CHAPTER 32
THE GATHERING STORM
"Admiral … uh … thank you for taking the time to see me."
"It's my pleasure, Specialist." Adama removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. The supply problems among the civilian ships were getting worse with each passing day, and they were causing the admiral headaches both figuratively and literally. "Other than the occasional school outing, these days very few people visit Galactica. It's ironic after all we've been through, but the ship seems destined to become a museum exhibit after all."
"I understand, Sir." James Lyman nervously ran his palms up and down his trouser legs. This wasn't a social visit; the CIC was still the CIC, and the Old Man was still the Old Man.
"Actually, Sir, I … uh … these days, I'm with the police department, and the Chief … uh, Caprica Six … she … uh … she sent me up here to open an official inquiry into the deaths of the four Cylons that occurred during the night. Is it true that they were asleep in their quarters, which somehow became depressurized?"
"I've asked Mr. Gaeta to look into the matter." Bill turned to the young officer, whom he had summoned from the Delos. Acting upon a recommendation from Gaius Baltar, Adama had left Gaeta in charge of the menagerie of misshapen creatures that Felix and Cynthia Six had brought back from the Acheron system. Reverse engineering the vaguely human cephalopod that had been discovered in one of the ship's storage chambers was one of Baltar's pet projects, and he was relying upon Gaeta to do much of the leg work.
"The environmental computer decided that their quarters were over pressurized," Gaeta summarized in his usual calm and quiet voice. "It started bleeding out air in order to compensate. The Fours died from hypoxia; they slipped from sleep into deep sleep into death without any awareness of what was happening."
"Power fluctuations and equipment malfunctions," Adama sighed. "Galactica's been in space for more than fifty years, and it's been a long time since the old girl saw the inside of the Scorpion shipyards. The years are beginning to take their toll."
"So, you have both concluded that these were accidental deaths," Jammer nodded. He was certainly prepared to take Felix and the admiral at their word. The former knuckle dragger had witnessed the deaths of Flat Top and twelve other pilots on the hangar deck. Metal fatigue had caused a strap to fail, and a com drone had got loose. At that, they had got lucky: heavier ordnance would have punctured the hull, and dozens more would have been vented into space.
"Yes," Adama tersely replied. He shifted his attention to the DRADIS screen above his head, signaling that the interview was at an end.
"Can you tell me what the Fours were doing on Galactica," Jammer pressed.
"That's classified," Adama glared, "way above your pay grade. And it has nothing to do with their deaths. Restrict your inquiry to the subject at hand."
"Yes, Sir; it's only that … well, the Chief specifically instructed me to look into what they were doing up here."
"I'm not authorizing a tribunal, Mr. Lyman, and I'm not waiving command review. When you return to the surface, make sure that your boss knows what that means."
. . .
"So, it was definitely arson?" Caprica Six was holding Tragg's preliminary report in her hands. Formerly the chief security officer on Cloud Nine, Lieutenant Arthur Tragg now headed up her criminal investigation unit.
"Yes, Ma'am; there's no doubt about it. The forensics team had no trouble reconstructing the scene. We found tylium residue at two discrete locations inside the warehouse, both in areas where combustibles were not normally stored. It looks like a two person job."
"Have you found any eyewitnesses, or is everyone who was in the vicinity on the suspect list?"
"Oh, we know whodunit," Panattes laughed. The Ditchdigger had ostensibly been called in to "advise" the police investigators, but he was really there to represent the Guautrau's interests. The Six badly wanted the Sons of Ares to get the credit for this particular crime, whether they were guilty or not.
"Well, don't keep me in suspense, Dino. Who did it?"
"You did, Six." The diminutive enforcer had a perverse sense of humor, and he was really enjoying himself.
"I don't understand."
"We've recovered the lock," Tragg started to say.
"It was a routine break and enter," Panattes cut in, "but with a twist. The bad guys didn't attack the lock with a bolt cutter; someone got a good grip, and literally snapped the lock off. It was a pretty good lock."
