Battlestar Galactica-03-Resurrection Read online

  A deadly quiet settled over the bridge, and Cain, when he spoke again, did so with great effort to contain the rage within him. "We shall see about that, Apollo. As senior commander and—pardon my bluntness—a more skilled battlefield tactician, I believe the council will find me a more reliable and competent choice for supreme commander of the fleet." It was out in the open, now. It was what Cain had intended to say, all along. "You're a good man, Apollo, and I believe you have in you the makings of a great Warrior, but experience must lead. I tell you this to your face, Apollo: I will place my case before the council, as soon as possible."

  The screen went blank. A good strategist knew when to fight his battles and when to make his retreat, and Cain was a good tactician.

  "Tigh patted his old friend on the shoulder, and, although it pained him to say it, warned Apollo, "The council will definitely have leanings in Cain's direction. He's quite a lot like your father, and the people had great faith in him. Just so you know what to expect."

  Of course they would; of course. Still, to hear it so flatly put___

  Apollo turned away from the blank, gray screen in whose glass he saw his own image reflected, and looked to Athena, wondering just how bad it really was. She didn't look away; at least she could still stand to meet his gaze, but Apollo could not read much meaning into it. In the past, they'd had many disagreements, and they held different opinions on just about everything, but they were blood; they were Adama's children, after all, and their hearts held a deep and profound love for the other. But more than that, they shared a unique spiritual bond that kept growing and evolving, one which Apollo felt sure must hold a key to unfolding revelations about the history—and the future—of their people. It had to mean something. Either all of it mattered or none of it did, and Apollo refused to believe that.

  "He may be right, you know," Athena finally offered, and hugged herself. "Many more people may die, and many more ships may be lost if we don't soon find a habitable planet capable of sustaining us. But, whether he's right or you are—" She shook her head, and added, "I just don't trust Cain's intentions."

  "Neither course is without risk," Apollo admitted. "But I believe Cain's path leads to suicide." Still, on what did he base this pronouncement? Just because Cain was less about faith than blood and thunder did not in itself make him wrong. It was a fine line to walk, faith, knowing when the voice that told you things was the voice of divine intervention, and when it was your own wishful thinking.

  "Nevertheless, Apollo, he will make a powerful case before the council," Tigh warned him. "You will not have an easy time of it, swaying them over to your side, when most of them already believe as Cain does. And, to be frank, Commander Cain's record—"

  "Cain's record, Cain's record," Apollo growled, and threw his hands up in the air. "Gods! Does everyone here let the past blind them?" He turned to Athena, and the anger was already gone, and in its place was the look of a man skirting the edge of some great and grand disaster. "I'm asking you for your support, Athena, Tigh—I'm going to need it, if I'm going to have any hope of blocking Cain's appointment."

  "And you shall have it, Apollo," Athena promised.

  "Of course," Tigh agreed. "But even with our support—" It wasn't spoken, but Apollo thought what Tigh was really saying was, Why would we want to block Cain's appointment?

  Apollo nodded. "I understand," he said. "And thank you, both of you, for your support. I'll do my best to justify it."

  He turned and walked from the bridge, followed by Gar'Tokk. Apollo had built up his defenses to guard his heart against the hard world in which he had to live, to ward off the blows of fate thrown at him by a sometimes seemingly indifferent universe, but there was no defense for this. How does one guard against simple kindness?

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE HEART of the ship—the true heart—was not the bridge or the mighty engines that propelled it through the void, but its sanctuary.

  Once, it had been Adama's, his place of quiet, the refuge he sought when the weight of all the worlds threatened to crush his spirit and break his heart. Apollo had known of its existence for several yahren, but until this moment, he had perhaps never understood completely the need for such a place.

  The room itself was just a room, not blessed with any magical properties, except that it was where Apollo felt closest to his father, and there was magic in that. Star charts, drawn from legend, and etchings of galaxies that unwound like clocksprings, filled the otherwise cold and gleaming, featureless walls. Occupying the center of the room stood a tall, high-backed chair of ancient wood, one of the few such pieces still in existence among the entire fleet.

