“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 hi
m 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.
Haunted by that momentary vision, and tormented by the sound of the crowd, he stumbled back into the craft as the military man yelled to the crowd, “Stay back! Stay back! It’s over!”
Something was surely over, but Baltar wished he knew what it was.
Sharon fought her way to the cockpit, not so much through the crowd of passengers as through the resistance of her heavy heart. She grunted instructions to everyone to buckle in. A boy, maybe ten years old, had taken the right-hand seat. Sharon buckled into the left seat. She snapped on the fuel valve and masters, started the pumps, and powered up the engines. The down-thrusters began kicking up dust from the ground.
Outside the cockpit, she could see Helo hobbling, still holding his sidearm, driving the crowd away from the ship. You’re leaving your best friend to die. Tears began streaming down her face, and she had to look away. Just do your job. She focused on the flight controls, and drew a deep breath. Applying power, she began lifting the Raptor from the ground. It strained, with the full load of passengers.
At the edge of the crowd, a man suddenly broke free and ran to the ship and threw himself onto the side platform. Sharon felt the Raptor lean a little, and compensated with the thruster control. She saw Helo turn and point his weapon at the man. Helo shouted something, inaudible to Sharon—then fired his gun. There was a flare, and the man spun, falling from the side of the ship. Relieved and horrified at the same time, Sharon applied more thrust. The ship rose more quickly.
From the swirling cloud of dust, Helo looked up at Sharon and raised a hand in farewell. She pressed her own hand to the windshield. Good-bye, Helo.
Then she pushed the throttle forward, and the Raptor lifted quickly away from the hillside and began its climb back into the skies of Caprica and the deep darkness of space.
CHAPTER 26
COLONIAL HEAVY 798
In the cockpit of the transport Laura Roslin and Captain Lee Adama listened, riveted, as the wireless broadcast replayed. Captain Russo reached above his head to fine-tune the signal. Out the window was darkness, and the stars, and the distant orb of Caprica.
“This is an official Colonial government broadcast. All ministers and officials should now go to Case Orange. Repeat: This is an official Colonial government broadcast. All ministers and officials should now go to Case Orange.”
There was a sharp intake of breath from Laura. Lee and the two transport pilots turned to her, as she struggled to maintain her composure. Sitting on a jump seat behind the copilot, she still had the blanket wrapped around her shoulders; she looked worn and very tired. “It’s an automated message,” she said, answering their unspoken question with a low, even voice. “It’s designed to be sent out in case the president, the vice president, and most of the cabinet are dead or incapacitated.”
Lee stared at her, stunned.
Laura, however tired or overwhelmed she might have felt, continued without missing a beat. To Russo she said, “I need you,” and she paused for a heartbeat, “to send my ID code back on the exact same frequency.”
Russo barely managed to voice his response. “Yes, ma’am.”
“D as in dog, dash—”
As she recited the code, Captain Russo punched the keys on the comm unit.
“—four-five-six, dash, three-four-five, dash, A as in apple.” Laura swallowed. “Thank you.”
Lee followed her with his gaze as she got up and left the cockpit.
After a minute, he left the cockpit himself and walked slowly back through the cabin. It was an eerie sensation. It was like being on any passenger liner, in the quiet of night, except that this passenger liner was witnessing the end of the world as they knew it. He walked until he found the row where Laura was sitting, alone, in a backward-facing leather seat. Out the window, the universe seemed eternal and changeless. Eternal maybe; but not changeless. Lee took the position facing her, and sat on the edge of the seat, resting his hands between his knees. He took a deep breath, and let it out, meeting her gaze as she opened her eyes. Her sense of shock was almost physical, surrounding her like an aura.
He gathered his thoughts for a moment, then asked, “How far down?”
She answered quietly. “Forty-third in line of succession. I know all forty-two ahead of me, from the president down. Most of us served with him in the first administration.” Resting her head back, she seemed to leave the hopeless present for a moment. “Some of them came with him from the mayor’s office. I was there with him on his first campaign.” She wrinkled her nose. “I never really liked politics. I kept telling myself I was getting out, but … he had this way about him.”
Lee smiled faintly. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt humbled that she would be confiding in him.
“I just couldn’t say no,” Laura concluded with a pained chuckle. She shifted her eyes to look up at Captain Russo, who had just appeared, bearing a printout. He handed the octagonal piece of paper to her without a word. She looked at it, nodded, and handed it back to him. “Thank you,” she whispered.
She pulled the blanket off her shoulders and began putting her wine-red jacket on. Lee followed her movements with narrowed eyes as she said to Russo, “We’ll need a priest.”
Elosha, the priest who had officiated at the decommissioning ceremony, was among those passengers returning—as they had once thought—to Caprica. She stood in the center of a small knot of news reporters, who were also among those returning from their coverage of what had seemed a soft news story, the transformation of a fabled fighting ship into a museum. Now they had their cameras and microphones trained on Elosha and Laura Roslin, to witness the transfer of presidential power.
Elosha was a handsome, dark-skinned woman of about forty, wearing a deep blue dress and a matching blue headband. She held one of the sacred scrolls in her hands, and pulled it open. Soberly, she said, “Please raise your right hand and repeat after me …”
Laura raised her hand, with a great sense of weight and sadness. Lee Adama stood just behind her, to her right, watching with what she suspected was disbelief. Billy stood behind her, to her left, lending silent support, as did Captain Russo, behind Elosha. Aaron Doral was a frowning presence, several layers
of people back.
“I, Laura Roslin …”
She echoed, her voice quavering, “I … Laura Roslin …”
“ … do now avow and affirm …”
Her voice steadied a little, as she repeated the words.
“ … that I take the office of the President of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol …”
“ … that I accept the office of th—” Her voice broke on that, and she had to stop and gather herself again. “That I accept the office of the President of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol …” and she continued, following Elosha, “and that I will protect and defend the sovereignty of the Colonies … with every fiber of my being.” Her voice strained on those last words, as the weight of the responsibility she was taking on hit her like a mountain avalanche.
She paused, waiting for Elosha to offer the concluding words. She pushed her hair back nervously with her raised hand, and glanced momentarily at Lee Adama. Did she have his support? She thought she did. He seemed solid, intelligent, capable, and uneager for personal power. She wanted to trust him, and she prayed that there were more like him. She was going to need all the help she could get from people like that. They all were going to need help. From the Lords of Kobol, and from each other.
CHAPTER 27
GALACTICA, FIRE-GUTTED HOLDS OF DECK D
Chief Tyrol could barely keep his emotions in check as he watched the men carry out the bodies of the dead, and begin the cleanup of the devastated compartments. The stink of smoke and death filled the air. Tyrol’s stomach was churning. He couldn’t have said which was the target of his worst fury—the Cylons or the XO. Those people who were being carried out were all good men and women; many of them were his personal friends. None of them deserved to die. They had put their lives on the line freely—but to what purpose? So that the XO could snuff them like so many candles? We could have gotten them out! It didn’t have to be this way!
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