“Very well. Can you show me to the briefing room, please?”
Colonel Tigh arrived in the briefing room shortly after them. Laura watched from inside the room as Lee Adama met Tigh at the door. Tigh returned his salute and then just stared at him for a minute. He didn’t reveal any emotion, but finally he shook Lee’s hand and said, “It’s damned good to see you alive.”
“I’m glad to be alive,” Lee answered. He gestured toward Laura across the long table that bisected the room. “I believe you know Laura Roslin. President Laura Roslin.”
Tigh walked slowly around the table and approached her, without quite acknowledging the full meaning of Lee’s words. “We’ve met, yes. Ms. Roslin.”
“She was sworn into office yesterday,” Lee continued, “following the protocol—”
“So I heard,” Tigh said, interrupting him. He glanced at Lee with an expression of derision, as if to say, And you bought that? One day a schoolteacher and now the president?
Laura decided it was time to cut to the chase. “Colonel Tigh, we are, as far as we know, the sole surviving fleet of Colonial ships. And we need your help. With food and medical supplies.”
Tigh fixed her with an incredulous gaze. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m not big on jokes today,” Laura answered evenly. “May I ask where Commander Adama is?” She extended her arm, as if to ask, Is he waiting in the wings?
“He’s unavailable,” Tigh said in a voice that was even flintier than usual. “We expect to hear from him soon. In the meantime, I’m in command.”
“Then,” Laura acknowledged with a nod, “we should be looking to you to answer our requests.”
Tigh was suddenly afire with indignation. “We’re in the middle of repairing and rearming this ship! We can’t afford to pull a single man off the line to start caring for refugees!”
Laura tried to control her own temper. She averted her head for a moment while she channeled her anger into determination. She swung back and said forcefully, “We have fifty thousand people out there, and some of them are hurt! Our priority has to be caring for—”
“My priority is preparing this ship for combat.” He looked at her squarely, and more than a little condescendingly. “In case you haven’t heard, there’s a war on.”
Laura drew a deep breath. I still have to be a schoolteacher , she thought. He can’t see the truth in front of his eyes. “Colonel,” she said evenly, stepping toward him. “The war is over. And we lost.”
Colonel Tigh smirked. “We’ll see about that.”
“Oh yes, we will. In the meantime, however, as President of the Colonies, I’m giving you a direct order—”
“You don’t give orders on this ship!”
“—to provide men and equipment—”
Lee stepped forward and broke in suddenly. “Hold on, Colonel!” At that, Tigh turned around and stared at him in amazement. “At least give us a couple of disaster pods,” Lee continued, in an even and reasonable tone.
“Us?” Tigh said.
“Sir,” Lee continued, ignoring the implied reproach, “we have fifty thousand people out there. Fifty thousand . Some of them are sick. Some are wounded.” He gestured earnestly. “Two disaster pods, Colonel. You can do that.”
Colonel Tigh answered very slowly and reluctantly. “Because you’re the Old Man’s son, and because he’s going to be so damned happy you’re alive—okay. Two pods. But no personnel.” He turned away and circled around the table to leave the room. He met no one’s eyes as he said, “You get them yourselves and you distribute them yourselves. And you are all off this ship before we Jump back.”
Lee stood near the doorway, and Tigh walked up to him. “You report to the flight deck,” Tigh ordered. His voice sharpened. “You’re senior pilot now, Captain.”
Lee raised his hand in a very precise salute. “Yes sir.”
Tigh returned the salute and strode away.
Laura stood with her hands behind her back, gazing gratefully at Lee for a moment. When he finally turned and caught her gaze, she inclined her head with a faint smile, and nodded to dismiss him for the duties to which the colonel had called him.
CHAPTER 38
GALACTICA, DECK E PASSAGEWAY
Chief Tyrol walked along one of the ship’s corridors with a group of men carrying a rack of small warheads. He stopped, looking this way and that, his heart pounding. Where was she? He couldn’t just leave the work he was doing; he couldn’t leave his post. But he knew she was here somewhere, and he needed to find her, to see her. Now. He spoke in a distracted tone to the gunnery specialist who was flanking him with a clipboard. “As soon as you get the magazines loaded, I want a status report on Commander Adama’s whereabouts.”
