36 Days After Cylon Attack
Coordinates unknown
"It's happening again isn't it?" asked Billy as he tugged the curtains closed to shield Roslin from the murmurs and prying eyes of the reporters. He was referring to the sudden waves of nausea and fatigue that made her want to faint and that had been growing worse over the last two weeks.
"No." Not that. Not this time. "I'm seeing things." She could still feel the smooth scales sliding over her fingers... "It's like the nightmares I've been having." It isn't real. It can't be. "Although, it's happening now while I'm awake."
"It's the chamalla." He handed her a glass of water. "Doc Cottle said that the side effects would include hallucinations." She had to concentrate just to keep her hand from shaking as she took a sip and set the glass down. "It's not necessarily a bad thing Madam President, my uncle was a priest, they used to take chamalla in seminary to seek higher levels of consciousness."
"I've read that. That's not at all what this feels like." It felt like she was being pulled out herself, but to nowhere in particular. The sharp clarity that had been her constant companion since the attacks was simply yanked away. It would've hardly mattered before, she always used to be able to call up the necessary words and gestures that allowed her to hide it when something was wrong. But not anymore. Now the disorientation was too sudden. Too hard to ignore. Too real.
"Maybe it would help to talk to a priest," she said with a sigh. "One of them might know more about how to deal with the symptoms." And maybe it would be good to have some advice from someone who wasn't her doctor, her military adviser, or her aide, but who could still keep a secret.
She didn't even have to ask.
"Of course, Madam President. I'll make the arrangements."
"Thank you, Billy." Always a thank you, if only to remind herself not to take him for granted. She preempted his next likely suggestion by saying that she was going to go rest for a few minutes and ducked through the curtain that lead to her private accommodations.
Laura sat down on her bed and tried to rub away the lingering sensation that something was still trying to slither its way up her arm. She reached for the copy of Dark Day on her table in hopes it would help her forget.
…Mercy was the first thing to go in the pursuit of vengeance. It had to. At least, that's what he'd convinced himself to believe. Compassion would only make him hesitate, keep him from doing what must be done to put a stop to that murdering shadow whose taunts echoed in the night. He couldn't afford mercy, even if it meant that they'd be digging two more graves instead of one...
The words blurred on the page and the sentences jumbled together as her concentration wavered. She set the book aside and resigned herself to waiting. It wasn't long before she heard the muffled knock on the doorway that preceded Billy pushing aside the curtains. He motioned for Elosha to enter, brought in a chair so that she could sit across from Roslin, and then excused himself with characteristic efficiency. Laura smiled to see that Billy had chosen someone familiar. This conversation would be difficult enough for her without the added complication of confiding in a stranger.
"What can I do for you, Madam President?" Elosha's tone carried the quiet calm that was the mark of her profession.
Laura chose her words carefully."I've been taking chamalla for a medical condition," she said.
"So what have you seen?" It was more of a statement than a question, delivered without judgment.
"It started out as dreams of the Cylon that we had executed." And of a man waiting for her at the end of twisting corridors. "But I had the dreams before we captured him. The images were..."
"Prescient?"
Vividly. But Laura groped for a different word. "Uncanny," she replied. "And now I'm seeing things while I'm awake."
A nod of understanding. "What kind of things?"
"Snakes." Across her hands, moving between her fingers, hissing... "There were snakes, crawling all over my podium during the press conference."
"How many?"
"About a dozen."
Elosha pushed herself to her feet, suddenly flustered. "You're kidding me, right? You read Pythia and now you're having me on."
"No..." What did it mean? "Who is Pythia?" Laura's familiarity with history didn't extend far beyond her area of expertise in the governments and modern history of the Colonies, it certainly didn't include mythology or religion.
"One of the oracles, in the sacred scrolls," explained Elosha. "Three thousand six hundred years ago, Pythia wrote about the exile and the rebirth of a human race. And the lords anointed a leader to guide the caravan of the heavens to their new homeland and unto the leader they gave a vision of serpents, numbering two and ten, as a sign of things to come."
