“That can’t be right,” she muttered. It should be clear.
But it wasn’t.
The dradis screen was coming into sharper focus now—and what it showed was a blizzard of small contacts, and a strange shading behind them. Looking up through the canopy over her head, Starbuck saw the last of the clouds dissipate. She cut her engines to idle. She would coast in a suborbital trajectory while she checked the situation.
“Oh frak!” she yelled, looking up and left and right.
She had emerged just below a huge swarm of Cylon raiders. “Lords of Kobol,” she breathed, trying to get a rough count. It was impossible; they were everywhere. Instinctively, she flicked on her weapons systems. Then, upon deliberation, she shut them down again. She wasn’t here to take on a flock of raiders; she was here to discover and report.
As she looked up again, she realized she had not seen the worst of it—not by far. Shockingly close, so close overhead that she’d almost missed it, was the vast, menacing, starfish shape of the worst enemy she could imagine: a Cylon base star. Not just an almost invulnerable dreadnought, which it most certainly was, but the mother ship to hundreds of raiders.
Frak, frak, frak…
There was only one reason that base star would be here. It was lying in wait for its prey to emerge. It was lying in wait for Galactica.
CHAPTER
44
Galactica, Conference Room B
Commander Adama strode toward the conference room door. The two armed guards saluted. “As you were,” he said. One of the guards pulled the hatch door open, and Adama stepped over the lip of the coaming and into the room President Roslin and her aide had set up as a temporary office. Colonel Tigh had practically made this a prison for them, but Adama had loosened the restrictions and allowed her to conduct business here.
The young aide was sitting at the conference table with his back to the door, apparently going over a list of concerns with the president. Roslin herself was behind the table, facing the entrance, with a lot of papers spread out in front of her. Her eyes shifted enough to note Adama’s entrance, but her attention never wavered from her aide, who was in the middle of a report: “Medical supplies running low in the outer half of the fleet. The disaster pods never made it that far, Madame President.”
“Not surprising,” she said. “What else?”
“Three of the ships are reporting engine trouble and want to know when they’ll be getting engineering assistance from Galactica.”
Roslin’s eyes shifted to Adama. “That’s a good question. Hello, Commander. Have a seat. I’ll be with you in a moment.” To the aide, who had started to rise to give up his seat, she said, “Keep going.”
The young aide—Billy?—looked uncertain for a moment, then sat back down. There was a certain tension in the air. Is she trying to make a point? Adama wondered. He said nothing, but took a seat beside Billy All right. I’ll play along.
Billy cleared his throat. “Ah—the captain of the Astral Queen wants you to know he’s got nearly five hundred convicted criminals under heavy guard in his hold. They were being transported to a penal station when the attack happened.”
Roslin’s face clouded. “Oh, great.”
“He wants to know what to do with them.”
Roslin leaned forward. “What to do with them?”
Billy shrugged, twitching his pencil. “Well, with food and medical supplies being what they are, I think he’s considering just—”
“No—no.” The president’s gaze sharpened. “We’re not going to start doing that. They’re still human beings.” Roslin drummed her fingers for a moment, glancing only momentarily at Adama, who was doing his best to maintain an impassive expression. He didn’t appreciate being placed on hold, but neither was he going to reveal any annoyance. Nor did he have any intention of being drawn into a political debate.
Roslin continued, “Tell the captain I expect daily reports on the well-being of his prisoners. And if there are any mysterious deaths, the Astral Queen may find herself on her own, without Galactica’s protection.” She glanced again at Adama, perhaps checking for a reaction; he refused once more to betray any emotion.
“Yes, Madame President.”
“Thank you, Billy.”
The aide rose to leave, taking a sheaf of papers with him. Roslin tapped a pen against her hand, following Billy with her gaze until he had left the room. The hatch clanged shut. President Roslin turned at last to Commander Adama.
Laura Roslin knew, as she and Commander Adama met each other’s gazes across the table, that the power struggle was not over, just because he had acquiesced to waiting while she finished less urgent business with Billy. But neither of them wanted to say so. There was a dark suture line near his left eye, but the wound was no longer bandaged; he looked strong, recovered, and fully in command.
Maybe the best thing was to come right out with her biggest concern. “Are you planning to stage a military coup?” she asked.
Adama was no doubt taken aback, but he hid his surprise well as he studied her. “What?”
“Do you plan to declare martial law? Take over the government?”
Adama maintained an expression of military dignity. “Of course not.”
“Then”—she hesitated to be so blunt, but she really had no choice—“you do acknowledge my position as President, as duly constituted under the Articles of Colonization?” It was a mouthful, but it needed to be said.
Adama, to her disappointment, didn’t answer the question. Instead he looked exasperated. “Miss Roslin… my primary objective at the present time is to repair the Galactica and continue to fight.”
How noble. And how futile. Roslin pressed him. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Commander, but isn’t Galactica the last surviving battlestar?”
“We don’t know for sure how many other elements of the fleet may have survived,” he said.
“Come on now. Do we have any reason to think there are any other survivors? The rest of the fleet was being systematically destroyed, was it not—because the Cylons were infiltrating their computer networks?”
