Battlestar Galactica (New Series) Page 2

  The third and final shudder jarred his senses, but only for an instant—before he, the woman, and the entire space station exploded in a ball of fire and hull-metal shrapnel.

  In the silence of deep space, there was no sound of the explosion. No human still living was close enough to see the flash of the fireball. And no warning signal was ever sent.

  Its single, simple mission concluded, the Cylon ship quickly moved away and vanished back into the darkness of the interstellar void.

  Chapter 2

  Warship Galactica

  Thump, thump, thump, thump . . . The rhythm of the running footsteps echoed in the spaceship's passageway, a high, trapezoidal corridor lit by regularly spaced, vertical blue-white light tubes along the slanted support beams. The passageway was spotlessly clean, but well worn with use, and now, as always, full of people.

  Kara Thrace rounded a corner, jogged past a handful of crewmen coming the other way. Kara was an athletic, short-haired blonde woman in her late twenties, and a fighter pilot. She bore down on a knot of tourists gathered in the passageway ahead. She was already breathing hard, but that didn't stop her from yelling, "Make a hole!"

  That produced some startled looks from the visitors and their guide. They hastily backed to either side of the corridor and made a hole. Kara plunged through their midst and never looked back, though she shuddered a little at the tour guide's voice, telling the people about the history of the Galactica, the sole remaining battlestar from the era of the Cylon War. "Originally twelve battlestars," he said in a perfect museum guide's tone of voice, "each representing one of Kobol's twelve colonies . . . Galactica represented Caprica . . ." Frak, Kara thought as she left the tourists behind. Wait until the ship is a museum, will you . . .

  Such thoughts were very much in Commander William Adama's mind as he walked the ship's corridors. He had a speech to give, and he still hadn't quite worked out what he wanted to say. The Galactica's stocky, craggy-faced commanding officer didn't much like giving speeches under any circumstances—throughout his long years in the service, he'd managed to avoid that duty whenever possible—and he certainly didn't like to dwell on the reasons for this particular speech. Nevertheless, it had to be done, and there was no getting around the fact that as Galactica's final master, he was the one who had to do it.

  Glancing down at the paper in his hand as he walked, he tried once more, in his deep, husky voice. "Though the Cylon War is long over, let's not forget the reasons why—"

  A voice from behind him interrupted. "Commander Adama, if I may!" It was Captain Kelly, the Landing Signal Officer.

  This was the third time he'd been interrupted before getting through the opening paragraph of his speech, but Adama didn't really mind. He glanced back as Kelly caught up with him. "Captain?"

  Kelly appeared to feel awkward now that he had his commander's ear. "Well, sir, I . . . just want to say what a pleasure it's been . . . serving with you, under your command, sir."

  "Kelly." Touched, Adama turned to shake the officer's hand. "It's been my honor. Good luck in your next assignment." Kelly was only the latest of many members of the crew to approach him with such sentiments today. Adama felt touched by all of them.

  "Thank you, sir." For a moment, Kelly looked as if he might have something more to say, but finally he just nodded and turned down a side corridor.

  Adama kept walking, trying to remember the opening line of his speech without looking down. Murmuring, he began, "The Cylon War is long over. Yet we must not forget . . ."

  Jogging footsteps behind him, coming alongside. "Morning, sir!" called a familiar voice.

  "Good morning, Starbuck," he answered, without looking up. "What do you hear?"

  "Nothing but the rain," answered Kara Thrace, keeping pace beside him.

  "Then grab your gun and bring in the cat," Adama said, completing the ritual exchange he and Kara had shared for as long as she'd been a pilot on his ship.

  Kara grinned and pointed a finger at him. "Boom boom boom," she said, and accelerated ahead to finish her morning jog. Adama watched her with a smile as she disappeared around the bend. There went one of his top pilots, and one of the biggest hell-raisers on his ship. Practically a daughter to him. He shook his head and went back to rehearsing his speech.

  This time he made it to the fourth sentence before he looked up to see a trio of enlisted crewmembers from the hangar deck, a woman and two men muttering to each other with some urgency. Adama just caught the words ". . . wrapped that yesterday," and some under-the-breath curses, as Specialists Socinus and Prosna passed something behind their backs, while trying to look innocent.