"We dusted it for prints." Tragg was trying hard to regain control of the conversation. "We've got two partials, and an intact thumbprint. Mr. Panattes is correct, Ma'am; the prints are yours."
"Well, it wasn't me …"
"That's what they all say!" Dino was laughing so hard that he suddenly began to choke.
"It must have been one of my sisters." Caprica ignored the interruption. "But why would a Six … any Six … start a fire in a warehouse?"
"We believe that the fire was a diversion," Tragg resumed. "While making its morning rounds, one of the centurions discovered that a second warehouse some two hundred meters distant had been burglarized. There were four strikers picketing the building during the night, but when they heard shouts and saw the flames, they raced off to help put out the fire. Afterwards, they went to bed. Whoever started the fire apparently wanted to draw them off so that they could enter the structure without triggering an alarm."
"As burglaries go," Dino said admiringly, "this one was pretty spectacular. Your sister didn't bother with the lock. She simply ripped the door off its hinges, with such force that she actually bent the frame!"
"What did she steal?"
"That's the curious part," Tragg admitted. "It really doesn't make any sense. We found several thousand ball bearings rolling around on the factory floor—enough to fill two large containers. The only thing that appears to be missing is the two steel barrels that housed the bearings. Ma'am, I asked Xeno Fenner to give me his best guess as to what happened. Fenner says that, from the looks of it, someone broke in, tore open the barrels to empty their contents, and then walked out with the barrels and the lids. Fenner swears that the lids would have been hammered on tight, Ma'am, which means that someone went to a lot of trouble to steal the containers, but weren't interested in the contents."
"Thank you, gentlemen; I appreciate your efforts." Caprica climbed to her feet, signaling that the interview was at an end. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have calls to make."
When the two humans had left, Caprica opened a desk drawer and pulled out a red phone. It was her direct connection to Galactica's CIC.
. . .
The wireless buzzed, and Adama stared at it with distaste. Jammer was still en route to the surface, so he was surprised that Caprica Six was already calling.
"Actual," he said into the receiver.
"There was a fire in the industrial district last night," Caprica reported without preamble.
"Yeah, I heard," Bill softly replied.
"It looks like my sister and her Sagittaron boyfriend were responsible," the Six continued. "They needed a diversion that would allow them to break into a second warehouse without risking a confrontation."
"What were they after?"
"They stole two large steel barrels, but they left the contents behind."
"They're caching supplies," Adama guessed.
"I agree. They're getting ready to leave."
"We have to find them. If that Heavy Raider were to fall into the wrong hands …"
"I'm going to alert Lee. I want him to conduct an evacuation drill."
"That's a good call," the admiral agreed. "We'll send out Vipers to continue the search throughout the day, but I'm not optimistic. It's a big planet."
"And the fugitives are clever. Admiral, I have a bad feeling about this."
"I think that's supposed to be my line," Adama chuckled.
"There's something wrong with the Eights—we both know that. The situation is potentially explosive. I saw the Makers this morning; I pressed them, but they remain completely in denial."
"I raised the issue with the Tighs. Lee was there; it didn't go well." Adama was keeping his voice low. There were a lot of cylon ears in the CIC; the Admiral had to choose his words carefully.
"I know. He came to my apartment last night. It was an odd conversation. Do you seriously believe that there's another fleet out there, with Cylons and humans already living happily ever after?"
"I do." Adama's response was crisp and to the point.
"And you base this conclusion on the fact that John's Raptor had almost a full fuel load when he caught up with your fleet in the Prolmar sector?"
"Yes. He must have hitched a ride … and it wasn't with us."
"There are more likely explanations."
"I don't think so."
Sonja Six looked curiously at Adama.
"And if this fleet exists, you want to find it and compare notes … see how their Sixes and Eights differ from our own?"
"That's the general idea."
"Admiral, you are making a lot of assumptions here—you and Lee, both. However, let us say for the sake of argument that you are correct. You have some sense of how the CSS was structured. For General Berriman and Major Bierns to have planned an operation on this scale … they would have needed the President's approval."