"Pythia wrote that?" What was it lieutenant Thrace had told her? "He thinks he can see the future. Says he knows our destiny." A sign of things to come. "He says we're gonna find Kobol and that it's gonna lead us to Earth."
"She also wrote that the leader suffered a wasting disease and would not live to enter the new land, but you're not dying... are you?"
It was a coincidence, just the vagaries of oracles that let people interpret them in a way that gave them a sense of purpose. And yet. How many coincidences does it take?
"We're all dying," she answered, "every day that the Cylons hunt us and we have to keep running."
Elosha smiled at Laura's attempt to evade the question and returned to her seat. "The scrolls tell us that all this has happened before and so it will happen again. The roles that perpetuate that cycle will be filled by someone who is right for them. If Pythia's words are meant for you then the sacrifice that the gods have asked from you is high, but it is not without purpose or recompense. It is our means to salvation."
"That's a heavy burden for one person." What if I'm not strong enough?
"It's no heavier than the ones you already carried before you learned this." Elosha reached across the coffee table that separated them to clasp one of Laura's hands between her own. "You have already saved us, Laura. And your leadership has kept this fleet alive despite the terrible choices that have been given to you. I believe you asked me here because you're looking for more than the meaning of a vision, and while I can offer the words of the scrolls for guidance, the path that we take is yours to choose and for me to follow. I have faith that the President of the Colonies will do what is right for her people."
I wish I could say the same...
Before Laura could respond the sound of hurried footsteps and another knock on the doorway drew her attention.
"Sorry for interrupting Madam President," said Billy, "The last Raptor reported back. We've found an asteroid positive for Tylium and Commander Adama has a briefing scheduled to start in thirty minutes. I have the shuttle prepped."
Finally some good news.
Only after she'd excused herself and made the trip to Galactica did she learn that the good news came with several caveats. The Cylons stood between the fleet and the Tylium they needed in order to keep jumping. And the plan Lieutenant Thrace and Captain Apollo had presented was risky.
"How many casualties do we anticipate?" How many more lives will I have to erase from my whiteboard?
"It'll cost us," replied Colonel Tigh. Always another sacrifice to be made...
"If you succeed, what's to prevent the Cylons from coming back with reinforcements?"
"Nothing," answered Commander Adama. "But if we get a chance to knock out that base, it'll buy us some time."
Time. The one thing she didn't have, but something the fleet needed. Something that Adama thought he could purchase with the lives of his men and his Vipers.
"If you keep running from a schoolyard bully, he keeps on chasing you, but the moment you turn around and stop and you punch him really hard in a sensitive spot, he'll think twice about coming back again."
Or he'll destroy you, she thought. But what other choice did they have?
"So it's either this, or run out of fuel and be annihilated."
"Sometimes you have to roll the hard six," said Adama. Gamble and pray that you don't lose everything.
It was no way to win a war. But it's not a war that we're fighting. We're just trying to survive.
"Well, the freighters are yours," she told them. "Good hunting, everyone."
Good hunting. Those words were the closest thing to a prayer that any of them had.
"Operation starts in forty eight hours."
-x-
In Bill Adama's experience the amount of time spent in preparation for an op was never right. It didn't matter if you had a minute or a week. There weren't enough seconds to spare to make sure that all the details were perfect and at the same time there were too many seconds wasted feeling restless for the action to begin. There was a lot that had to be done in their forty eight hour window; transfer three freighters worth of civilians to other ships, run maintenance and repair on every Viper that had working engines and weapon systems, brief the pilots and the deck gangs and the command staff, restock the ordinance for Galactica's point defense batteries... The list went on and on. As a result, Bill spent the first twenty four hours with reports in his hands concerning the status of everything, checked and double checked. By the second day he'd run out of things to do that weren't a repeat of what he'd already done, so he roamed around the ship, his feet carrying him in a loop through the corridors until he wandered into Galactica's gym. He found Kara at the leg press trying to speed along her recovery in time for the upcoming mission.
"How's the knee, Starbuck?"
"It'll be ready. I'm not missing this party." She sounded determined, but that wouldn't be enough if her body couldn't follow through and Cottle's readiness assessment from the day before had been more than clear.
He sighed and triggered the safety catch on the side of the machine with his foot.