“Yes sir.” The specialist made a note and continued on his way.
Tyrol stood where he was for a minute, trying to figure out what to do. He was still absorbing the news that a civilian fleet had joined them—and that one of the ships was the Colonial transport that carried the new president—as well as two people they’d all given up for dead. Lee Adama … and Sharon Valerii. Boomer.
The passageways seemed quiet, with people doing their jobs despite their exhaustion, but with no energy left for outward shows of emotion. There was no talking, and practically no sound. He gazed anxiously one way and then another.
And then he saw her, coming toward him down the corridor, passing the gunnery specialist. She saw him at the same moment, and stopped. With her she had a boy, about ten years old. She and Tyrol stared at each other in disbelief. Sharon suddenly began striding quickly toward him. He felt the molasses in his feet let go, and he moved toward her, too, quickening his pace until they met mid-corridor. They fell into a powerful embrace, heedless of whether anyone saw or cared—and Tyrol lifted her off her feet and swung her in circles. Then he put her down and cradled her face in his hands, and they gazed into each other’s eyes with joy, as the long-held grief melted away.
They kissed, hard, and then hugged for a very long time, swinging back and forth, as the bewildered boy ducked and danced out of their way.
Finally Sharon broke from their embrace long enough to let Tyrol study her face, grinning. “There’s someone I want you to meet,” she said, with a laugh. She turned to the boy and put a hand on his shoulder. “New crewmember. Name’s Boxey. He’s gonna need some quarters.”
The boy looked embarrassed, and as happy as a kid could look under these circumstances. Maybe he was just glad he had someone looking out for him.
Tyrol couldn’t stop grinning. “We can manage that …”
In another corridor, Billy was trying to lead Baltar to the CIC, but he didn’t really seem to know where he was going. Baltar followed him anyway, as they hurriedly strode along, turning this way and that. Billy occasionally said something like, “Ah, this way,” but within a minute or two would be confused again.
Baltar was confused, period. This ship was the gloomiest place he had ever seen. It was dark and claustrophobic, and the walls slanted inward toward a peak at the ceiling, so that he felt like he was walking through a triangular prism, in perpetual twilight. He wondered how long it took people to get used to it.
Ahead of him, Billy suddenly straightened and quickened his step. “Dualla!” he cried to someone in the corridor ahead. “Hi! Um, we’re kind of lost—again.”
Baltar squinted to see who Billy was talking to. A tall, striking crewwoman with exquisite olive-toned skin stopped in her tracks at the sight of them. She just stared at them for an instant, then ran toward Billy. “We need to get to the CIC—” Billy began, and then the woman he’d called Dualla grabbed him around the neck and planted a kiss on him. A long, urgent kiss.
Noticing Baltar, she finally broke from the clinch. She looked a little sheepish. Billy simply looked shell-shocked. Dualla regained her poise first and said, “It’s this way,” and strode past the two, leading them in the direction from which they’d just come.
Billy turned, dazed, toward Baltar. “I
think she was happy to see you,” Baltar murmured. Billy nodded, then hurried to follow the impatiently gesturing Dualla.
Baltar stumbled along behind, envious and wondering what he had missed. Poor Billy. If you don’t understand it … don’t ask me to explain it to you.
Lee Adama was having trouble keeping a smile off his face, too, as he entered the hangar area, ready to take up his duties as chief pilot. There was someone he wanted to say hello to.
He found Kara Thrace under a Viper, on her back on a mechanic’s crawl, open toolbox at her side. She hadn’t noticed his approach, and he stood for a moment, wondering what the last day or so had been like for her. Rumor had it she’d had a big hand in saving Galactica. When she still didn’t notice him, he called down. “Hey!”