"I agree."
"But not mine."
"That's true, I suppose … although it's hard to see how this could have happened without a certain degree of cooperation."
"I'm sorry, Admiral; but I cannot help you. Direct your questions to Major Bierns when he returns."
"I will, but we both know how that conversation will go. Now, why did you send Jammer up here to prowl around? You're in the loop; you know that this operation is classified." Bill was trying to mislead his XO, who was beginning to display a keen interest in this hopefully enigmatic conversation.
"We have to go through the motions, Admiral. If I don't conduct an investigation, the wrong people will start to ask questions. We don't want that."
"You have a good point, but I want it clearly understood that what happens on Galactica stays on Galactica. I will not agree to civilian oversight of this command. If Baltar has any doubts on that score, he should talk to me."
"I am sure that the President will keep as far away from this investigation as possible."
"Tell me something I don't know," Bill snorted.
"It was clever of you to bring in Lieutenant Gaeta; the President can accept a finding of accidental death without question if it rests upon Felix's testimony. No one else will look too closely."
"He's a good officer, and he has a bright future. One day, he may well earn his own command."
"We certainly owe him one. Have a good day, Admiral."
Adama hung up the receiver, and turned to Sonja. "Your fugitive sister raided the settlement last night. She stole bulk containers that could be used to lay up food and water in considerable quantity."
"So, she's still here," Sonja mused.
"But not, I suspect, for long," Bill countered. "We need to find that Heavy Raider. I want every Viper in the air that will fly."
Sonja nodded. She was still the CAG as well as the XO, and this was shaping up to be a very long day.
. . .
"You look a lot better without the camouflage," Eric grinned. "Green is definitely not your best color."
"It was good to bathe, even if the water was uncomfortably cold." Six missed the bright red outfit that she and so many of her sisters had favored on their baseship.
"Is that a euphemism for 'cold enough to freeze your teats off'?" Eric reached out tenderly to run his fingers through Six's blond curls. "Have I mentioned that I love you," he asked.
"Not often enough for my liking," Six teased. Blue eyes stared into black. Six had memories of her life before New Caprica, before Eric, but they were becoming increasingly hazy. It was almost as if they belonged to a different person. "But actions mean more than words; I have all the proof of your love that I need right here." Six patted her stomach. She still was not showing, but she could feel the tiny heart beating within her womb.
"Our child," Eric whispered; "our future." He cleared his throat, and looked around the interior of the Heavy Raider. Everything was properly stored and fastened down. "We have water, food … everything except a world to call our own. Let's go find one."
Six sat at the controls and connected with the ship's organic memory. "We don't have a lot of choices here," she explained. "There's only one other set of coordinates locked in, so our first jump will be on a reciprocal heading."
"Well, at least we won't be jumping into the sun!" Eric didn't know much about interstellar navigation, but everyone understood that blind jumps were incredibly dangerous.
"No, that's true … but we could end up in the middle of a Raider staging area. I'm assuming that Adama regularly sends out patrols to scout the surrounding nebula for signs of enemy activity."
"So, what you're telling me is that I don't need to worry about how we're going to calculate the second jump because we might not survive the first? Thanks, sweetheart; for a minute there, you really had me worried!"
"We will survive, Eric; you must have faith." Six lovingly squeezed his hand. "God wants this child to be born."
"I do have faith … in you. Six, no matter what happens, I have no regrets. I love you."
Six waited until their ship was well above the tree line. The island had been good to them, but it was time to go. She entered the coordinates, and in a flash of light the Heavy Raider jumped away.
. . .
"Okay, we've been passive; now, it's time to get aggressive. Racetrack … you good to go?"
