01 - Battlestar Galactica (22 page)

“Officially.” She cocked her head slightly. “Unofficially, I had other
motives. We
had
something, Gaius. Something…” She searched for the
word, and smiled. “Special.”

“This is insane.”

As she continued, her voice trembled with emotion. Her eyes were vulnerable,
full of hurt. “And what I want most of all… is for you to love me.”

“Love you?” he whispered.

“Well, of course, Gaius. Don’t you understand?” She reached out and stroked
his cheek, curved her hand behind his neck. “God is love.” Using both hands, she
pulled him forward and kissed him. He could no longer resist.

“No!” he cried, suddenly coming to his senses. Alone in his seat. Around the
cabin, a few people looked oddly at him. He just smiled awkwardly, and drew a
quivering breath, and looked helplessly out the window. Finally, with unseeing
eyes, he forced his gaze back down to his work.

Ragnar Station, Ammunition Depot

The munitions warehouse was chaotic with activity. Forklifts were hauling
away large pallets of ordnance for loading onto
Galactica.
Under the
glare of overhead floodlights, the crew were checking everything they could find
for possible use on the ship. A small tractor towing carts of lightweight bombs
sped past an elevated forklift with a towering pallet of smaller explosives.
“Hey! Hey! Hey!” Chief Tyrol shouted. “Take it easy, guys! Just slow down!” He
looked like a nervous wreck, but he seemed to be keeping things under control.

Commander Adama took it all in with his eyes even as he walked across the
depot floor, talking to Leoben, the man they had found hiding in the back. He
was telling Leoben a little about what had been happening—not for Leoben’s
benefit, but in hopes of loosening him up a little, getting him to talk. Leoben
had yet to give a convincing explanation of what he was doing here. Adama had
some suspicions; but he wanted to tease what he could out of the man before he
jumped to any conclusions.

“We don’t know much more than that,” Adama said over the noise, casting his
voice over his shoulder to Leoben, who was walking with an armed guard behind
him. “It’s just imperative that we get our equipment and get out of here.” He
stopped and peered up at some high shelves, then down at a bulkhead door in
front of him. He pointed. “What’s in there?”

Leoben shambled up to stand beside him. He shrugged. “Stuff.”

Adama glanced at him in annoyance. He gestured to Leoben to help, and they
pulled the large hatch open. It was dark inside the compartment; he couldn’t see
a thing. “Need a light.” As he reached back to take a lamp from one of the crew,
he said to Leoben, “Where’s your spaceship?”

Leoben gestured awkwardly. “Docked on the other side of the station.”

Adama gave him another sharp look. His crew had scanned the station for other
ships on their way in. It was possible they’d missed one, if it was small. But
not likely. In the background, he could hear Tyrol shouting, “Be careful! Don’t
stack ’em so high!” Adama glanced that way for a moment, then back at Leoben.

The man was fidgeting, and sweating profusely. He held out his hands toward
where the loading was going on. “Okay, those warheads over there”—he gave a
little laugh—“okay, here’s the deal. They would have brought a nice price on the
open market.”

Adama just stared at him for a moment. “So you’re an arms dealer, huh?”

Leoben shook his head, not in denial but as if to ask why that should be a
problem. “People have a right to protect themselves, I just supply the means.”
He spread his hands in innocence. But he was still trembling.

Adama gazed at him trying to assess what part of what Leoben was saying might
be true—if any of it. He shone the lantern in Leoben’s face, which was pale and beaded with sweat. The man
seemed to be breathing fast, too. “You don’t look too good.”

Leoben opened his mouth, but seemed not quite sure what to say. Before he
could respond, though, Tyrol’s voice cut the air. “Be careful with that, all
right?
Hey! Be careful with that! Look out!”

Adama turned just in time to see a large, caged rack of bombs overbalance and
topple. As it crashed to the deck, crewmembers scattered for cover. When it
landed on its side, one of the cage doors popped open, and out rolled a single
shiny metal canister with red stripes around it. Its activation light came on
and it was blinking red. “Take cover!” someone yelled.

