01 - Battlestar Galactica (9 page)

In the final maneuver, it indeed looked effortless, as all but one of the
squadron came together just shy of the aft end of the landing bay, then split
off in a starburst formation. And spinning up through the center of them came
Apollo, roaring directly over the landing bay, so that in the screen he seemed
to fly nearly straight into the crowd, and right over their heads. Indeed, Laura
and just about everyone else ducked involuntarily, and turned to watch on
another screen as he disappeared up and out. The crowd—even members of the
ship’s crew who were here for the ceremony—erupted in spontaneous applause.

As the Vipers regrouped and circled away, Aaron Doral once more took the
podium. It was time to bring on the next speaker. This was the headliner, the
person they’d all been waiting to hear from. As applause for the flying team
slowly died down, Doral said, “And now, it is my great pleasure to introduce the
last commander of the battlestar
Galactica,
a man who served on this ship
as a young pilot during the years of the Cylon War, and later came back to
command her through years of peace—Commander William Adama.” With a gesture, he
invited the commander to rise from where he sat among the gathered officers at
the front, and to take the podium.

Laura, sitting just on the other side of the podium, was struck once more by
Commander Adama’s rough-hewn good looks, rock-solid demeanor, and obvious
intelligence. Despite their earlier encounter, Laura was eager to hear what the
commander would have to say. He mounted the stage slowly and deliberately, and
took a few moments, standing there before the assembly, as though reflecting on
what he wanted to say. And then he began, in that deep, attention-commanding
voice:

“The Cylon war is long over.” He looked out, as though to meet the gaze of
everyone in the crowd, one by one. “Yet we must not forget the reasons why so
many sacrificed so much in the cause of freedom.” Pause to let that sink in.
“The cost of wearing the uniform… can be high.” And when he paused this time,
it was for a long moment that stretched into several moments, while some in the
crowd stirred restlessly, wondering if he’d lost his place in the script, or
forgotten what he intended to say. Laura sensed that that was not the case,
though, and waited with growing anticipation to see what this stubborn,
unconventional man would say next.

Adama finally, slowly, removed his eyeglasses and looked out over the
gathered assembly. “Sometimes it’s too high.” Even from where Laura sat, she
could see the pain behind his eyes.

What was he thinking of, his crewmates who had died in the war? His son, who
died in a tragic peacetime accident? Adama continued, “You know, when we fought
the Cylons, we did it to save ourselves from extinction. But we never answered
the question,
Why?
Why are we as a people worth saving? We still commit
murder because of greed, spite, jealousy. And we still visit all of our sins
upon our children.”

As Adama spoke, Laura could see members of the audience shifting a little
with discomfort. She was surprised to discover how much she was moved by the
questions Adama was raising. She could not have known it, but out in space,
circling in a patrol pattern around
Galactica,
the Viper pilots were
listening on the wireless, and one in particular, the one called Apollo, was
also surprised by the commander’s words. And even in the brig, Kara Thrace
listened, wondering. And in the CIC, the officers on watch. And throughout the
ship, everywhere crewmembers had a moment to pause in what they were doing and
listen.

“We refuse to accept the responsibility for anything that we’ve done. As we
did with the Cylons—when we decided to play God. Create life. And that life
turned against us. We comforted ourselves in the knowledge that it really wasn’t
our fault. Not
really.”
He drew a breath. “Well, you cannot play God and
then wash your hands of the things that you’ve created. Sooner or later the day
comes when you can’t hide from the things that you’ve done anymore.”

Commander Adama looked out over the audience, as though trying to decide what
to say next. Finally, probably to everyone’s surprise, and maybe even his own,
he simply turned and stepped down from the podium, and walked back to his seat.

Laura watched him pass, and as Doral got up to go make his closing remarks,
Laura began to clap her hands. She wasn’t sure exactly what had just happened
there, but she knew that the commander had dared to speak a truth that most would rather have left
unspoken. For a moment, the only sound was her hands clapping, and then the
others took up the applause. By the time Adama reached his seat, it was strong
and steady.