She turned her head to see who had called, and a strange look came over her grease-smudged face, as if she thought she were seeing a ghost. He smiled down as she slid out from under the Viper, and extended a hand to help her to her feet. They stood frozen like that for a moment: her hand in his, not exactly a handshake, but not that other way of holding hands, either. She was trembling, and trying to catch her breath, and looking as if she wasn’t sure whether to hug him or rub her eyes and go back to work. Finally she managed to force out, “I … thought … you were dead.” And for a moment, her face seemed to flicker between the grief she’d obviously been dealing with, and astonishment that he was standing there in front of her, alive.
Lee finally cracked a grin at the same time she did. “Well, I thought you were in hack,” he said, remembering that indeed she’d been in the brig that last time he’d seen her. He felt an impulse to grab her in a bear hug, and guessed she was probably feeling the same way. But he wasn’t sure he trusted his own feelings enough to do that—and besides, he was her senior officer now.
She laughed and nodded, and dropped her hands to her hips. “It’s … good to be wrong,” she said finally, with a vigorous nod.
He couldn’t resist a crack. “Well, you should be used to it by now.”
She grinned broadly. “Everyone has a skill.” And then she turned sober, and they just looked at each other with clear relief on both of their faces that they were still alive in the midst of this madness.
Finally he broke the silence, with a nod to the Viper. “So, how go the repairs?”
For a few heartbeats she didn’t move. Then suddenly she made an inner transition and became more animated, if uncomfortable. “On track. Another hour and she’ll be ready to launch.” She hugged herself with her bare arms and said, “So I guess you’re the new CAG now.”
“Yeah, that’s what they tell me,” Lee answered, a little self-consciously.
“Good!” Kara said. “That’s good. It’s the last thing I’d want.” She pressed her lips together, apparently thinking hard and looked him soberly in the eye. “I’m not a big enough dipstick for the job.”
She held a straight face for a second, as he worked his mouth, trying to think of a comeback. When he couldn’t, she cocked her head to one side with a grin, and they laughed silently together. He managed to get his command face back on and said, “I’ll be in the squadron”—he choked a little—“ready room.” And he turned away and left her grinning.
He was just rounding the end of the Viper when he heard, “Hey!” He looked back. “Does your father know you’re still breathing?” Kara called.
Lee gave a little snort, once more at a loss for words. Finally he said, “I’ll let him know.” And this time he did leave. But he could sense Kara shaking her head behind him as he walked away.
CHAPTER 39
RAGNAR STATION, MAINTENANCE LEVEL CROSSOVER
Although they seemed to be walking ever deeper into the bowels of the decaying station, Commander Adama had found a grime-covered directory marker that showed where they were: a hell of a long way from the armory, that was for sure. They already had missed two turnoffs that might have taken them back. It was upon making that discovery that Adama had taken the lead. From their present position, they just needed to get through this crossover section; then they could turn left and go up a level and start making their way back out along the next radial passageway. Damn good thing, too. Adama was sick to death of this place, with its leaky steam pipes and dripping condensation everywhere. It made him feel chilled. Leoben, on the other hand, was sweating more and more profusely, as if they were in a sauna.
They paused at a strange juncture where a couple of dirty window-ports actually gave them a view out into the atmosphere of Ragnar. The seemingly eternal green storm continued to rage, with lightning flash followed by lightning flash. The great counter-rotating wheels of the station churned around in the field of view like ancient water-wheels, endless grinding dust for masters long since forgotten.
Adama squinted for a few moments, then grunted and continued on his way. Leoben followed, with increasing difficulty and signs of illness. Adama was impatient at the pace, but did not drop his vigilance, or his awareness of where Leoben was at every moment. He was giving the “arms dealer” a little wiggle room, and waiting to see if Leoben would take a misstep.
As they descended a metal staircase into the deepest part of the maintenance section, Leoben staggered. Adama paused and looked back. Leoben was grimacing in pain. He swayed a little, then crouched down, wincing, and sat on the stairs a few steps up from the bottom. Adama watched him grimly, almost certain now that what he’d suspected was true.
Leoben’s skin was now tinged with gray and green. He screwed up his face as if the very air was poisoning him. “Ahhh—!” he gasped, rolling his neck in pain. “What is it about this place? What’s it doin’ to me?”
Adama stared coldly at him. “Must be your allergies.”
