Islands in the Sky

  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