Colonel Saul Tigh was one of those who had sat in stunned silence as his
friend Bill Adama spoke. What the frak
was
Bill driving at? Tigh had
known him for what—better than forty years? He never known Bill to stir
needlessly at a hornet’s nest, unless it was some bureaucracy that needed a kick
in the ass. But this—they were supposed to be having a polite retirement
exercise. They were turning the ship over to become a museum, not running for
public office. As the commander sat down beside him again, Tigh leaned and
muttered, under the sound of the applause, “You are one
surprising
sonofabitch.”

In response, Adama just turned his head and looked at him—with his familiar
steady gaze, and almost, but not quite, with a smile.

Galactica
Departure Pattern

The colonial transport accelerated smoothly out of the launch tube of
Galactica,
and proceeded at a stately pace away from the warship. A lone
Viper came up alongside, then moved into position just ahead of the transport.
The wireless call went from the fighter craft to the cockpit of the transport:
“Colonial Heavy Seven-Niner-Eight, this is Viper Seven-Two-Four-Two. My call
sign is Apollo, and I’ll be your escort back to Caprica.”

Inside the old Viper’s cockpit—his father’s old Viper—Lee Adama was filled
with mixed emotions as he flew away from

Galactica.
Relief, sadness, anger. Regret over some of the things that
had been said, or not said… and some genuine astonishment over his father’s
words in that address to the VIPs. Some of the things the old man had said
actually sounded thoughtful. That part about accepting responsibility…

Lee shook off the thought.
Don’t get maudlin. And don’t give him credit
for things he wasn’t really saying.

The transport pilot answered,
“Copy, Viper Seven-Two-Four-Two. Glad to
have you with us.”

Another call came a moment later, this one from the squadron circling
Galactica
in formation, and visible to Lee at about ten o’clock high.
“Viper Seven-Two-Four-Two, Raptor Three-One-Two. This is Boomer. Just wanted to
say it was an honor to fly with you, Apollo.”

“The honor’s mine, Boomer,” Lee said in acknowledgment. For all that they’d
had a rocky start, he and the
Galactica
pilots had flown well together.
They’d earned his respect, and he hoped he’d earned theirs. “Where are you
heading after Caprica?” How was it he had never asked that? Too busy thinking
about other things, probably.

“Right on to Picon after refueling,”
Boomer said.
“Squadron’s being
reassigned there temporarily—then they’ll be splitting us up. We plan on
having a frakking good party before we go our separate ways, though. Are you
sure you can’t join us?”

“Wish I could,” Lee said. “I’ve been playing hooky with you kids for too long
already, I’m afraid. Hoist a glass for me, though, will you?”

“Roger to that. Have a safe trip, Apollo.”
As they signed off, the
squadron formation changed course like a flock of birds, away from
Galactica
and in the direction of Caprica. The last of
Galactica
’s active
fighters; all the others were now part of the museum.

Apollo lifted a hand to them in silent salute.

* * *

In the cabin of the transport, a weary Laura Roslin was collapsed in her
seat, eyes closed. A tired but still energized Billy sat beside her in the
window seat. From a speaker overhead, a voice came from the cockpit:
“Ladies
and gentlemen, we are now en route back to Caprica. If you look out the
starboard window, you might be able to see one of Galactica’s old Mark Two
Vipers, which is escorting us. That’s the same Viper once flown by Commander
William Adama, during the days of the Cylon War
…”

Laura smiled faintly, remembering the precision flying demonstration the
Viper pilots had staged for them just a short time ago. She felt vaguely
comforted to know that one of those pilots would be flying alongside them as
they returned home. She felt even more comforted to know that the pilot was
Commander Adama’s son, Apollo.

House of Gaius Baltar

Baltar sat frozen, haunted, sweating, watching the newscasts on the video
screens. He had seen numerous flashes outside on the horizon, but somehow those
hadn’t seemed as real to him as the newscasts. Surely, he had thought, the
newscasts would tell the truth. Would somehow
dispel
this awful truth.
But they hadn’t. It was real.