"Major, we've got sixteen Raiders in the slot—each armed with two nukes … fifty kiloton warheads." Margaret Edmondson had the anticipatory look of a mean and hungry predator. In her personal universe there was no such thing as too much payback, but when it came to exacting revenge, on this ship she would just have to wait her turn. Bierns had a death list, which Natalie had adopted as her own—thirteen names, all the same, with four of them crossed out. Racetrack had long since decided that she would follow these two to Hades, if that's where they had to go in search of the remaining nine. But it would never come to that: the hybrid spook was devious, and he seemed to have an endless number of tricks up his sleeve. The one they were about to spring was particularly nasty, and if it worked, it would certainly cut the opposition down to size.
"If they can take the shot, they'll go for a landing bay," she continued. "If not, they'll target the central pylon. Anything that jumps in twenty to forty MU's out is road kill."
Bierns picked up the phone, and keyed it to address the entire ship.
"During the early days of the exodus, there was a point when the Cylons were attacking the fleet every 33 minutes. They tracked the Olympic Carrier through more than two hundred jumps, and a baseship or two would then invariably materialize in a slot high above Galactica and some thirty MU's to starboard. Although they never sent Raiders to scout their advance, not once did Commander Adama preposition Raptors with nukes at the most likely entry points—I suppose he had so few pilots that he didn't dare gamble with their lives. This, however, is a risk that we can afford to take. We've had to retreat when all of us have wanted to stand and fight. We've had to sacrifice Raiders that none of us have wanted to lose. But this is the payoff. When the Cavils dig the emergency coordinates out of their brains, they will be led to this place, and here they will find us waiting. The Ones may surprise us … they may actually do the prudent thing and send a few Raiders to check out the lay of the land before they come charging in. If that happens, score one for the bad guys, but I believe the Ones are creatures of habit and will not change their basic tactics so long as resurrection offers them a safety net. Right now, they have superior numbers, and I'm counting on them pressing their advantage to the full. I will," Bierns coldly concluded, "be sorely disappointed if an enemy baseship fails to jump in and take a nuke up the spout. Let's send them to Hell!"
In one of the enormous hangar decks scattered throughout the baseship's dorsal and ventral fins, Galen Tyrol enthusiastically clapped his hands. "All right, people," he shouted to his team of cylon and human knuckle draggers, "you heard the man. The Raiders will do their job; ours is to recover them as quickly as possible so that we can get the hell out of here and go home. So, let's move like we've got a purpose!"
"Action stations … action stations," Hoshi intoned; "set condition one throughout the ship."
. . .
Thump …
Thump …
Thump, Thump, Thump …
Sweat flying off her forehead, Kara kept at it, relentlessly pounding the heavy bag into submission. She hated command, but it was not the responsibilities that weighed her down. She could even deal with people second guessing her every decision—after all, that went with the job. Learning not to look back was hard, but hardest of all was keeping her anger and frustration under tight control. Kara Thrace Six longed for the good, old days, when she could punch out a superior asshole, rack up some quality time in the brig, drink herself into oblivion, and leave all the decisions to somebody else.
"Kara, I think the bag just hoisted the white flag," Athena grinned.
Thump …
Thump …
Thump, Thump, Thump …
"Command really sucks," Kara muttered, more or less to herself.
"You regret not being out there in your Viper … doing your bit for the cause." Athena was making a statement, not asking a question.
"Damn' straight," Kara replied. She eyed the bag, lined it up, reared back, and kicked it with everything she had.
"Command really sucks," Athena agreed. "But you did the right thing. Cavil knows the temple's secrets, and we don't. This is our chance to level the Pyramid court."
"I know, I know," Kara grumbled. "I'm the Guide, and it's my job to decipher some stupid clue that nobody else can figure out, and stay alive long enough to lead everyone to the Promised Land. It's just that …"
"Command really sucks, and you're spoiling for a fight. You want to be back there with Alpha and Sam."
. . .
A pair of 0005's lumbered into the control center. They came quietly to a halt, awaiting instructions.
"Centurion, what have our scouts discovered?" Alpha had abandoned the high throne from which she had customarily received the reports of her soldiers, but in the midst of her entourage of human and cylon advisors, her striking presence still dominated the chamber.
