remember me, either." She smiled, wincing inwardly at her self-deprecation, and soldiered on. "Doctor, I need you to serve as my chief scientific consultant and analyst, regarding the Cylons and their technology."
He shifted position uneasily. "I'd be honored . . . Madame President."
Laura wasted no time in shifting gears. With a nod to Baltar, she turned and shook hands with the Raptor pilot, a beautiful young woman with epicanthic folds at the corners of her shining dark eyes. She looked tired and vulnerable. But sleep would have to wait. "Lieutenant Valerii? Is that right? Valerii?"
"Yes sir."
"You've just come from Caprica, yes? Tell me your impressions of the situation there."
The pilot drew a breath. "Well, sir—from what I could see, the Cylons were targeting every population center with nukes. I doubt there's a major city left, at this point. Helo—Helo and I stopped counting the number of mushroom clouds over Caprica City."
Baltar seemed to stir uncomfortably at that. Laura turned back to him. "Doctor, would I be correct in assuming that an attack of this magnitude will trigger a planet-wide nuclear winter?" Strangling and starving pretty much everything still living.
"Uh, yes!" Baltar said, seeming suddenly to return to his senses. "Yes, fallout clouds are already drifting across the continents. And the dust thrown in the atmosphere—yes, they're probably already altering the global weather patterns . . ."
Laura nodded, and for a moment bent to look out the windows at the battered, distant globe of Caprica. Settling the situation in her mind, she straightened and said to Lieutenant Valerii, "I understand that your ship has a limited faster-than-light capability?"
"Yes sir," Valerii replied. "The Raptor's designed to make short Jumps ahead of the fleet, scout for enemy ships, then Jump back and report."
"I want you to go out there and find as many survivors as you can and bring them back to this position," Laura said. "We will then form a convoy. We will guide them out of the combat zone and into safety."
"Yes sir," replied Valerii.
But Apollo was frowning, and she knew what he was frowning about: Guide them out of the combat zone and into safety. And just where do you think is safe?
Two hours later, Baltar was sitting alone in one of the leather first-class seats, a fold-down table in front of him, littered with printouts and comm messages. He was sorting through them, pen in hand, trying to make some kind of sense of what had been happening. He didn't even know what he was looking for. But as long as he looked busy, he was halfway there.
"I see they've put you to work," said a lilting female voice.
He looked up slowly, searching his mind for any obvious aberrations. As he raised his eyes, he saw Natasi—Number Six, he corrected himself—sitting in the seat beside him, looking gorgeous in the red outfit, a seductive smile on her face.
He looked intently back down at the papers, but barely saw them.
"Ignoring me won't help."
"You're not here," he murmured under his breath.
"No?" she said brightly.
"No. I've decided you're an expression of my subconscious mind, playing itself out during my waking states."
That provoked a smile and a laugh. Tilting her head, she looked so achingly good, he wanted to jump on her right now. Except that she wasn't there.
"So I'm . . . only in your head?"
"Exactly." He looked down. He was not going to look at her—at least not directly.
"Hm." She raised an eyebrow and turned her face away for a moment. "Have you considered the possibility that I could very well exist only in your head? Without being a hallucination?"
He could not resist looking at her; she was too devastatingly sexy. She was leaning forward now, the top of her outfit revealing far more than it concealed. He had to work hard not to tremble.
"Maybe you see and hear me because, while you were sleeping, I implanted a chip in your brain that transmits my image right into your conscious mind."
The thought stung him with fear. Real, blinding fear. But he would not admit to it. "No, no—see, that's me again." He looked down with a smile. "My subconscious self is expressing irrational fears . . . which I also choose to ignore." He took a nervous sip from his glass of soda, and tried to return to his work.
She moved languidly from the seat beside him to sit on the table with his papers. Slowly and deliberately, she crossed her legs in front of him. "What are you working on?"
He was struggling desperately now. "If you were really a chip in my head, I wouldn't have to tell you that, would I?"
"Indulge me," she murmured, leaning in closer.
He rubbed his bristly chin with one hand. Swallowing, he said, "I'm trying to figure out how you managed to pull off this kind of attack. You seem to have virtually shut down the entire defense network without firing a shot. Entire squadrons lost power just as they engaged the enemy. The CNP is a navigation program, but you—uh—you made changes to the program, you said you were building in . . . back doors for your company to exploit later."
"All true, in a sense," she replied.
"That was your job."
