CHAPTER TEN

Croft:

During the disoriented moment after the crash, I see stars and fire. That’s dreadfully wrong, I tell myself. Doesn’t jibe with the cold in my bones. I feel like a statue of ice. A statue to what? To my own stupidity at leaving my rotten-smelling, claustrophobic, painful—but warm, always warm—cell aboard the prison ship? I’ve felt cold before, even cold this intense. I’ve been on mountains whose violent cold winds nearly blew me away. Been inside a snow pile from an avalanche that took me centons to dig out of. Experienced wet-cold that caused cracks in my clothing, made ropes split unexpectedly, left corpses whose eyes still expressed a live disbelief in their own mortality.

When I come to, all I can see first is snow whipping around the passenger cabin. The temperature’s dropped so fast I can’t work the breather right. My eyes adjust and some of the snow subsides. We’re all entangled. Supplies have tumbled upon us, we’ve tumbled upon each other.

Light. Apollo has a working lantern in his hand. The lamp shines on a gaping rent in the fuselage of the ship. Outside, a dense blizzard is howling around us. I don’t want to go out there. I’ll freeze to death here. Still, I want to choose here.

Starbuck crawls out of the front end of the ship, a thin trickle of blood seeping from a wound on his scalp.

“Just the kind of landing you dreamed of,” he says. “No instruments, no engines, no field—”

Boomer, crawling out behind him and immediately standing up, says:

“Grab a light.”

Starbuck staggers to his feet, grabs a light, and mutters:

“You did a great job, Starbuck, mastering an out-of-control shuttle, keeping us from crashing head-on. You’re one fine pilot—”

“When you’re through feeling unappreciated here,” Apollo interrupts, “help check the wounded. We lost half the ship back there.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

Apollo is being tough. Taking charge. I don’t know how much of him taking charge I’m going to be able to stand.

Boomer claps a hand on Starbuck’s shoulder and says:

“Don’t feel too bad. Anyone else would have lost it all.”

“Don’t worry, I—” Starbuck says as he shoots an angry glance at his captain. I gather that Starbuck doesn’t always see eye to eye with Apollo. “I’ll be all right, Boomer.”

Pushing a couple of heavy cartons aside, I make my way toward the rear of the shuttle, where I see what a real wreck looks like. Metal that used to be separated by intervening materiel is now securely interlocked. The materiel itself is unrecognizably crushed. Wolfe is leaning over Voight. Apollo moves toward them.

“How is he?” he asks Wolfe.

Wolfe looks for a moment like it’s an imposition for him to answer any question, then he says:

“Just a rap on the head. He’ll come around in half a centon.”

“Apollo,” Leda says from the other side of the passenger cabin. She’s crouched over Vickers. “I can help them if you can find my case.”

Apollo moves off, his eyes scanning the wreckage. I am about to join in the search, but I notice an odd body movement from Wolfe. He leans just slightly toward Voight’s body, his hand grabs at something which he secrets in his parka, then he swaggers away. I decide to check Voight. The flap of his laser holster is unsnapped, the weapon is missing. Wolfe may have the pistol, then. Maybe not, but it’s a darn good guess. I can’t take it away from him. With Wolfe’s volatile temper, I can’t tell anybody he’s got it either. If he has it, it’ll be out and firing at any of us he happens to get mad at. I’ll just have to sit tight on the information, see what I can do about Wolfe later.

Apollo is helping Leda. He’s snatched the medical case from beneath a pile of debris.

“What’s it look like?” he asks her.

“Broken arm and a couple of ribs.” Her voice is cool and businesslike now. That’s what I like about Leda, one of the things I loved once, perhaps love still. No matter what she feels about any of us, she can be trusted to do her job well. “Possible internal injuries.” She looks around at the rest of us. “Anyone else hurt?”

“I am,” Thane says softly.

She moves quickly to Thane’s side.

“What’s your problem?” she says, looking into her case.

Thane grins maliciously, edges his lean body toward hers, whispers just loudly enough so the rest of us can hear:

“I’m lonely.”

That’s Thane, all right. Even his little jokes come out with icicles hanging all over them. Leda, clearly furious with him, grabs her case and moves off, saying:

“Stay out of my way. I have work to do.”

She settles down beside Vickers again.

“Don’t waste your time on him,” Thane says. “We’ll have to leave him behind to die anyway.”

Always the humanitarian, Thane. This time he arouses the ire of Apollo, who shouts:

“We’re not leaving anyone behind!”

Thane looks coldly at Apollo. It’s the look he gets just before he’s ready to spring.

“We’ll see, Captain. We’ll see.”

Apollo, busy seeing to Voight, doesn’t hear Thane. I wish I hadn’t. Thane’s all coiled up inside. If that tension gets released, I don’t know if I can handle it.

Boomer, directing his light toward another gash in the side of the shuttle, reports to Apollo:

“It isn’t good. She’ll never fly again.”

Great!

“Worse,” Apollo comments, “she can’t sustain life inside. All of her systems are purged.”

Terrific, even better!

“Looking on the brighter side,” Boomer says, “I think the snow-ram’s operable.”

“Let’s get her out fast, then, so we can move the wounded into her.”

Apollo takes a step toward the gash. Outside, the sound of a far-off aircraft becomes louder quickly. Apollo tries to look out the opening. The roar grows to a deafening scream as a Cylon fighter flies over us.

“He’ll be back!” Apollo cries. “We better get everyone out of the shuttle. Boomer, Croft, help me get the snow-ram.”

The three of us crawl into the hold containing the snow-ram vehicle. Apollo climbs into it, and starts throwing switches. As I climb into the other side, I am startled out of my wits by a low growl. Apollo whirls in his seat and shines his light toward the rear of the snow-ram. A child and a furry animal crouch there, huddled into a corner, obviously on the verge of becoming one youthful and one furry icicle.

“Boxey!” Apollo shouts, amazed. Apparently he knows the kid. Unless Boxey’s the animal. The child crawls forward, attempts a smile that turns out painfully weak.

“Muffit wanted to see snow,” he says. Muffit must be the animal. It sidles to the boy’s side. It’s not an animal. It’s some sort of droid version of an animal. A copy of a daggit, I think, though I haven’t seen a daggit since God knows when.

Apollo looks ready to bawl out the kid, but he reacts instead to the obvious fact that the kid is terribly cold and scared.

“Come here, son,” Apollo says softly, affectionately. Did I hear right? The kid is Apollo’s son? That’s just perfect.

The kid hugs Apollo. Apollo hugs back. Cozy.

“I’m sorry,” the kid says.

“It’s all right,” Apollo says soothingly. “It’s all right.”

I resist saying maybe it’s all right with you, but what about the rest of us? The droid must be a mind reader. He looks my way and growls again.

I don’t like this setup and I don’t like the way it’s going. Wolfe may have a gun, Thane is ready to cut throats, Leda—who knows what ever goes on in Leda’s head? Apollo’s trying to assert command over a bunch to whom command is a threat. We have no shuttle to return to the Galactica in. A Cylon fighter plane may be returning at any moment. The captain’s kid is a stowaway. I’ve got to put up with his mechanical pet growling meanly at me. There’s snow everywhere and it’s colder than a Scorpion slumlord. We’re expected to climb a mountain that might not even have a rock you can cling to without sliding off, knock off a weapon that can destroy a whole fleet, escape with our teeth intact. Nope, I don’t like this setup one bit, and it’s beginning to look like it’s going to have to be me who makes it function at all.