"Our scouts have entered the next system. There are three enemy basestars present."
"Have they launched Raiders?"
"Affirmative."
"Is there a pattern to their activity?"
"Enemy Raiders are scattered throughout the system. They are clustered most strongly around three of the eleven planets. There are large numbers of Raiders above the two innermost worlds. Another force is surveying the planetoids orbiting an outer gas giant. The pattern of their activity leads to one conclusion: they are searching for usable resources."
"Did they react to your presence?"
"Affirmative. One hundred enemy Raiders deviated from their search pattern to approach us. Their intentions were hostile."
"How do you know that their intentions were hostile?"
"They fired missiles at our scouts."
"You can't get much more hostile than that," Luke snickered.
"Did you detect the presence of a resurrection ship," Sam asked.
"There was no vessel in the system matching the description of a resurrection ship."
"Are you sure? Could it have been hidden on the far side of a planet, or behind a moon?"
"We are sure."
"How … how can you be so sure?"
"We looked."
Melania burst out laughing. She would have sworn on a stack of scriptures that there was a trace of irritation in the centurion's metallic voice.
"John would never leave his resurrection ship without an escort," Sam observed, "which means that there's at least one and possibly two more baseships out there that we have to take into account. We are badly outnumbered."
"What are your orders?" The centurion got straight to the point.
"We need better intelligence," Luke suggested, "and I can think of only one way to get it. We need to disable and capture one of Cavil's Raiders, and pick its brain. Centurion, what is the current location of the three baseships?"
"One basestar is orbiting the innermost planet. Two are in the upper atmosphere of the gas giant. What are your orders?"
"We jump into the neighborhood of the second planet and pick a fight," Luke shrugged. "We knock out the FTL's on a Raider, tow it back to the ship, and bug out. We'll leave the Cavils with plenty to think about."
"By your command."
. . .
"They're running," Cavil scoffed in a voice laced with contempt. "But we give chase and no matter where they go, we find them. Why don't they surrender to the inevitable? Why don't they just die?"
"Because they're human," Cavil explained as he adjusted his fedora. He angled the brim so that much of his face was in shadow. "Their fear of death is so all-consuming that they have no choice but to manufacture hope from the slenderest of threads. The species inhabits a universe of its own making—one constructed out of illusions and an exaggerated sense of self-importance."
"And the virus has now spread to our wayward brothers and sisters," Cavil lamented. "Who would have believed that a machine could be so easily corrupted, or that the human obsession with hormonal responses could spread so widely?"
"It is a flaw in our programming," Six admitted. "Rationally, I know that reproduction is a simple biological mechanism encoded into the DNA of every living being, but still …"
"Don't go there," Cavil groaned; "'cause I get enough of this crap from my brother. Pornographic Pete over there is like a broken record."
Cavil nodded in the direction of Cavil, who had taken advantage of the lull in the battle to open one of his favorite magazines to the centerfold. As studies in non-linear geometry went, this one was worth the effort. The model, a bronzed blond, was standing on a beach, with drops of water glistening in her stringy hair. She gazed into the camera with startlingly blue eyes, but what held Cavil's attention were legs that reached for the sky, and a pair of boobs that would put cantaloupes to shame. He barely noticed that she was bereft of clothing.
"He keeps insisting that we should have spared his stable of porn queens 'cause they'd inspire anybody to reproduce. But why anyone would think that a self-respecting machine would be turned on by Ron`chi de Trollope's silicone enhanced mammary glands …"
"Excuse me," Cavil huffed, "but in her last interview Ron`chi vigorously denied resorting to artificial enhancement of her bust line. She claimed to be the victim of lies spread by jealous competitors—one of whom, I might add, was the very Six so favored by one of our older brothers!"
Thump …
Thump …
Thump …
Everyone paused to watch Cavil methodically pound his head against a nearby wall.
