Unity

by Steven Harper

  “Where are we going?” Peter asked.

  “Into hiding,” Sharon said behind her mask. She was flying the shuttle. “I’m sorry, but it’s not safe to tell you more right now, Unifier.”

  “So you guys are members of the Unity,” Peter said. “My followers.”

  “That’s us.” She turned to the person sitting in the copilot seat. All Kara could see was the top of a head covered by red fabric. “Launch probe.”

  “Launching.” Kara felt a small tremor. “Launch successful.”

  “Now hang on back there,” Sharon called. “I need to do some fancy flying.”

  The shuttle dipped, and Kara automatically braced herself against a bulkhead as best she could. The armed and masked Unity members all tried to do the same, with mixed results. Two people lost their balance and caromed into other people, who in turn slammed into Kara. More pain exploded across her tender head and her stomach swooped inside her, but she clamped her lips shut, refusing to give her captors the satisfaction of a sound. She hated being a passenger instead of a pilot, and it wasn’t any fun being a captive, either. Put the two together, and she found herself poised above a well of misery that threatened to suck her down into cold, dark water like a—

  Oh, frak off, she told herself. You’ve been in worse positions, Thrace. Way worse. You′re alive, and they clearly don’t intend to kill you. Those are two major advantages. So work on your next move.

  The shuttle continued to dip and weave. No one was able to regain their balance, and everyone yelped and howled in protest as they tumbled about the shuttle. All thoughts of her next move were driven out of her by force. Kara felt as if she had been tossed into a clothes dryer with a bunch of puppies. Sharon was a better pilot than this, wasn’t she? Maybe she was doing it on purpose, a small gibe at the humans.

  At last, the shuttle stopped moving. Kara cautiously sat up, pushing aside Peter’s leg to do so. “Where the frak are we?” she demanded.

  In answer, a hood came down over her head and restraints clamped her wrists behind her. Unseen hands jerked her to her feet and hustled her off the shuttle.

  “Hey!” Peter said. “Don’t hurt her! What are you doing?”

  “We’re not hurting her, Unifier,” Sharon’s voice said. “We’re protecting you. We can’t afford to let her know exactly where she is.” Kara felt someone—Sharon—lean in closer to speak in a low voice as other hands hauled Kara down what was probably a corridor. “The only reason you’re still alive, sweetie, is that Peter likes you, and we need his cooperation. But we can probably figure out a way to get his cooperation without you. You’re a convenience, not a necessity. Got it?”

  Kara clamped her teeth around a retort and merely nodded her head instead. A frakking convenience? She’d show Sharon how convenient she could be. Any vestiges of positive feeling she’d had toward the Cylon woman were evaporating faster than water poured on a cactus. Except none of this made sense. Despite weeks of incarceration, Sharon had been helpful, even conciliatory. No matter how much abuse had been heaped on her, no matter how often people called her a toaster or put her in chains or slapped a restraining collar around her neck …

  Kara grimaced. In that light, maybe Sharon’s actions made perfect sense.

  Kara’s captors and Peter fell silent as they hauled her down a series of pathways, stairwells, and corridors. All Kara could see was red, and it came to her that she was wearing a Unity mask, but it was on backward, so her eyes were covered. She strained to see something—anything—through the finely woven mesh, but couldn’t. She tried to keep track of the number of footsteps she took and which direction she turned, but Sharon—she assumed it was Sharon—kept giving Kara sharp jerks, which threw off her count. The dull, persistent ache in her head didn′t help, either. Eventually, she gave up, which was probably what Sharon intended. Instead, she tried to figure out what she could about her captors.