Adama saw it coming toward them. With a yell, he grabbed Leoben and hurled
him through the hatch into the dark compartment, and dove that way himself. He’d
only begun the movement when the bomb exploded, throwing both of them through
the opening, with a great thunderclap of light and heat.

As he hit the deck, he nearly blacked out from the concussion. But the force
of the blast slammed the hatch closed, landing them both in blackness.

Chief Tyrol and Specialist Cally were the first to reach the hatch that had
slammed shut on the Commander. It was flaming with residue from the bomb.
“Commander! Commander Adama!” Cally shouted outside the hatch. She couldn’t get
close enough to touch the hatch. The waves of heat drove her back.

Tyrol was busy trying to get around to the side. “Stay back stay back! It’s
hot it’s hot it’s hot it’s unstable!” Tyrol was yelling. He shone a flashlight
down onto the hatch area, trying to find an attack point for getting the damn
thing open. It was going to be tough, he realized; the heat had warped and
possibly fused the metal. It was
a miracle none of them were hurt out here; the bomb must have put out intense,
but localized, heat. He whirled around and pointed to a couple of crewmen. “You
guys—go back to the ship! We need handlifts, fire equipment, and a plasma
torch!”

“Wait—wait!” Cally was pulling at his arm. “Chief—listen!”

Inside the compartment, Leoben was laughing maniacally, as Adama coughed,
trying to clear his lungs of the smoke and the smell of welded metal. The
hand-lantern still worked, thank the gods. They struggled to their feet.

Outside the hatch, Adama could hear someone shouting his name. “Yeah!” he
shouted back. He managed to get another breath. “Anybody hurt out there?”

“No sir!” he heard. It was Chief Tyrol. “We got some equipment coming, sir.
We’ll get you out of there, but it’s gonna take a while. This hatch looks like
it’s fused pretty good.”

Adama grimaced. The last thing they needed was to spend manpower extricating
him and mystery man here. “No!” he shouted. “Get all the bullets and equipment
into the ship first! We’re okay—don’t waste time on us!” He squinted, trying to
see where this compartment led. “Is there another way out of here?” he asked
Leoben.

“Yeah, sure,” Leoben said with a smirk.

Adama chose to ignore the smirk. He turned back to the hatch. “Listen, Chief!
We’re gonna go out another way!”

“Sir, I don’t think that’s a wise idea,” Tyrol called back.

“You’ve got your orders. Tell Colonel Tigh he’s in command until I return.”

There was a slight hesitation, before he heard Tyrol acknowledge, “Yes sir.”

Adama turned to Leoben and gestured with the flashlight. “Let’s go.”

Leoben shrugged and slouched away down the dank, smoky passageway that looked
as if it led much deeper into the station. In here the place looked more like a
dungeon than a munitions warehouse. Water was dripping from the ceiling;
evidently there was a leak somewhere, or malfunctioning environmental controls.

Adama rubbed his face with a grimace and followed Leoben into the gloom.

Raptor 312, Patrolling for Survivors

Sharon Valerii frowned, completing the calculations for the short-range Jump.
This would be her sixth Jump, and it would have to be her last. She had expended
a lot of fuel in a mostly fruitless search for survivors. Not
completely
fruitless—she had located one small freighter with a crew of three and a cargo
of fresh citrus products, and another rickety ship carrying textiles, electronic
parts, and a few passengers. She’d sent both on to the rendezvous point. But it
was hard to say that one of just two military ships in the growing ragtag bunch
should be burning up its precious fuel searching the skies for so little.

Still, the president had given her an order.

She checked the plot, checked the spin on the FTL drive, and executed. In a
moment, there was the familiar feeling of folding into herself, passing through
a strange space-time boundary, and unfolding again. She blinked to clear her
head, checked the dradis for Cylons first and survivors second—then, when she found nothing, turned on the wireless scanner.

Almost immediately, she heard a distant transmission in the blind.
“This
is refinery vessel
Tauranian
to any Colonial ship. Is anyone out there?
Please acknowledge.”

Sharon’s heart leaped for joy. A refinery ship! That meant fuel for the
fleet—or at least the possibility of mining some. She checked the dradis once
more, switched to a more distant scan, and saw it this time—a faint blip at the
periphery of her field. She set course toward it with a short blast, conserving
fuel—and as soon as she had it in sight, she keyed the wireless.
“Tauranian,
Colonial Raptor Three-One-Two. I have you in sight. What is your condition?”