"And am I the only one to wonder," Cavil resumed after a decent interval, "whether the modifications that I'm implementing in the programming of our fourth generation Eights will be enough to get the job done? I mean, really, let's face facts … the Eights are many things, but generously endowed is not one of them. If I was an Eight, I'd be seriously pissed at mommy dearest."
Thump …
Thump …
Thump …
"We have their coordinates," Cavil announced as he rushed into the control center. He barely glanced at his elder brother as he headed straight to the central console. It took but a moment to download the information into the stream.
"Did I miss something," he then asked rhetorically. It looked as if Cavil was trying to drive a nail into the wall with his head, but that made little sense. The centurions had much harder heads, and were far better suited for this sort of thing.
"This is pointless," Six protested as she dipped her hand into the flow. "We'll jump in, and Natalie will jump out … she's laughing at us, but you clowns can't see it." Still, she concentrated just hard enough to send the order.
Far below the control room, the glassy-eyed hybrid stared sightlessly into infinity.
"JUMP!"
. . .
"We have entered the upper atmosphere of the second planet," one of the centurions intoned. "What are your orders?"
"Let the attack upon the Raiders commence," Alpha declared. "When we capture one with its brain intact, recall our fighters and jump to the next system."
. . .
"Admiral, we have a new DRADIS contact." Dionysia double checked the transponder code just to be sure. "Sir, it's our resurrection ship; your wife has returned."
Adama's features softened as he scanned the DRADIS overhead, the tension that was his constant companion suddenly draining away. It was only in the moment of her return that he truly understood how much he missed Shelly.
"Admiral," Amy called out from the communications station," "Mrs. Adama wishes to speak with you." The Eight looked at Adama with genuine affection. If anyone had asked her, she would have replied without hesitation that the admiral was her true father, not Saul Tigh.
"I'll take it down here, Amy." Bill picked up the receiver.
"Actual."
"Did you miss me," Shelly laughed.
"Did you go somewhere? I haven't noticed," Bill teased.
"I missed you, too," Shelly sighed.
"Was it me, or my foot rubs?"
"Well, both, if you must know."
"Welcome home, Mrs. Adama; it's good to have you back."
"I'm not there yet. Can you send a Raptor to bring us over?"
"I'll pilot it myself."
"Oh, no, you don't! I want a real pilot, not someone who'll bounce us all over the deck! This baby is not—I repeat, not … going to be born in a Raptor!"
Bill stiffened to attention, and he gripped the phone hard. "How long," he whispered anxiously.
"Any time now; Xena says that we should be thinking in terms of hours rather than days."
"I'll notify Doctor Cottle, and ask him to stand by. You still want to deliver on Galactica?"
"Where else should an Adama be born," Shelly laughed again. "Oh, and find Lee. Creusa is staying with me, so if he wants to see his wife and daughter, Apollo will have to come up to the ship."
"Lee's got a lot on his plate right now. There's an evacuation exercise underway—the most ambitious to date. Why don't you come over in a Heavy Raider," Bill hastily added in an attempt to change the topic. With Shelly about to deliver, the last thing on Caprica that he wanted to do was alarm her.
"I can't," Shelly confessed, the richness of her laughter ringing in her husband's ear. "At this point, I could roll down the ramp, or have a centurion carry me, and both are far too undignified for the cylon representative to the Quorum of the Twelve. I need something less steep to negotiate, although even a Raptor might be something of a challenge."
"How about this for a compromise: I'll come get you, but I'll let Amy do the driving."
"Bill, have you adopted another Eight?"
"What can I say? I'm a soft touch."
"I'm glad. Every day with you is another day on which my kind can learn the meaning of love and compassion from a man with a boundless capacity for both. You are going to make a wonderful father."
"I've missed the goal twice," Bill said with chagrin; "but there's an old saying … 'third time lucky'."
"Bring me home."
"It will be my pleasure, Mrs. Adama."
. . .
