In the Eye of the Storm
A Racetrack Chronicles lacuna
Simon J. Dodd
The battlestar Galactica.
Day 1,139.
Breathe.
Control.
Breathe.
It had been a Chief from the Pegasus who had suggested that the starboard flight-pod's runway—or rather, the part of it around which one could easily run, given the museum's alterations—could be a convenient kilometer-around running-track. Repairing the aft aperture window and repressurizing the museum had been an early "keep busy" project during the year over New Caprica, and, that done, the suggestion had found several takers.
Most of the pilots had shrugged, preferring the gym. But Spitfire had always preferred to run, and the track was a better experience than trying to barge through the Galactica's passageways, labyrinthine and, since the exodus from New Caprica, clogged. It was a chance to clear her head, especially on days when she got off duty at the start of the Midwatch, when the deck was almost empty.
Tonight, there was a couple having what looked like a picnic at the fantail, and two enlisteds were jogging in tandem almost exactly halfway around the circuit from her. The flight-pod's cavernous bulk allowed her to ignore them. She mentally checked off her fourth circuit and was trying to decide between one more or two before showering and hitting the rack when Nightlight sidled up beside her.
"Would you mind some company?"
She chortled without breaking stride. "Ha. I wondered how long dat'd take."
"Oh?"
He was in good shape—but he wasn't a runner, she judged, and was struggling to keep up. A smile curled the corner of her mouth and she quickened her pace. Make him work for it. "Don't play coy, Gareth. Racetrack."
"Yes?"
"We're friends an' everyone knows you like her. Yeh bin askin' around about her, an' eventually all roads lead to me." She glanced over at him. "Why now?"
He shot her a pained look, perhaps not just from the exertion. "Mostly, because of what's nipping at our heels. Because Kat. Because Starbuck."
"Hrr. Yeah. Bad business."
"I trust Adama. He'll get us to Earth. Us, generally," he huffed, falling behind. Amused, she eased off slightly. "But any of us particularly? Things happen. Like with Kat."
"Yeah. She was a good boss."
"Good friend, too. Welcoming. Made us from Pegasus feel... Part of the family. Can we stop... for a minute?"
She grinned. "C'mon, Lowell, gimme a hundred more yards. Push through it to the prow."
"Frak. Fine."
She accelerated, easing up just before the flight-pod's prow, stopping herself against a handrail at the base of the massive window that sealed the aperture.
It took him several seconds to catch up. "I'm not much of a runner," he gasped.
"No, you're not."
But she appreciated that he had made the effort more than she was annoyed by the interruption.
"It's a hell of a view." She gestured out of the window at the Galactica's crocodile-head and the ocean of nothing beyond. "We used to fly off this deck; me an' Maggie. Back before they closed it. Back when I was flyin' Raptors. Never really stopped to appreciate the view."
"She's a beautiful ship." He was still trying to catch his breath. "Growing up, I used to, have pictures of her, on my wall."
Suspicion leaked into her voice as tartness. "Of this ship?"
"She, ha, they did this thing. She would tour around the worlds when I was a kid. 'Flying the flag,' I think they called it. Showing off the old warhorse. They'd let you go up and tour her. Made me feel we were safe, y'know?"
"In'trestin'." She judged him too out of breath to be dissembling—so it was interesting. "How so?"
"Well, we're a tiny population on a world in the middle of nowhere, but, see, the fleet's still out there, looking over us, even all the way out here, protecting us all." He had finally caught his breath and wiped sweat from his eyes before joining her at the rail.
She weighed her options. "Maggie has a similar line."
"Does she, now?"
"Same idea, same feeling. Diff'rent details, but still. But I tink you knew dat, right? I've had my eye on you, Lowell."
"Oh?"
"She's my friend. You have your eye on her; I keep an eye on you."
"It's not a secret. I try to be open about things. The time's not been right, she hasn't seemed comfortable with the thought. But the last few weeks… I think something's changed with her. She seems happier."
"Yeah. She is."
"Does it put you in a bad spot if I ask you why?"
"Dat's not a secret, either. She flew Baltar's attorney on an errand. Turns out, her sister used to work for him. What're the odds, right?"
"Did you know her, too?"
"Yeah." Spitfire smiled wistfully. Yeah, I knew her. I love Maggie som'tin' fierce, she's bin like a sister for, gods, nearly a decade. But Nicola—she was som'tin' else entirely. She was a force of nature. Their, um…" She considered how much she could disclose. "They had a tough childhood. I won't say more dan dat, you'll have to ask her yehself, but all of it, ev'ry'tin' just made Nicola stronger. Tougher. Not… I don't want to say angrier, but—more determined? Fearless. Gods help you if you got in that woman's way once she was on the warpath."
She felt her eyes getting damp and looked away, hoping that he hadn't noticed.
He seemed not to have, distracted by his own thought-loop. "The gods aren't in the helping-us business lately," he muttered.
"Well, anyway. I tink it just... It gave her some closure to know Nic was happy at the end."
"'The end.'" He snorted lightly. "Well, it was that, I suppose. Where does that leave us, though, two, three years later? I suppose that's what's changed for me. With what's been happening, I've just thought more about… Well, that you never know when time's up."
For a few moments, they stood in silence, Spitfire lost in memories and the view. Eventually, she blew out a breath and glanced at him. "Don't you want to ask the obvious question?"
He scoffed. "'The obvious question'?"
"Come on, Gareth." Her voice had more force and humor in it than she felt. "I told you I'd had an eye on you. Aquarians are supposed to be practical, straightforward. Out with it."
"Alright. And what do you conclude, having had your eye on me? Do I pass the, ah, proverbial 'friend test'?"
"You do." She turned to face him, still leaning on the railing. "You seem like a good guy. I tink it's a good fit, and I've said so to her. I've pushed her a little, just subtly."
"I appreciate that, thank—"
"But, at some point, you've got to stop hesitatin' an' plannin' an' askin' around an' moonin' over her, an' just talk to her. Make a move. You're diff'rent from the last one, but not in any bad kinda way."
His eyes glittered and he leaned toward her with a slight smile, as if she had opened precisely the door he wanted to walk through. "'The last one.' Care to expand on that?"
"Hm." She chuckled. "David." Fond memories; there had been time enough for them to be fond. "What have you heard?"
Catch up with Racetrack, Spitfire, Gareth, David and more in "The Racetrack Chronicle," available as a free eBook on March 18; visit www. TheRacetrackChronicle .com for more information.