  The Unity. Louann—or was it Alexander?—had said that there were more people in the Unity than anyone knew. They had to have contacts in the military—it was the only way they could get their hands on pulse rifles and get a shuttle docked at Galactica without awkward questions. It was likely they knew how to jam or confuse military scanners, at least temporarily, so they could get away. Kara remembered the probe Sharon’s copilot had launched. It probably put out a false signal. It wouldn’t fool Galactica for more than a minute or two, but that’s all it would take, especially if Sharon knew how to switch the transponder codes on her own shuttle to make it look like another ship entirely. A couple of minutes and Gaeta would see through that, too, but once again, that’s all it would take.

  Sharon jerked Kara again, throwing her off balance and making her take several quick steps to regain her balance. A surge of hatred boiled and hissed inside her like a snake dropped into hot water. How might this little band of fanatics react if they knew the leader of their little expedition was a Cylon? Wouldn’t it be fun to watch the fallout if Kara told them? But almost as quickly as it came up, Kara discarded the idea. The fact that the Galactica had—or once had—a Cylon in her brig wasn’t well known around the Fleet, and it was quite likely that the Unity simply wouldn’t believe Kara. Kara had to admit that she’d find it hard to believe. Peter knew, though. He must not have seen Sharon’s face. Kara didn’t think he’d react well to learning that a copy of his Mistress Eight was one of his … rescuers? Captors? Kara was a captive, but was Peter one too? The idea hadn’t occurred to her before. Peter had been treated like a captive on Galactica. twice now—once when he’d arrived and once after Dr. Cottle had determined he was Patient Zero. Would he care that he’d been rescued by a Cylon as long as he’d been rescued? Sharon had once rescued Kara, and at that moment, Kara wouldn’t have cared if Sharon was a human, a Cylon, or an insurance salesman. Peter might well think the same thing, no matter what his experiences with his Mistress Eight had been.

  There were too many uncertainties. Kara decided to keep her mouth shut about Sharon’s identity until she knew more.

  Besides, the information might be worth something in trade.

  The hands moving Kara along shoved her into an open space that echoed. The hood was yanked from her head. Her hair crackled with static electricity, and bright lights made her squint until her eyes adjusted. They were in a storeroom. Battered plastic crates sat in blocky piles amid freestanding wire shelves. A door in one corner opened into what Kara assumed was a walk-in refrigerator. Harsh flourescents provided stark light, and the floor was cold gray tile. One of the maskers pressed Kara’s shoulders with firm pressure until she slid to the floor, her back to one wall. Her hands were still cuffed behind her. Blond Peter stood nearby, surrounded by red maskers. He looked like a sunflower in a rose garden.

  “So what’s the plan, Petey boy?” Kara asked.

  He looked at her for a long moment, and Kara realized she was dreading the answer. Had he really bought into this Unifier thing? And what would he do with her, an unbeliever?

  “I haven’t a clue,” he said at last. “I didn’t ask to be rescued. None of this was my idea.”

  “The Unifier must have a plan,” intoned a woman’s voice which Kara now recognized as Louann’s. “The divine speaks through you.”

  Peter shrugged helplessly and Kara found herself trying not to laugh. “Looks like the divine took the day off,” she said.

  Pain smashed through her mouth as the masker standing closest cracked Kara across the face. “Don’t blaspheme.”

  “Hey!” Peter snapped. “I want something clear here—hurting Kara is like hurting me. You got that, buddy?”

  The masker instantly dropped to his knees in front of Peter, his fingers trailing the floor in absolute obeisance. A muffled sob came from behind the mask. “I am sorry, Great One. I am ready for you to strike off my head.”

  “What?” Peter said, startled.

  “It is written,” Sharon intoned from behind her own mask, “in the book of Glykon: ‘And the Heads of those who defy the U
nifier shall tumble to the Ground.′ ″

  “Heads will roll, huh?” Kara said.

  ″Shut—I mean, the consort will be silent,” Sharon said, and Kara filed away another fact—the consort had some leeway, even when she was a captive.

  “So Petey, I ask again,” Kara said, ignoring Sharon. “What’s the plan? Now that you’re free, what are you going to do? Raise a rebellion? Throw down President Roslin and Commander Adama? Take over a bunch of ships and Jump away on your own? Skulk in the shadows for the rest of your life? What?”

