Ron Moore reimagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way meant to challenge any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.
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XI – RendezvousStarbuck's stomach lurched as the starfield blinked in front of her. The DRADIS console began to beep, and a quick glance told her that they had arrived at Chiron. "The area looks clear," she told Ares, seeing nothing but Chiron and Raptor 478 listed on her screen.
"Remain on standby," he told Rutger and Drake, both of whom were seated in the gunners' turrets. "I'm running a complete scan."
"Getting a signal," Starbuck said after a few minutes.
"This is the medical research station Chiron," a man's voice said. "Please identify."
"This is Rob Fetter aboard the Chimera," Ares replied. "I'm here with Lieutenant Thrace of the Colonial fleet."
"I thought that looked like your ship, Mr. Fetter," the man said, making no mention of Starbuck's presence.
"We're just here to make sure you're still alive and the area is clear," Ares explained.
"Well, we are and it is," the doctor answered cheerily. "Are you coming back aboard?"
"We're a scouting party," Ares explained. "My ship is docking, and we're boarding the station to make sure everything is clear, but then we're going to jump away for a little bit. Once we're organized, we'll be back with the rest of the ships."
"Understood," the doctor answered. "We're looking forward to your visit."
……………………………
"Dr. Hobber?" Starbuck asked, looking over the two men who stood before her. She was surprised to find that both were exactly as she had imagined them from Ares' description. One was old and plump, with thin gray hair that did little to conceal a pink scalp, a thin gray beard that was shaved closely enough for her to follow the line of the man's soft jaw, and bright blue eyes that seemed alight with mischief and mirth; the other man was his opposite in almost every way: rail thin with a thick mane of raven hair, pulled back in a ponytail that hung almost to his waist, deep brown – almost black – eyes that seemed almost as devoid of life as they were devoid of emotion, and a pallor that seemed fitting given the fact that the man had likely been out of sunlight for years.
"Easy enough guess, isn't it?" Dr. Hobber joked, his eyes defying all logic by brightening even more. It seemed the man was excited enough to burst. Then again, it's not surprising given that his associate doesn't seem like he's alive, to say nothing of being personable, Starbuck admitted silently. "So you're Lieutenant Thrace?" Hobber asked.
"I am." Starbuck gazed at the man, trying to decide what to say or do next. If I were Apollo, I'd have us well into our chores by now, she decided. I'm not cut out for positions of authority. "Permission to come aboard," she said, hoping that was an appropriate opening. It seemed it was.
"Of course, of course," Hobber said with a chuckle, waving her out of the airlock. "It's nice to have visitors. Oh, and this, of course, is Dr. Snow," he added with an apologetic shrug, gesturing to the station's other resident. A barely perceptible nod was Snow's only greeting.
"So you weren't very forthcoming over the comm," Hobber said, turning and starting to walk away; Starbuck assumed she was expected to follow. She fell into step behind him, trusting Rutger to stand guard inside the airlock. She was surprised that Snow stayed behind, as well.
"We need some supplies," Starbuck told the doctor. "I'm with a fleet of survivors, and we've had an outbreak of disease."
"Not surprising," Hobber sighed. "I can't imagine any surviving ships would be fit for any kind of extended voyage."
"Exactly."
"But you're a soldier," he said, gesturing toward her uniform.
"Pilot, actually."
"How is it that a pilot ended up with refugees?" Hobber asked. "Or is this group of survivors a military fleet? Are you planning a counterstrike?" he asked.
"A little smattering of military and civilians, actually," Starbuck answered, doing her best to be evasive. Though what's the point? If he's a cylon, and if they're really all linked together, then he already knows who I am, where I'm from, and what the makeup of our fleet is.
"And you need supplies."
"I have a list," Starbuck said, producing a small, handwritten inventory that Dr. Cottle had given her. The writing seemed all but indecipherable to her, but Hobber did not seem to have any trouble reading it.
"You have a breakout of the Trojan Flu," Hobber commented.
"Maybe," Starbuck lied. "We're still running tests. I think this is precautionary."