"Apollo's leading the strike force," he said as gently as he could. "You have to sit this one out."
"I'm the best pilot that you have."
"Not right now. In combat, you gotta pull six, seven Gs. Doc says your knee won't take it."
"Well, then he's wrong."
"Is he?" Adama moved to pick up one of the weights nearby. "A viper thruster pedal..." He slid it onto the bar. "...Requires this much force..." He balanced out the other end with another weight. "...To activate."
Starbuck took a breath, pushed the weight up and with a grunt of effort, held it.
"Now you're on your attack run. They launch their missiles. So you gotta jam that pedal..." He added more weight. "...Into the firewall and hold a six G turn..." The last weight came to rest against the others with a clang."...For ten seconds or you die."
Her leg was already shaking as he started counting.
"Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four—" Her strength gave out and the weights slid down. "This was only three Gs, Starbuck, not six. I'm sorry, it's a tough one but you're staying home."
She didn't answer him or try to argue, just got up with a huff of frustration and did her best to storm out of the room despite the limp that still hampered her movements. He understood her reaction. He'd felt the same way after the crash that had taken him out of Spec Ops, but it didn't change the truth. If he let her fly she was guaranteed to get herself or her fellow pilots killed when she realized too late that she'd pushed past her limits.
He wanted Kara to fully recover and get back into the cockpit soon, but maybe it was time to see if she could make the transition into a different set of responsibilities. It would be hard. She'd fight it every step. So had he. But it was inevitable, eventually you reached a point in the service where the only options were move up or move out. For the moment, Bill decided to keep moving in circles between the thousand other things that needed his attention, not because he was the ship's Commander, but because if he didn't keep finding something to do then the wait before the op was going to eat him alive.
Everything had been triple and quadruple checked and anyone who wasn't on duty had found their way to their racks by the time Bill Adama made his fifth trip to the hangar deck. While he walked around the upper level he saw Lee down below sitting on a bay divider and staring at one of the Vipers. Bill caught a glimpse of the tail number as he made his way around, 7242. His old ship. The one that Lee and Zak had played on as kids and that Bill had flown at an air show years ago. Now it was an old junker of a plane, but it had saved Lee's life when the Cylons attacked.
"Can't sleep?" asked Bill as he descended the steps from the upper level onto the lower deck. "I couldn't either before a big op." Lee stayed quiet, so Bill kept talking. "Mark two...good ship. Got me out of a lot of tough scrapes." Mark twos were lucky ships.
Speaking of luck...
Adama reached into his pocket and his fingers closed around a familiar piece of warm metal.
"Got something for you." He held out his lighter and Lee took it. "Belonged to your grandfather. My mom bought it for him when he was in law school." And Joseph had sent it to Bill when he'd started flight school. He still remembered the note his father had tucked into the envelope with it.
On Tauron there's a saying that, 'We are from the soil and so shall we return, but war is made of fire and in it every soldier burns.' For this reason I wished you had chosen a different path in life, but we are a family of war.
It finds us, always. If we're not careful it will consume everything that we love.
That much was true. It had followed them from Tauron to Caprica, and from father to son, for three generations, with no end in sight. The toll of the battles, had left their family nearly as tarnished as the lighter Lee held in his hands.
"See the engraving on it?"
"Yeah, I can barely make it out..."
"He was a better father than I was," Bill admitted. He had tried to be, anyway. "Dad used to carry that into court cases, claimed he never lost, unless he left it behind."
It didn't matter if that was the truth or not. What mattered, was that now Bill understood why his father had sent him a lucky charm despite the fact that neither one of them would have admitted to a belief in something so superstitious as luck. It was simply what a worried father did when there was nothing else that he could do to protect his son.
This bit of fire kept me safe. I hope it will do the same for you.
Lee fidgeted with the lighter in his hand. "So you're worried too."
"About what?"
"You know, sometimes it feels like the whole ship thinks, uh, Starbuck would do better."
"I don't." Starbuck might be the craziest pilot they had, but this mission needed a leader, not a daredevil.
"How can you be so sure?"