  Peter took a step back as the realization of his position finally sank in. He clearly hadn’t thought past his rescue. ″I … I don′t …″

  “You people,” said a new voice, “clearly have no idea how to run a revolution.”

  Kara jerked her head around. Standing near a pile of crates was the dark-haired form of Tom Zarek.

  “I’m guessing they ran to another Geminon ship,″ said Lee. He was still holding a cold pack to his head, even though the Unity had attacked sickbay over three hours ago. Bill Adama studied his son without seeming to and told himself over and over the injuries were minor. Thank the Lords of Kobol for that. A small part of Adama was glad Lee hadn’t been kidnapped even while the rest of him was worried sick about Kara—and the Fleet.

  “What makes you say that, Captain?” Tigh asked, his voice harsh.

  “So far the Unity have been active only on Geminon ships,” Lee replied. “That’s where their supporters are and that’s where they’ll find people to hide them.”

  “We’ve quarantined all six Geminon vessels,” Adama mused. “Including the Kimba Huta and the Monarch. I want each one of them searched.”

  “We don’t have the manpower to search them all at once,” Lee said.

  “Why not?” Tigh demanded. “We have lots of marines and the ships aren’t that big.”

  In answer, Lee held up his hand. It shook visibly. Adama’s stomach tightened into a cold ball of ice. Lee was getting sick. Adama remembered a time when Lee was five years old and had come down with flash fever. The sickness struck quickly, bringing on high fever and hallucinations, and Lee had been hospitalized with a clear plastic quarantine tent over his bed. Adama wished he could say he had never left Lee’s side, but that wasn’t true. Caroline, his first wife and Lee’s mother, ate, slept, and lived at the hospital. Adama found he couldn’t bear to spend more than half an hour at a time in Lee’s room. He requested a temporary assignment that allowed him to remain closer to home and he told Caroline that he simply couldn’t get away more than that for fear of being brought up on charges of insubordination. The truth was, the hospital room made him feel panicky, and the sight of his son lying there, twitching and muttering to himself under a plastic tent, stabbed him with a fear he could neither identify nor fight. So he blamed his job. Caroline knew Adama was lying about his reasons for staying away but pretended she didn’t, and he could see unspoken resentments and rebukes in her eyes whenever she looked at him.

  Lee’s fever eventually broke, and he made a full recovery. Adama’s knees went weak with relief at the news, but his only visible response was to ruffle Lee’s hair, give him a quick kiss on the top of his head, and flee the room. Caroline had watched him go. Adama suspected the entire incident was one of the many reasons she divorced him a few years later.

  Now Lee was sick again. Various events in the recent past—including the Cylon attack on the Colonies—had forced Adama to become more adept at recognizing and dealing with the depth of feeling he had for Lee, his only surviving son, but that only meant he had to face fears for Lee’s safety instead of burying them. Perhaps facing them was healthier for everyone concerned, but burying had been a hell of a lot easier. He watched Lee’s palsy-ridden hands and tried not to panic.

  “A lot of the marines are shaky,” Lee said. His voice remained steady, but Adama detected the slight quiver of fear in it, and it ripped at his heart. “They can’t fire weapons until we find a cure for the disease. Cottle and Baltar think Peter is somehow immune to it, which means he’s the key to curing it. But …”

  “But what?” Tigh said.

  “But they didn’t get much blood from Peter before the Unity grabbed him. Cottle gave me four vials, and two of them broke during the attack. That’s barely enough for anyone to study, and that’s assuming they don’t make any mistakes.”

  Adama and Tigh both fell silent. Adama’s mind raced, trying to see options and finding none.

  “So you’re saying,” Adama said slowly, “that the only person who might hold a cure for the plague of tongues is a captive of the Unity, and we’re not sure where he is.”

