Battlestar Galactica

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  Laura’s heart leaped. “So that’s what that was!” She felt hope for the first time in what seemed like a very long while.

  He nodded. “So, uh—”

  “Will it fool the Cylons?”

  His face darkened. “I don’t know. But, if—if they weren’t fooled, then they’d be on top of us by now.”

  Laura involuntarily looked up, as though she might see through the walls and the hull, to confirm that there were no Cylons on top of them.

  Captain Russo spoke for the first time. “Does the rest of the fleet know about this trick?”

  Lee grimaced. “I doubt it. It was just a theory we toyed with at war college, but”—he shook his head—“it never used to work during war games. In the simulations, the Cylons would see right through it and destroy their targets anyway.” He chuckled painfully.

  Laura absorbed that for a moment. “The lesson here,” she said with a glance at Captain Russo, “is not to ask follow-up questions, but to say, thank you, Captain Apollo, for saving our collective asses.”

  Lee nodded and grinned. “You’re welcome.”

  “I’ll thank you, too,” said Captain Russo. “And now, I’d better get back to the cockpit and check on the other ship.”

  As they made their way back toward the staircase Lee began, “Now, if I could suggest—”

  “Evacuate the passenger liner,” Laura interrupted, “and get the hell out of here before the Cylons realize their mistake? I’m right with you, Captain.”

  Lee chuckled, falling back to let her go up the stairs ahead of him.

  As she climbed the stairs, though, Laura’s thoughts were very much on the need for tough choices ahead. She’d thought she was being tough by determining to stand by the passenger liner when the Cylon appeared. But only luck, providence, and the ingenuity of Captain Apollo had saved them. She had to assume that next time they would not be so fortunate.

  CHAPTER 32

  GALACTICA, AT RAGNAR

  The great ship was gliding slowly down toward the dark immensity of the Ragnar atmospheric storm. It was harder than it looked: Bringing a ship down from synchronous orbit to the point directly below it was not like riding an elevator. It required careful orbital calculations, precise application of power, and a fair amount of brute force if you were in a hurry. Galactica was in a hurry.

  In the CIC, Colonel Tigh was calling out instructions: “Five seconds to turn three.”

  “Five seconds, aye, sir,” answered Gaeta.

  “And turn.”

  Gaeta took over: “Bow pitch positive one-half. Stern pitch negative one-quarter. Bow yaw negative three-quarters …”

  They were in the outer atmosphere now, dropping closer and closer to the swirling storm.

  “Passing into the ionosphere,” Petty Officer Dualla called, relaying the latest readings. Even as she said it, the ship was starting to vibrate from the buffeting of high winds in Ragnar’s atmosphere.

  Commander Adama picked up the phone and addressed the ship: “All hands. Be ready for some chop.”

  As the ship continued to descend, crews from the engineering and hangar decks were gathering equipment and tools near the main D Level airlock. They moved without undue rush, but with grim determination.

  And outside the ship, the clouds darkened, and the winds grew stronger, threatening to blow the ship off her course down into the eye of the storm. Lightning flashed, illuminating and occasionally connecting with her hull. And far down in the mists of the turbulent atmosphere, a shape slowly emerged from the foreboding gloom—the long spindle of Ragnar Station, with three wheellike rings counter-rotating about its lower end.

  Galactica approached slowly, bucking the ever-shifting winds. Dropping cautiously past the length of the station, she approached from beneath, like a submarine rising to dock with an underwater station. This was the most difficult part of the docking procedure. Tricky enough in space, without gravity or buffeting winds, it was ten times more difficult here.

  And yet, still they drew nearer, closing on the docking module that protruded from the bottom end of the spindle. The great Galactica was the size of a toy truck compared to the immensity of the Ragnar Station. There was some final jockeying at the end, and then the magnetic locks pulled the ship’s hull and the docking collar firmly together. Once soft-seal was achieved, large mechanical latches secured the two vessels with a series of thunks that reverberated throughout the ship.

  In the CIC, Lieutenant Gaeta slid a single control lever on the airlock panel, pressurizing the join between the two airlocks. A small mechanical gauge beside the control lever rotated into the green, and Gaeta looked up and reported, “Hard seal.” He followed that with several other atmosphere and pressure checks, and reported them positive. “Cleared for boarding, sir,” he said to Adama.

  On Level D, in front of the airlock, Specialist Cally checked a similar gauge. She turned to Chief Tyrol. “Hard seal secured, sir.”

  Tyrol, speaking into the phone handset, reported, “We confirm, sir.”

  “Go find me some bullets, Chief,” Adama ordered.

  “Understood,” Tyrol replied. He hung up the phone. “All right! Let’s move out.”

  His men were already spinning the wheels to undog the hatch. The large port swung open, and the crew moved quickly through the airlock into the Ragnar Station.

  The ammunition depot, inside the station, was guarded by huge, rusty doors that would not have looked out of place as castle gates. The crew forced them open on their creaking hinges, then moved in quickly with searchlights and weapons at the ready. The cavernous space within was dark except for the lights they brought with them, and it echoed with every move they made.