"'Cause you're my son," he answered, as if that was all anyone needed to know. "Get some rest." There were only six hours left before mission start. "You're gonna need it."
He only made it a few steps back up the ladder before Lee called out, "Dad... I'll bring it back."
"You better," replied Bill with a smile, "or I'll kick your ass. It's a good lighter."
-xxx-
Cylons inbound.
Strike force one launched.
There was no turning back now. And Bill Adama was relieved. There was only one battle left that he had to fight, this one, and if they lost then at least that would be the end, no more worrying about what was gone and what they had left. If they won then they might buy themselves a reprieve before they went back to running, waiting, and the dread of a Cylon attack that followed the fleet and the ship and him. Right now, all he had to worry about was the ongoing mission.
It wasn't long before Starbuck joined the rest of the tactical staff in the war room, her anxiety written in every muscle and across her face.
"How hard did they bite?" she asked as she leaned on the edge of the table.
"Boomer's report said ninety plus," replied Adama. "They've launched most of their fighter force." He kept his gaze on the light board as the Viper models were pushed closer to the Cylon base.
"Our attack force is away," reported Lieutenant Gaeta.
"I just hope that Lee can..." She stopped herself and Bill cast a glance at her.
"Lee isn't the problem," he said. "You should take a good look at yourself. I had to go through the same transition. When you're in the cockpit, you're in control. It's hard to give it up." Hell, I haven't flown in over a decade and I still want to go back.
"It would just be a lot easier if I was flying with them." That's what every pilot thought when they found themselves grounded.
"All you can do now is wait and hope you didn't make any mistakes." It was all he could do any more. Plan and hope and tally the dead that his mistakes produced.
"I never wanted this kind of responsibility," she said.
Neither did I, but...
"The Cylons never asked us what we wanted." They didn't leave us any choice. "Welcome to the big leagues."
"Galactica, Crashdown, tally fifty plus on an intercept course. Repeat, fifty plus inbound."
"What's that mean?" interjected Dr. Baltar from his seat behind them.
"It means that a Cylon patrol spotted our attack force," explained Starbuck. "The base sent out fifty more raiders, to intercept."
"Fifty raiders? That means we're outnumbered now, five to one?"
"Weren't the decoys supposed to take care of that?" asked Roslin.
"Cylons are too smart for that," he replied. Kara mumbled a curse beside him and her hand gripped the table edge tighter.
Another minute dragged by and then the wireless chatter started pouring in as strike force one engaged the enemy.
"Fireball, multiple bandits, left, ten high. Range forty, weapons free, committing."
"Hotdog, visual tally, press."
"Hotdog, break right!"
"Fireball, your six!"
The sound of an alarm blared through the speakers. "I'm hit, I'm hit! Can't eject! It's stuck!"
"Deadbolt, Spinner, two bandits closing in, right five."
"No joy, no joy."
"Aaahh—"
"There's too many of them!"
"Galactica, Hotdog. Heavily engaged, mission outcome doubtful."
"This sounds frakking awful," said Baltar.
Of course what the doctor didn't understand was that it always sounded awful. Whether he was in a Viper or out of it the chaos of a battle in progress always made Bill feel like he was losing, until the noise suddenly stopped and it was over.
"I've got no visual!"
"On your wing, on your wing!"
"They're getting cut to pieces out there," pressed Starbuck.
We both knew this plan was going to cost us, Bill thought. But the implication behind Kara's objection was right, the cost was getting too high.
"Take the shot, get outta there! Move! Move!"
"Deadbolt, break vertical, now, now, now!"
"Damn it, take the shot, get him off me—!"
"Mr. Gaeta, abort strike one," he ordered.
The Viper model on the board was flipped back toward Galactica as the strike force went into a retreat.
"Galactica, Stubbs. Cylon strike force is turning away from Deacon and inbound to Galactica."
"Cylons heard our transmission recall, didn't they?"
"Does that mean the first wave of raiders is ignoring the decoys and is... is coming after us?"
"That's exactly what it means." It's exactly what they needed.
"So when are we going to launch the reserve vipers to defend Galactica?" asked Baltar with an edge of panic in his voice.
