Battlestar Galactica-04-Rebellion

by Richard Hatch

  Neither of the two noticed that Sire Aron had moved far away across the chamber. In their rage, the room had shrunk to a tiny space that only the two of them inhabited. The Council Members stared, struck in awe and fear.

  The rebellion had come to them.

  "You did," Jinkrat said. "You've told your lies for years, Apollo. You and your father before you. Everything for the good of the fleet, for the sake of your precious mission. Meanwhile, all the others there behind you mattered nothing. We could give up everything so you could be comfortable, not hungry, warm, have fuel for your Vipers while children starved and mothers watched their children die!"

  "No!" Apollo cried. But he remembered all those choices—the ships he'd ordered scuttled. The refugees, dying without any air. Even Starbuck couldn't have saved them. He had chosen the warriors over the ordinary civilians. But he'd had no choice!

  "You would never have even known my name if I hadn't stepped forward," Jinkrat said. "You were too busy to even talk to me."

  "What?" Apollo said, rushing forward.

  "Yes," Jinkrat said. "I didn't want to say this with my son here to hear it, but he might as well hear the truth now. I can see that Koren has been affected by the excitement and the power held on the Galactica. You're not poor, simple people like we are."

  Apollo had heard enough. "There's no one better than any other person on the fleet," he said, feeling his fists clenching and blood rushing to his cheeks.

  "Dad, stop!" Koren cried, starting to climb out of his seat.

  Jinkrat hushed Koren with a single stern glance. "Koren, I don't want you to be hurt by this, but I must tell this man what he's done. Make him understand."

  "Understand what, Jinkrat?" Apollo demanded. "That you want to take control—take over by force?"

  "Understand," Jinkrat said, "How we feel. The faceless ones, out here on these ships, crowded, dirty, starving and dying. There's no communion with the Lords of Kobol and the great mysteries for us. We lost our homes when the Cylons invaded—we followed because we had to follow. Koren needs to understand what a boy like him means to a great man like you. Commander Apollo, son of Adama. Koren needs to know the face that lies beneath the mask!"

  "Jinkrat!" Apollo cried, leaping forward. Koren was on his feet then, and he put his small body between the two enraged men. That was all that kept Apollo from tearing Jinkrat to pieces at that moment, and it was a very small thing, only twelve yahrens old, his head barely up to Apollo's chest.

  "I'm not a great man like you," Jinkrat said, his voice suddenly heavy with emotion. "I have no great name. I am heir to no great house. Koren is my son and my heir. Thanks to you, he's all that I'll ever have, and I'll do anything to keep him from harm. But if not for fate, Apollo, you would never have even known my boy's name. He would have just been another of the faceless, the nameless, dying and suffering in service of your endless wars and destruction!"

  "What was Sheba to you, then, when you put that bomb in the Galactica sickbay?" Apollo countered.

  "Enough of your lies!" Jinkrat cried. "I can see there's no hope!"

  Koren desperately tried to keep the two men apart, but he was far too small. With a cry, Koren fell to the floor and Apollo leapt over him, his hands clutching at Jinkrat's worn tunic.

  The Chamber was in an uproar, but neither man heard it. Jinkrat's guards leapt forward, but he snarled at them to keep back.

  "We fight man to man!" he cried.

  They closed. Jinkrat threw a glancing blow that hit Apollo's cheek, but Apollo barely felt it. Apollo crouched and landed a crushing right in Jinkrat's midsection, feeling his fist sink satisfyingly into the rebel's flesh. That was for Sheba! Apollo, as fast as a laser, brought up his knee into Jinkrat's chin, and the rebel groaned. All that was keeping Jinkrat on his feet now was Apollo, who had Jinkrat's collar twisted in his left hand and began pounding Jinkrat's head with rapid, sharp blows, feeling the flesh pulp under each blow, as sharp, stinging hot pain lanced into his knuckles, but again, Apollo was in a red-filmed rage and couldn't register the damage he was doing to himself, much less how much he was doing to Jinkrat other than giving him a blow for each betrayal he'd endured with this rebellion. It wasn't just the bomb, it wasn't the trouble, it was the way everything was falling apart. Athena and Starbuck, acting like fools. And Cassi. Cassi and Starbuck. Like she didn't care for a moment about Apollo. And Sheba—Apollo's one true friend—Apollo didn't even know if she'd live or die.

