"Do you know how much I love you?" Chief Petty Officer Galen Tyrol whispered into Lieutenant Sharon Valerii's ear. The hulk of the captured Cylon drone glowered above them and at their feet a temporary ramp led up into its black guts.
Capturing the crippled drone had been the Galactica's first real success in three years of death, terror and running. Crazy Doctor Baltar's Redleken generator had changed the drone from a frightening war machine into a zombie. Since most of Baltar's designs had ended up on the scrap heap, they'd been amazed it had actually worked as advertised. Unfortunately for Baltar, he'd been too dead by that time to take his usual lion's share of the credit.
The battle had cost three Vipers and their pilots, a freighter and three hundred and seventy-eight men, women and children. Another two hundred twenty-three had been rescued from the freighter's burning hulk and jammed into the remaining forty ships. From all reports, the civilians were stacked like firewood. And the fleet had lost more than people -- they'd lost heart. Another wave of suicides had followed the attack. Fleet Commander Adama and President Roslin needed a triumph to lift everyone's spirits. Tyrol hoped that he had it for them -- if Sharon could just get this frakkin' monster flying …
"Shhh," Sharon murmured. "They're coming." She twitched a little but stayed within the circle of Tyrol's arms. Although the drone's starboard wing hid most of the far side of the hangar, Tyrol saw three pairs of uniformed legs approaching. He'd been waiting to give an inspection tour to Sharon and the Galactica's senior officers -- the Commander, the X.O. Colonel Tigh, and Commander Air Group Captain Adama who was the Commander's son.
Sharon had been tapped to be the drone's pilot when test flights began in a few days. Just coming off a fleet patrol, she still wore her flight suit and her pistol. Since Tyrol had been working under ultra-tight security, she'd never seen the Redleken or the drone up close. She looked tired, but excited and utterly adorable.
Tyrol didn't care if the senior officers saw him holding Sharon. "We're official now, you and me. Nobody's going to say anything."
"Come on, Gay," Sharon said twisting out of his arms to turn and look him in the face. "It's a joint adoption contract, not a marriage license. And they'll say plenty. Even officers don't cuddle on duty." Since they weren't married, it had taken Sharon and Tyrol the better part of the last three years and five different custody hearings, but they were soon going to be Boxey's legal parents. Tyrol's excitement had been bubbling over ever since the Commander had told them yesterday. He felt sure that the next time he asked Sharon to marry him, she'd say "yes". She's said "no" too many times and would never tell him why. It was about time he got lucky.
He and Sharon both stood at attention and saluted as the three officers walked up. "What have you got for us, Chief?" the Commander asked.
"Plenty," Tyrol assured him. "Come on in, I'll show you!" They all marched up the ramp, making it ring like a xylophone. Sharon lagged a bit behind.
Since no light came through the drone's heavily tinted canopy, Tyrol had rigged halogens. When he connected the power cord, the cabin's furnishings leapt out of the shadows. One lamp spotlighted the pilot console, which was still only about half re-assembled. It had hand controls for piloting and seats, possibly intended for Cylon biosynthetic units. Three more lamps illuminated a bulkhead that had been peeled back to reveal the massive Cylon artificial intelligence. Multi-colored loose wires sprouted from silicon cards and cascaded onto the floor like obscene hair.
The powered-down Redleken generator stood a few feet away in case the drone rebooted and tried to come online. It had a separate massive power cord that ran down the ramp and over to one of Galactica's standard power sockets. The Redleken took a lot of juice and wasn't mobile enough a weapon to win the Cylon war for them, but it had its uses. At least they'd caught this drone.
"Jesus, what a mess," Colonel Tigh said as he and Captain Adama peered into the pilot console's scrambled guts then sat down to test the flight controls. Except for absolute necessity of duty, Tyrol hadn't spoken directly to Colonel Tigh for three years. During a Judgment Day crisis Tigh had ordered the deaths of eighty-five crewmen under Tyrol's command.
Captain Adama tweaked the various buttons and knobs. The spotlight illumined both his and Tigh's faces in strong relief. "Power," the Captain said, laying a finger next to a large bright red button. "Attitude," he pointed at a dial with a flat horizon. "Homing signal," a crosshatched display.
The Captain was a good guesser; that matched everything that he and Cally had figured out. Behind Tyrol the Commander asked a question and he turned to answer. "No, sir. As near as we can tell, the brain is dead. We're still trying to rewire bypass flight controls, but I think we'll be ready for Lieutenant Valerii in a few days."
"Dead, huh?" the Commander said. He looked at the Redleken speculatively. "And this did it?"
"Yes, Sir."
Sharon had been standing quietly, looking around the cabin with an odd expression somewhere between fear and distaste. "Frakkin' freak," she muttered. She had one hand on the grip of her pistol as though she expected a Cylon to jump out of a secret compartment and kill them all.