Adama stirred, his eyes betraying nothing. “That was how it appeared, yes.”
“Commander, the only reason this ship survived—the only reason any of us survived—is that you refused to allow any computer networking on Galactica. Despite the efforts of some people to change your mind.” Roslin paused, allowing a hint of genuine chagrin on her face. “For which we owe you incalculable thanks. But at this moment, there axe fifty thousand civilian refugees out there who won’t stand a chance without your ship to protect them.”
“We’re aware of the tactical situation,” Adama insisted. “I’m sure that you’ll all be safe here on Ragnar after we leave.”
“After you leave?” Laura cleared her throat and suddenly felt very much like a schoolteacher once again—trying to help a student who misunderstood a question. “Where are you going?”
“To find the enemy. We’re at war. That’s our mission.”
She struggled to keep her expression neutral—resulting, she knew, in a strained smile, more like a grimace. “I honestly don’t know why I have to keep telling you this,” she said with painstaking deliberation. “But the war … is over.”
He narrowed his gaze, and she could see an iron hardness settling into his craggy face. “It hasn’t begun yet,” he growled.
She refrained from throwing up her hands. “That’s insane.” It’s your testosterone talking. I wish you could see that. “You’re going to fight a war that’s already been lost… with one ship? Our last warship?”
“You would rather that we run?”
She answered instantly. “Yes. Absolutely. That is the only sane thing to do—exactly that. Run. We leave this solar system and we don’t look back.”
Adama looked down for a moment, then back up at her. “And we go where?”
“I don’t know. Another star system, another planet. Somewhere the Cylons won’t find us.”
His back was clearly up, despite his calm, military demeanor. “You can run if you like. This ship will stand, and it will fight.”
Lords of Kobol, she thought. Right sentiment for another time. “Commander Adama, let me be straight with you here. The human race is about to be wiped out. Yesterday we numbered in the billions. Today we have fifty thousand people left, and that’s it. Now… if we are even going to survive as a species …” She paused to let that thought sink in. “Then we need to get the hell out of here, and we need to start having babies.”
Adama raised his eyebrows. Start having babies? she could see him thinking. He didn’t seem to have an answer—but it was clear that this conversation had gone too far for his taste. He pushed himself up from his seat. “If you will excuse me,” he muttered.
Laura nodded. “Think about it,” she said, as he pushed the hatch open.
After he was gone, she sat a while and wondered, Did I get through to him? Or did I push too hard—again?
CHAPTER
45
Combat Information Center
The signal from Starbuck was coming out of the overhead speakers with a lot of static. Adama had to listen carefully to make out her words: “I didn’t get an accurate count, but it looks like two base stars with at least ten fighter squadrons and two recon drone detachments patrolling the area.”
Colonel Tigh was on the comm with a headset and mic. He replied, “Starbuck—were you followed?”
“Negative. No sign of pursuit. By the way they’re deployed, I’d say they’re waiting for us to come to them.”
Adama called to Dualla, “Bring her home.”
Dualla’s voice came from the speaker much more clearly, “Thank you, Starbuck. Continue present course. Return to visual contact, then stand by for instructions.”
“Roger, Galactica. Starbuck out.”
“Captain,” Adama said, beckoning to his son, who was also listening closely. “Lieutenant Gaeta, stay, please.” Adama, Tigh, and Lee joined Gaeta at the plotting table, where the most current chart of the Ragnar storm was laid out as a backlit transparency.
“How the hell did they find us?” Tigh growled as they gathered around the chart.
“Maybe that thing we found on the dradis display was some kind of transponder,” Gaeta said darkly.
“Or,” Lee suggested, “either Leoben or Doral might have gotten a signal out.”
“It doesn’t really matter,” Adama said. “They’ve got us.”
“Why aren’t they coming in after us?” asked Gaeta.
Tigh answered in a cynical voice. “Why should they? They can just sit out there and wait us out. What difference does it make to them? They’re machines. We’re the ones that need food, medicine, and fuel.”
Adama turned from looking at the nearby vertical situation board and looked around among the three of them. “I’m not going to play their game. I’m not going to go out there and try to fight them.” He paused for a moment, then looked at Gaeta. “Can we plot a Jump from inside the storm?”
Tigh looked incredulous. “With all this EM interference mucking up the FTL fix?”
“I tend to agree, sir,” Gaeta said. “I don’t think we should even attempt a Jump until we’ve cleared the storm threshold.” He indicated one of several concentric circles on the vertical board.
Lee spoke up. “If we’re going outside the storm, we’ll have to be quick about it. They’ll launch everything they have, first glimpse they get.”
“We could stick our nose out just far enough to get a good FTL fix, and then Jump,” Tigh said. As the colonel spoke, Adama was momentarily distracted by the sight of the young presidential aide, Billy, crossing the CIC and speaking to Dualla. It didn’t look like a business conversation; he looked like a shy teenager approaching a girl to say hello.
“And what about the civilians?” Lee asked, drawing Adama’s attention back.
“Oh, they’re probably safe for the time being,” Tigh said.