  "That's for Sheba!" Apollo cried, with one great, thundering blow that splintered the bridge of Jinkrat's nose. Blood spurted out, brilliant red and shining.

  As if from a far distance, Apollo heard a small voice crying, "Stop! Stop!" Then something grabbed his shoulders and he felt a weight on his back.

  He turned, yelling, and raised his fist. His knuckles were split and bloody, a bare inch from Koren's tearstained face.

  "Apollo, stop! You're killing my dad!"

  Like he was being sucked backward down a Viper launch tube, Apollo's vision came to a pinpoint, and the anger left him as quickly as it came. Stunned, he let go of Jinkrat's collar and watched the man slump to the floor.

  "Dad!" Koren cried, bending close to his father. Jinkrat groaned, and turned his head.

  Apollo could see that he hadn't killed him, but the beating made what he'd done to Starbuck look like a few mild love pats. He'd beaten Jinkrat badly—the man would need medical care, and fast.

  "Koren," Jinkrat said, his mouth full of blood. His arm jerked out, drawing the boy close.

  "Oh, Lords of Kobol," Apollo said, staggering back. "Koren, I'm—"

  "Dad!" Koren cried, struggling with his sleeve to wipe some of the blood from Jinkrat's face.

  Jinkrat struggled to sit up, then with Koren's help, was on his feet again. Battered and bloody, his eyes still burned. Apollo could barely look at him, and he couldn't look at Koren at all, whose face was red with fear and hurt, streaked with tears and now with his father's own blood.

  "Now, see what kind of man Apollo is!" Sire Aron cried, stepping forward.

  "Get back," Jinkrat said, waving his arm. "Let us settle this."

  Apollo looked down at the beaten rebel, and at Koren. No matter what had happened, there was no way that Jinkrat was the traitor. He was full of rage and fury, but… would Apollo have felt any different?

  "You're just trying to save your people," Apollo said slowly. "So am I."

  "You've got a hell of a way of showing it," Jinkrat said.

  Apollo looked up into the faces of the guards, who were about to kill him. He was weaponless. All that stood between him and them was Jinkrat. Aron hovered nearby, his face full of alarm and concern.

  "Stop!" he cried. The Council Members huddled, pointing and muttering, like frightened birds.

  Jinkrat was on his feet, facing Apollo. "I did not put that bomb in the sickbay," Jinkrat said. "I ordered that it be placed above the engine chamber, where it would disable the Galactica, but injure no people, save for an accidental mishap."

  Apollo looked at the injured rebel leader. "It was in sickbay," he said. "In Cassiopeia's jacket. Surely you remember her. She was the one—"

  "Yes," Jinkrat said. "I remember her. I entrusted Koren to her. I would never have put her in such danger! Nor the people in your sickbay. I knew that was where she would take Koren. Surely, even with your prejudiced eyes, you could see that I would not put the bomb where my own son was!"

  Apollo drew in a quick breath. "No," he said. "I don't think that you would."

  The Council exploded with questions. Aron went back to them, trying to calm them.

  "My goal was not for more people to die," Jinkrat said. "I want everyone—high and low—to live."

  "That is my goal too, Jinkrat," Apollo said. He thought again of those choices he made. A man sometimes has to make terrible choices. What had Gar'Tokk said in that conversation that had seemed like yahrens before, even though it was only a short time before? There is no dishonor in that. Even Baltar had
spoken of choices.

  "I think I—understand—why you made some of the choices you did, Apollo," Jinkrat said, slowly. "I cannot say what I would have done in your place. Even in the battle, Apollo. I understand why no medical help could be sent for my son. We prayed. It was all we could do."

  "That has been all any of us could do at times," Apollo said. The anger seemed to have left Jinkrat as well, and the man's eyes were full of grief.

  "But I still don't understand," Jinkrat said. "Why did you take the food and fuel that Council member Aron was sending to us? This was why I issued that ultimatum. Why I—"

  "I did not," Apollo said. "We don't know where the barge has gone. There are traitors in our midst, everywhere."

  "Aron said that you were holding it. For your own use, and that of the warriors," Jinkrat said, but the suspicion in his voice was almost gone.

  "Never," Apollo said in a firm voice. "You have been betrayed, Jinkrat, but not by me."

