01 - Battlestar Galactica (17 page)

Baltar glanced at the glasses neatly resting on top of the old woman’s head, and took the slip of paper from her. Even before he read the
number, he had a deep, gut feeling of what it was going to say. He felt no
surprise, but only vindication, when he read,
47.
Unbelievable. So this
was how God—such a silly notion—was going to save him? By sending an old woman
in his place? A woman who would probably die from the stress of takeoff? No, it
defied all reason to see it that way. The woman would believe whatever he told
her. And what future did she have, anyway? He was just fumbling with his paper
and hers, when he heard, “Hey!”

He looked up with a start, hiding both slips in his closed hand. It was the
male copilot, pointing straight at him. “Aren’t you Gaius Baltar?”

Panicky, but covering, he answered, “Why, I haven’t done anything.” Why would
that man be singling him out? Did the man suspect what he was about to do?
Frantic, Baltar raised his hand and called out, “This lady has ticket number
forty-seven.” He pointed to his left. “This lady here!”

“Would you come up here, please?” the military man said.

Bewildered, Baltar glanced at the old woman, whose face was beaming—and
together with her, moved through the crowd toward the two pilots.

Sharon, too, was bewildered. Why was Helo calling that man forward? She could
see the crowd stirring at this sudden change, and she had a knot of uncertainty
in her own stomach. Stepping closer to Helo, she said, “What are you doing?”

He half-grinned awkwardly, and closed his eyes, swallowing hard. It took him
a moment to get the words out. He reached out and took her hand. “I’m giving up
my seat.”

Her stomach clenched, and her jaw. “Like hell.”

Helo squeezed her hand. His head bobbed as if he couldn’t control it. “A
civilian should take my place.”

No!
She spoke with as much force as she could muster. “You’re
going.”

Helo gave her a moment to control herself and listen. His gaze was resolute.
“Look at those clouds. Sharon, look at those clouds, and tell me this isn’t the
end of everything.”

She glanced away and against her will, found herself taking in the view of
the mushroom clouds in the distance. She looked back. “Helo—!”

“Whatever future is left is gonna depend on whoever survives. Give me one
good reason why I’m a better choice than one of the greatest minds of our time.”

This is wrong!
“Helo—”

“You can
do
this without me. I know you can. You’ve proven it.” His
face was so earnest, imploring her. She didn’t know what to say. Was it possible
he was right?

Sharon struggled to control her face, to hold back tears. Her partner, her
friend… leave him on this doomed planet…?
Is he right? Maybe not… but
it’s what he wants.
He squeezed her arm one last time, then released her. He
had made up his mind, and there would be no talking him out of it.

Baltar and the old woman had emerged at the front of the crowd and were
standing, gazing at them expectantly. The woman was smiling, and Baltar was
looking tentative and uncertain. Sharon closed her eyes for an instant, and made
up her mind. “Get on board,” she snapped, gesturing to both of them to move
quickly. She turned to watch them board, then spun back to Helo.

The crowd were crying their disapproval of this sudden development. “Wait,
wait, wait!” “What about us?” “Hey, wait!” Helo was already hobbling forward,
arms spread wide, to keep them at bay.

“Stay back. Stay back!” He glanced sharply back at Sharon. “You’d
better go!”

Feeling as if she had a knife in her heart, Sharon turned from him for the
last time and hurried onto the Raptor.

Gaius Baltar wondered if he were dreaming. It was far too good to be true.
Had he actually been given a seat on this ship? The angry crowd certainly seemed
to bear that out. They were shouting, protesting the arbitrary decision to let
him
on board. He hadn’t waited to think about it, but had gallantly
helped the old woman on board, and then gotten inside as quickly as possible
himself.

He stood in the open doorway, staring out at the crowd of hopeless, doomed
people. Standing in their midst was someone who hadn’t been there a moment ago.
A gorgeous blonde in a stunningly low-cut, red spaghetti-strap dress, watching
him with the kind of gaze a woman reserved for just one man.
Natasi.
His
heart nearly stopped, then started pounding twice as hard as before. Was he
hallucinating?
Natasi’s dead. I saw her. She can’t be here.
He stared in
disbelief. He blinked and looked back. There was no sign of her. She had never
been there.
I hallucinated her.

