01 - Battlestar Galactica (8 page)

At the other end of the room, Doral suddenly called out to the photographers
to spread apart, and make room for the approaching officer, also in full-dress
uniform. “Captain—thank you. Aaron Doral.” There was some awkward shaking of
hands, before Doral turned and pointed in the direction of Commander Adama. “If
you’d like to stand up there, we’ll get a few shots of you and the commander.
Thanks.”

Lee Adama stoically stepped past the photographers and into the center of the
room, and Commander Adama stepped forward to join him. “Captain,” he said,
without making eye contact. Lee said nothing.

Doral came forward, effusive. “Great! Okay, gentlemen, could you maybe stand
a little closer?” Disguising his emotions with full military bearing, Adama
edged sideways toward Lee. “Fantastic. Commander, could you put your arm around
your son?” Without a word, Adama encircled Lee with his arm, barely resting his
hand on Lee’s far shoulder. The photographers jockeyed for position. The camera
lights flashed. The happy family reunion was captured for broadcast to the
public. “Great! Perfect. Thank you very much,” said Doral, cutting it short as
quickly as he could. “See you both at the ceremony.”

With that, Adama’s arm came down, the tableau dissolved, and the
photographers crowded through the door on their way out. Commander Adama turned
away from his son and walked over to the refreshment counter.

He was aware of Lee reacting with a cynical, near-silent laugh at his abrupt
move away, and of Lee then starting out the door after the photographers. Before
his son could make it past the threshold, Adama turned to him and said, “Do you
want some… coffee? We make a really awful cup of coffee here.”

Lee stopped. “No, sir,” he answered. “Thank you, sir.” He stopped, but clearly had not committed to staying for conversation.

Adama’s gut was knotted like a waterlogged rope. He fiddled with the glasses
and water pitcher as he said, “Why don’t you… sit down.”

Lee repeated his half-laugh, the bitter expression still on his face. He
turned back into the room, gazing around at the long tables with empty chairs.
It was a place for military talk, business, planning, he seemed to be
thinking—not
this.
He remained standing, only half facing his father.

“Congratulations on making captain,” Adama said, pouring himself a glass of
water. “Sorry I wasn’t there.”

“Thank you,
sir,”
Lee said stiffly.

“How’s your mother?”

“Getting married.”

Adama absorbed that for a moment, let the inevitable pain wash over him and
fade away. Finally he nodded, raising his glass of water and turning it in his
hand—his back still turned to his son. “Good for her,” he said, sincerely. “We
spoke about a year ago, had a real heart to heart. It was good.” He drank half
the glass of water, a little too quickly.

Lee’s words came even more quickly. “I’m glad to hear that, sir, will that be
all?”

His defenses finally broke, for a moment—but he still couldn’t turn toward
his son. “Why don’t you talk to me, Lee?”

“Wh—” Lee began to laugh openly. “Well, what do you want to talk about?”

“About
anything.
You’ve been here for an hour.”

“Well, I don’t have anything to say.” He began walking toward Adama, but his
posture was anything but conciliatory. “My orders said to report here for the
ceremony. So, I’m here.” He produced a pained smile that was bursting with anger. “And I’m going to participate in
the ceremony. But there wasn’t anything in my orders about having heart-to-heart
chats with the old man.”

Adama tried to conceal his wince of anguish. “Accidents
happen
… in
the service,” he said quietly looking up at the wall. And there it was, the
inescapable memory: the ruin of the Viper, the flag-draped coffin, the utterly
distraught Kara grieving for her lost fiancé. Adama and the boys’ mother—already
divorced—grieving separately for their dead son. And Lee, not grieving so much
as bitterly angry. And he’d been angry ever since.

“Dad. Listen, I—”

“You know, all the things that you talked about, the last time we were
together—”
The things that practically killed me, then and now…

“I really don’t want to—”

“—at the funeral—”
Words that still echo like gunshots.

“I
really
don’t want to do this.”

“—they still ring in my ears, after two years.”

“Good!”
Lee barked, fire flashing in his eyes. He hesitated, gathered
himself a little. His face was still drawn taut as he said, “Good, because…
because you know what? They were meant to.”