"Of course," Hobber answered with a smile that told Starbuck he knew the truth, though there was no other indication that he knew he'd been lied to. "We have everything that you're requesting," he told her. "Is there anything else?"
"Umm…" Starbuck hesitated. There was something about his tone, about the knowing look in his eyes, that made her certain he already knew she was going to ask for something else. She felt a shiver run up her spine, and wondered at the feeling. He seems harmless enough, she told herself, willing herself to act like the commanding officer she was. Though maybe I should follow my instincts, she wondered. If it seems wrong, wouldn't it be a mistake to bring the president in here?
"Well, give it some thought, then," Hobber said with a magnanimous wave. "Perhaps we have some food stores you could use, too. Gods know Snow and I don't each much. Well, he doesn't, anyway," the old doctor added, patting his own rather large belly.
Starbuck could not help but smile, suddenly feeling that there was something grandfatherly about Dr. Hobber. That's what has me on edge, she decided. He reminds me of grandpa, though he died… it must be fifteen years ago now. "There is actually one other thing," she said.
"What's that, Lieutenant?"
"We have a sick woman from our fleet, and we brought her along to see if we could do some tests. She has cancer."
"An important woman," Hobber said.
"A sick woman," Starbuck corrected.
"From the look of this list, your fleet is likely chock full of sick people," Hobber chided. "There's only one reason to bring a single cancer patient all this way when there are likely other cancer patients – along with your Trojan Flu victims – elsewhere in your fleet. This is someone important. However, this is a military medical station, and you're a military officer. I am but a poor, lonely civilian consultant. Therefore, if you say she's just a random sick woman, then it must be so." He gave Starbuck a conspiratorial wink and grin, and she couldn't help but smile. "Rest assured that your secret is safe with me, Lieutenant Thrace."
"Thank you, doctor. And please, call me Starbuck."
"This is the medical lab, by the way, Starbuck," Hobber said, pointing toward a long glass wall that separated a lab from the hallway where they were walking. "I'll start prepping our imaging equipment while you're away."
"Then with your permission, I'd like to leave Major Rutger here with Dr. Drake," Starbuck said.
"Yes, we've already met, of course," Hobber replied. "I'll have Dr. Snow show them where our supplies are so we can make the transfer as quickly as possible. I assume you're on a timetable."
"Of course."
"So I assume you and Mr. Fetter will go to bring your patient?"
"And some other ships to carry supplies," Starbuck said.
"Then I'll make certain I'm ready by the time you and your people return, Lieutenant."
……………………………
"Get us back," Starbuck told Ares, as soon as she was settled back in the co-pilot's seat. "Raptor 478 will stand guard here while I go back and board the Myrmidon. Once you've dropped me off, you'll come back out here with the Chimera," she added, running through the plan one last time, as if she had not already given Ares his orders a dozen times already. To his credit, Ares feigned rapt attention, as if he had never heard any of this before.
"Once you radio that everything is clear, Raptor 923 will jump in to the far side of the system and come back toward you and Raptor 478, making sure there aren't any cylons hiding anywhere. Once the sweep is done, the Myrmidon will jump into the system and launch the Vipers. Raptor 478 will immediately proceed to dock with the station while Raptor 923 will stop off to pick up the president and her guards; the Vipers will commence a combat air patrol within our perimeter."
"Understood," Ares said, powering up the thrusters and leaving the station.
-------------------------------------------------
"How's it going out there, Lieutenant?" Tigh asked over the comm, exactly five minutes after the last time he'd asked. Right on schedule, Starbuck noted.
"It's all clear, Colonel."
"Nothing to report?"
"No, sir." If there was, I would have reported it.
"Continue standing by. Tigh out."
Starbuck listened as each one of her pilots checked in with the C.I.C. on the Myrmidon, but she remained quiet, not bothering to switch her transmission frequency from Tigh's comm. She knew the reality of the situation – the landing party, along with the president, included the most important people on the mission. All of the Viper pilots were expendable, so if an attack came, her first priority was to radio Tigh. Only after he was warned to evacuate would she switch over to her pilots and give them their orders. The whole process will only take seconds, she reminded herself, trying not to think about what could happen in only a few short seconds of combat.