  “All right, people, let’s be quick about this,” Tyrol called. “Cally, find the switches and generators and get some lights on in here.” Without waiting for the lights, they moved in through the great warehouse. Crates and larger containers were stacked everywhere, in an apparently random and hurried fashion. The crewmen flashed their beams around, finding munitions symbols and caution messages in large letters on most of the containers and caged storage areas. They were going to have to be fast but thorough, sorting out the ordnance that could be used on Galactica from that which couldn’t.

  Tyrol led the way, weaving among tall containers of unknown purpose, looking for ammunition for the Vipers, heavier cannon rounds for the ship’s defensive guns, missiles and warheads …

  Everything looked jumbled. He flashed his beam deeper into the maze. He sensed movement ahead, and was stunned to see a figure step out of a narrow alleyway. Tyrol shone his light quickly. It was a man—wild eyed, disheveled, and looking very desperate—and he was pointing a large automatic weapon directly into Tyrol’s face.

  Chief Tyrol nearly jumped out of his skin, but he recovered quickly. He sensed the others starting to crowd close. “Everybody hold back!” he ordered.

  The terrified man in front of him was trembling, the gun in his hand shaking, but not so much that he couldn’t blow Tyrol’s head off if anything spooked him. He looked like hell. He was a tall, rugged-looking fellow—but worn and ragged, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy. Though it was chilly in here, he was sweating. “I don’t want … any trouble,” he said finally.

  “Okay, let’s talk,” Tyrol replied.

  “But I’m not goin’ to jail,” the man barked.

  “What?”

  “Do you understand me?” He waved the submachine gun. “I am not … going to jail.”

  “Nobody’s taking you to jail! Just calm down.”

  For a moment, neither of them spoke. The man was pinned by about six flashlight beams against some large storage cases. “Frickin’ right, you’re not.”

  Tyrol knew he had to keep the man talking, keep him from losing control. “We’re not the police. We’re not here to arrest you. Now put your gun down.”

  “Yeah. Maybe. So who the hell are you?” the man gasped.

  “We’re from Colonial Fleet.” You know�
��the one trying to save your ass for you? “We just came … to get some equipment from the station,” Tyrol said. He gestured with one hand for emphasis. “You know—to get back in the fight.”

  The man laughed cynically. “What fight?”

  Tyrol blinked at him in astonishment. “You don’t know.”

  “Know what?”

  “There’s a war on,” Tyrol said, trying to keep his voice calm. He held out a hand. “Give me … your weapon.”

  “You think I’m stupid or something, is that it?” the man snarled. “You think I’m stupid, you expect me to believe that?” He suddenly started shouting. “I want passage out of here! I want a safe transport ship! With an untraceable”—he paused, abruptly sounding calm—“Jump system. Okay?” Then the calm vanished, and his shaking grew worse. “Now!!”

  “Look.” Tyrol answered in a tight voice. “I don’t have time to argue with you. So here’s the deal. We’ve got over two thousand people on that ship.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Now, if you think you can shoot every single one of us, fine. But if not … get the hell out of my way!”

  The man looked startled. He backed up against the boxes, and lifted his hand slightly off his weapon, appealing for restraint. Slowly, very slowly, he lowered the gun to his side.

  “Get his weapon,” Tyrol ordered, and at once three of his men were on top of the intruder, grabbing his gun and subduing him. Tyrol turned away in disgust. “If he moves, shoot him.”

  CHAPTER 33

  COLONIAL ONE

  “Madame President, we’re picking up a signal from a stranded military craft. It’s a Raptor, from Galactica.” Captain Russo pointed to the dradis screen, where a small blip indicated the location of the other craft.

  Laura leaned over his shoulder to look. “From Galactica? Captain Apollo, do you know anything about this vessel?”

  Lee was reading the comm printout. “That’s Boomer’s Raptor. The last I heard, she was part of a squadron bound for reassignment on Picon. But it says here she has refugees on board from Caprica. Don’t ask me how that happened.”

  “She’s within rendezvous range,” Captain Russo said, glancing back for instructions.

  “Then let’s do it,” said Laura. “Captain Apollo, would you stay here to help with the details?”

  “Yes, sir.” Lee slipped into the copilot’s seat recently vacated by Eduardo, and put on the headset. Adjusting the wireless, he called, “Boomer, this is Apollo, do you read …”

  Three and a half hours later, the Raptor was parked in the cargo deck, directly behind Lee Adama’s Viper. Lee stood at the bottom of the Raptor’s entryway, helping the refugees step down off the craft. They looked ragged, weary, and frightened. A woman about Lee’s age stepped down, anxiously looking for someone in authority. “Excuse me,” she said in a thick accent. “My husband—he’s in the Colonial Fleet. In Geminon?”

  Lee assisted her down. “I’ll see what I can do. If you’ll just head right this way …” He guided her to one of the other helpers, who was taking names and steering people toward the passenger cabin.

  “Have you heard anything of Geminon?” The woman’s voice trailed off in the distance, as she continued to ask anyone who might listen.

  “Come on,” Lee urged the next person.

  “Captain?” The hand at his elbow belonged to Boomer, Sharon Valerii. She seemed to need to talk, so he turned his spot over to a transport crewman and walked with her. A boy, maybe ten years old, was with her. She introduced him as Boxey—then launched straight into her tactical situation. “I’ve got two communication pods left, sir. But that’s it. No sparrows, no jiggers, no drones, no markers—nothing.”

  “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.