01 - Battlestar Galactica (18 page)

Ragnar. Deep in a storm cell in the atmosphere of a gas giant planet. “Boy,
it’s a super-bitch to anchor a ship there,” Adama said.

Tigh was undeterred. “Well, the book says that there are fifty pallets of
class-D warheads in storage there. They should also have all the missiles and
small-arms munitions we nee—”

“Go verify that.”

Tigh straightened. “Sir.” He handed the munitions-supply book to Adama and
strode away.

If we can verify
anything
it’ll be a miracle,
Adama thought,
hefting the book in his hand.
But a miracle is just what we need. That and
some ammunition.

Tyrol continued his walk-through, knowing that he probably hadn’t seen the
worst yet. He was right. It was confirmed when he stepped through a bulkhead
door and found Specialist Cally in her yellow fire-fighting suit, slumped
against a wall, cradling Specialist Prosna’s burned and blackened body. She was
weeping, unable to speak. Tyrol didn’t try to speak to her, didn’t know what to
say. Cally and Prosna, besides being his two best crewmembers and friends, had been a close-knit couple. He knelt in front of
her, laying a hand on her arm, trying to give comfort where none could be given.

Cally looked at him beseechingly, for just one moment her eyes asking him to
make it different somehow. In that moment, his thoughts fled to the other
battle, the one none of them had seen, but had only heard through Sharon’s
garbled transmission: an entire Viper squadron destroyed. And then the ominous
silence following Sharon’s report that she too was under attack. He held no hope
for changing that outcome
or
this one.

Finally, he lifted Prosna’s lifeless weight from Cally, and let her get to
her feet. Weeping with nearly silent shudders, Cally helped him lower Prosna to
the deck and lay him straight. There he would have to lie, until the stretcher
teams came to remove him with the rest of the fallen.

Tyrol gave her shoulder a tight squeeze, then urged her out with him. She
needed to be somewhere else, and he needed to make his report to Commander
Adama.

Tyrol’s voice was hoarse as he said to the commander, “Do you know how many
we lost?”

Adama’s response was abrupt. “Yes.” No emotion showed on his face, as he
studied the planetary maps laid out on the strategy table. “Set up a temporary
morgue in Hangar Bay B.”

Tyrol stood trembling, trying to form the words of protest. Finally he
managed, “Forty seconds… sir. All I needed was… forty seconds.” He drew a
ragged breath. “Eighty-five of my… people… and I told…” He swallowed
and tried to control himself but couldn’t. “I told that sonofabitch…”

Adama swung around to face him straight on, eye to eye. In a low, iron-hard voice he said, “He’s the XO on this ship. Don’t you dare
forget that.”

Trembling, Tyrol nodded.

Adama continued, his voice low and hard. “Now, he made a tough decision. Had
it been me, we would have made the same one.”

Tyrol struggled to keep from shaking. In a near-whisper, he implored, “Forty
seconds… sir.”

Adama held his gaze a heartbeat longer. “Resume your post, Chief,” he said,
and walked past Tyrol and on across the CIC.

Tyrol stood in shocked disbelief for a fraction of a second, then strode away
to return to the cleanup. On his way out of the CIC, he passed Colonel Tigh just
entering. He swerved around him with a dark, silent look and hurried on to make
himself as busy as possible.

Adama watched as Tyrol departed. Sympathy would have to wait. They had
something more important to worry about, which was defending their civilization
against catastrophe. He needed Chief Tyrol as much as he needed Tigh, and he had
confidence in the man—hell, he had brought Tyrol onto the ship at a time when no
other skipper would, because of a single mistake in the past that had cost
lives. He’d brought him aboard because Tyrol was the best spacecraft mechanic he
had ever met, and a good leader. But right now there was no room for anything
but absolute respect for authority. Saul Tigh was facing a similar test—and
appeared to be passing it.

Tigh was standing across the table from him, giving him the latest
information. Adama brought his attention back. “Munitions depot confirmed, but
we have two problems,” Tigh said.

“One, the Ragnar station is at least three days away at best speed. Two, the
entire Cylon fleet is between here and there.” Tigh shook his head.

Adama absorbed that for a moment, then called out into the quietly bustling
center, “Specialist!”