……………………………
"The cancer seems to be rather advanced," Dr. Hobber commented, not telling Laura Roslin anything she did't already know.
"I've been using chamalla extract," she explained.
"Have a lot of witch doctors among your survivors, do you?" Hobber asked in a tone that reminded Roslin of Cottle's reaction when she first suggested the alternative treatment.
"It's been working," she explained.
"How would you know?" he asked her. "It's going to make you feel better for a while, sure, but it's dangerously addictive and it tends to cloud one's mind. It isn't going to heal you; it'll only mask the cancer's effects for a short time."
"How much more time do I have?" Roslin asked, trying to will Hobber to say at least four months.
"If you simply remain on the chamalla extract? Maybe three months, no more than four. Perhaps if you settled down and took it easy--"
"That's not an option," she interrupted.
"You're working yourself into the grave even earlier than you otherwise would."
"I have responsibilities," Roslin responded as stoically as possible.
"So you won't consider rest at all?"
"No."
"Even if it could mean the difference between life and death?"
"You just told me that I had four months at most," Roslin pointed out. "I don't think taking it easy will give me enough extra time to make it worthwhile to shirk my duties."
"Even if a little bit of rest could get you cured?"
"What?" Roslin could feel her heart pounding inside her chest as she looked at the doctor, searching for signs of deceit.
"There's a chance I could treat your cancer, Laura," Hobber explained. Roslin almost jumped when he addressed her by her first name – it had been longer than she'd realized since a relative stranger had done that – but she recovered quickly.
"The doctors on Caprica--"
"Were not as good as me," Hobber snapped impatiently. "Do you know what this station is?"
"Yes, it's a medical research facility."
"It's state of the art in every way," Hobber said. "The most advanced medical and genetic procedures are created here, and only the most gifted doctors were ever given access to the Colonies' toys here on Chiron and the rest of the Six Sisters." Roslin could hear the conceit in Hobber's voice, but she had to admit that it didn't seem he was lying. It ain't bragging if it's true, she remembered Starbuck joking after someone said she was getting too big for her britches.
"So there's something you could do?" Roslin found it hard to ask the question, part of her terrified that speaking the words would wake her up from a dream where her greatest wish was coming true. She felt a momentary flash of guilt, just as she always did when she admitted that if she could have anything, it wouldn't be a restoration of the colonies or safety for her people – it would be her own life. People talk tough about not being afraid of death, but they don't have to face their quickly approaching demise every moment of every day the way I do, she told herself for the umpteenth time, well aware that she was rationalizing.
"It will take time," Hobber explained, "but yes, I think your condition is treatable."
"How much time?"
"The treatments will go through three phases. The first will take three days--"
"That's too long."
"And you'll be completely spent, bedridden for at least a couple of weeks after it," Hobber continued, as if Roslin had never uttered a word of protest. "Once you've regained enough strength, we'll start the second phase. That will be significantly easier on you, but it will take about a month."
"I can't stay here that long."
"The third phase can't start until we know the second phase has been successful," Hobber told her, still ignoring the president's interruptions. "It's possible that we may have to repeat at least some of phase two before continuing to phase three. Phase three will also be brutal and debilitating, and that's a course of two to three weeks of chemical and radiation treatments. You'll be a shadow of the person you are now, even months from death as you are, but if all goes well, the cancer will be eradicated and you'll have a chance to live again."
"So that's a full course of at least two to three months of treatment, followed by the gods only know how much rest before I can function again," Roslin summed up. "And all of this will have to take place here?"
"These facilities cannot be duplicated unless we go to one of the other Six Sisters."