"Officially." She cocked her head slightly. "Unofficially, I had other motives. We had something, Gaius. Something . . ." She searched for the word, and smiled. "Special."
"This is insane."
As she continued, her voice trembled with emotion. Her eyes were vulnerable, full of hurt. "And what I want most of all . . . is for you to love me."
"Love you?" he whispered.
"Well, of course, Gaius. Don't you understand?" She reached out and stroked his cheek, curved her hand behind his neck. "God is love." Using both hands, she pulled him forward and kissed him. He could no longer resist.
"No!" he cried, suddenly coming to his senses. Alone in his seat. Around the cabin, a few people looked oddly at him. He just smiled awkwardly, and drew a quivering breath, and looked helplessly out the window. Finally, with unseeing eyes, he forced his gaze back down to his work.
Chapter 34
Ragnar Station, Ammunition Depot
The munitions warehouse was chaotic with activity. Forklifts were hauling away large pallets of ordnance for loading onto Galactica. Under the glare of overhead floodlights, the crew were checking everything they could find for possible use on the ship. A small tractor towing carts of lightweight bombs sped past an elevated forklift with a towering pallet of smaller explosives. "Hey! Hey! Hey!" Chief Tyrol shouted. "Take it easy, guys! Just slow down!" He looked like a nervous wreck, but he seemed to be keeping things under control.
Commander Adama took it all in with his eyes even as he walked across the depot floor, talking to Leoben, the man they had found hiding in the back. He was telling Leoben a little about what had been happening—not for Leoben's benefit, but in hopes of loosening him up a little, getting him to talk. Leoben had yet to give a convincing explanation of what he was doing here. Adama had some suspicions; but he wanted to tease what he could out of the man before he jumped to any conclusions.
"We don't know much more than that," Adama said over the noise, casting his voice over his shoulder to Leoben, who was walking with an armed guard behind him. "It's just imperative that we get our equipment and get out of here." He stopped and peered up at some high shelves, then down at a bulkhead door in front of him. He pointed. "What's in there?"
Leoben shambled up to stand beside him. He shrugged. "Stuff."
Adama glanced at him in annoyance. He gestured to Leoben to help, and they pulled the large hatch open. It was dark inside the compartment; he couldn't see a thing. "Need a light." As he reached back to take a lamp from one of the crew, he said to Leoben, "Where's your spaceship?"
Leoben gestured awkwardly. "Docked on the other side of the station."
Adama gave him another sharp look. His crew had scanned the station for other ships on their way in. It was possible they'd missed one, if it was small. But not likely. In the background, he could hear Tyrol shouting, "Be careful! Don't stack 'em so high!" Adama glanced that way for a moment, then back at Leoben.
The man was fidgeting, and sweating profusely. He held out his hands toward where the loading was going on. "Okay, those warheads over there"—he gave a little laugh—"okay, here's the deal. They would have brought a nice price on the open market."
Adama just stared at him for a moment. "So you're an arms dealer, huh?"
Leoben shook his head, not in denial but as if to ask why that should be a problem. "People have a right to protect themselves, I just supply the means." He spread his hands in innocence. But he was still trembling.
Adama gazed at him, trying to assess what part of what Leoben was saying might be true—if any of it. He shone the lantern in Leoben's face, which was pale and beaded with sweat. The man seemed to be breathing fast, too. "You don't look too good."
Leoben opened his mouth, but seemed not quite sure what to say. Before he could respond, though, Tyrol's voice cut the air. "Be careful with that, all right? Hey! Be careful with that! Look out!"
Adama turned just in time to see a large, caged rack of bombs overbalance and topple. As it crashed to the deck, crewmembers scattered for cover. When it landed on its side, one of the cage doors popped open, and out rolled a single shiny metal canister with red stripes around it. Its activation light came on and it was blinking red. "Take cover!" someone yelled.
Adama saw it coming toward them. With a yell, he grabbed Leoben and hurled him through the hatch into the dark compartment, and dove that way himself. He'd only begun the movement when the bomb exploded, throwing both of them through the opening, with a great thunderclap of light and heat.
As he hit the deck, he nearly blacked out from the concussion. But the force of the blast slammed the hatch closed, landing them both in blackness.
Chief Tyrol and Specialist Cally were the first to reach the hatch that had slammed shut on the Commander. It was flaming with residue from the bomb. "Commander! Commander Adama!" Cally shouted outside the hatch. She couldn't get close enough to touch the hatch. The waves of heat drove her back.