  Jinkrat nodded. "I fear that you have been betrayed as well, Apollo."

  The Chamber was now almost totally silent. All eyes were on Jinkrat and Apollo.

  Jinkrat was the one who moved first, stepping haltingly toward Apollo and offering his hand.

  "We may not be friends, Apollo, but I believe that you are an honest man," he said.

  Apollo extended his hand and took the hand of the rebel leader.

  "Dad!" Koren cried. Stiffly, Jinkrat accepted Apollo's brief embrace. As he did, he looked down at Koren, shaking his head.

  "Maybe we should have let you speak first, Koren," Apollo said. "You promised that you'd tell what happened to you once you saw your dad."

  "I may only be twelve yahrens, but I'm not dumb!" Koren cried.

  Jinkrat and Apollo laughed. Apollo reached over and ruffled Koren's hair.

  Then, the two men parted.

  Neither of them saw Aron moving away from the Council Members. Apollo was not looking at the array of guards behind Jinkrat.

  "We must talk, Apollo," Jinkrat said. "Our needs are still unmet. Even though there is a traitor—"

  Then, Jinkrat's brow wrinkled and he turned, as if he heard something that the others could not hear. Apollo watched his face change, grow suddenly alarmed.

  Apollo couldn't understand what he was looking at. One of Jinkrat's men had a laser rifle, and it was pointed at…

  "No!" Apollo cried.

  Black-shirted Council guards rushed forward, but they were too slow. Apollo was too slow.

  He felt Koren's small body hitting his.

  He watched Jinkrat crumple. And fall.

  Apollo grabbed Koren, trying to protect him.

  The guards' lasers flashed. The assassin fell. Then it was pandemonium, Jinkrat's remaining guards struggling with the black-shirts.

  "He's dead!" someone cried.

  Not Koren, Apollo thought. Please let it not be Koren.

  "Jinkrat's dead!" came another voice.

  Apollo's heart sank.

  He felt arms shoving him. Koren was ripped from his arms.

  "You murdered him!" someone yelled.

  He watched the form of Jinkrat being carried away. "Space junk!" one of his men cried. "That's all Jinkrat ever was to any of them."

  Apollo heard someone say that Koren was still breathing.

  "Get him to sickbay!" Apollo cried.

  But six blackshirted guards grabbed him and held him back. One of them rammed the butt of a rifle hard into Apollo's back and he fell to his knees.

  He looked up into the face of Sire Aron.

  "Apollo, I cannot believe this," Aron said.

  "Neither can I," Apollo said through his pain.

  "I was so afraid that something might happen. But the guards were unable to stop this treachery. Too late," he said in a grief-stricken voice, turning to the other council members. "We are so sadly, too late."

  "I was too late," Apollo said, in shock. Jinkrat was dead. Koren, maybe mortally wounded.

  "You must be taken to the brig," Aron said. "Guards, escort Apollo to a holding cell. The Council will reconvene in two centons to try Apollo—"

  "For what?" Apollo said.

  "For the murder of Jinkrat," Aron said softly. "And may the Lords of Kobol have mercy on your soul. For the people will have none."

  All Apollo could do was stare in stunned silence.

  "I'm sorry," Aron said, as the guards shoved Apollo out of the Council Chambers.

  As Apollo exited the Council Chambers guarded by a dozen blackshirted council guards, Baltar emerged from the shadows.

  "Apollo, how did this happen?" Baltar asked.

  "I—don't know—" Apollo said. His head was still reeling.

  Baltar looked sadly back at the chamber and the remnants of Jinkrat's guards, who were lingering, as much in shock as Apollo was. "There's more to be seen here than meets the eye," he said.

  "But I'm afraid there's not much time to discuss it. Some people are on the way, and they're rather angry."

  He looked over at the doors, and barely had enough time to get his back to the wall as the mob burst into the corridor.

  "We saw it all!" cried a man in the lead.

  "It was on IFB—we saw Apollo's traitor kill Jinkrat!"

  And they rushed forward, waving bent pipes and chair legs, heading straight for Apollo and Baltar. The Council guards sidled away. With the mob in the mood they were in, the Council troops weren't any safer than Apollo and Baltar.

  "Kill Apollo!" one of them cried.

