[Battlestar Galactica 01] - Battlestar Galactica

by Jeffrey A. Carver - (ebook by Undead)

  Adama didn’t say anything. He took off his glasses and turned to face her again, wearily.

  “President Adar and I once talked about the legends surrounding Earth. He knew nothing about a secret location regarding Earth. And if the president knew nothing about it, what are the chances that you do?” She said it, not accusingly, but matter-of-factly.

  He straightened a little, his expression as impenetrable as ever. “You’re right,” he admitted finally. “There’s no Earth. It’s all a legend.” He put his glasses back on and turned to his stack of books once more.

  “Then why—?”

  “Because…” Adama suddenly looked to her like everybody’s favorite grandfather or uncle, passing a nugget of wisdom on to the next generation. “It’s not enough to just live. You have to have something to live for. Let it be Earth.”

  Laura felt a grin she could barely subdue sneak onto her face. She stood up and walked around, many emotions warring for control of her expression. She didn’t know precisely what she felt just now, but she certainly had to admire his guts. “How long can you keep it up as a pretense?”

  “As long as it takes. Until we find a planet that can sustain us, and start life over.”

  She nodded and smiled tightly. “They’ll never forgive you for lying to them.”

  “Maybe.” He looked up at her. “But in the meantime, I’ve given all of us a fighting chance to survive. And isn’t that what you said was the most important thing? Survival of the human race?”

  Did I say that? Maybe I did. “Who else knows?” she asked, arms crossed.

  “Not a soul.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “All right. I’ll keep your secret. But I want something in return.”

  Leaning one elbow on a pile of books, he said, “I’m listening.”

  “If this civilization is going to function, it’s going to need schools, hospitals—however limited. Manufacturing and repair. Agriculture and mining. Service industries. Police. An economy. It’s going to need a government.” Her voice was soft, but her tone was adamant. “A civilian government run by the President of the Colonies.”

  Adama stood up slowly and began buttoning his coat. He looked down at the books, then slowly raised his eyes to her. “Run by the president, huh? So you’d be in charge of the fleet’s civilian concerns. Military decisions would stay with me. Is that what you’re saying?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  Finished neatening up his jacket, he took off his glasses. “Then… I’ll think about it… Madame President.” And he extended his hand to her, and after a moment, she extended hers in return.

  Deck C Starboard Corridor

  Gaius Baltar strode along, not really sure where he was going. He was still waiting for his heart to slow down. He still couldn’t believe that the fleet had escaped the Cylon attack. Whatever happened now, it would have to be better than what almost happened, back there at Ragnar.

  Of course, they would still be expecting him to come up with a Cylon detector, which was not an easy problem, not an easy problem at all…

  Rounding a corner, he found Six waiting for him. His heart sank. She was, of course, dressed in the red outfit that was clearly calculated to drive him mad with desire. Not this time, though. He was too tired physically, and too tired of her games.

  She greeted him with a smile that seemed more sardonic than usual. “Your escape is a temporary one at best,” she said, in a tone that now seemed insufferable. “We will find you.”

  “Yeah, you can try.” He pushed past her. “It’s a big universe.”

  She followed him. “You haven’t addressed the real problem, of course.”

  “Yes, yes,” he answered with an impatient glance back. “There may be Cylon agents living among us, waiting to strike at any moment.” He kept up his pace.

  “Some may not even know they’re Cylons at all,” she said. “They could be sleeper agents programmed to perfectly impersonate human beings until activation.”

  He wheeled to face her. “If there are Cylons aboard this ship, we’ll find them.” He nodded and turned to continue on his way.

  “We?” She came around in front of him, causing him to stop. “You talk like you’re one of them, now. You must know that you can never be one of them—not really. Not anymore.” She reached out, as though to touch him, but didn’t quite. “My sweet Gaius, you have no idea how important you are… how important your mission is.” She lowered her head slightly, and her voice became a little sterner. “You’re not on their side, Gaius.”

  He tensed at those words, and as she moved as though to embrace him, or maybe even kiss him, he answered through clenched jaw, “I am not… on anybody’s side.”

  That seemed to take her by surprise, even to hurt her. He walked past her again. But this time she made no attempt to answer, or to follow, as he continued on his way.

  CHAPTER

  50

  Galactica, at the End of the Day

  Colonel Tigh strode into his private quarters, grim determination on his face, determination fueled by rage. Indignation. Shame.

  He loosened his jacket, taking the familiar steps over to the top right drawer of his desk. As he had done so often in the past, virtually every day of his life for years, he lifted out the bottle of whiskey and raised it to the light. It was a fairly new bottle, three-quarters full. If he were going to follow the usual pattern, he would take out a glass and pour. And the fire as it went down would dull, somewhat, the pain of all the years, and the pain of his absent wife, now almost certainly dead.

  This time, to his own surprise, he did something different. He carried it over to the wastebasket, half full of crumpled papers—and he dropped it in. It hit the bottom of the basket with a clunk. He walked away from it, scowling. But he felt a little happier, a little prouder.