Tyrol was busy trying to get around to the side. "Stay back stay back! It's hot it's hot it's hot it's unstable!" Tyrol was yelling. He shone a flashlight down onto the hatch area, trying to find an attack point for getting the damn thing open. It was going to be tough, he realized; the heat had warped and possibly fused the metal. It was a miracle none of them were hurt out here; the bomb must have put out intense, but localized, heat. He whirled around and pointed to a couple of crewmen. "You guys—go back to the ship! We need handlifts, fire equipment, and a plasma torch!"
"Wait—wait!" Cally was pulling at his arm. "Chief—listen!"
Inside the compartment, Leoben was laughing maniacally, as Adama coughed, trying to clear his lungs of the smoke and the smell of welded metal. The hand-lantern still worked, thank the gods. They struggled to their feet.
Outside the hatch, Adama could hear someone shouting his name. "Yeah!" he shouted back. He managed to get another breath. "Anybody hurt out there?"
"No sir!" he heard. It was Chief Tyrol. "We got some equipment coming, sir. We'll get you out of there, but it's gonna take a while. This hatch looks like it's fused pretty good."
Adama grimaced. The last thing they needed was to spend manpower extricating him and mystery man here. "No!" he shouted. "Get all the bullets and equipment into the ship first! We're okay—don't waste time on us!" He squinted, trying to see where this compartment led. "Is there another way out of here?" he asked Leoben.
"Yeah, sure," Leoben said with a smirk.
Adama chose to ignore the smirk. He turned back to the hatch. "Listen, Chief! We're gonna go out another way!"
"Sir, I don't think that's a wise idea," Tyrol called back.
"You've got your orders. Tell Colonel Tigh he's in command until I return."
There was a slight hesitation, before he heard Tyrol acknowledge, "Yes sir."
Adama turned to Leoben and gestured with the flashlight. "Let's go."
Leoben shrugged and slouched away down the dank, smoky passageway that looked as if it led much deeper into the station. In here the place looked more like a dungeon than a munitions warehouse. Water was dripping from the ceiling; evidently there was a leak somewhere, or malfunctioning environmental controls.
Adama rubbed his face with a grimace and followed Leoben into the gloom.
Chapter 35
Raptor 312, Patrolling For Survivors
Sharon Valerii frowned, completing the calculations for the short-range Jump. This would be her sixth Jump, and it would have to be her last. She had expended a lot of fuel in a mostly fruitless search for survivors. Not completely fruitless—she had located one small freighter with a crew of three and a cargo of fresh citrus products, and another rickety ship carrying textiles, electronic parts, and a few passengers. She'd sent both on to the rendezvous point. But it was hard to say that one of just two military ships in the growing ragtag bunch should be burning up its precious fuel searching the skies for so little.
Still, the president had given her an
order.
She checked the plot, checked the spin on the FTL drive, and executed. In a moment, there was the familiar feeling of folding into herself, passing through a strange space-time boundary, and unfolding again. She blinked to clear her head, checked the dradis for Cylons first and survivors second—then, when she found nothing, turned on the wireless scanner.
Almost immediately, she heard a distant transmission in the blind. "This is refinery vessel Tauranian to any Colonial ship. Is anyone out there? Please acknowledge."
Sharon's heart leaped for joy. A refinery ship! That meant fuel for the fleet—or at least the possibility of mining some. She checked the dradis once more, switched to a more distant scan, and saw it this time—a faint blip at the periphery of her field. She set course toward it with a short blast, conserving fuel—and as soon as she had it in sight, she keyed the wireless. "Tauranian, Colonial Raptor Three-One-Two. I have you in sight. What is your condition?"
There was a short delay, and then an answering voice that sounded breathless with relief. "Raptor! Am I happy to hear from you!"
"Same here, Tauranian," she answered. And it was especially true, now that the ship was coming into view. It was indeed a full-sized asteroid-miner and refinery rig, much of it an enormous collection of fuel tanks, bound together in the shape of a huge shoe box. "Please tell me you've got some Tylium in those big, beautiful tanks."
"Almost full. What's going on, Colonial? Is it true the Cylons have come back?"
Sharon's thoughts darkened. "Afraid so. It's bad. Real bad. There's not a lot left back on the home-worlds. Do you have functional FTL?"
"Holy frak . . ." There was silence for a few moments. Then: "Affirmative to the FTL."
Sharon guided her Raptor alongside the ungainly but precious ship. "Good. I'm sending you a set of coordinates. I need you to Jump at once to rendezvous with the fleet."
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