Eric blinked hard, willing the stars out of his eyes. This was the first time that he had gone through a jump in the cockpit of a starship, and the sense of disorientation was overpowering. But Six seemed completely unaffected, for which he said a silent prayer of thanks to the One True God.
"We're still alive," he needlessly observed. "Should I be happy, or should I be alarmed that Adama doesn't have a patrol out here?"
"Perhaps a bit of both," Six sadly remarked. She didn't want anything bad to happen to the occupants of New Caprica, human or cylon, so the lack of an advance guard here at the very center of the rift troubled her. The war was obscene, but good people on both sides had reached out to one another, and they were burying the past behind an impenetrable wall of tolerance and understanding. She wished them well.
"I don't want to make a blind jump from inside the nebula," she added. "It will take some time to get clear, but our safest course of action is to run through the rift at sublight speed. And we can use the hours to think about what to do next. We have options … Kobol … Gemenon … or a plunge into the complete unknown. But we do have to choose."
"Gemenon," Eric said without hesitation. "Our children can't very well marry each other … even an ignorant Sagittaron knows that we need a bigger gene pool."
"Children," Six whispered experimentally. An electric sensation surged through her synaptic relays. She had never permitted herself to think that far into the future, but the image of an older Six strolling across the surface of a green world surrounded by her offspring generated feelings that the young Cylon had never experienced before.
"Gemenon," she agreed.
. . .
"DRADIS contact," Six shrieked. They had come out of jump, and the hybrid had instantly started to feed sensor data into the stream. "Multiple contacts … both large and small craft and … and frak! The closest capital ship reads 32 MU's distant, but we've got Raiders crawling all over us and … oh, frak … they're armed with nukes!"
"Launch Raiders," Cavil barked, "and put us on a heading for the nearest capital ship. Arm all missile batteries, and prepare to fire on my mark!"
Cavil hastened to comply with his brother's order, and by the hundreds Raiders began to drop into space.
. . .
"DRADIS contact," Leoben shouted. "Thirty-two MU's … carom 114; they're launching Raiders!"
"Come on … come on," Natalie muttered, frustration already beginning to get the better of her. The data flowing through the stream was confusing, and it was getting worse by the second. The gap between the two fleets was beginning to close, and from both sides more and more Raiders were rushing to fill it. But Natalie ignored them. She was interested only in the small group of Raiders that had been lying in wait, hoping to deliver nuclear death to the enemy basestars before the Cavils could deploy their defenses.
"We have nukes inbound," a Six yelled from the far end of the room.
"Order the Raiders to intercept," Natalie commanded. She walked rapidly to the weapons console and thrust her hand viciously into the stream. This was still Angela's station, and she was betting that the highly aggressive Eight was on top of the tactical situation.
"I want to get out of here," Natalie snarled, "but I also want results! Where are our Raiders?"
"We have a good fix on the lead baseship," Angela said. In the stream, she was concentrating hard—even so battle hardened a veteran was challenged to keep track of sixteen Raiders out of so many hundreds. But it was the sixteen that mattered.
"Two Raiders are inside their defensive perimeter," she crowed.
"Come on … come on," Natalie cursed; "fire the frakkin' nukes! Do it now!"
"Nuclear detonation at 6 MU's," Six reported. "They were targeting the Raiders; we're down sixty birds!"
"The Raiders have fired," Angela screamed. She was on an adrenaline high. "Four clean tracks, all launch points less than 4 MU's from target! The lead basestar is scrambling, but … she's not going to make it!"
"Yes!" Bierns pounded the central console in triumph. At this range, the Raiders couldn't miss. The basestar was road kill.
. . .
"Our fighters have engaged the enemy," the centurion pilot reported. "Is there a particular Raider that you wish us to capture?"
"Oh, good heavens, no," Lucifer replied. The golden-robed IL was sitting in the attack craft's command chair. "No, no, no … they have many bodies but only one mind. Any one of them will do nicely, thank you very much."