  Directly opposite this antique seat was a computer that was even older, perhaps by as much as five centuries, and still it was more advanced than the rest of the electronic intelligence aboard the Galactica or any of the other ships in the fleet. Its one red eye light stared back at Apollo, comforting and disquieting all at once.

  The computer was almost organic in its design, with sides that curved with a graceful flow, upward and outward. It always made Apollo think of an old friend waiting with opened arms to receive the careworn traveler. After all, the computer did convey Adama's final holographic recording to Apollo after the old man's death, like some kind of binary seance.

  Apollo hoped, foolishly, he knew, there might be another message from his father hidden away in cold logic chips, waiting for the right moment to play. Well, if that were true, this would be that moment; he could use his father's level-headed wisdom now.

  He held the Star of Kobol in his hands, tracing his thumbs over its frictionless surface, thinking nothing as best he could, losing himself, his individuality, in the whorls of light that raced and eddied across the stone, like strange, deep-sea marine life.

  Apollo slowed his breathing, and his heart rate dropped correspondingly.

  He could feel himself slipping away, his mind slipping free of its moorings, no longer part of anything and thus, becoming a part of everything.

  For a moment, the commander allowed his consciousness to brush once more Starbuck's slumbering mind, to see if there had been any change, any response to his earlier efforts to jumpstart his old friend's neural activity, but there was nothing. In this state of elevated consciousness, Apollo's emotions were left behind like so much detritus, and yet he felt a momentary, impossible stab of disappointment.

  Apollo moved on.

  Dreamwalking, as Apollo sometimes called this expansion of consciousness, was not just a variant of the Kobollians' telepathic abilities, but part of the meditation stage that allowed the mind to address matters of great importance without the body's wasteful clutter of emotion and worry and illness to act as an impediment while seeking a solution. It was a way of seeing things whole, and fresh.

  One step removed from the immediacy of his own personal involvement, Apollo could grasp the entire situation, rather than grappling with it a piece at a time, as they had all been doing. The threat from Commander Cain to have Apollo replaced as supreme commander of the fleet was not the whole of the dilemma, although it was a big enough part of it to cause Apollo to block out the rest of the picture.

  Until now.

  Now, his subconscious mind could speak directly to his consciousness and show him the concerns that hadn't quite found their way to the surface, like artifacts buried in the ground. Trying to haul these objects to the surface had only resulted in broken corners; but now, his subconscious allowed them to float, complete and unbroken, into the light of analytical clarity, and Apollo wasn't sure he liked what he saw. Not a bit.

  It was not enough to assume the Cylons were simply following the fleet; a more immediate concern was, how could the Cylons be following them in such great numbers? Their increasing presence, coupled with their recent astonishing, fluidly evolving technological advancements, was the real enigma. Even allowing for Cylon outposts in other quadrants, it would still take time for warships dispatched from these planets or basestars to join t
he armada trailing the fleet. And yet, for all the Cylon Raiders the colonial Warriors dispatched, their numbers did not seem to remain diminished for long. It was as if the Cylons had found some way of circumventing space travel and simply teleporting any number of replacement Raiders into the vicinity.

  Nor could the Chitain alliance with the Cylons be so easily dismissed. Their defeat at the hands of the humans and their growing hatred for them would surely cause them to seek revenge. Apollo could understand the Cylons' temporary relationship with the Chitain, but it was unlike the xenophobic Cylons to allow another race to operate on an equal basis with them. From what Apollo could discern, the Chitain would never allow themselves to be subservient to the Cylons; therefore, the alliance was one of equals, not commanders and troops.

  If this were true, and Apollo could sense it was, would the Cylons share whatever seeming teleportation technology they possessed with the Chitain?

  There was something there, something vast and terrible that, even in his holistic state, Apollo could not quite completely grasp.

  Something vast…

  Vast—Apollo blinked, allowing the image to come; it all but clawed its way into his brain, and he could not have resisted it for long.

  A vast Cylon armada filled his vision, countless warships, endless and numberless as grains of sand, swooped and dived, firing their deadly lasers, filling the darkness with lightning.