"I can't," Roslin finally decided, her voice barely a whisper. I'm going to die. My responsibilities are going to kill me. Despite another flash of terror at the thought of her own mortality, she smiled. I guess I'm not so terrible a person after all. When the chips are down, I'm willing to accept my responsibilities and help my people even if it means my own life. She wondered what Commander Adama would have said to her at that epiphany, but chased the thought from her mind. She found she greatly disliked her mind's tendency to wonder at ways to gain the commander's approval; it made her feel like she was young again, and that was something she would never be.
"Are you sure?" Hobber asked.
"That's the only way?"
"Medicine is limited," the doctor replied. "I don't remember Colonial science ever coming up with a way to miracle cancer out of the body. Only the gods could do that… and maybe not even them."
"You're a religious man?" Roslin asked, surprised at Hobber's comment. In her experience, the more intelligent and educated a person was, the more unwilling that person was to accept the existence of gods that could be even smarter.
"I don't know if I'd say I'm religious," Hobber replied with a warm smile. "It's probably better to say that I have faith in certain ideas. I've come to realize that I need comfort just as much as the next person… there's no harm in having faith in something if it makes you feel better."
"I see," Roslin responded, though she didn't think she did. From the way it sounded, Hobber purposely used religion as a crutch; she didn't think she liked the sound of that.
"But like I said, I think we can treat you, Laura. Perhaps you should think about it before you make such an important decision."
……………………………
"The president is almost finished," Tigh called out to Rutger. "How're we doing?"
"Almost done," Rutger replied.
"Define 'almost,' " Tigh shot back impatiently.
"Another hour, maybe," Rutger shrugged, looking over the crewmen and marines who were busily loading crates onto the two Raptors. "Definitely no more than two."
"Two hours my ass," Tigh spat. "You've got one, and I don't care what it takes to get it done." Tigh had felt uncomfortable boarding the Chiron station, and his anxiety had been steadily increasing. It's a trap, he thought, not for the first time. As he had every time before, he tried to convince himself that he was just being paranoid, that there was no reason for the cylons to show up when they had left the station alone for so long already. But reason was useless. It's a trap. I can feel it.
Tigh switched frequencies to Corporal Mitchell's line. "Tell the president she has an hour left," he said. "No more than that."
"Yes, sir," Mitchell answered from his post just outside the med lab.
It's a trap, he thought again, checking the datapad in his hand. We've finished loading ninety percent of our second run of cargo, and the president is just getting done. This is the perfect time to strike… some of our people will be starting to relax, thinking we'll pull this off without a hitch. Our ships are loaded and weighted down. Any minute now…
"Colonel," Starbuck's voice shouted into his ear.
Tigh glanced at his watch – there were still three and a half minutes before they were scheduled to check in with each other. Tigh's stomach sank as his eyes started sweeping the cargo bay, picking out the location of all of his personnel. His mind was already so focused on the task at hand that he hardly heard Starbuck's next words.
"DRADIS contact, cylon raiders," she said.
"I read you, Lieutenant," he replied. "Rutger, we have incoming!" he yelled. The major immediately started rounding up the landing party as Tigh punched the button to activate the interior alarm. The deafening scream of the red alert sirens never erupted. The alarm's been deactivated, Tigh realized. He had tested the alarm not an hour earlier, and it had worked fine.
"Starbuck, it's a trap," Tigh yelled over the comm. "Someone deactivated the alarm."
"Frak!" Starbuck yelled back. "Better round everyone up and get out of there fast, sir. We're really in it out here. I don't know how long I can give you."
"Understood," Tigh replied, changing frequencies to his marines. "Corporal Mitchell, come in."
"I read you, sir."
"Get the president and get out of there," Tigh yelled. "And don't trust that doctor she's with. We've been set up."
"Roger that."
"Tigh!" Starbuck yelled.
"Go ahead."
"The fighters were covering three of those heavy raiders, sir. We got two of them, but one of them got past us. You've got a boarding party." There was a loud thud to punctuate Starbuck's warning, and the steel plates beneath Tigh's feet began to tremble, reminding him just how little separated him from the vacuum of space.
"Oh, hell."