"There are no reserve vipers. Everything is on the board already." Adama looked across the table to Kara. "Now we play for all the marbles. Starbuck, it's your plan."
She nodded and moved to relay the orders.
"Mr. Gaeta, will you please tell Dee to get on the scrambler and inform Apollo 'the back door is open'?"
"Aye, lieutenant. Dee please send a scrambler to Captain Apollo. Message reads, 'the back door is open'."
A trio of Vipers representing Apollo's strike force was placed onto the board in front of the cargo ship.
"Lieutenant Thrace," asked the president quietly, "why didn't you tell me we had another attack force hidden in the freighters?
"We, uh—"
Adama cut her off. "It was my decision. I routinely restrict tactical details to those who need to know." Trust works both ways, Madam President. You don't trust me, I won't trust you either. "Old habits die hard."
"So you still might pull this off?" Roslin asked with a carefully suppressed smile.
"If Dr. Baltar's target information is correct..."
"And whether we get blown to pieces by those Cylon raiders heading toward us right now."
"Speaking of which, I'm needed in CIC." Adama offered a parting nod of acknowledgment then turned and left the room. Regardless of whether or not Lee succeeded, Bill's priority now was to defend his ship.
"Commander on deck!"
"As you were."
"First wave of Cylons will be on us in three minutes," announced Tigh.
"Notify the strike one Vipers that they can stop running and blast those bastards to hell."
"Yes, sir."
"Engaging Cylon fighters."
"Target acquired, tone and lock."
The chatter was calmer now, more controlled, but it was still an uneven fight. Time to even it up.
"Buzzer, on your three."
"Tally, I got him..."
"Order bow batteries weapons hot, set point defenses on full auto fire and route strike-two's transmissions to priority channels."
"Aye, sir."
The speakers overhead crackled for a moment and then despite the static, Bill heard his son's voice.
"...The conveyor tunnel's clear—I'm going through it."
"You're out of your frakking mind, Apollo."
My thoughts exactly. But there was no time to spare for Lee's sudden decision to be a daredevil.
"Sir, Cylons have engaged point defenses, they're targeting one of the forward railguns."
"DC teams are reporting buckling in surrounding sections, frames nine through fifteen.."
"Have DC seal those frames before they breach, but put a team on standby behind frame twenty." If the gunner for that turret was still alive he was on his own until the rescue crews could get to him.
"Cylon forces are pulling back from flak range."
The speakers flared to life again. "I'm okay. I'm through the tunnel. They can't get a firing solution on me."
Then the wireless went silent, even the chatter from the other pilot's died. Colonel Tigh's gaze was locked on the Dradis consoles above him, but Bill had to look away. All you can do now is wait and hope... The seconds dragged by and he strained to hear something in the static, but there was nothing. Nothing until...
"Ahh, Galactica, Apollo. Mission... accomplished."
Yes!
"You can tell Doctor Baltar he was right on the money. It's one hell of a fireworks show. And there's plenty of ore for us back in the canyon, once this place is history."
The CIC erupted into cheers around him, but Bill kept his expression carefully controlled. He offered Saul a restrained handshake as the Colonel passed by. They both knew that even with their success, the work was just beginning. There would be damage and loss assessments to review and now they had to get that fuel processed before the enemy sent reinforcements to retake the base.
"Commander, strike one reports inbound Cylons are bugging out, request permission to go after them, sir."
"Tell our people to pursue and destroy."
"Affirmative. Strike one, tear 'em up."
Once he was fairly sure there wouldn't be any last minute disasters, Adama left Colonel Tigh to oversee the mop up and went to greet the returning pilots. The hangar deck was a pandemonium of spraying champagne, hugging and shouts and high fives, but Bill moved through the crowd unimpeded. He stopped a few feet away from Lee and Starbuck, reminded of himself years ago, standing on a hangar deck, a cigar lit with his father's lighter and his squad around him laughing with the flush of victory. For better or worse, you followed in my footsteps. I almost wish you'd chosen differently...
Lee tossed the lighter across the gap between them and Bill caught it with a smile of pride.
But we are a family of war. Today, we survived. And that was something to celebrate.