CHAPTER

7

 

 

“Drive the crazy car at pildani mufallan dar! Dalabren bay heslan duk!”

The voice in Tyrol’s earpiece made no sense, but he spared no time thinking about it. The scoop loader’s bucket, trailing shreds of green goop, was only a few yards away and closing. Tyrol’s heart jumped into his throat and his stomach clenched in fear. He scrambled to his feet, sending the wheeled creeper flying. No time to jump sideways—the bucket would clip him. Without hesitating further, he jumped straight up. The teeth of the bucket’s lower edge gouged the air where Tyrol’s shins had been. Tyrol grabbed the upper teeth with both hands. The metal bit into his palms and pain wrenched his shoulders as the loader’s forward momentum jerked his upper body backward. His lower body swung forward like a pendulum. He barely managed to bring his legs up so his feet slammed the back of the bucket instead of his knees. The loader motor growled like an angry bear. People shouted in his earpiece, but he was too busy to pay attention to what they were saying.

The loader rumbled across the deck plates, with Tyrol still clinging to the slimy bucket. The driver continued to shout incoherently. His movements were jerky, and neither of his hands touched the steering wheel. A glance over his shoulder showed that the loader was heading straight for the main conveyer belt. Scoops of blue-green goop continued to move down the enormous belt with mechanical unconcern. In a few seconds, he would be crushed.

“Turn!” Tyrol yelled at the driver. “Turn, you bastard!”

“Beelo! Frakking muzzle the dog’s myl feldan mool!”

What the hell? Didn’t matter. He wasn’t turning. That mattered. Tyrol swung his body sideways, trying to get his foot up to the teeth lining the top of the bucket. He missed, swung again, and managed to hook an ankle. His hands hurt like hell. A metal tooth slashed the side of his shin with burning pain. The conveyer belt was barely six yards away. Tyrol heaved himself up, cleared the upper teeth, and rolled across the top of the bucket just as it crashed into the belt. The noise smashed through him, and he bounced across the bucket to fetch up against the hydraulic pistons that moved the scoop up and down. Algae flew in all directions, splattering every surface in blue-green goop. The belt screamed like a thousand frightened horses and came to a stop.

Everything fell quiet. Tyrol clung to a piston, trying without success to catch his breath. He was breathing all right but felt like he wasn’t getting any air. His vision clouded. At last he realized it was because his breathing mask had been knocked slightly askew, breaking the seal. He braced himself against the bucket and reseated the mask. Air filled his lungs, sweetly plastic. Then several sets of hands grabbed him and hauled him gently down from his strange position on the scoop loader.

“You all right, Chief?” demanded Captain Demeter. She and several other workers were standing shin-deep in goop. “Frak, we thought you were a goner. How do you feel?”

Tyrol checked. Pounding heart, wavery vision, vague feeling of nausea, burning shin, aching hands. Nothing life-threatening, though he wanted a stiff drink, something better than the stuff he concocted at his own still. He tried to put weight on his injured leg and yelped. Demeter helped him sit, then carefully rolled up his trouser leg, bringing a fresh onslaught of pain. Tyrol gritted his teeth at the sight of the dirty, bleeding gash. Someone ran up with a first aid kit, and Demeter pressed a bandage against the wound. It hurt.

“This will control the bleeding,” she said. “Hold it there.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, obeying. “What the hell happened?”

“No idea,” said Jim, the other person who had helped Tyrol clear of the loader. “Hyksos up there just went crazy.”

Tyrol looked up at the drivers seat. Two men were dragging Hyksos from his chair. The man appeared to be unconscious, though he twitched strangely Demeter had him hauled to a clear section of floor and bent over him. He continued to twitch.

“No obvious injuries,” Demeter said. “Our sickbay can handle basic problems, but this looks seriously strange. I think we’d better call a shuttle and have Cottle get a look at both of you on the Galactica.”

 

“It’s not like you to hide in your lab, Gaius.”

“I’m not hiding.”

“Really? You haven’t left this room ever since the lecture. Or rather, since the concert. Scared, Gaius?”

“Of course not!”

Number Six ran a long, cool finger down the bridge of Gaius Baltar’s nose and gave him one of her rare playful smiles. “You can’t lie to me, Gaius. I know you too well.”

“You think I’m afraid,” Gaius snarled. He typed madly at a computer terminal in an attempt to ignore the lush blond woman who had draped herself over the arm of his chair. “You think I’m scared to go out there because people will laugh at my failed—yes, failed—lecture. Well, I’m not. I’m a bloody celebrity. There is always some lackwit who finds humor in the trials and tribulations of the famous. It’s part of the price of fame, and I’ve been dealing with it for years. I’m not afraid.”

“Absolutely, Gaius.” Number Six got up and stretched like a lazy tiger. Her stunning red dress clashed with the harsh light and utilitarian machinery of the lab. “You’re not afraid of public humiliation, that much is obvious.”

“Good.” Type type type. “I’m glad we agree on something. If you don’t mind, I need to finish these resource-use projections, now that we have algae coming in.”

“You’re not afraid of public humiliation,” Number Six repeated. “You’re afraid of the opposite.”

A small ripple of doubt slipped down Gaius’ spine. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re afraid,” Number Six said, “that no one will notice you at all.”

Gaius stopped typing.

“Peter Attis, grabbing all the attention,” Number Six continued. “It isn’t fair, Gaius. He hasn’t your mind. Your brilliance shines like a nova, and his is—”

“Dark matter,” Gaius muttered. “Black and omnipresent.” He straightened in his chair. “But I’m not afraid of him—or of being ignored.”

“Then prove it,” Six offered reasonably. “Go for a walk. I hear sickbay’s a terribly interesting place this time of year.”

