01 - Battlestar Galactica (24 page)

“Ever since I got here, something in the air”—Leoben gestured with his hands—“affects my allergies.” He let out his breath and started
walking again. “You always keep me in front, don’t you—military training,
right? Never turn your back on a stranger, that kind of thing?” He ducked
through a bulkhead opening. “Suspicion and distrust, that’s the military life,
right? War? Hatred? Jealousy, revenge, cruelty?”

“So you’re a gun dealer/philosopher, I take it, right?” Adama answered.

Leoben stopped to lean back against some pipes, laughing. Then he lurched off
again, still breathing hard. “I’m an observer of human nature, that’s all. In my
line of work, I see things that don’t get mentioned in polite society. When you
get right down to it, humanity is not a pretty race. I mean, we’re only one step
away from beating each other with clubs—like savages, fighting over scraps of
meat.” He glanced back at Adama. “Did you ever think, maybe we deserve what’s
happened to us? Maybe the Cylons are God’s retribution for our many sins.
Hubris—that’s Man’s greatest flaw. His belief that he alone has a soul, that
he’s the chosen of God.”

Adama grunted. “You told me a little while ago you were a Geminon theist.
Don’t you believe God gave Man his soul?”

“Maybe. But what if”—Leoben paused to lean against the wall and wait for
Adama to catch up—“what if God decided he’d made a mistake—that Man was a flawed
creature, after all? And he decided to give souls to another creature—like the
Cylons.” He chuckled and lurched back into motion.

That made Adama flare with annoyance. He called after Leoben in a harsh
voice. “God didn’t create the Cylons! Man did.” Leoben paused to hear him out.
“The Cylons are just
devices.
Technology that’s gotten out of control.
And I’m pretty sure we didn’t include a soul in the programming. So there’s no
loss if we kill every last one of them.
Let’s go.”

Leoben laughed and cocked his head a little as he looked over his shoulder.
“You’re not even interested in knowing the truth, are you? Maybe the Cylons feel
exactly the same way you do, but about Mankind. I don’t think they hate you,
Adama—I think they fear you.” He stopped to cough again. “How about you go first
for a while?”

Adama just glared.

Galactica,
Combat Information Center

Colonel Tigh peered over the shoulder of Lieutenant Gaeta as the younger man
hung up the phone. He’d just been conferring with Chief Tyrol, on the station.
Gaeta looked up at the colonel. “The chief says we’re looking at three hours
minimum before we have all the warheads in our magazines.”

Tigh searched for an entry in the thick inventory book he was holding. “The
book says there’s also fifty tons of bundled—”

The attention-tone interrupted him, and one of the junior officers at the
dradis console called,
“Action stations! Action stations!”

Gaeta quickly checked his own dradis screen. “We have multiple contacts
coming down through the storm, toward the anchorage.” He turned back toward
Tigh. “It looks like more than fifty ships.”

“Cut us loose from the station,” Tigh ordered, and strode toward the command
post. He tossed his inventory book onto the charting table and called out,
“Launch the alert fighters.” He picked up a handset for ship-wide announcement.
“Set Condition One throughout the ship! Prepare to launch
—”

“Wait!” called Dualla, from the main comm station. “Wait—I’m getting
Colonial signals now.” She was pressing her earphone to her ear.

“Confirm that!” Tigh said. He strode over toward the comm station and barked,
“Don’t just accept friendly ID.”

Just as he reached the comm station Dualla added, “Confirmed, sir. Incoming
ships are friendly.”

Amazed, Tigh picked up the nearest handset and keyed all-ship again.
“Action
stations, stand down.”

Dualla continued, “The lead ship is requesting permission to come alongside,
sir. They say…” she hesitated, listening closely, “they say they have the
President of the Colonies aboard.”

Tigh turned to look back at Dualla incredulously. Slowly his expression
changed to reluctant acceptance, as he realized he had to assume the report was
genuine. “Grant their request,” he said, his voice overlaid with skepticism.
“Bring ’em into the landing bay.”
This had better be for real.

“Oh, and Colonel,” Dualla continued. “They say they also have Lee Adama…
and Boomer. Both alive and well.”