"By your command," the pilot acknowledged. He turned their ship onto a new heading, and entered the combat zone. There were almost three hundred of the archaic but still deadly three passenger attack vehicles mixing it up with an enemy force less than half their number. The outcome was, however, by no means a foregone conclusion—not with an enemy baseship less than a jump away and enemy Raiders already fleeing to sound the alarm. It was a race, and Lucifer knew it. They needed to surround, disable, and tow one Raider off the battlefield while leaving its brain intact. It was tricky business, but Lucifer was surrounded by centurions who had done this sort of thing before. In the war against the humans, they had captured many pilots. When tortured, they had always given up the precious information filed away in their fragile skulls.
"Centurion YL-101600783 reports that he has neutralized the FTL's on an enemy craft. He is preparing to take it in tow."
"Oh, excellent work," Lucifer beamed, his twin red eyes glowing with satisfaction. "Please inform centurion YL-101600783 that I am pleased with his efforts, and for this outstanding display of initiative am promoting him to the rank of chief centurion. Order a full squadron to surround the Raider, and escort it back to our ship."
"By your command … and may I suggest that we begin our withdrawal?"
"Centurion, you disappoint me. Should we not bask in our moment of triumph?"
"If you look out the window to your left, you will see a basestar heading straight for us. It is not ours."
"Oh, my," Lucifer wailed, "this is most distressing! Why couldn't they have waited a few minutes more?"
"Would you like me to ask them?"
"No, no, no; centurion, change course instantly. Get us the Hell out of here!"
. . .
"Detecting multiple detonations on the lead baseship," Angela exclaimed. "It's working! The baseship is coming apart!"
"Three, recall the Raiders." Natalie's look was savage. "Let's get out of here while we're ahead!"
. . .
A shock wave washed through the stream as the hybrid digested the fact that the trailing dorsal arm was no longer there. Cavil recoiled, but he knew that the ship was still operational.
"Cycle the missile batteries," he screamed. "I want those bastards, and I want them now!"
"Oh, frak," Six whispered as the control room vanished into a field of bright light. Her consciousness, set free from a body that had already been reduced to its constituent atoms, hurled along a crimson corridor. She had done this before, the first time when her struggle with Kara Thrace inside the Delphi museum had ended so unexpectedly. Now, she just had time to wonder how long it would take to get the goo out of her hair.
. . .
"This is so awkward," Shelly sighed. I want to hold you- Callista wants me to hold you- but my body refuses to cooperate."
"Have I ever told you that you are the most beautiful woman I have ever known?" Bill Adama looked at his wife with something approaching awe. Shelly was just so gods damned beautiful!
"Not recently," Shelly frowned, "but then, it's been a long time since I felt beautiful. What I feel like is a beach ball with arms and legs glued into place. Nothing's working very well."
"You're glowing," Bill said, "and it's not just a trick of the light. I know my eyes aren't what they used to be, but from where I'm sitting, you've never looked more beautiful."
In the cockpit, Amy smiled. Raptors were small and cramped, and she could not help but here every word the Adamas exchanged.
"I have the ball," Amy said as she acknowledged the LSO's standard approach order. "Admiral, I will have you on the deck in less than two minutes."
This Eight was no Boomer. She was a good pilot, and her approach and landing were flawless. She put the tiny ship on the deck, and within moments they were descending into the cavernous interior of Galactica's portside hangar deck.
Bill got up first, helped Shelly to her feet, and then steadied her as she began to descend the ramp.
Halfway down the ramp, Shelly suddenly stopped. Behind her, Amy's eyes went wide as she watched the puddle of amniotic fluid trickle down the ramp from beneath Shelly's feet.
"This was a very close call," the Six told her husband. Bill didn't understand what she meant until he looked down as well. He wrapped his arm around Shelly to steady her, and whispered into her ear.
"I have never loved anyone as much as I love you in this moment." He meant every word of it. "We need to get you to sickbay."
"You'll get no argument from me," Shelly said with a half-hearted grin. She knew that going into labor was never any fun, for cylon or human. "Our daughter wants to be born!"