like a minefield. Adama and Tigh spoke only to issue orders. When there
were no more commands, Adama spoke to his aide.
"Anything?"
"Still nothing from the fighters, sir. One thing I'm sure
of---their transmission is being jammed deliberately. If we don't launch
soon..."
"We cannot launch when it has been expressly forbidden," Adama said,
measuring out his words carefully. He could feel the eyes of the entire
bridge crew staring at him. "This might, on the other hand, be an
appropriate time to order a test of our battle stations drill."
Tigh smiled and the rest of the bridge crew followed suit.
"Sound the battle stations alert, Colonel!" Adama shouted.
*****
The identical smugness on the faces of the two Gemonese infuriated
Starbuck. The main goal of his life had just that moment become to wipe
that self-satisfaction off both their faces. Sitting down at the table,
with the remains of the gallery's cash reserves overflowing in his big
hands, he grinned his best country-boy grin at his opponents and pushed
the large pile of cubits to the center of the table.
"Okay, guys," he said. "The showdown play, right? One hand.
Sudden death."
The Gemonse frowned simultaneously and whispered together. Even
though he was not up on their language, he could tell by the quarrelsome
sound of their voices that they were debating the odds. They came to
their agreement, nodded at the same time, and pushed the equivalent
amount of cubits into the pot.
"Sudden death it shall be, Caprican."
"Death. Caprican," said the other.
Smiling genially, Starbuck began shuffling the cards. When the
hands were dealt, one of the Gemonese picked up thiers immediately while
the other leaned over his shoulder to inspect it. Starbuck waited a beat
before picking up his hand. He knew the nonchalance of such a pause
could unnerve the already anxious Gemonese and affect their play.
As he regarded the hand, he realized with a surge of exultation that
he hadn't needed to employ such elaborate play-acting. His cards were
all one color, and all the same symbol, the highest ranking---the
pyramid! He could sense the electrified crowd reaction behind him, and
started to lay out the cards for the Gemonese to read and weep.
"You may never see another one, fellas," he chortled. "A perfect
pyramid."
Both Gemonese mouths dropped open in perfect unison. The
cardholding Gemonese was about to throw his hand.
The alert-claxon blared loudly through the ready room, jarrig
everybody's concentration and sending several crewmembers into immediate
action. A woman reading a book on a corner bunk dropped the volume and
started running. A sleeper flung himself out of a chair near the card
table and, awakening a moment after his instinctual rise, he plunged
sideways as he tried to avoid the running woman. In plunging, his body
bumped against the table. The cards, including Starbuck's perfect
pyramid, slid and fluttered in all directions, some falling to the floor.
When they were already dispersed, Starbuck made a futile grab at their
ghosts. The Gemonse watched the cards scatter, exchanged a look, then
smiled together.
"Unfortunate," one of them said. "We'll have to replay hand at later
date."
"Wait a micron, you..." Starbuck cried.
"Duty calls," said one Gemonese.
"Duty," said the other, while picking up his battle helmet from the
floor (brushing off a couple of round cards that had stuck in ridges
along its surface), and scooping their half of the pot into it. Their
bodies tense in battle readiness, the two rushed out of the room.
"Come back here, you rotten crasodies!" Starbuck shouted. "Hey,
somebody stop them!"
But it was too late to stop anybody. After their collective moment
of shock, even members of the gallery started charging for the exits,
gathering up their helmets and flight kits on the way.
Starbuck shrugged his shoulders, pocketed his half of the pot, made
a mental note to distribute the cash back among his contributors (but
only if they asked), and hurried to the flight-prep corridor.
Running along the luminous ceiling of the enlongated chamber that
was the catapult deck, a transparent vacuum tube revealed the even rows
of the Galactica's fighter ships, side by side in their powerful
launching cribs. As the vehicles were thrust out of the tube onto the
deck itself, their pilots emerged from chutes that had carried them from
the flight-prep corridor. Each pilot raced on foot to his individual
ship, while ground crews activated the sleek, delta-winged craft for
launch.
Starbuck emerged from his drop and sprinted to his ship. After
jumping onto a wing, he executed his famous into-the-saddle leap into the
cockpit. Jenny, his ground-crew CWO, belted him in. Her darkly
attractive face showed extreme concern as she closed the form-fitting
cockpit over him.
"What's going on?" she screamed.
"Nothing to worry about," Starbuck replied. "Probably just some kind
of, I don't know, aerial salute for the president as they sign the
armistice or kiss the Cylons or something."
Jenny frowned.
"That's disgusting," she hollered.
"Disgusting? What's disgusting?"
"The idea of kissing the Cylons, that's what, it turns my stomach."
"Don't knock what you haven't tried."