Tigh blinked and rocked back on his heels. He tried like a sonofabitch not to
break into a big grin. “Well, I’ll be damned…”

As President Laura Roslin stepped out of
Colonial One
into
Galactica
’s hangar deck, it occurred to her that it had been barely a few
days since she’d left this ship, fully expecting that the next time she boarded
the vessel, it would be a museum in orbit around Caprica.
And now it’s the
flagship of the surviving fleet of humanity.
She remembered her argument
with Commander Adama over whether the museum could be outfitted with a small
computer network. She shook her head at the memory. Obsessive and controlling,
she’d thought him at the time. But it turned out he’d been right about computer
networks. Tragically right.

There didn’t seem to be anyone to greet them, except the deckhands who had brought up the stairs. She went down the steps, followed
closely by Captain Apollo and Billy The hangar seemed quiet, for a ship at war.
“Where is everyone?” she asked the deckhand at the bottom of the steps.

“Everyone except the stand-by crews are busy moving munitions aboard from the
station,” the deckhand said, gesturing toward the other end of the hangar.
“Colonel Tigh said I should bring you to the officers’ briefing room.”

“I
see. And will Commander Adama meet us there?” Laura asked.

“I don’t think so, sir,” said the deckhand. “There was an accident of some
sort on the station, and I heard the Commander was tied up with that. Colonel
Tigh is in command right now.”

“Very well. Can you show me to the briefing room, please?”

Colonel Tigh arrived in the briefing room shortly after them. Laura watched
from inside the room as Lee Adama met Tigh at the door. Tigh returned his salute
and then just stared at him for a minute. He didn’t reveal any emotion, but
finally he shook Lee’s hand and said, “It’s damned good to see you alive.”

“I’m glad to
be
alive,” Lee answered. He gestured toward Laura across
the long table that bisected the room. “I believe you know Laura Roslin.
President
Laura Roslin.”

Tigh walked slowly around the table and approached her, without quite
acknowledging the full meaning of Lee’s words. “We’ve met, yes. Ms. Roslin.”

“She was sworn into office yesterday,” Lee continued, “following the
protocol—”

“So I heard,” Tigh said, interrupting him. He glanced at Lee with an
expression of derision, as if to say,
And you bought that? One day a
schoolteacher and now the president?

Laura decided it was time to cut to the chase. “Colonel Tigh, we are, as far
as we know, the sole surviving fleet of Colonial ships. And we need your help.
With food and medical supplies.”

Tigh fixed her with an incredulous gaze. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m not big on jokes today,” Laura answered evenly. “May I ask where
Commander Adama is?” She extended her arm, as if to ask,
Is he waiting in the
wings?

“He’s
unavailable,”
Tigh said in a voice that was even flintier than
usual. “We expect to hear from him soon. In the meantime, I’m in command.”

“Then,” Laura acknowledged with a nod, “we should be looking to you to answer
our requests.”

Tigh was suddenly afire with indignation. “We’re in the middle of repairing
and rearming this ship! We can’t afford to pull a single man off the line to
start caring for refugees!”

Laura tried to control her own temper. She averted her head for a moment
while she channeled her anger into determination. She swung back and said
forcefully, “We have fifty thousand people out there, and some of them are hurt!
Our priority has to be caring for—”

“My
priority is preparing this ship for combat.” He looked at her
squarely, and more than a little condescendingly. “In case you haven’t heard,
there’s a war on.”

Laura drew a deep breath.
I still have to be a schoolteacher,
she
thought.
He can’t see the truth in front of his eyes.
“Colonel,” she said
evenly, stepping toward him. “The war is over. And we lost.”

Colonel Tigh smirked. “We’ll see about that.”

“Oh yes, we will. In the meantime, however, as President of the Colonies, I’m
giving you a
direct order
—”

“You don’t give orders on this ship!”

“—
to provide men and equipment
—”

Lee stepped forward and broke in suddenly. “Hold on, Colonel!” At
that, Tigh turned around and stared at him in amazement. “At least
give us a couple of disaster pods,” Lee continued, in an even and reasonable
tone.

“Us?” Tigh said.

“Sir,” Lee continued, ignoring the implied reproach, “we have fifty thousand
people out there.
Fifty thousand.
Some of them are sick. Some are
wounded.” He gestured earnestly. “Two disaster pods, Colonel. You can do that.”