This time it was Lee who looked incredulous. “You mean leave them behind?”
“The Cylons might not even know they’re here in the first place,” Lieutenant Gaeta said. “They’re probably only after us.”
“Now, that’s one hell of an assumption,” Lee retorted.
As Adama listened to his officers arguing the possibilities, his gaze wandered back across the CIC, to where Dualla and Billy were, quite obviously, attracted to each other…
Billy, whose heart rate had doubled when D. smiled and said hello, was trying to put words to a very awkward situation. “I—I’m getting ready to head back to the transport.” He cleared his throat and shrugged, feeling that he should say something more than just that, but not sure what.
Dualla’s eyes conveyed disappointment, but with a heart-stopping intensity. She could not have looked more beautiful. “Oh,” was all she managed.
Billy struggled to muster the words. “I know this is awkward… but what happened in the passageway…”
“Yeah,” Dualla said, with a sheepish grin. “I don’t know why I did that. Sorry.”
Sorry for what? Billy thought. Don’t he. Don’t ever be…
Colonel Tigh responded somewhat indignantly to Lee’s persistent questions about the civilian fleet. “We can’t very well cram fifty thousand men, women, and children aboard this ship,” he growled.
“I’m not suggesting that, sir.” Lee was adamant in making his point. “I’m just saying, we cannot leave them behind. They should Jump with us.”
Gaeta replied, “I just don’t see how we can manage that without jeopardizing the ship.”
Lee looked impatient. “We pick a Jump spot. Far enough outside the combat zone that—”
“What the hell is outside the combat zone at this point?” Tigh interjected.
Adama, only half listening to his senior officers, had been watching Dualla and Billy. He couldn’t hear a word they were saying, but everything about their demeanor and their body language suggested that he was watching two young people falling in love. His thoughts flashed back to his recent conversation with President Roslin, and in that moment he realized what a fool he’d been. “They’d better start having babies,” he said suddenly.
That drew a startled gaze from Colonel Tigh, and then from Lee and Gaeta. One by one, they turned to look across the room to see what Adama was watching. Tigh asked in a dry tone, “Is that an order?”
“It may be before too long,” Adama said wryly. “Okay, we’re going to take the civilians with us. We’re going to leave this solar system and we’re not going to come back.”
Tigh shot him an accusing look. “We’re running.”
Adama drew a deep breath and faced his old friend. “This war is over. We lost.”
“As far as we know, we’re the last surviving battlestar,” Tigh said. “If we flee from the system, the people left behind don’t stand a chance.”
“They don’t stand a chance anyway, Colonel,” Adama replied. “We can’t save them.”
In the face of Tigh’s disbelief, Lee suddenly said, “My father’s right. It’s time for us to get out of here.” His assertion was clear and firm.
My father’s right. Adama could scarcely believe he’d just heard those words. But he didn’t have time to dwell on it. He had just proposed a bold move, and he wasn’t entirely sure how to pull it off.
Colonel Tigh clearly knew he was overruled. “So where are we going, Commander?”
Adama reached under the table and pulled out a wide-view star chart. He studied it for a moment, then pointed to a cluster of stars thirty or so light-years away. “The Prolmar Sector.”
“That’s way past the Red Line,” Tigh protested.
The Red Line. The distance beyond which their calculations were considered too uncertain, too risky for a single Jump. And yet, how else to get beyond the reach of the Cylons? No one knew where the Cylons were based, but the Prolmar Sector was at least in the opposite direction from Armistice Station. So in a game
of wild guesses, it seemed a better bet than many they might choose.
Adama turned to Gaeta. “Can you plot that Jump?”
“I’ve never plotted a Jump that far, sir,” Gaeta said worriedly.
“No one has. Can you plot that Jump?”
Gaeta took a moment to think about it. “Yes, sir.”
Adama nodded. “Do it… by yourself.”
Gaeta acknowledged, took the chart, and headed for the FTL station.
Tigh looked very worried. “The margin of error at that distance…”
“I know. It’s a big risk. We could be way off, we could land inside of a sun. But at least we won’t be here with the Cylons.” Adama turned to the vertical situation board and changed the subject. “This is a bad tactical position. We’ll pull the Galactica out… five klicks. Send out the fighters.” He traced on the board with his hand. “The civilians will come out behind us, cross the threshold, and make the Jump—while we hold off the Cylons.”
He turned back and faced Lee. “Once the civilians have made the Jump, every fighter is to make an immediate combat landing. We won’t have much time.”
“I’ll tell them,” Lee said.
“I want all my pilots to return.” He fixed Lee with his gaze. “Understand?”
Lee stood unmoving for a moment. “Yes, sir, I do.” Every muscle in his neck seemed taut. Then he turned and headed off to the pilots’ ready room.
Adama and Tigh both watched Lee go. Then Tigh leaned across the table and said, “So could I ask what changed your mind?”
Adama felt about six layers of emotion pass through his face, then clear away. “You can ask,” he said, with a straight face. Tigh finally let out a wry chuckle, and Adama matched it.
Tigh’s next question was a lot more sobering, though.
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