On the left half of the screen, Kellan Brody, the newscaster who had
interviewed him just two days ago, was barely managing to keep up a brave front.
“…
Trying to piece together unconfirmed reports of nuclear attack. We don’t
have any further information yet. No actual enemy has been sighted
…”

On the right screen, a man was broadcasting frantically from the street.
“Official confirmation that the spaceports have been hit. No spacecraft left
that can leave Caprica. Our best advice is to stay inside—or if you must
leave, head out into the country
…”

Kellan Brody:
“Officials are saying that there doesn’t seem any doubt
—” She turned suddenly, terrified by something she’d just seen or
felt—and the screen went white with static.

The man on the right screen flinched at a dazzling flash from off-camera—then
hunched against a sudden gale-force wind that blew debris sideways past him. An
instant later, that screen went white, too.

Gaius Baltar bowed his head. “What have I done?” he whispered. He looked up
again at the blank screens.
What have I done?
He sat, shaking, for a few
moments, tears welling in his already reddened eyes.
What… have… I…done?

Finally he stood up, the feeling of finality washing over him. “There’s no
way out,” he whispered.

Natasi walked to him from behind. “I know.” She moved to place her hands
comfortingly on his shoulders.

He wrenched away from her. “Sure you know! That’s
your doing,
isn’t
it?” He strode away, furious, despairing. Then something occurred to him. “Wait.
Wait, there has to be another way out of here.
Wait!
You must have an
escape plan, right? You’re not about to be destroyed by your own bombs, are you?
How are you leaving?”

At that instant, a blinding flash came through the windows, from somewhere
over the water. He cried out in pain and bent double, covering his eyes. Behind
him, Natasi continued to talk calmly. “Gaius—I can’t die. When this body is
destroyed, my memory—my consciousness—will be transmitted to a new one. I’ll
just wake up somewhere else in an identical body.” She was touching him now,
caressing his neck and cheek, in a way that ordinarily would have been
comforting. It made him nearly insane.

Fighting back tears, horrified at the thought he was about to voice, he said,
“You mean there’s more out there like you?”

She faced him closely, and said very matter-of-factly, “There are twelve
human-type models. I’m Model Number Six. There are many like me.”

This was too much to bear. He began sobbing. “I don’t want to die. I don’t
want to—”

“Get down.”
Interposing herself between him and the window, she shoved
him to the floor—an instant before an enormous wall of wind and water rose up
and smashed through the side of the house, destroying it like a plaything.

Baltar knew only a moment of pain and terror as he was hurled across the room
by the force of the blast. Then he knew only darkness.

Caprica Orbit

High over Caprica they circled, the Cylon raiders, lobbing nuclear warheads
down onto the planet. From a distance, there was a certain kind of beauty to the
rain of death; from a distance, no one could hear the screams, no one could feel
the pain or know the fear or quail in the face of certain death. Unless it was
the Cylons themselves. Could they? That was a question no human could answer.
And the Cylons weren’t speaking to humanity. The Cylons were eradicating
humanity.

From space you couldn’t even hear the booms, or feel the rush and suck of
wind, the blaze of hard radiation. It was just a silent display of
flash…
flash… flash….
Even the flashes were somewhat concealed, half hidden
from view by the thick cloud cover. But there was no mistaking them, either, if
you happened to be in orbit around the planet, as many spacecraft were. Caprica
was dotted with flashes deep in the cloud cover, and as the mushroom clouds grew
and spread, the cloud cover thickened until from orbit it looked like a
continuous murk surrounding the world.

For human spacecraft in orbit, or nearing the planet, the prognosis was no
better than it was for Caprica itself. The raiders that were not busy lobbing bombs were just as busy hunting and killing humanity’s
spacecraft. It was no match: Few of the spacecraft were armed in any way, and
even those that had weapons were hopelessly, hopelessly outmatched. It was over
quickly for most of them. For those that somehow escaped notice, the reprieve
seemed too good to be true, and for most of them it was. Most of the reprieves
ended all too soon, with sudden detection, and a fiery death.