Haunted by that momentary vision, and tormented by the sound of the crowd, he
stumbled back into the craft as the military man yelled to the crowd, “Stay
back! Stay back! It’s over!”

Something was surely over, but Baltar wished he knew what it was.

Sharon fought her way to the cockpit, not so much through the crowd of
passengers as through the resistance of her heavy heart. She grunted
instructions to everyone to buckle in. A boy, maybe ten years old, had taken the
right-hand seat. Sharon buckled into the left seat. She snapped on the fuel valve and masters, started the pumps,
and powered up the engines. The down-thrusters began kicking up dust from the
ground.

Outside the cockpit, she could see Helo hobbling, still holding his sidearm,
driving the crowd away from the ship.
You’re leaving your best friend to die.
Tears began streaming down her face, and she had to look away.
Just do
your job.
She focused on the flight controls, and drew a deep breath.
Applying power, she began lifting the Raptor from the ground. It strained, with
the full load of passengers.

At the edge of the crowd, a man suddenly broke free and ran to the ship and
threw himself onto the side platform. Sharon felt the Raptor lean a little, and
compensated with the thruster control. She saw Helo turn and point his weapon at
the man. Helo shouted something, inaudible to Sharon—then fired his gun. There
was a flare, and the man spun, falling from the side of the ship. Relieved and
horrified at the same time, Sharon applied more thrust. The ship rose more
quickly.

From the swirling cloud of dust, Helo looked up at Sharon and raised a hand
in farewell. She pressed her own hand to the windshield.
Good-bye, Helo.

Then she pushed the throttle forward, and the Raptor lifted quickly away from
the hillside and began its climb back into the skies of Caprica and the deep
darkness of space.

Colonial Heavy 798

In the cockpit of the transport Laura Roslin and Captain Lee Adama listened,
riveted, as the wireless broadcast replayed. Captain Russo reached above his
head to fine-tune the signal. Out the window was darkness, and the stars, and
the distant orb of Caprica.

“This is an official Colonial government broadcast. All ministers and
officials should now go to Case Orange. Repeat: This is an official Colonial
government broadcast. All ministers and officials should now go to Case Orange.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from Laura. Lee and the two transport
pilots turned to her, as she struggled to maintain her composure. Sitting on a
jump seat behind the copilot, she still had the blanket wrapped around her
shoulders; she looked worn and very tired. “It’s an automated message,” she
said, answering their unspoken question with a low, even voice. “It’s designed
to be sent out in case the president, the vice president, and most of the
cabinet are dead or incapacitated.”

Lee stared at her, stunned.

Laura, however tired or overwhelmed she might have felt, continued without
missing a beat. To Russo she said, “I need you,” and she paused for a heartbeat,
“to send my ID code back on the exact same frequency.”

Russo barely managed to voice his response. “Yes, ma’am.”

“D as in dog, dash—”

As she recited the code, Captain Russo punched the keys on the comm unit.

“—four-five-six, dash, three-four-five, dash, A as in apple.” Laura
swallowed. “Thank you.”

Lee followed her with his gaze as she got up and left the cockpit.

After a minute, he left the cockpit himself and walked slowly back through
the cabin. It was an eerie sensation. It was like being on any passenger liner,
in the quiet of night, except that this passenger liner was witnessing the end
of the world as they knew it. He walked until he found the row where Laura was
sitting, alone, in a backward-facing leather seat. Out the window, the universe
seemed eternal and changeless.
Eternal maybe; but not changeless.
Lee
took the position facing her, and sat on the edge of the seat, resting his hands
between his knees. He took a deep breath, and let it out, meeting her gaze as
she opened her eyes. Her sense of shock was almost physical, surrounding her
like an aura.

He gathered his thoughts for a moment, then asked, “How far down?”