Adama allowed no reaction to surface. He couldn’t; the pain ran way too deep.
“Zak had a choice, you both did.” He raised his chin and scowled at the wall.

Lee snorted, gesturing angrily. “A man isn’t a man… until he wears the
wings of a Viper pilot. Doesn’t that sound at all familiar to you?”

Stung to the quick, but unwilling to show it, Adama raised his glass and
answered stoically, “That’s not fair, son.” He took another sip of water.

“No, it’s not fair.” Lee stood close now, making his points like rapier
stabs. “Because one of us wasn’t cut out to wear the uniform.”

“He earned his wings just like we all did.”

“One
of us wasn’t cut out to be a pilot.
One
of us wouldn’t have
even gotten into
flight school
if his
old man,
his daddy, hadn’t
pulled the strings!”

“That’s an exaggeration,” Adama replied. “I did nothing for him that I
wouldn’t have done for anyone else.”
Did I? Lords of
Kobol, did I?

Lee appeared dumbstruck. He struggled to find words. “You’re not even
listening to me! Why can’t you get this through your head? Zak
did not belong
in that plane!” Gesturing futilely, Lee paused for breath. “He shouldn’t
have been there. He was only doing it for you.” Lee collected himself and
delivered his words coolly, with a tiny, deadly smile. “Face it. You killed
him.”

The words hit Adama with the force of a physical blow. He grimaced very
slightly, but refused to allow the pain to show on his face.
Did I? No, damn
it, I didn’t. But if that’s how you really feel, there’s nothing more to be
said, is there?
Without turning to face Lee, the commander dismissed him in
his gravelly voice: “That’ll be all, Captain.”

Lee stood for about ten seconds, stunned by the dismissal, struggling with
his own pain, perhaps trying to think of something more to say. Perhaps wishing
he could take it back. Adama remained unmoved. Lee finally turned and strode
from the room. Adama stood silent for a long time after that, head bowed in
grief and pain, and in regret for all the words. He had never felt quite so…
old… as he did now. Old, and used, and wondering how his life had gone so
terribly wrong.

Master Bedroom of Gaius Baltar

Baltar sat rigidly in his upholstered reading chair and tried to keep his
thoughts on a rational, safe, analytical level. Which was very hard to do, given
what he had just been told. “So… now you’re telling me… now you’re telling
me you’re a machine.”

Natasi sat in his recliner, a few arm-lengths away, her bare legs
outstretched on the raised foot of the chair. She crossed her legs, and he could
not help but follow the movement with his eyes. “I’m a woman,” she said.

“You’re a machine.” He let out a frustrated breath. “You’re a synthetic
woman. A robot.” He let out another breath, which sounded like a laugh but was a
cry of pain.
I’ve been sleeping with a robot. A Cylon. No, that is not
possible.

She calmly answered, “I’ve said it three times now.”

His answer was anything but calm. “Well, forgive me, I’m having the tiniest
bit of trouble believing that, especially since the last time anyone saw the
Cylons they looked like walking chrome toasters.”

“Those models are still around,” she said dismissively. “They have their
uses.”

He looked away, looked back. “Prove it,” he said. “If you’re a Cylon, prove
it to me right now.”

“I don’t have to. You know I’m telling the truth.”

Do I know that? I know nothing of the kind!
Flustered, Baltar struggled
to bring himself back to the analytical state of mind that he prided himself on
being able to achieve. He failed. But he argued nonetheless. “You see—stating
something as the truth does not make it so, because the truth is, I don’t
believe anything you’re saying—”

She leaned forward. “You believe me because deep down you’ve always known
there was something different about me, something that didn’t quite add up in
the usual way.” A coy grin played at the corners of her mouth. “And you
believe
me, because it
flatters your ego
to believe that alone among
all the billions of people of the Twelve Colonies,
you
were chosen for my
mission.”

That sent a shock through his system. “Your mission? What mission?”

“You knew I wanted access to the Defense mainframe.”

His heart nearly stopped.
“Def…
wait a minute. The
Defense
mainframe?” A
terrible ringing was starting in his ears. He could hardly
think, and could not breathe. “What exactly are you saying?”