……………………………
Out of the corner of her eye, President Roslin noticed that her guard, Corporal Mitchell, was on the comm for the second time in under two minutes; then she felt an almost imperceptible shudder go straight through the station.
"They found us," she muttered.
"Huh?" Hobber asked. He seemed completely oblivious to the shaking in the floor as he continued to pore over some of Roslin's test results.
"Ma'am, time to go," Mitchell said, poking his head into the med lab. Roslin's two security guards were already moving quickly down the hall, making certain she had a safe path all the way to the cargo bay and out the airlock into a waiting Raptor.
"Doctor?" Roslin said, waiting for Hobber to fall into step behind her.
"He's not coming, ma'am," Mitchell said.
"What?" Roslin asked.
"Colonel's orders," Mitchell answered, entering the med lab and approaching the president, drawing his sidearm and keeping his eyes riveted on Hobber. "Let's go, ma'am."
"I'm not--"
"We're leaving," the corporal told her, seizing her by the elbow and cutting off all debate.
Roslin did not struggle against the marine's vise-like grip and allowed him to guide her down the hallways. The floor trembled intermittently, but there was no other sign that they were in any danger. She glanced back only once to see if Hobber was following, but the old man was nowhere in sight. It seems like it's taking an awfully long time to get to the cargo bay, she thought. It didn't seem like this long a walk when we came in. She saw a hatch at an intersection ahead of her, finally recognizing her surroundings. They were two airlocks from the cargo bay.
"We're maybe a minute away," Mitchell said into his comm, replying to an unheard question.
That was when Roslin felt the wind knocked out of her as she fell to the floor. There was a deafening roar of gunfire, and she was aware that there was someone on top of her. "Stay down," she heard Hobber's voice tell her. Where did he come from? she wondered. The gunfire stopped momentarily, and then a comparatively weak report of gunfire cracked out in response. That would be Mitchell. Or maybe my guards, the president knew, noting how pitiful the humans' weapons sounded in comparison to the cylon guns.
There was only one scream, but immediately after there was silence. "We have to make a run for it," Hobber whispered. "Are you hit?"
"No." Roslin wasn't even aware that she was speaking, but she was certain that the voice she heard sounded just like hers.
"On three. One… two… three!" Hobber yanked her to her feet as he stood, and practically pulled her arm out of its socket as he dragged her forward. Gunfire rang out as they dashed through the intersection at the airlock, but the cylon had reacted too slowly. It must have been making certain the guards were dead, Roslin decided.
They were in the cargo bay moments later. That part of the trip seemed much shorter than I expected, the president thought, amused at her skewed perceptions. As soon as they ran into the cargo bay, Hobber yanked the president toward her right. The two of them tumbled to the floor just as gunfire rang out behind them once again, the cylon in the hall finally closing for the kill. Roslin knew she had escaped by a fraction of a second, and now she and Hobber were pinned behind some steel containers. She was not certain what kind of cover they would provide, and she could see Colonel Tigh and Major Rutger across the cargo bay, motioning for her to stay down.
Now what? Roslin wondered, seeing no way out other than fighting. And she was under no illusions about their chances in a pitted battle against cylon centurions.
……………………………
"Stay down!" Tigh yelled across the cargo bay. President Roslin looked across at him, and Tigh smiled at the fact that there was not a glimmer of panic in her eyes. Hobber, on the other hand, was a completely different story. The old doctor was holding a small pistol in both hands, his entire body trembling with panic as he stared at the weapon with a curious expression, as if he had never seen anything like it before. Tigh had not thought it possible, but Hobber somehow managed to look even more terrified when a second centurion walked into the bay.
"Clear out of here," Rutger shouted at two crewmen from the Myrmidon. The men were two of the new recruits, Colonial Marines in name only, with no combat experience and a half-week's worth of training. They would only get in the way more than they would help. The cylons turned on Rutger and Tigh's position, opening up with a salvo of explosive rounds that shredded the metal containers they were using as cover. Both men barely managed to dive behind a steel girder that provided more substantial protection.