  Aboard one of the colonial ships, the blasts from the Cylon Raiders took their toll and the hull's integrity failed. Civilians were killed in the fiery blast; danger lights flashed; the living and the dead were sucked into the cold vacuum of space by explosive decompression. And all without a sound.

  Apollo wasn't sure if it was a blessing or a curse that his vision was silent. He couldn't hear the screaming, but then, to watch people die so horribly and in such eerie quiet—

  "Oh, Gods of Kobol," he whispered, and turned his head away. As if that could shut out the frightening images inside his own mind.

  The void was littered with debris from destroyed Vipers and Raiders, bodies of those who had been torn out of the fleet ships by the powerful Cylon weaponry, and still the Raiders came.

  But beyond them—

  Looming like a planet of cold steel, the biggest Cylon basestar Apollo had ever seen.

  And then, thankfully, mercifully, it was over, and Apollo was staring at the face of Baltar in place of the horrifying vision.

  It took Apollo a long and confused moment to realize it was not Baltar standing before him, but his holographic image, projected by the red eye of the computer station opposite Apollo's chair.

  "—require a moment of your time, Commander," the holographic Baltar was saying, in oozing, unctuous tones. "I wouldn't dream of imposing, Commander Apollo, only I believe I have some information that may prove vital to our continued survival in light of our less-than-envious predicament—"

  "Where are you?" Apollo interrupted, curtly. He was really not in the mood for this.

  "Yes, of course," Baltar answered, contritely. "At the moment, I'm in the science labs with Dr. Salik."

  "Apollo, out," he said, and ended the holographic transmission. He sat with his palms on the heavy wooden arms of the great, wooden chair, and glanced idly down; his fingers gripped the ends of the arm rests and his knuckles were white and bloodless, as if this was all that kept him from being hurled into the void. The commander forced his hands to slowly unclench, and as he did, he noticed something he hadn't before: there were countless little scratches in the surface of the wood, crossing and crisscrossing, all of them about the size of, say, a man's thumbnail.

  "Father," he whispered, tracing one of the tiny nicks with the ball of his finger.

  It was easy to imagine Adama retreating here to contemplate some great quandry that needed clear-headed solution, and, as he allowed his mind to empty of clutter, perhaps he absently raked the horn of his thumbnail back and forth along the groove of the wood, over time wearing away the dark luster of the varnish, leaving his own mark in its place.

  Apollo didn't know why, but this remnant of Adama, this emotional hieroglyph, only made his father seem more real to him, more human.

  As he left the sanctuary, Apollo was smiling.

  Outside Apollo's chambers, Gar'Tokk stood silent guard duty, and whatever thoughts he thought were his alone. He was not one to shed light on his own inner landscape for benefit of anyone else; it was dark, but he knew his way around.

  Apollo often thought the Borellian Noman was more like Apollo, himself, than Gar'Tokk realized. As the commander left his chambers, Gar'Tokk fell into step beside him, asking no questions. It was not his place to ask, only obey.

  At first, Gar'Tokk's constant presence had disconcerted Apollo, but he had grown, not just accustomed to it, but to almost enjoy it. He wanted to think Gar'Tokk considered him a friend now, as well, but wondered if the Noman's sense of duty permitted him to think in such terms.

  "Don't you wonder where we're going?" Apollo asked, glancing sidelong at his grim bodyguard. "I mean, ever?"

  Gar'Tokk shrugged with a downturn tug of the corners of his mouth. "It matters not," he said. "Wherever you go is where I follow."

  "Even if you know I'm heading into a suicidal situation?" the Commander asked. This was something he and Gar'Tokk had not discussed before, and he was genuinely curious as to how far the Noman's debt of honor extended. "If you knew that, by following me, you'd surely die, too?"

  Gar'Tokk arched a thick eyebrow, clearly puzzled by the question. "Of course," he said, simply. "It is my duty." After a pause, the Noman asked, "Is that where we're headed now?"