“Come on, Gaius.” Her delight in her accomplishment spread across her face.
“The communications frequencies, deployment schedules, unlimited access to every
database…”

The ringing was growing louder. “Stop it!” Baltar shouted. “Stop it right
now!”

She smiled seductively. “You never really believed I worked for some
mysterious ‘company’ either—but you didn’t really care.”

“No! That’s not—”

“All that really mattered was that only
you
could give me that kind of
access. You were special, you
knew
you were. And powerful…”

“Oh my God!”
Baltar jumped to his feet and walked slowly away from her,
as he absorbed the full enormity of what he had done. He turned and spoke as
forcefully as he could. “I had
nothing
to do with this! You
know
I
had nothing to do with this!”

Natasi got up, shaking her head with a smile. “You have an amazing capacity
for self-deception. How do you
do
that?” She walked toward him, and she
had never looked so sexy—or so frightening.

Baltar could feel panic rising like bile in his throat. “How many people know
about me? About me—specifically? That I’m involved?”

“And even now,” she said, touching his chest seductively, her voice low and
sultry, “as the fate of your entire
world
hangs in the balance, all you
can think about is how this affects
you.”

“Do you have any idea what they’ll do to me, if they find out?” he cried.

“They’d probably charge you with treason.”

“Treason is punishable by the death penalty.” His voice was shaking now, and
he could feel himself sweating. “This is unbelievable.” He crossed the room and
snatched up his phone.

“What are you doing?”

“Phoning my attorney.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“He’ll know what to do. He’ll sort this out. He’s the best in the business.”
He finished punching in the number and pressed the phone to his ear.

“It won’t be necessary, because in a few hours, nobody will be left to charge
you with anything.”

Baltar froze, and slowly lowered the phone from his ear. “What… exactly…are you saying?”

She gazed at him evenly, unsympathetically “Humanity’s children… are
returning home.” She paused a beat to let that sink in. “Today.”

Baltar stared at her uncomprehendingly, unbelieving, unwilling to believe. He
turned to look out the window toward the seaward end of the sound, northwest
toward Caprica City. At that precise moment, a burst of blinding white light
expanded on the horizon. A light as bright as the sun, but rising to a full
brightness, and then fading away.

Galactica,
Starboard Landing Bay Decommissioning Ceremony

The ceremony was proceeding pretty much as these things always did, with too
many minor speakers, each one followed by polite applause. The priest, a
dark-skinned middle-aged woman named Elosha, was by far the most interesting to
Laura Roslin. But though Elosha spoke eloquently of the service
Galactica
and her crew had given, both in war and in peace, she received polite applause
just like the minor dignitaries before her. Just as Laura herself had, when
she’d presented her own speech as Secretary of Education, as the one who
ultimately would oversee the conversion of this magnificent ship into a vessel
of history, a tool for education.

The master of ceremonies, Aaron Doral, following Elosha onto the podium,
moved the ceremony briskly along.

“Thank you so much for those words of inspiration. And now it’s my great
honor to present to you a ceremonial, precision-formation flyby of the very last
squadron of
Galactica
fighter pilots, led by none other than Captain Lee
Adama.”

This could not help but be a crowd pleaser. The aft end of the landing bay
had been outfitted with an enormous video projection screen, giving a marvelous
illusion of being an open window into space. The landing bay could not, of
course, actually be
open
to space; that would make it a little hard for
the audience to breathe. But gazing at the lifelike image of the approaching
squadron of Vipers, one could easily forget that.

For a few moments, the squadron hardly seemed to be moving. That illusion
vanished as they drew closer at high speed. The squadron team zoomed toward the
ship in an arrowhead formation, eight Vipers swooping up from below to pass
directly before the onlookers, and then splitting apart to fly off in four
different directions. Then came the leader, spiraling up, piloted by the younger
Adama, the one known as Apollo. Laura watched with heartfelt admiration and
amazement as the pilots showed off their training—flying in perfect, tight
formation, rejoining and breaking apart, again and again. It was a demonstration
as old as aviation itself—daredevil flying joined with the artistic flair of a
great dance performance. In space, it was even harder than in the air. Each of
those maneuvers required each pilot to time perfectly a complex sequence of
thrusting and turning, and braking and thrusting again—all carefully
choreographed to look nearly effortless.