Colonel Tigh answered very slowly and reluctantly. “Because you’re the Old
Man’s son, and because he’s going to be so
damned happy
you’re
alive—okay. Two pods. But
no personnel.”
He turned away and circled
around the table to leave the room. He met no one’s eyes as he said, “You get
them yourselves and you distribute them yourselves. And you are all off this
ship before we Jump back.”

Lee stood near the doorway, and Tigh walked up to him. “You report to the
flight deck,” Tigh ordered. His voice sharpened. “You’re senior pilot now,
Captain.”

Lee raised his hand in a very precise salute. “Yes sir.”

Tigh returned the salute and strode away.

Laura stood with her hands behind her back, gazing gratefully at Lee for a
moment. When he finally turned and caught her gaze, she inclined her head with a
faint smile, and nodded to dismiss him for the duties to which the colonel had
called him.

Galactica,
Deck E Passageway

Chief Tyrol walked along one of the ship’s corridors with a group of men
carrying a rack of small warheads. He stopped, looking this way and that, his
heart pounding. Where was she? He couldn’t just leave the work he was doing; he
couldn’t leave his post. But he knew she was here somewhere, and he needed to
find her, to see her.
Now.
He spoke in a distracted tone to the gunnery
specialist who was flanking him with a clipboard. “As soon as you get the
magazines loaded, I want a status report on Commander Adama’s whereabouts.”

“Yes sir.” The specialist made a note and continued on his way.

Tyrol stood where he was for a minute, trying to figure out what to do. He
was still absorbing the news that a civilian fleet had joined them—and that one
of the ships was the Colonial transport that carried the new president—as well
as two people they’d all given up for dead. Lee Adama… and Sharon Valerii.
Boomer.

The passageways seemed quiet, with people doing their jobs despite their
exhaustion, but with no energy left for outward shows of emotion. There was no talking, and practically no sound. He gazed
anxiously one way and then another.

And then he saw her, coming toward him down the corridor, passing the gunnery
specialist. She saw him at the same moment, and stopped. With her she had a boy,
about ten years old. She and Tyrol stared at each other in disbelief. Sharon
suddenly began striding quickly toward him. He felt the molasses in his feet let
go, and he moved toward her, too, quickening his pace until they met
mid-corridor. They fell into a powerful embrace, heedless of whether anyone saw
or cared—and Tyrol lifted her off her feet and swung her in circles. Then he put
her down and cradled her face in his hands, and they gazed into each other’s
eyes with joy, as the long-held grief melted away.

They kissed, hard, and then hugged for a very long time, swinging back and
forth, as the bewildered boy ducked and danced out of their way.

Finally Sharon broke from their embrace long enough to let Tyrol study her
face, grinning. “There’s someone I want you to meet,” she said, with a laugh.
She turned to the boy and put a hand on his shoulder. “New crewmember. Name’s
Boxey. He’s gonna need some quarters.”

The boy looked embarrassed, and as happy as a kid could look under these
circumstances. Maybe he was just glad he had someone looking out for him.

Tyrol couldn’t stop grinning. “We can manage that…”

In another corridor, Billy was trying to lead Baltar to the CIC, but he
didn’t really seem to know where he was going. Baltar followed him anyway, as
they hurriedly strode along, turning this way and that. Billy occasionally said
something like,
“Ah,
this way,” but within a minute or two would be
confused again.

Baltar was confused, period. This ship was the gloomiest place he had ever
seen. It was dark and claustrophobic, and the walls slanted inward toward a peak
at the ceiling, so that he felt like he was walking through a triangular prism,
in perpetual twilight. He wondered how long it took people to get used to it.

Ahead of him, Billy suddenly straightened and quickened his step. “Dualla!”
he cried to someone in the corridor ahead. “Hi! Um, we’re kind of lost—again.”

Baltar squinted to see who Billy was talking to. A tall, striking crewwoman
with exquisite olive-toned skin stopped in her tracks at the sight of them. She
just stared at them for an instant, then ran toward Billy. “We need to get to
the CIC—” Billy began, and then the woman he’d called Dualla grabbed him around
the neck and planted a kiss on him. A long, urgent kiss.