"Permission to risk using a grenade, sir," Rutger shouted over another burst of gunfire. The sound was deafening, and Tigh didn't bother to speak an answer. He only nodded his head and hoped for the best.
I'll have to hope he knows enough to keep the explosives in the center of the room. Because if he doesn't, and if the hull is breached… well, I guess that'll bring the fight to a quick end. The grenade went off with a deafening boom that kept echoing off of the metal walls, accompanied by a loud crash that announced that both cylons had collapsed. Rutger had managed to lob the grenade directly between the two centurions, and each lost a leg. Now they were momentarily prone. Tigh and Rutger made the most of it, emerging from behind the bulkhead and opening fire with combat shotguns, both loaded with explosive rounds.
The momentary success was almost enough for the cylon reinforcements to catch them off guard. Two loud footsteps heralded the arrival of another centurion, and Rutger and Tigh both dove for cover once again. Automatic weapons fire drowned out all other noise while bullets ricocheted around the room. A piece of shrapnel sliced into Tigh's face, opening a long gash in his cheek and narrowly missing taking out his left eye.
"This cargo bay can't take much more," Rutger yelled during a short pause in gunfire.
"Neither can I," Tigh replied, feeling a strange thrill as blood pattered down from his chin onto his lapel. Never thought I'd be in it like this ever again, he thought. As dangerous a situation as he was in, he found it strangely comforting to be up against one cylon centurion with superior firepower; it was just simpler and more direct than being on the bridge of a battlestar, having to cope with an attacking cylon fleet.
"Roslin, you have to make a run for it," Tigh shouted to the president, though he had no idea how she would be able to make it. "We're gonna have to cover her," he added to Rutger. The Marine nodded, though he doubtlessly knew what Tigh had left unsaid. By covering the president, they would be exposing themselves; one or both of them was likely not getting out of the station alive.
……………………………
"We can't keep this up much longer," Kat said over the comm, not telling Starbuck anything she didn't already know.
Thus far, they had been lucky. Very frakking lucky, Starbuck admitted to herself. Seventeen cylon raiders down, and not a single Viper taken out. "Our teams will be out of there any second now," Starbuck promised, though she was beginning to doubt it. She switched over to Tigh's frequency. "Colonel, I can't give you much longer." She was practically blinded by a flash to her right. She didn't look; she didn't have to. She had just lost her first Viper. Don't think about it. Not right now.
"We're pinned down," Tigh shouted. Starbuck could hear the gunfire in the cargo bay far more easily than she could make out the colonel's words. The old bastard might be an incompetent bridge officer and a raging alcoholic, but he's a mean son of a bitch, and he can fight like hell. He'll get them out of there… "We'll get moving somehow. Tigh out."
Starbuck switched over to the Vipers' frequency, cursing her timing in checking in with Tigh. "Starbuck?" Kat was yelling. "Hey, Starbuck!"
"I read you, Kat," she answered. "I was on with Tigh. Who got it?" she asked, spinning into a flat roll and shredding two cylon raiders without interrupting her train of thought.
"Mueller bought it," Kat answered.
"Joker, where are you?" Starbuck asked. Joker had been Mueller's wingman, and with Mueller down, that meant Joker was alone.
"He's with me," Ares answered. "I could use a wingman, Lieutenant."
"Stay there, Joker," Starbuck ordered. Thanks for the save, Ares, she thought gratefully. If Joker had gotten shot down because she had been distracted with Tigh, she would never have forgiven herself. How the hell does Apollo make this whole command thing look so easy?
……………………………
"Never been shot at?" Hobber guessed, his drawn smile failing to drive the fear from his face.
"Not until today," Roslin admitted. "You?"
"It's been a while," the doctor said, his forced smile growing wider. He looked again at the weapon in his hand. "We're going to have to make a run for it eventually, you know."
"I know."
"On the count of three?"
"Sure. Just like last time." Roslin took a deep breath and steeled her nerves, looking across the bay to where Tigh and Rutger waited by the airlock. At least a dozen steps away, she decided, gauging the distance as best she could and cursing her decision to give up jogging when her responsibilities as the Secretary of Education cut into her free time a couple of years earlier.