  * * *

  Boxey Wakefield still felt uncertain, finding his way around the area of the enlisted quarters. He really didn’t know where to go, or what to do with himself. But there was one room he knew how to find, and that was the pilots’ lounge. He hesitated outside in the corridor for a minute, peering in through the open hatch. He could see Sharon in there—Boomer, they called her.

  She glanced over and caught his eye with a wisp of a smile. She was playing cards with some of the other pilots. With a motion of her head, she invited him in. He entered, feeling his heart pound, his shyness suddenly overwhelming. These looked like serious people, these pilots—and they were all looking at him with what seemed like amusement. Never mind that, Sharon’s expression seemed to say. She gestured to him to come around and take a seat beside her.

  Sharon put a hand on his shoulder, and passed him a plate of cookies. Or rather a plate that had had cookies, and now had just one. He reached out for that last cookie and took a bite.

  Sharon grinned at him, and he grinned back. Suddenly, for a moment anyway, he didn’t mind being just a kid here.

  Kara Thrace was finally unwinding, hanging her uniform shirt in her tiny closet. As she did so, she noticed once more the photo of Zak and her, with Lee folded behind, tucked into the mirror frame. When she’d thought Lee was dead, she’d flattened the picture so that she could mourn the two brothers together. When he’d come back to life and become her senior officer, she’d felt funny about it and had refolded the picture. Now, she flattened the photo once more and replaced it in the mirror frame, smoothing the crease with her finger. That felt right now, and she didn’t think she’d be changing it again.

  She reached up onto the shelf and felt around until she found one of her few remaining cigars. Lighting it, she flicked her lighter shut and puffed a few times in satisfaction, gazing at the photo. Then she walked over to her bunk and stretched out, puffing, contemplating the day.

  Not a good day, certainly. But she, and many of the people she loved, had come through it alive. There was that to be said for it.

  And there was Earth, somewhere in their future, and so there was that, too.

 
; For a long time she lay there puffing, surrounded by a thick cloud of pungent blue smoke.

  Throughout the ship, life was returning to… not normal, because normal could never again describe the lives of these people of Galactica… but something that felt more like life, something sustainable.

  Repair work proceeded everywhere throughout the ship. In the landing bay, Captain Kelly was overseeing the removal of Vipers from the landing area, in some cases untangling craft from each other before they could be moved to the elevator pads and lowered to the hangar deck for servicing. The landing pod itself needed substantial repairs—not just from the Ragnar battle, but from the nuke that nearly took the ship out in the first engagement.

  Below decks, Chief Tyrol was hard at work pulling together a flyable squadron of Vipers. They’d lost eight fighters at Ragnar, and another fourteen were seriously bent, bashed, or busted up. The CAG’s Viper, Apollo’s, was the worst trashed of any that had come back; but Tyrol was damned if he was going to let the CAG lose his ship. His crew was working industriously—some, like Cally, working extra hard to fill a space in themselves that would otherwise be devastating.

  In the Combat Information Center, Lieutenant Gaeta was gearing up to juggle just about everything: repairs to the battle-shattered CIC, formation operations with the fleet, constant vigilance for Cylons, and plans for the next Jump. He was tired, but he figured he could manage a little longer on caffeine; let the ones who had been on the first line of the fight get their rest first.

  Dualla, on the other hand, knew she needed a break, and she wisely took it. Let the superheroes be the superheroes. She walked the corridors of the ship, just glad to be alive. Still, she was definitely surprised to find Billy in the passageway, surrounded by eager female crewmembers, a big grin on his face. D. didn’t stop to say anything; she just walked by with a beaming smile. And her smile grew broader when Billy saw her, and came running after her, calling her name.

  Colonel Tigh sat in his quarters, studying the three-quarters full bottle of whiskey that he had retrieved from the trash can. He hadn’t drunk any. But it was a damn good bourbon, and who knew when he would have a chance to acquire more. It seemed a sin to waste it. To waste his fine whiskey—his poison, the thing that would destroy him if he didn’t destroy it. He stared at it, his hands clasped over his belt, his thumbs twitching nervously. He had done pretty well this last day without it; the XO had returned. But would he stay?

  Didn’t he, after all, deserve a little reward?

  Commander Adama and Lee walked together toward Adama’s quarters. They were both bone-tired, but this was a good end to the day, to talk with his son whom he thought he had lost—twice in the space of twenty-four hours. It was good to talk, even if the talk was entirely about the work, the ship, the command. As Adama opened the hatch to his quarters, Lee concluded his report: “Tomorrow I’ll begin a formal combat patrol around the fleet.”

  “Good,” Adama said, turning to say good night. “I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

  Lee hesitated. He clearly wanted to say more, but it just as clearly was very difficult for him. “I—listen, it’s just I—it’s been so long—”

  Adama gazed at him feeling emotions he had practically forgotten. How long had it been since he had looked his son straight in the eye? So many thoughts in his mind, and too much weariness to sort it all out. He finally just nodded. “Let’s save this for another time, son. I think we’ve pulled off enough miracles today, don’t you?”