"Get outta here, bucko!"
Jenny hit the main power switch and Starbuck felt the familiar
thrust backward that always accompanied the engagement of the flight
systems. He took the controls and taxied to his launch point where, his
craft joining the titanic array of the Galactica's iridescent vehicles,
he waited tensely for orders to launch or return."
*****
Although Adama had to keep aware of the information on all of the
wall screens before him, his eyes inadvertently kept returning to the one
that showed Apollo's ship coming into physical range of the battlestar.
"Starboard langind deck ready for approaching single fighter,
Commander," Tigh said.
"Sir," one of the bridge crewmen said, "long-range scanner picks up
a large number of craft moving this way at high speed."
Adama and Tigh glanced apprehensively at each other, then rushed to
the scanner screen toward which the crewman pointed.
"Get that pilot up here as soon as he lands," Adama ordered,
checking the progress of Apollo's approach to the landing deck, "and get
the president back on the codebox."
He tried to discern some meaning in the screen revealing the wall of
ships coming their way, some proof of the awesome threat he felt
emanating from it. The president's face, looking a bit less smug than
before, came onto the communications screen.
"Yes, Commander,' Arcon said blandly.
"Mr. Pre
sident, a wall of unidentified craft is closing toward the
Fleet."
Baltar's puffy face appeared at the edge of the screen, smiling
oddly.
"Possibly a Cylon welcoming committee," the trader said.
"May I suggest that at the very least," Adama said, "we launch a
welcoming committee of our own?"
"Mr. President," Baltar said, "there remain many hostile feelings
among our warriors. The likelihood of an unfortunate incident with all
those pilots in the sky at once..."
"A good point, Baltar," Arcon said. "Did you hear that, Adama?"
Adama could barely restrain his anger, but his voice remained steady
as he replied.
"No, Mr. President, I can't possibly have heard correctly. Did
Count Baltar suggest we allow our forces to sit here totally
defenseless?"
"Commander!" Arcon's voice was unusually sharp. "We are on a peace
mission. The first peace man has known in a thousand yahrens."
"Mr. President..."
Tigh touched Adama's shoulder, a printout report clutched in his
hand.
"A lone ship is coming under attack from the main approaching
force," Tigh said.
*****
As his plane seemed to limp through space, Zac could see on his
scanner the rate at which the Cylon fighters were narrowing the gap. His
information, displayed at the bottom of the screen, indicated that he had
no r eal chance to get back to the Galactica ahead of the Cylons, and
there was no way he could pump extra speed into his damaged craft.
"I may have to turn and fight," he said aloud. He was a little
disturbed that Apollo was out of communication range and could not
respond to his younger brother's bravado. Even though he often resented
the tight leash Apollo kept him on, Zac wished he would return now to
tell him what to do.
The Cylon ships opened fire and Zac's ship lurched---another direct
hit. His scanner flashed, then went blank. A straing oscillating whine
filled the cockpit, and the fighter slowed even more. Zac pushed on the
throttle, tried to force more speed out of the ship.
"Come on, baby, not much farther," he said. "Give me all you got!"
The ship vibrated as it took another hit. Zac felt the blood drain
out of his face and his heart began to beat rapidly.
*****
Enraged, Adama ripped the printout sheet from Tigh's hands and waved
it toward the screen, which showed Arcon's now troubled face.
"Did you hear that, Mr. President?" he shouted, feeling in control
of the situation now, as his anger at the officious buriticians erupted.
"Your welcoming committee is firing at our patrol."
Arcon backed away from the camera, his body looking as if it had
collapsed inside the tent of his toga.
"Firing," he said. "But...firing...on our patrol...that can't...I
demand an explanation, Baltar!" He looked around frantically for Baltar,
who no longer stood smugly at his side. "Baltar!...Baltar!" He looked
back at the screen. "He's...he's left the bridge, Adama."
"I'm ordering out our squadrons," Adama said. The defeated man on
the screen nodded sheepishly.
"By all means," he said. "Yes. Immediately. Now."
Before Arcon had spoken, the bridge crew of the Galactica,
responding to Adama's rapid gestures, had swung into action. Adama
scowled at the screen showing Zac's fighter under heavy attack from the
Cylon ambush party. He could sense what was about to happen, and his
throat tightened. Zac's ship was within range of the Fleet now. The
static caused by the Cylon jamming diminished, and Zac's voice suddenl
reverberated loud and clear across the Galactica's bridge.
"...they're up to...I don't think I can...wait a centon, I see you
now, Galactica. My scanner's working again. Everything's A-OK! We made
it! We made it!"
Even as Adama felt the wave of happiness in his son's joy, he saw
the three Cylon fighters closing in for the kill.