"Good luck, Madame President."
"You too, Doctor."
……………………………
"Now or never," Tigh told Rutger. "The Vipers can't hold much longer out there." Truth be told, he was amazed Starbuck and her pilots had lasted as long as they already had. If it was as bad as she said when the toasters jumped in, they should have all been dead several minutes ago. Then again, the crazy bitch may be reckless and insubordinate, but she's the best damn pilot ever to sit in a Viper. If anyone can buy us a few more minutes, it's her.
"Get ready!" Rutger shouted to Roslin and Hobber.
When Tigh looked across, he saw that the president and doctor were already making a run for it. They were both halfway into their first stride when Tigh emerged from his cover. The centurion sensed movement on its right and immediately brought Roslin into its sights. Hobber stopped and raised his weapon, but by then Tigh and Rutger had each put a round through the centurion, putting it out of commission.
"Run!" Tigh yelled. Some part of his mind registered that his voice didn't seem as clear as it should have. There was a loud banging that seemed to reverberate through Tigh's head. He saw Hobber's eyes go wide, and then he looked toward the main hallway that led from the cargo bay. Three more centurions were entering, their heavy, thundering strides drowning out most all other noise, and two of them already had their arms raised.
To his credit, Hobber got the first shot. Unfortunately, his standard slugs were as useful as a BB gun against a battlestar. The rounds pinged off of the centurions' armor, and one of them returned fire. The doctor's body was laid waste before he hit the floor, explosive rounds tearing through him and spraying his blood across the wall behind him.
Tigh returned fire, his first shot going wide and the second hitting Hobber's executioner. He was aware that Rutger was firing, too, and the cylon in the rear collapsed to the deck. That left the third a moment to get off a salvo, and it did. A thunderous report rolled through the bay and Roslin collapsed to the floor in mid-stride. Rutger and Tigh both obliterated the cylon's head with return fire, but it was too late. She couldn't have survived, Tigh knew in his heart as Rutger's brain seemed a second slower in decoding what he had just seen. It seemed that there was already a lake of blood surrounding the president on the floor, and she wasn't moving.
"President Roslin!" Rutger yelled.
"Get down!" Tigh yelled, catching sight of a thin man with long black hair, flanked by several red glimmers coming down the hall. Red eyes… more cylons. And that other doctor… "We're leaving," Tigh ordered.
"We have to get the president," Rutger objected. "She still might be alive."
Shots rang out again, and Tigh felt his legs give out under him. I've been shot, he knew, remembering the feeling all too well. The whole op is just completely frakked.
……………………………
"Raptors are both away," Starbuck announced, catching sight of both ships speeding away from the station. "All ships provide cover and get ready for combat landings." That would be the real challenge; they had practiced combat landings on the Myrmidon several times between FTL jumps on the trip from Galactica, but they had yet to all perform the tricky maneuver flawlessly in one go. Starbuck tried not to think about the silver lining of Mueller getting killed – he had been the worst at sticking the difficult combat landing on the Myrmidon.
"Hey Starbuck, I'm getting strange readings from the station," Ares said. "Oh, frak. All Vipers get clear, it's gonna blow," he shouted.
Starbuck didn't ask for an explanation or question the merits of Ares giving an order; she just followed his advice and pulled up, hitting her thrusters as a bright blast illuminated the few raiders left in the area. What the hell happened to the station? she wondered. She hadn't seen any missiles hit it, and it hadn't seemed to take enough damage from the raiders' guns to explain an explosion. Maybe decompression, but it shouldn't have blown up.
"DRADIS contact," Ares said. "Oh, frak…"
"Run for it," Starbuck ordered. Ten, twenty, thirty… there's gotta be at least fifty more of the bastards.
"Raptors, get clear and jump to rendezvous point gamma. Myrmidon, get ready for us to land. We'll be coming in hot."
To be continued…………………………