She answered quietly. “Forty-third in line of succession. I know all
forty-two ahead of me, from the president down. Most of us served with him in
the first administration.” Resting her head back, she seemed to leave the
hopeless present for a moment. “Some of them came with him from the mayor’s
office. I was there with him on his first campaign.” She wrinkled her nose. “I never
really liked politics. I kept telling myself I was getting out, but… he had
this way about him.”

Lee smiled faintly. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt humbled that she would be
confiding in him.

“I just couldn’t say no,” Laura concluded with a pained chuckle. She shifted
her eyes to look up at Captain Russo, who had just appeared, bearing a printout.
He handed the octagonal piece of paper to her without a word. She looked at it,
nodded, and handed it back to him. “Thank you,” she whispered.

She pulled the blanket off her shoulders and began putting her wine-red
jacket on. Lee followed her movements with narrowed eyes as she said to Russo,
“We’ll need a priest.”

Elosha, the priest who had officiated at the decommissioning ceremony, was
among those passengers returning—as they had once thought—to Caprica. She stood
in the center of a small knot of news reporters, who were also among those
returning from their coverage of what had seemed a soft news story, the
transformation of a fabled fighting ship into a museum. Now they had their
cameras and microphones trained on Elosha and Laura Roslin, to witness the
transfer of presidential power.

Elosha was a handsome, dark-skinned woman of about forty, wearing a deep blue
dress and a matching blue headband. She held one of the sacred scrolls in her
hands, and pulled it open. Soberly, she said, “Please raise your right hand and
repeat after me…”

Laura raised her hand, with a great sense of weight and sadness. Lee Adama
stood just behind her, to her right, watching with what she suspected was
disbelief. Billy stood behind her, to her left, lending silent support, as did
Captain Russo, behind Elosha. Aaron Doral was a frowning presence, several layers of people back.

“I, Laura Roslin…”

She echoed, her voice quavering, “I… Laura Roslin…”

“…do now avow and affirm…”

Her voice steadied a little, as she repeated the words.

“…that I take the office of the President of the Twelve Colonies of
Kobol…”

“…that I accept the office of th—” Her voice broke on that, and she had to
stop and gather herself again. “That I accept the office of the President of the
Twelve Colonies of Kobol…” and she continued, following Elosha, “and that I
will protect and defend the sovereignty of the Colonies… with every fiber of
my being.” Her voice strained on those last words, as the weight of the
responsibility she was taking on hit her like a mountain avalanche.

She paused, waiting for Elosha to offer the concluding words. She pushed her
hair back nervously with her raised hand, and glanced momentarily at Lee Adama.
Did she have his support? She thought she did. He seemed solid, intelligent,
capable, and uneager for personal power. She wanted to trust him, and she prayed
that there were more like him. She was going to need all the help she could get
from people like that. They all were going to need help. From the Lords of
Kobol, and from each other.

Galactica,
Fire-Gutted Holds of Deck D

Chief Tyrol could barely keep his emotions in check as he watched the men
carry out the bodies of the dead, and begin the cleanup of the devastated
compartments. The stink of smoke and death filled the air. Tyrol’s stomach was
churning. He couldn’t have said which was the target of his worst fury—the
Cylons or the XO. Those people who were being carried out were all good men and
women; many of them were his personal friends. None of them deserved to die.
They had put their lives on the line freely—but to what purpose? So that the XO
could snuff them like so many candles?
We could have gotten them out! It
didn’t have to be this way!

In the CIC, Commander Adama stood under the main bank of monitors, listening
to the XO’s report. He had a lot of information on the pieces of paper spread
out on the planning table, but he wanted to hear it directly from Tigh. The
bottom line was that the ship was safe—for now. Hull breaches were being repaired, buckled
supports could be straightened or replaced, and the landing bay would soon be
able to receive the returning Vipers.

What he hadn’t heard yet was the cost in human life. He put on his glasses.
“What was the final count?”

“Twenty-six walked out,” Tigh said grimly. “Eighty-five didn’t.” And that
didn’t include the three Viper pilots lost in this battle—or the CAG’s entire
squadron wiped out before it could return to them. Tigh took a breath and,
hefting the munitions-supply notebook, continued, “There’s a munitions depot in
the Ragnar Anchorage.”