  Apollo laughed, the sound of it catching them both by surprise. "Whoever would have known Gar'Tokk had a sense of humor?" Apollo said, catching his breath. "I was just wondering where your debt to me ended, that's all," he explained.

  "Until my shame has been erased, I will always be in debt to you," Gar'Tokk answered, his thick neck lowering his broad head until his chin almost—but not quite—touched his chest. "Until then, my life is yours."

  Apollo had to look away; it was difficult enough to look upon another man's pain, but almost impossible to endure that sight, knowing that he, himself, was the cause of it. He had only meant to defeat the leader of the Nomen to ensure their loyalty to Apollo; he had not meant to publicly humiliate Gar'Tokk or win his servitude. As Apollo was learning from his dreamwalks, events overlapped and interlocked so many other events, like stones in an ancient wall, that it was impossible to remove one and not cause the whole thing to collapse into rubble. Endings overlapped beginnings. He was also learning things happened for a reason, even if that reason was not always readily apparent, so he accepted that GarTokk's presence in his life had a purpose, but still… It was a coldhearted fate that furthered its own blind end at the cost of a decent man's pride.

  Doctor Salik usually had a dozen or more experiments running at once, all of them totally unrelated and each of them requiring his full attention, but as Apollo entered the science lab, he was surprised to see Salik, standing still at a work bench, chatting with Baltar.

  No; that wasn't quite true, Apollo saw as he came a little nearer. Salik was busily scribbling down notes on a pad, long strands or theoretical equations, the way some people scratched meaningless shapes and symbols as a distraction. Baltar sat facing the door and saw Apollo and Gar'Tokk enter over Salik's shoulder. He raised his eyebrows by way of greeting.

  "Ahh, Commander, prompt as ever," Baltar said, smiling expansively. Salik turned and greeted Apollo warmly.

  "What's so important, Baltar?" Apollo asked.

  At Apollo's side, Gar'Tokk let his gaze roam around the science lab, taking no particular notice of any one thing, missing nothing.

  "And, ever to the point," Baltar muttered. He stood, stepped forward, a smile stitched to his face. "It, therefore, behooves me to respond in kind."

  Apollo glanced at Salik; the scientist nodded, said, "You might want to hear him ou
t, Commander. What he has to say… I think it could be very important." He held Apollo's gaze a moment, then looked at the reason they were all gathered here. Apollo's eyes followed Salik's, fixed on the seemingly imperturbable traitor to the entire human race.

  "You've got my attention," Apollo informed Baltar. "How long you keep it is up to you."

  "Commander, you are making a grave error in proceeding to Kirasolia," Baltar said. "An error fraught with almost certainly fatal consequences."

  Apollo sighed impatiently, his hands resting on his hips. "And you're going to enlighten me as to the nature of my failings, I suppose?" You, and everyone else.

  Baltar inclined his head to indicate he would. "Whatever merits your plan to stop at Kirasolia may—or may not-have, is not the issue," Baltar said.

  "It isn't?" Apollo asked. It was more a declaration than a question.

  Baltar shook his head. He was serious now; Apollo thought he might also have been a little frightened. "No," he said. "Think, Commander. The Cylons had the holocube before you. They know of Kirasolia, they knew of it before you did. They will be waiting for us. Think about it, Apollo: the Cylon fleet behind us, somewhere… herding us straight into the trap they set."

  And there it was. That was exactly the thought that tickled the back of Apollo's mind, the one that refused to coalesce entirely. Still… this was Baltar, the man who betrayed the entire human race to the Cylons, who lived among their human enemies for several yahren until a reversal of fortune forced him back into the society of other colonials. He might be telling the truth… but then again, he might be in league with the Cylons or the demonic Count Iblis, trying once more to curry their favor. Endings and beginnings, like a daggit chasing its own tail.

  "I see," Apollo said. "And, I take it you've got the solution to this little quandry we find ourselves in?"

  "I'm not at all sure I care for your tone, Commander," Baltar said, stiffly; "but, given our past history, I suppose it's understandable, if unfortunate. And in answer to your question, yes, I believe I do have an alternative proposal. I have the coordinates of another, supposedly habitable planet-"