  "Too late," Adama said. "What's up?" He wasn't worried; every commander should have such a reliable crew.

  The three crewmembers saluted. Socinus made the quickest recovery. "Nothing, sir, just another leak in that frakkin' window." The young man hesitated. "Pardon me, sir."

  Prosna, hands still behind his back, added, "This is supposed to be a battlestar, not a museum. Sorry to say so, sir."

  "I couldn't agree more," Adama said. "Be careful out there, all right?" Letting them keep their secret, he turned back toward his destination. As he neared the Combat Information Center, he tried one last time to rehearse his speech, but it was no use. Once he stepped into the CIC, there was no such thing as a private moment.

  The CIC, located deep in the belly of the massive ship, was the battlestar's nerve center. It was the center of both flight and combat operations—a huge, dimly lit room filled with consoles and overhead monitors, work counters and not enough seats to go around. During normal operations, there could easily be thirty or forty crewmembers moving about here; today, there were maybe a dozen. You could feel the coming decommissioning hanging in the air; it made Adama sad, but also proud to be here at the end.

  Greeted by the Officer of the Watch, Lieutenant Gaeta, Adama kept walking—casting a casual but perceptive eye over the various workstations as Gaeta briefed him from the stack of papers in his hands, printouts of the day's comm traffic. This was the only battlestar in the fleet that still kept everything on paper, and that was exactly the way he wanted it. "Anything interesting?" Adama asked, looking up to scan the overhead monitors.

  Gaeta was young, efficient, and usually a good judge of what Adama was likely to consider interesting. Adama was going to miss him. "Mostly just housekeeping," Gaeta said. "Though there is one sort of odd message we were copied on." He handed Adama the printouts. "It's the one from Fleet Headquarters. The courier officer's overdue coming back from Armistice Station, and they're asking for a status report on all FTL-capable ships, just in case they need somebody to jump out there today and see if his ship is having mechanical problems."

  Adama chuckled as he flipped through the printouts. "I think we're a little busy today. Wouldn't you say so, Lieutenant?"

  The watch officer grinned. "Yes, sir."

  "I'm glad we agree," Adama said wryly. He handed the stack of printouts back to Gaeta and prepared to walk on.

  Before he could take another step, though, Gaeta continued, "May I take this opportunity to say what a pleasure and honor it's been to serve under you these past three years?" He gestured awkwardly, pushing the edges of the paper pile together.

  "It's my honor, Lieutenant Gaeta," Adama replied, saluting. Lords of Kobol, was everyone on the ship going to say that to him today? Perhaps he had better get used to it.

  Turning, he glanced back at the piece of paper he'd been carrying for the last hour. To himself, he repeated softly, "The Cylon War is long over . . ."

  For Aaron Doral, the day had been a nonstop series of encounters with the news media and other VIPs newly arrived aboard Galactica—all of them here for the decommissioning ceremony scheduled for tomorrow. For today, his role was to explain and extol. His role was to interest the press and to lay the groundwork for the tour guides who would indeed be giving this spiel once the old crate was officially what it had been in reality for years now—a museum piece.
But making the old seem fresh, and the ugly beautiful, was what Aaron Doral was good at. Aaron Doral was thirty-two, nattily dressed in a blue civilian suit, and a fast talker. Aaron Doral was a public relations man.

  As he strode through the ship's passageways, leading a cohort of media reporters and others lucky enough to have wangled passes, he spoke energetically about what the ship had meant to the Colonies through the years, and why she was the way she was. Doral was a hard man to impress, but even he felt twinges of pride in this ship that had served for nearly half a century, at one time the flagship of the fleet, and now the oldest of all the battlestars. Also, a flying anachronism . . .

  Doral gestured as he led the latest group through the public portion of the ship. "You'll see things here that might look odd, even antiquated, to modern eyes," he said, turning to face the knot of people following him. "You'll see phones with cords, all kinds of manual valves in the most awkward places, computers that barely deserve the name."