"How does the generator work?" the Commander asked. He'd approved its development, but that had been more than two years ago, back when Baltar was still alive.
"Well, Sir, it creates an electromagnetic field in the same spectrum as we found at Ragnar. It's a sort of a miniature planet; that's why it takes so much juice. Totally harmless to humans." That brought a big smile to the Commander's rugged old face. It had been quite awhile since Tyrol had seen him so happy, and anxious to keep the smile in place, he said, "Here, let me demonstrate it for you." Reaching out he flicked the generator's simple switch and turned the analog power dial up half way. No need to risk a power brown out. The Redleken's array of lights began to pulse.
"Not much to see," the Commander said. "But that's good. Don't want to make it a target."
"No, sir. I …" Sharon's scream interrupted what Tyrol had been about to say.
"Oh frak! Oh Holy Lords!" She'd fallen to her knees, and arms wrapped around her stomach she rocked back and forth as if in pain.
The Commander was the closest. Stepping her way, he put a hand on a bent shoulder and asked, "Lieutenant, are you alright?" She shook the hand away.
Only a second later Tyrol was on his knees beside her, trying to hold her up. "Sharon! Sweetheart, what's the matter?"
"Turn … it … off," she growled in a voice Tyrol didn't recognize.
"What, darling? The Redleken? But why …?"
Commander Adama had circled around to look at them both. "Disarm her," he ordered.
Tyrol looked up at him, confused. "But, Sir …"
"Disarm her, now!" the Commander barked.
It was too late. Sharon had pulled out her pistol and surged to her feet. She tried to pull off a shot in the general direction of the Commander but Tyrol grabbed her arm and the shot went wild. Then they were fighting over the pistol, struggling for control. The pistol was somewhere between them, Tyrol wasn't sure where. He was the taller and heavier but Sharon had become unbelievably strong. Her distorted face was only inches from his. This was insane. "Sharon!" Tyrol cried. "Sharon stop!"
Her answer was to look him in the eye and sneer, "Weak human! What a waste of resources." He felt the pistol's barrel press into his left arm and heard the shot go off then his universe narrowed down to one single sensation -- pain. After that there was nothing at all.
.
Colonel Paul Tigh, Galactica's Executive Officer for five years and Commander Bill Adama's friend for a hell of a lot longer than that, couldn't believe he'd heard right. "You want me to convince Tyrol to help with Valerii? The man will kill me if he ever gets the chance."
The Commander looked up from on the CIC plotting table and the charts displaying nearby G class stars. The astrometrics team had found two possible colony sites on this flank of the Slasenger Nebula, and he was trying to decide between them. Across the plotting table's glass surface a long crack ran like iridescent lightning, but they had nothing to repair it with and Tigh seldom noticed anymore.
The Commander said, "If the Chief tried to kill you, at least he'd be doing something, Paul. Right now he just stares off into space. I can't get him to say anything to me but 'yes, sir' and 'no, sir.' We need to try a different tactic, and I'm afraid you're it."
Tigh sighed. "You know, back in the academy it was kinda fun playing your hit man, but I'm getting too old for this. I'll have to start packing a pistol and checking out dark corners." He glanced at the Commander to make sure he understood the joke.
The Commander was giving him that steady, tight-lipped smile that meant, "You've got your orders, Soldier. March."
Tigh rolled his eyes up to CIC's shadowed overhead, but he marched. "Damn it," he grumbled to himself under his breath as he left CIC. "Tyrol wouldn't listen to me if I were the last officer left on Galactica." But if Bill wanted him to try it, he would.
Stopping by the Commander's quarters, Tigh picked up the transcript Dualla had made of Valerii's babblings and headed down to sickbay.
Now that the last of the battle's burn victims had either died or been released, sickbay had returned to its usual flow of illness and injury. It was as quiet as a mausoleum. By order of the Commander, Tyrol had a private room. A burly Marine on suicide watch sat by the hatch reading one of Galactica's small library of paper books, a murder mystery judging by the lurid cover. Tigh nodded to him and said, "Wait outside but don't go far."
The Commander had been right about one thing -- with Tigh around, Chief Tyrol didn't stare at nothing. Instead he glared at Tigh with a blazing hatred that promised to melt the Colonel's jacket buttons, as though he'd found someone to blame for his misery.
"And just what are you supposed to be here for?" the Chief snarled. Pain lines deeply etched his face. They'd run out of painkillers in the first year, and Tyrol's doctor said that Tyrol had declined acupuncture. Tigh didn't care much for the pincushion concept either. A complicated set of pulleys kept Tyrol's left arm elevated to reduce swelling. A half empty mug of protein drink rested on a bedside table. Tigh laid the transcript down beside it.