  Lee took a moment to react to that, and returned the nod. “Maybe so. Good night, Commander.”

  “Good night, Captain.”

  As Lee turned away, Adama closed the door and breathed a sigh of relief and satisfaction. He was finally ready to think about sleep. He didn’t think he had ever felt so ready.

  And then he saw the small, folded piece of paper on his side table. Someone had left a note for him. He put on his glasses and picked it up. It was a single sentence, typed on Galactica printout paper. It was unsigned. It read:

  THERE ARE ONLY 12 CYLON MODELS.

  Adama stared at the note for a long time, stunned. Twleve Cylon models—and all indistinguishable from humans? Who would have left such a note? And why anonymously? And what could he do about it?

  Not a damn thing that I can think of.

  In the end, he refolded the note and put it away in his wall safe, all thoughts of sleep effectively banished.

  We haven’t escaped from them yet.

  CODA

  The gaseous green storms of Ragnar continued to swirl, as they had for millions of years, and probably would for millions of years more. But around the Ragnar Anchorage, a fleet of ships had gathered: a looming Cylon base star and a buzzing horde of its attendants.

  Inside the station, in a large storage room, a man sat huddled in misery. He was not lacking for food, or air, or water. But he was lacking for company. And he was lacking for even the remotest semblance of comfort.

  The place smelled of rust, dankness, emptiness, and fear. Most of the gloomy light, such as it was, came from a weird shaft that went up through the ceiling of the room at the end where he sat. It looked a little like a gigantic coil spring, or a cylindrical cage, with a vague column of orange light going up its center. It was the most prominent feature of the room, but he had no idea what it was, nor did he care. Aaron Doral just sat in front of it, right where the soldiers of Galactica had left him to rot. The bastards. The inhuman bastards.

  He was sweating profusely, though the room was, if anything, chilly. His skin color was pallid—greenish—and he was shaking. Something about this place was making him ill.

  He started at the sound of a sudden crash at the other end of the room. A flare of light blazed through the crack in the heavy doors. Another crash, and more light. Smoke and steam billowed out into the room. Someone on the outside was using explosives or torches, or both. Finally the doors began to spread apart, with a screech of metal on metal. Outside he saw only bright light and fog. It was difficult to focus, but he squinted and finally saw what was coming in.

  Two late-model Cylon centurions clanked into the room, shining stainless warriors with clawed hands and red-glowing Cyclops eyes scanning side to side. Doral tensed, feeling a strange confusion. He didn’t quite understand what was happening to him. He should be terrified. Why wasn’t he more frightened?

  The centurions strode forward only a little way, then stepped aside. Apparently, they were here to guard the doors. So more Cylons would be coming. Yes, of course. It was starting to become clear. Even through the haze of the fog and the sickness, he was starting to understand.

  A series of figures emerged from the light-haze, following the centurions into the room. They slowly became clear to him as they approached. There were three Cylons who looked exactly like Leoben, the agent whom Adama had killed. They were dressed identically in casual, almost sloppy shirts and pants. There were three of the… Number Six model. Yes, he recognized them now. Blonde, gorgeous, all three dressed in crimson skirt-suits. And there was one of the… Aaron Doral model. Him. His double. Dressed in an electric-blue suit, the way he often had dressed, when he was working on Galactica.

  It was like a window opening in his mind, as he suddenly understood his relationship to all of the Cylon models. He knew now that he should speak, without waiting for them to speak. “We have to get out of this storm. The radiation… it affects our neural relays.” He stood up to confer with them.

  “Where did they go?” one of the Leoben models asked.

  “I don’t know. They were preparing for a big Jump,” Doral answered.

  “We can’t let them go,” said his identical model.

  The first Number Six model, in a silken voice, agreed.

  “If we do, they’ll return one day and seek revenge.” That was the second Leoben. The remaining Cylons spoke in turn.

  “It’s in their nature.”

  “We have no choice, in any case. We must find them. The Mission, t
he Project, require it.”

  “If they’ve Jumped out of known space, it could take decades to track them down.”

  A new figure entered the room at that moment, emerging from the haze outside. It was a female Cylon—brunette, petite, and beautiful. The easy smile on her face revealed her utter confidence. “Don’t worry. We’ll find them. And it won’t take nearly that long.”

  It was the Sharon Valerii model. The Boomer model.

  “By your command,” murmured a Number Six.

  With that, they turned. And with the ailing Doral model, they walked out of that place, followed by the steel warriors.

  Minutes later, the base star detached from Ragnar Station. It rose, at once majestic and malign, wheeling up through the swirling clouds. Once free of the atmosphere, it accelerated at high speed into the dark emptiness of interstellar space.

  The hunt for the remnants of humanity had begun.

  Scanning, formatting and basic

  proofing by Undead.