“Sir,” answered the voice of Navigation Specialist Johnson, behind him.

“Bring me our position.”

“Yes sir.” Johnson appeared at his side, laying a sheet of paper in front of
him.

Adama picked it up and studied it. Across the table, Tigh was eyeing him, and
starting to shake his head. He had guessed what Adama was thinking. “You don’t
want to do this,” Tigh said.

“I know I don’t.”

“Because any sane man wouldn’t. It’s been, what—twenty, twenty-two years?”

Adama placed the piece of paper on top of the chart, studying the figures.
“We train for this,” he said without looking up.

“Training is one thing,” Tigh said, leaning over the table toward him, and
continuing in a low voice, “but… if we’re off on our calculations by even a
few degrees, we could end up in the
middle of the sun!”

Adama finally looked up. “No choice. Colonel Tigh, please plot a hyperlight
Jump from our position to the orbit of Ragnar.”

Tigh capitulated, but not happily. “Yes sir.” And he moved off to plot the
Jump. Adama watched him, with a twitch of a smile.

No sooner was Tigh gone than Petty Officer Dualla was at his side, delivering
yet another printout. Her eyes were wide, her face tense, her usually melodic
voice hoarse. “Priority message, sir.” She stood at attention, waiting, as he
read it.
Lords of Kobol.
He felt the blood drain from his face. He pulled
off his glasses, working through the implications in his mind.

At another station, he could hear the XO giving orders, “Engineering—spin up
FTL drives one and two.” As the engineering officer acknowledged, Colonel Tigh
continued, “Lieutenant Gaeta, break out the FTL tables and warm up the
computers.” To the CIC at large, he announced, “We are making a Jump!”

The crew had barely begun to absorb that when Adama raised his voice to make
his own announcement. “Admiral Nagala is dead. Battlestar
Atlantia
has
been destroyed. So has the
Triton, Solaria, Columbia…
the list goes
on.” He lowered his head.

Tigh walked toward him. “The senior officer. Who’s in command?”

By way of answering, Adama turned to Dualla. “Send a message… to all the
Colonial military units, Priority Channel One.” Dualla wrote on a clipboard.
“Message begins: Am taking command of fleet….”

Colonial One

President Laura Roslin peered over Captain Russo’s shoulder as he called,
“Geminon liner Seventeen-Oh-One, this is Colonial Heavy Seven-Niner-Eight.”
Captain Russo looked back over his shoulder at the newly sworn-in president and
amended his call. “No, strike that. This is Colonial One.” Laura registered that
with a slightly stunned expression. Clearly, this was going to take some getting
used to.

“Go ahead, Colonial One.”

“We have you in sight, and will approach your starboard docking hatch.”

“Copy, Colonial One. Thank the Lords of Kobol you’re here. We’ve been without
main-power for over two hours now.”

Lee Adama, meanwhile, was bent over the secure message console, watching
something come in. He tore it off and read it silently. He pursed his lips
thoughtfully.

“What is it?” Laura asked.

Lee held it out and read dryly, “To all Colonial Units, am taking command of
fleet. All units ordered to rendezvous at Ragnar Anchorage for a regroup and
counterattack. Acknowledge by same encryption protocol.” Lee hesitated, mouth
half open, then concluded, “Adama.”

Laura pulled the printout from his hand and looked at it soberly. She thought
a moment, then lifted her chin and turned to Lee. “Captain Apollo. Please inform
Commander Adama that we are involved in rescue operations and we require his
assistance.” She felt a smile twitching on her lips. This was going to be
interesting. Would he obey his new commander-in-chief? “Ask him how many
hospital beds they have available, and how long it will take him to get here.”

Lee looked stunned once more. “I, uh—”

“Yes,” she said.

After taking a long time to consider her words, Lee said, “I’m not sure he’s
going to respond very well to that request.” A smile touched his lips, too,
matching hers.

“Then tell him,” she said, “it comes directly from the President of the
Twelve Colonies, and it’s not a request.” She let her voice sharpen ever so
slightly on the last words.

The two transport pilots swiveled their heads in surprise, then went
studiously right back to what they were doing.