"NO! Watch out, Zac!" he hollered at the screen. Tigh shouted too,
in echo. Admittedly, he has a tendency to be.
Obviously not receiving from the Galactica, Zac's voice beacam cooly
businesslike.
"Blue flight two. In trouble. Request emergency approa----"
The Cylon ships fired simultaneously.
Zac's ship exploded, became a flash of light, disappeared.
All around Adama there was silence. Only the sounds of equipment
could be heard. On the screen next to the one that had pictured the
destruction of Zac's plane, the array of Colonial Fleet fighters ready
for launch spread as far back as the camera eye could detect.
"What was that?" Arcon's voice destroyed the silence. For a moment
Adama could not figure out what the president was talking about. What
was what? He had a flash memory of Zac smiling, in battle-gear, so
engagingly eager to make a heroic name for himself. Then he turned
toward Arcon's image. His voice was low, bitter, crackling with
suppressed rage.
"That was my son, Mr. President."
Tigh gestured crew personnel into action as the attacking fleet of
Cylons came into view and opened fire. Adama turned away from the small
screens and examined the massive starfield. Hundreds of Cylon fighters
streaked by, firing salvo after salvo of their laser-particle torpedoes.
The starfield---ablaze with the marks of flame, explosion,
destruction---had suddenly been transformed into a deadly fireworks
display. Two Fleet battle cruisers exploded together. Tigh looked
anxiously toward Adama, waiting for his orders.
"Launch fighters!" Adama shouted. "All batteries commence fire. I
say again---commence fire!"
As the claxon aroused the ship and the noises of counterattack
began, Adama's tightly clenched fist slammed against empty air.
*****
From the Adama Journals:
We often debate the differences between individual death and mass
death. People say there is more sorrow involved in mourning he end of a
loved one's life, than in mourning the tragic annihilation of hundreds of
thousands or millions of victims whose identities are unknown to us. I'm
not sure that's true. I have viewed the death in action of a son and
also been forced to consider individual deathas and mass deaths athat
were all part of the same insidious event in history. It seems to me all
the deaths were intricately connected to my sorrow in ways that I could
never explain. The tangled, subdued sorrow over the multiple deaths of
some mass disaster is, I believe, no less intense, no less meaningful, no
less important, than the more dramatic outward show of grief for a person
who has had the considerable misfortune to die alone.
*****
CHAPTER TWO: HOLOCUAST!
As Adama directed the launching of the Galactica's counterattacking
forces with growled commands and fierce, violent gestures, his
counterpart on the enemy side was
in a calm state of meditative
relaxatioin as he maintained complete surveillance of his meticulously
planned battle strategy. He was sitting in the exact center of the Cylon
equivalent of a battlestar, a circular vehicle which tapered down almost
to a point through several dark and metal-webbed deck levels. Power for
the ship emanated upward from the nether point, where highly volatile
liquid Tylium was mixed with neutralizing fuels and forced into the
generational systems by the action of what appeared to be revolving
pinwheels. Humans who had glimpsed the formidable Cylon base ships up
close had unanimously described them as spinning tops.
The Cylon commander, whose name would translate into Colonial
Standard as "Imperious Leader," sat above his officers on a huge pedestal
whose sides were marked with hundreds of sharp-edged and barbed points
that sent off sporadic threatening gleams in the shifting light of the
immense chamber. On his many-eyed, knobby head, whose surface colors
were various shades of gray, like shadows without sources, he was now
wearing a helmet that was the Cylon version of the massive communications
panel aboard the Galactica. All the same informational units that spread
across one side of the Galactica's bridge were contained in miniature in
the helmet. With it Imperious Leader could keep track of all phases of
the battle simultaneously. At the same time the helmet was feeding him
the necessary abstract information from which he could formulate the
proper improvisations on the basic strategy. All of this information was
being transmitted to him from a contingent of executive officers who
circled the pedestal and dispatched their data in invisible beams upward
to the leader's helmet. The Cylon officers were also in helmet contact
with each other, so that trifling and unnecessary bits of information
could be filtered out before transmission to the leader. If the
transmissions beams had been visible, the headquarters chamber of
Imperious Leader would appear to the casual observer as an impossibly
intricate crawlon's web. In spite of all the communication activity, the
dimly lit room, populated by unmoving figures cemented in sitting and
standing positions, suggested a rigid serenity, an alien gentlemen's club
with members engaged in apparently harmless contemplations.
In his third-brain, the one that monitored the functioning of his
other two brains, Imperious Leader enjoyed a deep flow of satisfaction.
His entire life had been pointed toward this moment, the final and
overwhelming defeat of the alien pest that had infected the perfect unity
of the universe. He had been born in a time when the war had been going