"Chief Tyrol … Galen, I'm here because you're a soldier and a damned fine one. Now the Commander has told you he has a job and I think it's about time you … "
The Chief interrupted him. "I'm not a soldier. If that's what the Commander calls a job, I'm nothing anymore! You can take that patriotic crap and … "
Raising his voice to parade ground volume, the Colonel re-took the conversational high ground. "Don't try to unload your shit on me, Tyrol." Putting both his fists on the Chief's rumpled bed, Tigh leaned in close and said with a sour sneer he pulled up from his own three years of pain, frustration and loss, "I don't have time for your garbage. I've seen men like you before -- clear space soldiers. Fine for the good times, but they can't take the heat. I'll just tell the Commander that he's wrong about you. You don't give a rat frak about honor or loyalty. You aren't worth the rations."
With a grunt and a squeaking of pulleys and chains Tyrol tried to lunge at Tigh, but he was too weak and too firmly tied in place. The move wrenched his wounded arm, and he had to gasp and pant for a moment before he said in a hate-filled, sobbing snarl, "You think you're some big shot 'cause you're the X.O. You're nothing but an old drunk and this is nothing but an insane asylum." Slamming back into his pillows, he moaned, "Damn, damn, damn." His body curled around the hanging arm and tears rolled down his cheeks.
There's nothing like tears to wash away pain. Tigh let the Chief cry a moment then he pulled a towel from a wall rack and silently dropped it in Tyrol's scrunched-up lap.
Tyrol's free hand plucked at the towel, then snuffling he picked it up and wiped off his face. "Sorry, sir," he mumbled. "I'll do what I can to help. Please, just not ... I can't. Not yet."
Tigh breathed a silent sigh of relief. He'd thought for sure the Chief was going to hurt himself. "You're a good man, Galen." Picking up the transcript, he held it out. "This is what Valerii's said so far. Read it over today and tomorrow we'll talk again."
The Chief took the short stack of paper. "Yes, Sir."
.
There was one last length of passageway left before the short stairwell leading down to the high security brig. Chief Petty Officer Galen Tyrol wasn't quite ready to take it, not just yet. Leaning on his good arm against the dark passageway's gray bulkhead, he gazed through one of the few portholes in this part of the Galactica. Unlike the upper levels close to CIC where the concave hull curve made bulkheads slant inwards like a tent, here they slanted out and the porthole's view was down from their plane of flight rather than up or to the side.
The Slasenger Nebula's blaze of white, pink and orange danced across the small pane of glass, and although Tyrol couldn't see it from here, ahead a yellow G-class sun had grown over the last week from a pinprick of light indistinguishable from a hundred thousand others to a small yellow orb. The astrometrics team already had a name for it -- Zodiac, an obscure Holy Scrolls' reference according to Commander Adama.
It would be humanity's new home. Maybe … if Sharon actually knew the location of the Cylon home world as she claimed …
As it claimed, Tyrol reminded himself. Sharon wasn't a human being, it was a machine cleverly designed to mimic human emotions and feelings. It couldn't love anymore than he could process algorithms.
And it couldn't hurt him unless he let it, that's what he had to tell himself. It wasn't Sharon. There never had been a Sharon. Everything he'd felt for three years had been a lie, a farce that everyone had watched. Just another reason to hate the frakkin' Cylons.
A folded length of black cotton hung from Tyrol's neck and supported his still weak left arm. Pulling out a piece of paper he'd tucked there for safekeeping, he scanned one last time through the questions he was supposed to cover: the Cylon home world's coordinates, its armaments and defenses, how Cylons communicate with each other, and who or what had central authority.
The Sharon obscenity had promised she'd tell Tyrol anything he asked. From what Commander Adama said, she'd been begging to see him and Boxey. Lollygagging here admiring the scenery wouldn't get the job done. He straightened up, tucked the paper back in his sling, and walked down the passageway.
The lights in the high security brig had been dimmed. They must have diverted some of the lighting juice to run the Redleken generator full-time. It hummed and blinked in one corner. The Commander said it kept Sharon from reporting back to the Cylon headquarters, but it was slowly killing her.
As soon as Tyrol stepped into the room, the guard had left murmuring as started up the stairs, "When you're done call me on channel 9. I'll be sacking out in the guardroom." One of the security cameras tracked Tyrol. The other stayed pointed into Sharon's cell.
Sharon sat on a bunk, her long black hair matted and veiling her face, and her arms and legs folded up like a collapsed puppet. They'd stripped her down to underwear for security. She must be cold.
Sharon hadn't yet looked up and he hadn't been particularly quiet.
What the frak should he call her? Sharon? Boomer? Bitch? He sure as hell wasn't going to call her Sweetheart.
