CHAPTER EIGHT

Croft:

Never seen it to fail. Everybody on a ship gets at least a little twitchy in those agonizing moments of waiting to launch. This shuttle’s no exception. Wolfe’s shifting his legs like there’s still chains attached to them. Leda keeps fooling with a breather, examining its straps like she’s never going to get the hang of them. Thane sits unmoving and straight. He looks calm. But Thane only gets that stiff just before he’s ready to set an explosion, or to explode emotionally.

The shuttle is so crammed with gear it’s hard to move around the compartment. I don’t know what’s in Adama’s mind sending down this much junk, we’ll never use half of it. I told him about traveling light. He just nodded like he understood. Guys like him always nod, then go by the book anyway.

The gun crew, who were down in the hold checking out the armored snow-ram vehicle we’re going to use on the planet’s surface, stumble into our compartment like a bunch of drunks just back from a spree. Vickers trips over Thane’s feet and sprawls against Wolfe’s barrel chest like a swan out to achieve duckling status. Thane snarls at him as Wolfe pushes him away:

“Watch who you’re stepping on.”

Vickers regains his balance and growls:

“Move your feet.”

Thane gives him a disdainful look but doesn’t move a millimeter. Sergeant Haals bursts into the compartment, his arms clutching a small arsenal. None of these guys believes in traveling light, it seems.

“Clear the way,” Haals says, “coming through.”

“Not over me,” Thane says.

“Out of the way,” Haals says. He hands his weaponry to Voight and grabs Thane by his shoulder harness. I consider interceding, decide against it. Let them get all the hostility out now. We’ve got to work as a team later.

“Take your hands off,” Thane says quietly.

Vickers pipes up:

“Listen, you grid-rat, when a gunner tells you to clear the way, you move your carcass on the double!”

I knew Vickers’d be real trouble. I’m going to have to get into this mess. Wolfe’s already sprung up to back Thane’s moves.

“Did you say grid-rat?” Wolfe shouts.

Turning toward Wolfe, Vickers—the idiot—says:

“Barge-louse would be more like it.”

Wolfe slams Vickers into the nearest wall. For a moment it looks like the gunner is going to go on clear through the metal. In rushing to hold back Wolfe, I miss Thane’s move to his shirt pocket. Out of the corner of my eye I can see him removing a small capsule. I should’ve known. No matter where he is, Thane always manages to find a supply of chemical commodities. He breaks the ampule under Vickers’ nose. Vickers’ head jolts backward and his body goes limp. Eyes glazed, he collapses to the floor. Leda seizes Thane’s hand as he thrusts the capsule even closer to Vickers’ face. Another dose and the gunner’s dead.

“You fool!” Leda whispers. “Our only chance to escape is on the surface.” So that’s her game. And she looks at me like I’m obviously going to agree to the escape. She turns back to Thane, whispers: “You want to get us thrown back to the grids?”

“No one steps on me,” Thane says calmly, his hands fingering his shirt pocket as if he’s ready to draw out another killer capsule. I want to tell him to lay off the chemicals, but the noise of a scuffle behind me stops the words in my throat. Turning around, I see that Wolfe is now fighting Haals. Both can just barely swing a punch in this gear-filled compartment. On the other side of them, apparently attracted by all the noise, the three Galactica officers rush into the compartment.

“Haals! Wolfe!” Apollo shouts. “Break it off!”

I decide I better show some command-level initiative by backing up Apollo’s play.

“Wolfe! Back off!”

Reluctantly Haals and Wolfe separate. Both of them look ready to go at it again in a minute. It’s a fight that, under the proper conditions and with the proper space, I’d like to see. Haals looks big enough and tough enough to give Wolfe a good ride, though usually nobody beats Wolfe. I beat him once. That was in about five fights.

“How is he?” Apollo asks Leda, who’s now stroking Vickers’ throat with her strong but thin-fingered hands, helping him to breathe while Thane’s chemical dosage is still in effect.

“He’s all right. It’s a short-span paralysis.”

She’s talking gently to Apollo. Why? Because she’s attracted to him? Or because she wants him lulled so that she can put her escape plan into operation? Boomer gently removes a small electronic pack out of Thane’s other jacket pocket. Delicately he holds it up for Apollo to see.

“Look at this.”

Thane makes no move toward Boomer, but instead states calmly:

“Don’t touch the switch. It’s a hand mine.”

You can see on Boomer’s face he has no intention of touching the switch.

“You don’t use the stuff on your own troops,” Apollo says angrily.

Wolfe moves to Thane’s side. They make a formidable pair: a thick-chested roughneck who’d be a giant if not for his height and the cool lean specter with death traps concealed all over his body.

“We’re not barge-lice,” Wolfe growls.

“Or grid-rats,” Thane says softly, but with menace.

“Oh yes we are,” I say, stepping between them and Apollo. “Lice and rats. Better yet, just bodies. We were picked for this drop because we’re expendable.”

“Nobody’s expendable,” Apollo says. I resist commenting, no, you probably aren’t—as the commander’s son you’ve probably already mapped a way out. Actually, Apollo’s presence is comforting. So long as he’s with us, and alive, we can be sure Adama’ll dispatch a rescue force. Anything happens to him, the commander’s not likely even to drop us rations. “You were picked,” Apollo continues, “by a computer that didn’t give an electronic damn about grid-barges, rats, lice, or warriors.” Well, at least he’s got us all neatly classified. “You’re here to do a job on the Cylons”—he hands Thane back his kit; Thane replaces it in his pocket—“and not on each other. Stow your gear. And fasten your harness. We’re on countdown.”

A comforting rumble goes through the ship as we near launch point.