  After confirming that people were nodding in acknowledgment, he continued, "It was all designed to operate against an enemy who could infiltrate and disrupt even the most basic computer systems. Galactica is a reminder of a time when we were so frightened of our enemies that we looked backward to our past for protection. Backward to simpler computers, and away from the networking of the day, networking that at the time made us so terribly vulnerable to the Cylon threat. Of course"—he paused to gesture toward the CIC, which they would not be walking through—"modern battlestars resemble Galactica in only the most superficial ways."

  Doral paused to say hello to an older gentleman with thinning gray hair—Colonel Tigh, the ship's Executive Officer—but he got only a pained scowl in return as Tigh stalked past. Good God, the man looked hungover. Lucky he wasn't going to be serving on board much longer. One thing Doral knew was that he wasn't going to say anything about that to his audience. No, smile and show respect to the old fossil, that was the way to keep this audience pleased with their tour.

  "Next," he said, looking back over his shoulder again, "we're going to walk down the port side of the ship to get a view of the real meat and potatoes of a battlestar—the hangar deck, where her real fighting force, the Vipers and Raptors, are serviced and kept ready for action at a moment's notice. . . ."

  The hangar deck was precisely where Commander Adama was headed at this moment, having completed his round of the CIC. The crew chief had asked him to come down to see something special.

  Adama stepped down off the ladder onto the hangar deck, to be greeted by Chief Petty Officer Galen Tyrol. The chief was obviously working to keep a sober face as he called all hands on deck to attention. Adama saluted and as quickly put the scattered crew members back at ease. "Morning, Chief. How are you, today?"

  Tyrol, a seasoned leader of the hangar maintenance crews and one of the most respected noncommissioned officers on the entire ship, wore an uncommon expression of eagerness and maybe a bit of nervousness. "Thank you for coming down, sir. We've been looking forward to showing you this."

  "Well, so have I, Chief. Whatever it is," Adama said. He kept a dry expression on his face, but his curiosity was definitely piqued.

  "If you'll just follow me, sir." Tyrol led him around an array of machinery and spacecraft with maintenance panels propped open. A small crowd of enlisted deck hands accreted behind them as they proceeded. Tyrol brought Adama to a craft covered from nose to tail with a black tarp. It was clearly a Viper, the lines of the space fighter unmistakable under the covering. "What's this, Chief?"

  A grin twitched at the corner of Tyrol's mouth as he stood in front of the craft, waiting for the rest of the crew to crowd around. He seemed about to speak, then simply gestured to several of the deck hands, who hurried forward and swept the tarp smoothly off the concealed craft.

  Adama stared. It was an old-style Viper, a fighter from the days of the Cylon war. "Mark Two," he said, in genuine wonder. "I haven't seen one of these in about twenty years."

  "If the commander will take a closer look . . ."

  Adama shot Tyrol a puzzled glance and stepped closer. Then he saw it—the name, stenciled on the hull, just below the lip of the cockpit canopy:

  LT. WILLIAM ADAMA

  "HUSKER"

  He laughed. So that's what they'd been up to, painting his name and his old call sign on the vintage war-bird. But Tyrol was still talking:

  ". . . at the tail number, Nebula Seven-Two-Four-Two Constellation."

  Adama's mouth dropped open, as he read the registration markings on the Viper's tail. N7242C. They hadn't just painted his name on any old warbird. "Oh my God. Where did you find her?"

  Tyrol was openly grinning now. "Rusting out in a salvage yard on Sagitarron. We had hopes the commander would allow her to participate in the decommissioning ceremony."

  Adama turned in disbelief. "She'll fly?"

  "Oh, yes, sir. We've restored the engines, patched the guidance system, replaced much of the flight controls . . ."

  Adama hardly knew whether to laugh or cry. "You guys are amazing." He reached out to touch the hull of the craft. Viper N7242C. How many times had he flown this fighter, forty years ago? How many times had it survived Cylon attack to bring him safely back to the flight deck? My God, he thought.

  ". . . she's fueled, armed, ready for launch, sir."

  Laughing quietly, Adama ran his hands over the aft engine cowling.

  "Commander—"

  He turned back. "What? More?" Tyrol handed him a flat package wrapped in brown paper. Adama chuckled. "Somebody's bucking for a promotion around here."