There was a short delay, and then an answering voice that sounded breathless
with relief.
“Raptor! Am I happy to hear from you!”

“Same here,
Tauranian,”
she answered. And it was especially true, now
that the ship was coming into view. It was indeed a full-sized asteroid-miner
and refinery rig, much of it an enormous collection of fuel tanks, bound
together in the shape of a huge shoe box. “Please tell me you’ve got some Tylium
in those big, beautiful tanks.”

“Almost full. What’s going on, Colonial? Is it true the Cylons have
comeback?”

Sharon’s thoughts darkened. “Afraid so. It’s bad. Real bad. There’s not a lot
left back on the homeworlds. Do you have functional FTL?”

“Holy frak
…” There was silence for a few moments. Then:
“Affirmative
to the FTL.”

Sharon guided her Raptor alongside the ungainly but precious ship. “Good. I’m
sending you a set of coordinates. I need you to Jump at once to rendezvous with
the fleet.”

“What fleet? Who else is there?”

Sharon hesitated, struggling to voice the awful truth. “Every-one who’s
left.”

The Gathering Fleet

There were now fifty-some ships gathered in formation around Colonial One,
five hours out from Caprica at normal flight speed. The ships were of every
shape and size, from private yachts and couriers to the massive, multi-domed
botanical cruiser
Space Park,
which President Laura Roslin and Billy were
presently visiting. Under a beautiful clear dome, they walked through a lush
garden with the skipper of the
Space Park,
a large, soft-spoken black man
with bright, kindly eyes. He was dressed in a short-sleeved, white uniform shirt
with gold bars on the shoulders.

“Most of the passengers are from Geminon and Picon, but we’ve got people from
every colony,” he told Laura. They were threading their way among crowded groups
of passengers, who were either moving nervously through the garden, or huddled
together in shock. Many of them looked as if they had gathered here under the
dome for no reason other than the hope of finding comfort in numbers. Everywhere
they walked, people could be heard asking one another if they knew of any word
from this home-world or that.

“Give Billy a copy of your passenger manifest and a list of all your
emergency supplies,” Laura said to the captain.

“All right. What about the power situation?” the captain asked. “Our
batteries are running pretty low.”

“Captain Apollo will be making an engineering survey of all the ships this
afternoon,” she replied.

“Ah—” said Billy, behind her, causing them both to turn.

“Actually the captain said it would be more like this evening before he can
coordinate the survey.”

“All right—this evening, then,” Laura said. “But you will get your needs
tended to, Captain. You have my word on it.”

“Thank you, Madame President,” the captain said, shaking her hand.

“You’re welcome.”

They continued to stroll through the gardens, savoring a moment of respite.
It might well be her last chance, Laura thought, to enjoy such a moment of
tranquility. They came upon a young girl, seven or eight years old, sitting by
herself on a long, unfinished wood bench, beneath a canopy of low, tropical
trees. The girl was holding a rag doll in her hands, twisting and kneading it.
She looked up at their approach, but did not speak as Laura sat down on the
bench beside her.

“Hi,” Laura said, pulling off her glasses to gaze at the girl. “What’s your
name?”

“Cami,” the girl said, in an untroubled tone.

“Hi, Cami. I’m Laura.” She studied the girl with a soft smile for a moment.
“Are you alone?”

Cami nodded.

The captain spoke up. “She was traveling with her grandmother. But the
grandmother’s been having some health problems… well, since the announcement.
Not to worry,” he emphasized, gesturing toward the girl with his hand, “we’re
taking care of her.”

Cami seemed to have decided that Laura was trustworthy. She suddenly spoke,
in precise syllables. “My parents are going to meet me at the spaceport. In
Cap-ri-ca City.”

“Spaceport. I see,” Laura replied, swallowing back a hundred things she might
have said.

“We’re going to dinner,” Cami continued. “And I’m having chicken pie. And then we’re going home. And then daddy’s going to read to me.
And then… I’m going to bed.”