“Yes sir,” said Lee. As she started to leave the cockpit, he continued, “And
sir?” She paused to listen. “Apollo’s just my call sign. My name’s Lee Adama.”

“I know who you are.” She smiled, this time letting a moment of genuine
warmth come through. “But Captain Apollo has a nice ring to it, don’t you
think?” Without waiting for an answer, she headed back to the passenger cabin.

* * *

Galactica,
Combat Information Center

Throughout the CIC, tension was growing as the enlisted crew ran through
checklists and startup procedures for the FTL Jump, with Gaeta and Tigh
overseeing their work. Commander Adama was sidetracked from his study of the
planetary and tactical charts by Petty Officer Dualla handing him a printout.
“It’s from Colonial One, sir,” she said.

“Colonial One? What the hell ship is Colonial One? The president’s dead,
isn’t he?”

“Yes sir,” said Dualla evenly. “The new president, by succession, is former
Education Secretary Laura Roslin. That’s the first part of the message.”

“The first part? What’s the second part?” Adama put his glasses back on and
read the printout. He squinted at the message in disbelief, and as he reread it,
his jaw tightened with anger. “Is this
a joke?”
He looked at Dualla. “Are
they within voice range?”

“Yes sir,” said Dualla. She already had her headset on, and she sidled around
a corner of the console to the transmission panel. “Colonial One, this is
Galactica
…”

Lee Adama was sitting in the copilot’s seat in the transport cockpit,
awaiting the call from
Galactica.
He knew it wouldn’t take long. Of all
the conversations in the universe he could imagine, this was probably the one he
least wanted to have. The thought of it was crowding all other thoughts from his
mind, including ones that kept
trying
to come back, such as, were all his
friends on Caprica dead now, and what about his mother and her fiancé? These
things weighed heavily on the back of his mind—and yet, the scratchy voice on
the wireless drove them once more out of his thoughts.

“Colonial One,
Galactica… Galactica
Actual wishes to speak with
Apollo.”

He had to struggle to get his breath. What was his father going to say? As if
he didn’t know. “This is Apollo. Go ahead, Actual.” He pursed his lips and
waited for a reply.

It was a minute or so in coming. Captain Russo fiddled with the wireless
tuning, as if worried that they were missing the signal. Finally they heard
Commander Adama’s voice:

“How are you”
—they could hear the commander clearing his throat—
“is
the ship all right?”

Lee could not keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “We’re both fine. Thanks for
asking.” Captain Russo glanced over at him, but said nothing.

“Is
your ship’s FTL functioning?”

Lee glanced at Russo, who nodded. “That’s affirmative.”

“Then you’re ordered to bring yourself… and all your ship’s passengers…to the rendezvous point.”
Pause.
“Acknowledge.”

Lee hesitated. “Acknowledge… receipt of message.”

“What the hell does that mean?”
the distant voice thundered.

“It means, ‘I heard you’,” Lee said impatiently.

His father’s voice sharpened.
“You’re going to have to do a lot better
than that, Captain.”

“We’re engaged in rescue operations. By order of the president.”
Your
commander-in-chief.

“You are to abort your mission immediately.”

Lee winced. “The president has given me a direct order.”

“You’re talking about the secretary of education. We’re in the middle of a
war I And you’re taking orders from a schoolteacher I”
Adama’s voice shook
the little wireless speaker; his anger practically jumped out into the cockpit
of the transport.

Lee was aware of the president coming back into the cockpit, and listening to
the conversation. But before he could either gauge her reaction or reply to his father, a beeping sound from the dradis
display interrupted the argument.

“We’ve got trouble,” Captain Russo said.

“Uh, stand by,
Galactica.”
He leaned toward Captain Russo. “What?”

Russo tapped the dradis screen. “Inbound Cylon fighters.” He reached and
pressed a series of switches. “Spinning up FTL. We have no defense against the
fighters. Eduardo, give me a plot.”

At that, President Laura Roslin came forward, putting her glasses on. “How
long till they get here?”

Russo look startled at her reappearance. “ETA, two minutes.”

“He’s right,” said Lee. “We have to go. Now.”

“No,” said Laura, shaking her head.

“Madame President, we can’t defend this ship—”