  Tyrol grinned and glanced at the deck crewman standing beside him. "I believe that would be Prosna, sir. He found this in the Fleet Archives. He was doing some research for the museum." Prosna lifted his chin slightly, but did not crack a smile.

  It felt like a plaque of some kind. Adama tore the paper open and lifted out a picture framed in dark, heavy hardwood, square with all four corners cut off. It was a photo of himself as a young fighter pilot, standing in front of this same Viper, with two boys. Sweet Lords of Kobol. Zak and Lee must have been about seven or eight at the time. They were beaming with pride as they stood with their father and his Viper. Adama felt his mask of command begin to fail as a host of unexpected emotions welled up in him. They look so happy. A lump formed in his throat as he fought to keep his composure, to hold back the tears that were welling in his eyes. "Thank you," he said, looking up before he could crack, looking all around him to include the entire assembled crew. "Thank you all."

  "You're welcome, sir," said Tyrol. And as Adama stood, continuing to stare silently at the photo in his hands, Tyrol quietly dismissed the crew.

  Adama stood motionless, lost in the past, lost in the photo, for a very long time.

  Chapter 3

  Galactica, Officers' Wardroom

  The triad game was already well underway when Colonel Saul Tigh entered the officers' wardroom and headed shakily for the coffee table. He helped himself to a coffee cup, but did not fill it with coffee. From his pocket, he produced a small metal flask. He unscrewed the top and carefully poured a generous shot of whiskey into the coffee cup. If anyone noticed, nobody said anything. Colonel Tigh, the Executive Officer of the ship, was off duty. If he wanted to have a drink or two, there was nobody here who could tell him no. And it sure helped steady his nerves, and take the edge off that headache that pounded insistently at the back of his skull.

  Besides, maybe it would help him shake things up a little here. These people were having too damn much fun.

  Tigh pulled out the last remaining chair at the card table and sat down across the table from Lieutenant Kara Thrace—Starbuck, to the flight group. "Uh-oh," she muttered, without looking up. Whether she was talking about his arrival or the cards she was holding, he couldn't tell for sure. He'd find out; an opportunity to taunt Kara Thrace was something he could never resist.

  "I'm in," said Tigh, and waited while Thrace dealt him a hand of cards.


  "Here we go." That was from Helo, on his immediate left. Helo was the flight officer for the Raptor pilot sitting to his immediate left—Sharon Valerii, better known as Boomer.

  Lieutenant Thrace's short blonde hair came just over her ears and eyebrows. She cultivated a tough-guy look, and was cockily smoking a cigar. She aimed it at Helo and said, "If you're gonna play with the big dogs—" She pointed to the table. Helo dropped his chips onto the pile.

  "No fair," complained Boomer, squinting at her cards. Not such a good hand, maybe.

  Colonel Tigh tuned out the banter while he examined his cards. Finally he looked up, as Thrace said with a laugh, "Ohhh, Helo—when are you gonna learn? First you're flying with crooks, and then—ow!"—Boomer had just smacked her on the arm—"and then you're bettin' against Starbuck!"

  Tigh let out a snort. "Star buck. Now there's a call sign. Starbuck"—he gave a string of chicken sounds—"buck-buck-buck-buck-buck! Where'd you get that nickname, anyway? Was that before you were thrown in the brig as a cadet for drunk and disorderly, or after?" He glanced over his cards, not meeting Thrace's eyes.

  Unperturbed, Thrace leaned back and blew a stream of smoke from her cigar. "After," she said smugly.

  "After," he echoed, searching for a snappy comeback but not finding one. "That's right it was . . . after."

  "I'm in." Helo tossed in some more chips. "Bet's to you, XO."

  Brought back to the game by the sound of the chips, Tigh muttered, "I'm in," and followed Helo's chips with a few of his own.

  Lieutenant Thrace had never dropped her gaze from him. "How's the wife?" she asked, in slow, measured tones.

  He stiffened, words lodging in his throat. God, no wonder he hated her. Anger, and the whiskey, made his skin burn—but he was damned if he was going to rise to the bait. Around him, the other players continued their banter, oblivious to the power struggle that had just begun. He barely heard them . . .

  ". . . that pyramid game on Geminon?"