Leoben raised his sweat-beaded head and widened his eyes as he looked at Adama. His face glistened with sweat as he suddenly broke into a grin. “I don’t have allergies.”
“I didn’t think so,” Adama said in low, measured tones. He stepped a little closer. “What you’ve got is silica pathways to the brain—or whatever it is you call that thing you pretend to think with. It’s decomposing as we speak.”
Leoben didn’t deny it. “It’s the storm, isn’t it?” he managed. “It puts out something—something you discovered has an effect on Cylon technology. That’s it, isn’t it? This is a refuge. That’s why you put a fleet out here. A last-ditch effort to hide from a Cylon attack. Right? Well, it’s not enough, Adama. I’ve been here for … hours. Once they find you”—he paused to shake his head—“it won’t take them that long to destroy you.”
Adama stared at him, anger building up like a pressure in his chest. Now that Leoben had revealed himself, Adama suddenly felt all the rage he’d been holding back rise like lava in a volcano. He didn’t know how the Cylons had come to look so much like humans, but he did know that they’d destroyed his world and killed his son and a lot of other good people along with him. And they were trying to exterminate all that was left of humanity.
As if he could read Adama’s thoughts, Leoben started to smirk. “They’ll be in and out before they even get a headache.”
Adama stepped forward suddenly and grabbed Leoben by the shirt front. “Maybe,” he growled. He pulled Leoben down from the steps and slammed him up against a pillar. “But you—you won’t find out, because you’ll be dead in a few minutes.” As dead as I can make you. Through clenched teeth he growled, “How does that make you feel? If you can feel.”
“Oh, I can feel more than you could ever conceive, Adama.” Leoben chuckled. “But I won’t die. When this body dies, my consciousness will be transferred to another one. And when that happens …” Leoben’s voice trailed off as if he’d run out of steam, and he groaned and slid to the floor. Adama released him to sit crumpled against the pillar. Panting for breath, Leoben continued in a strained whisper, “I’ll tell the others exactly where you are … and I think they’ll come, and they’ll kill all of you. And I’ll be here watching it happen.”
&nbs
p; Adama squatted down slowly and shone his light up into Leoben’s ashen face. “You know what I think? I think if you could’ve transferred out of here, you would have done it long before now. I think the storm’s radiation really clogged up your connection. You’re not going anywhere. You’re stuck in that body.”
Leoben showed no reaction. “It doesn’t matter. Sooner or later”—and now he grinned through the pain—“the day comes when you can’t hide from the things you’ve done.”
Adama stared at him, stunned. How the hell did Leoben know that expression? Did he know those were the exact words Adama had used to end his speech at the decommissioning ceremony, just a day or two ago—or however the hell long it had been?
Leoben’s head lolled back, as if he were about to pass out. Adama watched him, still at a loss for words. Maybe this was the end of the line for Leoben.
Suddenly Leoben’s hand shot out and seized Adama by the throat. It was no dying man’s clutch, but a vice grip, closing on Adama’s windpipe. Adama began to gasp.
Leoben straightened with a grin and stood up, raising Adama along with him—lifted him by the windpipe, until they were both on their feet. Unable to breathe, Adama whipped his lantern across in his right hand, trying to knock Leoben out with it. It barely glanced off Leoben—and an instant later, Leoben came back with a solid right to Adama’s jaw. That stunned Adama, but not enough to keep him from feeling himself being lifted completely off the floor by Leoben’s grip on his throat. Leoben held him there for what felt like forever. And then Leoben hauled back, and with a great roundhouse punch to the solar plexus, sent Adama flying backward to slam into a wall and land in a heap.
Adama forced himself up to a crouch. He saw Leoben walk slowly toward him, then stop at a vertical standpipe that came out of some kind of waist-high chamber. With a deliberate motion and apparent superhuman strength despite his debilitated state, Leoben grabbed the pipe and wrenched it loose from its upper mounting. Then he bent it back and forth until it broke off at the base. Steam billowed hissing out of the broken line. Leoben stepped forward and swung the section of pipe in a lethal blow.
Battlestar Galactica Page 19