  Lee nodded reluctantly. “That’s the long and short of it.”

  “Shit,” Tigh muttered.

  “How many more cats?” Adama muttered to himself.

  “Commander,” Dualla said. “President Roslin is on the line for you.”

  Adama sighed and picked up the phone. He had to ask. “Madam President. What can I do for you?”

  “I see you’ve placed the Geminon ships under quarantine,” came her tired, breathy voice. “Is it to do with Peter’s kidnapping?”

  “Yes. We think he’s hiding on one of them.”

  “Hiding. So you think he was in on the kidnapping?”

  Adama pinched the bridge of his nose. Frak. The woman was too perceptive for his own good. “I don’t know, Madam President. It’s crossed my mind, but I have no proof of it.”

  “Any word about Lieutenant Thrace?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “What about the escaped Cylon?”

  “Nothing there, either, I’m afraid.”

  His answers, while short, were carefully polite. Not that long ago Adama would have told Laura Roslin that he was too busy to talk to her, but these days, with her worsening health, he couldn’t bring himself to be rude, or even brusque. He wondered if Roslin knew this and was using it. Probably.

  “Bill, you’re aware that the majority of the algae harvest is still on the Monarch, right?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it,” he admitted. “Why?”

  “The algae can’t leave the ship now that it’s under quarantine. Some of the other ships were counting on that algae, and they’re feeling the pinch. And we still need those antibiotics to counter the strep infection.”

  Adama had a brief image of himself standing in a canyon between two granite cliffs. On one cliff was the prion plague of tongues and Peter Attis. On the other was a bunch of hungry children sick with strep throat. The cliffs were moving steadily together, with him trying to sail a ship between them.

  “I’m hoping the situation will be resolved quickly,” was all Adama could say.

  “I know, Bill. I just wanted to make sure you were aware of everything.”

  “You’re very good at that, Madam President,” he said without a hint of the irony he was feeling. Roslin’s only response was a small, tired laugh before she hung up.

  “Sir,” Dualla said abruptly, “I think you should hear this.”

  And before Adama could respond, she twisted a dial on her console. Music filled CIC. It was a fast tune with a military beat to it. Peter’s voice, throaty and strong, sang the lyrics. Peter sang about choices, about religious freedom, and about the need to rise up against oppressors. The song was fast and the chorus was catchy. A few seconds into it, Adama discovered to his horror that he was tapping his foot in time to it. He stopped and glanced guiltily around, hoping no one had noticed. No one had—everyone in CIC was listening to the music. Several people nodded in time to it and Adama caught Dualla humming along with the chorus. He glared at her, and she stopped.

  “Where is that signal coming from, Mr. Gaeta?” Adama demanded.

  “The Galactica, sir.”

  “What?” Tigh said, coming around to look at Gaeta’s screens and controls.

  “It’s scrambled, sir, and by an expert,” Gaeta explained. “So it looks like it’s coming from us. I could unscrambl
e it if the signal continues for the next two or three hours and I drop everything else to work on it.”

  The song ended. “This is Peter Attis,” the singer said. “Earlier today I was kidnapped on the orders of Commander William Adama because of my religious views. Because my followers speak in tongues and because he needed to justify his actions, Adama claimed that I spread a disease. My friends, the disease is a sham cooked up by Sarah Porter and the military to keep me from spreading the truth about the One. The fact that Adama is persecuting me proves that he fears me, that he thinks there is truth to what I preach. Many of you have heard my followers speak in tongues, proof that the One has blessed them.

  “My friends, you’ve heard me speak of how all the gods are merely facets of the One. The Cylons have a similar belief, a belief in one God. It’s the reason they continue to attack us. But belief in the One would shelter us, my friends. The Cylons won’t attack those who believe in the One. I call on all right-thinking people to oppose the military’s illegal restrictions of our freedom. I call on all people to stand up for their rights! I call on all people to stand up and take shelter in true belief!”