01 - Battlestar Galactica (10 page)

Meanwhile it seemed that the planet could hardly sustain any further
punishment.
Flash…flash…flash.

And still it continued.

Galactica,
Cabin of Commander Adama

It had been a very long day, full of speeches and strong emotion. Adama was
sitting at his desk chair in his undershirt, taking a few minutes to unwind with
a good book before turning in for the night. It was a history book,
A Time of
Changes: Five Colonial Presidents Before the War,
an old favorite about a
series of influential leaders of Caprica in the years leading up to the Cylon
War. He was really just leafing through it, recalling passages he had read many
times before. The ceremony today, and the thought he had put into his speech
(such as it was in the end—his own critique was that he had sounded disjointed
and inconclusive), had put him in a mind to peruse stories of a time when things
were very similar to today, and at the same time very different.

The comm set buzzed twice. A metallic voice, distorted by the tiny speaker in
the ceiling, said:
“CIC to commanding officer.”

Reluctantly, he set the book down and reached across to the wall for the
phone. He pulled the bulky handset on its cord back to where he was sitting. His voice sounded tired and gravelly. “Go ahead.”

The voice in the phone was Gaeta’s.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but we
had a Priority One Alert message from Fleet Headquarters. It was… transmitted
in the clear.”

Now that was odd. “In the clear?” Adama pulled off his reading glasses.
Priority One, not encrypted? Damned odd. “What does it say?”

Gaeta sounded as if he were having to work hard to keep his voice steady,
also odd.
“Attention, all Colonial units. Cylon… attack… underway. This
is no drill.”

In that instant, Adama felt as if he had entered another world, another
dimension. It felt too unreal to respond to, or even entertain as possible. That
moment seemed to stretch like a rubber band—and then suddenly it snapped, and he
was back in the present. He fought for a moment to find his voice, as the full
realization of what Gaeta was saying penetrated. “I’ll be right there,” he said
at last, and hung up the phone.

For a moment, he could not rise.
Cylon attack. War. After all these years.
So much bloodshed. And now, again… with us again….

In his own cabin, Colonel Tigh was reclining on his bed, in a melancholy
frame of mind. Mellow, though—he had several shots of good whiskey under his
belt. His left hand held a photograph of his wife, Ellen, a beautiful picture
from a time when they’d been happy, when
she’d
been happy, when she
hadn’t been off frakking around with every man who caught her eye. In his right
hand, Tigh held a lit cigar. Slowly, methodically, he brought the fiery tip of
the cigar into contact with the back of the photograph, right about where her
face was. And slowly, satisfyingly, it was burning through the face of the
photo—right through the image of her eye, in fact.
Dear Gods, this feels good, you
miserable bitch…

At that moment, the ship-wide alert buzzer began sounding. Tigh looked around
in alarm.
What the hell…?

In the hangar, Cally and Prosna had been vacuuming and swabbing the deck. In
the maintenance shed, Tyrol was looking over some disassembled Viper parts. The
buzzer sounded, and everyone looked up in puzzlement. The attention-tone was
followed by Gaeta’s voice from the CIC:
“Action stations. Action stations.
Set Condition One throughout the ship. This is not a drill.”
There was no
one on the hangar deck who was not astounded to hear those words. People
everywhere scrambled to get rid of what they were doing and race to their
stations.
“Repeat: Action stations. Action stations. Set Condition One
throughout the ship. This is not a drill.”

“Not a drill!” shouted Prosna, hurrying to put down the mops and pails he was
carrying. “He can’t be serious.”

“Sounds like it to me,” Cally said, racing with him.

“What are we gonna shoot with? The ship’s got no ammunition.” They hurried
into the utility room to get rid of the cleaning gear.

Outside, Tyrol was pulling himself together and starting to do the same with
his people. “All right, people, let’s go! Let’s get this hangar bay ready for
possible incoming!” All over the hangar deck, and throughout the ship, people
were now running with real purpose. A genuine Condition One alert should have
been impossible; the ship had just been officially retired. Be that as it may,
the crew were moving fast, following old routines. What else
could
they
do?