Coming close to the cell's iron bars, he said, "Sharon. It's Galen."
In one fast movement she was on her feet and hitting the cell bars like she hadn't even noticed they were there. One arm came through and clawed at him. He stepped back hastily, almost losing his balance.
Sharon laughed, an unpleasant sound that had little to do with humor. "Woo-hoo, would you look at that? Made you jump like a leafhopper. You're so scared of me you're gonna piss your pants, aren't you, Gay?"
He didn't know what he'd expected. Maybe Sharon acting like a entertainment vid. chrome toaster Cylon saying with a machine synthesized voice "by your command" and "I cannot process that." But this thing … every move it made, every sound out of its mouth … It was Sharon. Devil possessed and horrifying, but still Sharon.
This was going to be hell.
"Commander said you wanted to talk to me, so talk."
"Talk? Me talk? I've got nothing to say. Hey, Gay, you want some of this?" The Sharon thing turned around, pulled down her panties and wagged her buttocks at him. Looking back over her shoulder, she said, "Still got plenty of it."
Whatever the Commander had expected him to accomplish, Tyrol couldn't deal with this. "Go frak yourself," he snarled and turned to go.
"No, Gay! Please, no, don't go! Please!" It was a heart-deep wail. At the foot of the stairwell Tyrol turned and looked back. Sharon's demeanor had changed completely. Back at the bars, she thrust her face between them as far as she could. "Please," she moaned. "I can't control her. Help me, do something. Turn up the power on the Redleken."
Tyrol stepped toward the generator. The analog dial showed about three-quarter power, there wasn't a lot of play available. "Too much will kill you."
"Not right away! Turn it up! I want to talk to you, please. I can't fight her very long."
Carefully he turned the dial two clicks. Moaning Sharon slid down the bars until she sat on the deck. "That's better," she said between panting gasps. Her hands lay across her stomach and she looked almost green.
On the outside of the bars, Tyrol was on the floor next to her. "Sharon," he whispered. "Oh Lords. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He touched her shoulder.
She turned her head and made a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a whimper. "You've got nothing to be sorry for, Gay. How … how's Boxey? How's he taking this?"
Tyrol hung his head. "Not good. He keeps asking to see you, but I can't let him. He thinks he's a man, but you know how tender-hearted he is."
"Yeah, I know. He's as bad as you are." Sharon shifted a little. "We'd better talk fast. I can feel her clawing around in here. She wants out. What does the Commander want to know?"
"The Cylon home world. We want to know where it is."
"Oh thank the Lords. You're going after them. You got something to write with? Good. Take this down."
Tyrol wrote exactly what she said. It was just a long string of numbers and words to him. He hoped that the cameras were getting it, because his hands were shaking so bad, he wasn't sure if he could read his own writing.
"What else do you need to know?"
"Armaments, defenses, anything like that."
She squeezed her eyes closed and her hands went up to hold her head. "I can't see that. All I see is this big moon that looks like a diamond." Her hands dropped back to stomach again and she looked at him. "And I think … yes, the streets to God are made of gold. That's crazy isn't it? I'm crazy." She started to cry, sank all the way down and rolled away groaning.
"Sharon? Sharon?" Tyrol cried out. He stuck his good hand through the bars to touch her.
Sharon snapped up, grabbed his arm, and bent it back hard.
"Damn you!" Tyrol screamed and with a wrench pulled free again. Awkwardly out of balance, he fell back on his butt and his bad arm. When Sharon tried to reach him through the bars, he scooted away, pushing himself with his boot heels until he was out of reach. He sat on the floor looking at her. If it had hurt before, this was ten times worse. He'd been talking to his Sharon and now she was gone again.
"Had you going, didn't I, Gay?" the Sharon thing taunted him. "It was all lies. Everything you and I ever did -- all those times we were together -- it was all a lie. Do you really think I'd tell you anything important?"
A thunder of footsteps sounded in the stairwell and a moment later two Marines and Colonel Tigh were standing over him. The Colonel offered him a hand up, but he ignored it. "Are you alright, Chief?"
"I'm fine. Just frakkin' fine, sir." He wasn't -- his arm was screaming at him, but he'd be damned if he'd tell Colonel Tigh. Rolling to his knees, Tyrol carefully got to his feet and stood swaying. He had to get out of here. Now. "If the Colonel doesn't need me, I'd like to go."
"Be my guest."
Gesturing to the Marines, the Colonel turned toward Sharon's cell. "Get back, Valerii," he snarled at Sharon. As Tyrol stumbled up the steps, a Marine pulled an electric prod out of his belt and stepped forward. Up in the passageway, finally clear of the sight and sound of the horrors below, Tyrol leaned against the bulkhead and began to cry.