  Then another figure stepped from the shadows. Gar'Tokk! He moved in front of Apollo and Baltar, ignoring the cowardly guards, and spread his arms wide. "No!" he cried, in a voice so loud that it filled even the sound-muffled bay.

  "He killed Jinkrat," someone whined.

  "You have laws," the Noman intoned. "You must obey them."

  "That's right," Sire Aron said, choosing this moment to make a dramatic entry. "We already planned a tribunal for Apollo's betrayals of the fleet. It will continue. With the charge of murder added!"

  Apollo put his hand to his head. Suddenly it was aching and throbbing, and the corridor was spinning.

  Baltar caught him under the shoulders and held him steady. "Apollo, I can't give you up like this," Baltar whispered.

  "You've got to," Apollo told Baltar, amazed that the old traitor had suddenly turned into Apollo's last friend, save Gar'Tokk. "I don't know what came over me, but—"

  "You will be tried for crimes against the Galactica. Treason—and now, even murder!" Sire Aron's face was grim, his words hung in the air.

  The mob rustled and shifted.

  "All right," someone said at last. "The Noman's right. We got laws. We got to obey them."

  "Yeah," someone else said.

  The Council security guards, filled with new courage, pushed their way forward through the crowd.

  "Take Apollo to the brig," Sire Aron ordered them. "Hold him until we call him to come before us again and stand trial."

  Without resisting, Apollo went with them, hanging his head in shock and shame. Baltar looked at him with an expression of sympathy. Somehow, that only made Apollo feel worse.

  Even if he had said anything, no one could have heard it, because the crowd's roar had reached a deafening pitch.

  As the Security guards forced their way through the crowd, with Gar'Tokk and Baltar allowed to walk by Apollo's side, it seemed to Apollo that every civilian on board the Galactica had found something to wield, from chair legs to lengths of shining metal pipe to pieces of brass railing that Apollo recognized—only centars earlier they had adorned the Forward bar. In their varied clothing, from richly decorated cloaks to simple, rough brown tunics, from elderly wives to scantily-clothed socialators, every man and woman on the Galactica seemed to be crowded around, eager to kill him. And they were all screaming.

  Apollo couldn't breathe for a micron. The faces of the mob were gasping, panting, and shrieking, some pale and others bright red from the exertion, and each had gl
azed, unseeing eyes that seemed almost blind, although Apollo knew that was impossible. Somewhere, behind the front group, Apollo knew that others must be getting crushed, pushed, and trampled, but he couldn't see that. He could only see the few leaders clearly, and they were bearing down on the guards and Apollo with the speed and singlemindness of a Cylon fighter wing going in for the kill.

  One of the Security guards fired his laser, a brief burst of bright blue that exploded over the heads of the leaders. Sparks flew down harmlessly from the ceiling, but like an animal at bay, the mob paused, then stopped a moment.

  Apollo watched, amazed, as the leaders slid forward, not walked, but slid, as they were pushed by the sheer momentum of the numbers behind them.

  There were still shrieks and groans, but this time, they weren't of mob rage, but of pain and fear, both from the laser discharge, and from the pressure of that many bodies crammed into the narrow space of the corridor.

  There had to be hundreds of them! Thousands!

  "There's only a few of them!" cried one of the men in front. "Come on—they can't hold out long."

  "They've got lasers," another man cried. "Don't be a fool!"

  Aron, bringing up the rear, called out, "Stop! Let us pass!"

  The groans and cries continued from within the mob. "Somebody's already hurt," a woman's voice said.

  "I'm hurt!" said another voice, perhaps that of a young man or boy.

  "Listen to me," Apollo said. "This is no way to act. Go back to your quarters. Go back to the—"

  "Why should we listen to you?" came a voice from the mob. Soon, others echoed the complaint.

  "It's not safe," Apollo said. "You'll be injured."

  "We're taking him through!" one of the guards bellowed.

  "He'll be put on trial," came Sire Aron's elderly voice.

  "I am sworn to protect him," Gar'Tokk cried at last, holding out his long, strong arms. "Now, go back to your quarters and disburse. Unless you care to face me!"

  No one cared to face the Noman. At last, the mob parted.

  Keeping his expression neutral, Apollo controlled his breathing and even tried to smile at the mob as the people parted to allow them through. And they did part. As he passed, Apollo noticed that many people had no weapons at all. They were just there, following.