* * *

In the CIC, Adama stood at the situation table, studying the comm printouts.
Tigh came striding in, calling, “What’ve we got? Shipping accident?” No one
answered him, though a lot of people were talking.

Adama handed him the top printout without saying a word. He was sternly
silent, his mind wheeling to take in all the information he had seen, and to
pull together a plan. It made no sense; all of this was supposed to have been
behind him. But it wasn’t, and now he had to put everything else out of his mind
and think what to do. As Tigh read the report, Gaeta hurried to the commander
with an update. “Condition One is set. All decks report ready for action, sir.”

“Very well,” Adama said, and looked back down at the printouts.

Beside him, Tigh looked up, incredulous. “This is a joke! The fleet’s playing
a joke on you. It’s a retirement prank!” When Adama didn’t respond, he pleaded,
“Come on!”

With the announcement phone in his hand, Adama finally looked at him. “I
don’t think so.” Tigh looked bewildered. His jacket was open, and it was clear
he’d been drinking.

Adama raised the heavy microphone in his hand and keyed the attention-tone.
He spoke clearly, but in a modulated voice as he addressed the entire ship.
“This is the commander. Moments ago, this ship received word that a Cylon attack
against our home worlds was underway.”

He paused to let that sink in, then continued grimly, “We do not know the
size or the disposition or the strength of the enemy forces. But all indications
point to a massive assault against the Colonial defenses. Admiral Nagala has
taken personal command of the fleet, aboard the battlestar
Atlantia,
following the complete destruction of Picon Fleet Headquarters in the first wave
of the attacks. How—
why
—doesn’t really matter now. What does matter is that, as of this moment,
we are at war.”

Again he paused, and was well aware of the sober, frightened expressions on
the faces of the crewmembers in the CIC, which he knew reflected reactions
throughout the ship. He continued in measured tones. “You’ve trained for this.
You’re ready for this. Stand to your duties. Trust your shipmates. And we’ll all
get through this. Further updates as we get them.” He looked around the CIC,
meeting the eyes of everyone nearby, wishing he could meet the eyes of every
crewmember on the ship. They were all young, and with the exception of Tigh,
none of them had ever been in combat before. “Thank you.” He released the
push-to-talk button and hung up the handset.

Speaking to the crewmembers at nearby workstations, he began issuing orders.
“Tactical—begin a plot of all military units in the solar system, friendly or
otherwise.” As Gaeta acknowledged, Adama turned to Tigh. “XO!”

“Sir.”

Adama lowered his voice, as Tigh stepped to his side. “If we’re going to be
in a shooting war, we need something to shoot
with.”
His gaze met Tigh’s.

Looking stricken, as if he still couldn’t believe they were once again at
war, Tigh said, “I’ll start checking the munitions depots.” He hurried away.

Adama swung around again. “D.” Petty Officer Dualla was already looking at
him. “Send a signal to our fighter squadron. I want positions and tactical
status immediately.”

“Yes sir,” said Dualla.

“And get Kara Thrace out of the brig.”

Following Commander Adama’s announcement, Chief Tyrol faced a circle of
deckhands who all looked as if they’d been punched in the stomach.
We are at war.
The fear was etched in their
faces; he felt it himself. Not a one of them had ever been in battle before,
including Tyrol himself. No matter, he knew his responsibility: He had to be
strong so that they could be strong. As he spoke, he turned in place to face the
circle. “All right, people—this is what we do.” Keep turning. Meet their fears
head-on. “We’re the best. So let’s get the old girl ready to roll—and
kick
some Cylon ass!”
He smacked his hands together.
“Come on! Let’s go!
Move!”

As the deck crew broke to their duties, preparing for the return of their
squadron, Tyrol put his hands on his hips and muttered under his breath, “This
had better be for real.”

Galactica’s
Last Attack Squadron Two Hours from Caprica

Sharon Valerii—Boomer—was in the right seat in the cockpit of the Raptor when
the signal from
Galactica
came in. Helo, in the left seat, was spelling
her at the controls. The Raptor, while somewhat slower and less maneuverable
than the Vipers, was a more complex ship. It had room to carry a small
complement of commandoes, and it was crammed with surveillance and
intelligence-gathering equipment. The instrument panel in front of the pilot was
easily twice the size of the panel in a Viper. In a space battle, the Raptor
would be the one standing off at a distance, tracking the enemy and sending
directions to the fast fighters. But in a landing operation, it could be in the
vanguard, carrying soldiers to the front line.

This was a low-key flight, ferrying the squadron of Vipers and the Raptor
itself to their next assignment. For most in the squadron, it was a bittersweet
departure. Sharon didn’t know anyone who didn’t have pangs about leaving
Galactica
and the command of William “Husher” Adama; but for most, there was also the challenge
of the next assignment to look forward to. Many felt that they’d been in the
public-relations business for too long.
Galactica
herself, as the oldest
battlestar in the fleet, had been performing mostly ceremonial duties for years
now. For Sharon, though, the departure was all bitter, no sweet. She’d barely
had time for a proper good-bye with Galen Tyrol. She didn’t know when she’d see
him again, or whether there was any possibility of maintaining their
relationship.

It was possible, she supposed, that it could be a blessing in disguise.
Sooner or later, their affair on
Galactica
was bound to blow up in their
faces, and at least now they would no longer be engaged in an illicit affair,
Lieutenant
Sharon Valerii with her subordinate officer,
Chief
Tyrol.
And they wouldn’t be asking the whole deck crew to cover for them.

Frakking small consolation.

The wireless buzzed. It was Dualla, on
Galactica.
They’d spoken three
or four times since the squadron had departed. This was no doubt just another
check-in. “Raptor Three-One-Two,” Sharon answered. “What’s up, D.?”

“Boomer, we’re recalling you! There’s been a massive Cylon attack throughout
the system—all Colonies under attack, including Caprica! Repeat, we’re
recalling your squadron. Please acknowledge.”

Sharon exchanged horrified glances with Helo, in the left seat. She had to
work very hard to keep her voice from quavering.
“Galactica,
Raptor
Three-One-Two, roger. What are our instructions?”

“Raptor Three-One-Two, report your current position and tactical status. Scan
your area for Cylons and estimate your time back to
Galactica.”

Helo was already out of his seat, climbing back to the instrumentation section. “I’m on it, Boomer, just give me a minute. Better put your
helmet on.”

Sharon managed to secure her helmet on her neck collar, but she was otherwise
nearly frozen with panic. She was not just a rookie, she was the youngest pilot
in the whole
Galactica
detachment. And because her Raptor was the Command
and Communication center for the squadron,
she
had taken the call, and
she
had to pass the news on to the rest. Swallowing, she called the CAG,
Jackson Spencer, lead pilot for the squadron.

“I heard it, Boomer. Send
Galactica
all the data you can, and plot us
a course back. Squadron, prepare for immediate course change.”

Searching for Cylons was one thing. But they were far enough from
Galactica
that it was going to be hard to return with the fuel they had.
Reversing course in space was a
very
fuel-intensive thing to do. “Helo!”
she yelled. “What have you got?”

“Holy frak, Sharon—”

Before Helo could continue, the CAG broke in again.
“Disregard previous
orders. Boomer, inform
Galactica
we’ve detected a formation of Cylon
fighters directly ahead. And I intend to attack.”
Pause.
“Boomer, do you
copy?”

Sharon saw the Cylon formation on her own dradis screen. The ghostly contacts
had appeared out of nowhere. “Copy that,” she managed to reply to the CAG.
Holy frak, is right.

Helo was leaning over her shoulder, apparently sensing her alarm. “Ease up
there, Boomer,” he said calmly. “Take a deep breath.” She gulped and nodded, and
slowly relaxed her white-knuckle grip on the control stick. He patted her on the
shoulder, through her thick spacesuit, and headed back to his instruments as she
made the call to
Galactica.