“Is it?” Gaius muttered. “Look, I have no intention of…”

But she was gone.

Gaius set his mouth and went back to typing, trying to ignore the knots in his stomach. She was not always right. She had nothing better to do than bait him. But gods, she was so beautiful—and completely his. A hidden flower with soft petals no one else could touch. And she had given him good advice. Plenty of times. Hell, back on Caprica she had saved his life.

He glanced at the door, then back at the screen. His resolve firmed. Gaius Baltar was not a puppet for Number Six to jerk around, not a fly caught in Six’s web. He was himself, his own man.

Keys continued to clatter under his hands. “You don’t own me,” he said aloud.

The room remained empty. Click-click-clack-click. The computer keys chattered like teeth. Stupid frakking Galactica didn’t even have basic vocal interface.

“You don’t own me,” he said again, then braced himself for Six’s soft touch on his back, her quiet voice in his ear, her moist tongue on his neck. But it didn’t come. He looked at the computer screen. A jungle of gibberish took up four pages. Not one word made sense.

“Oh, the hell with it,” he muttered. He grabbed his suit jacket and stormed out of the lab. A few minutes later, he was just outside the main entrance to sickbay. Uncertainty stole over him like a cold hand. What was he supposed to do—stomp in to sickbay and demand they show him something interesting?

Shouts from inside jarred him into action. He shoved open the door and ran inside. Sickbay was set up like a hospital triage unit, with curtained alcoves serving as both examination and treatment areas. The curtains did nothing to shut out noise, and Gaius easily located the source. He dashed down to the third alcove on the left and yanked aside the curtain. Dr. Cottle, his white hair disheveled, was struggling to hold down a patient Gaius didn’t recognize. A medical technician was assisting, as was Chief Galen Tyrol, of all people. Tyrol’s lower leg sported a bandage.

“He was unconscious a minute ago!” Cottle yelled. “Get him two milligrams of ativan. Move!”

One of the patient’s flailing arms caught the medical technician across the bridge of her nose. She staggered and went down to one knee, blood gushing from one nostril. The patient managed to sit up. Tyrol flung himself bodily across the man, who went down but continued to struggle on the bed.

“Billal mulistarken far!” the patient shouted.

“Shut up, Hyksos!” Tyrol yelled back.

Cottle managed to get Hyksos’ ankles into restraints, but he was still fighting convulsively. The med tech was trying to get up, but the blow had clearly dazed her. Cottle caught sight of Gaius.

“Don’t just stand there, you idiot!” he barked. “This man is having a seizure. The ativan is in the cabinet. Get it!”

Gaius hurried to the cabinet, fumbled it open, and scanned the scantily stocked shelves for ativan. The ampules were in alphabetical order, allowing him to find it quickly. He snatched up a syringe, jammed it into the ampule’s rubber top, and yanked the plunger back to two milligrams, then glanced at Hyksos and added another half a milligram for good measure. No sense in taking the chance he might hurt himself—or Gaius. Hyksos managed to shove Cottle aside with his free arm, and the doctor crashed into a tray of instruments. Metal flew in all directions and the tray crashed to the floor. Tyrol was still lying across Hyksos’ body. Hyksos continued to thrash, shouting incoherent nonsense. Baltar hesitated. He didn’t want to get close. What if Hyksos bruised him? Or worse?

“What are you waiting for?” Cottle said from the floor. “Inject him!”

Gaius took a deep breath and lunged. He got Hyksos’ left wrist and trapped his arm. Both Hyksos and Tyrol smelled like stale ocean water. Gaius couldn’t help wrinkling his nose as he shoved the syringe into the skin—forget sterilization—and rammed the plunger home. Hyksos continued to babble and shout for a few seconds as Cottle and the med tech got to their feet. Then Hyksos’ struggles grew weaker. He fell silent, and his body relaxed. Cottle instantly locked down the wrist restraints and Tyrol slid off the patient’s body. He winced when his injured leg took weight.

“Frak!” Tyrol gasped. “What the hell is wrong with him?”

“He was unconscious all the way back from Planet Goop, you said?” Cottle asked. He handed the med tech a towel, and she gingerly pressed it to her face. “You better get some ice for that.”

“He was out like a light,” Tyrol said. “He muttered a lot, though. Gibberish.”

The med tech left. Gaius edged closer for a look at Hyksos, curiosity winning out over caution. Hyksos was a brawny, redheaded man covered with a crop of new freckles. No doubt working outdoors in the harsh sun of Planet Goop had brought them out. The man twitched and muttered in his sleep. Gaius put out a finger and touched his forehead. It was a little on the warm side.

“What’s your initial diagnosis, Doctor?” he asked Cottle.

“He’s agitated and he has a slight fever,” Cottle replied shortly.

“That’s it?” Gaius scoffed.

“I haven’t run any tests yet, Your Majesty. You want to do something useful, draw some blood and do some tests. Otherwise, get the hell out of my sickbay.”

Gaius drew himself up. “I am the vice president of the Colonies.”

“And I’m God of this sickbay. Either shit or get off the crap-per. I don’t have all day.”

Gaius whirled to stomp out and almost crashed into Number Six. He froze. Six didn’t say a word, but a small smile played around the corners of her mouth. With skill borne of long practice, Gaius pretended that he had spun around so he could grab another syringe and a set of blood ampules from the cabinet. Six backed up to give him room, and he gave her a hard look. She met his gaze for a moment, then walked slowly out of the alcove, her hips switching as she went. Gaius watched her go and felt his groin tighten as it always did. As she knew it always did. He spun again and turned back to the bed.

“Scarlet fever, drug withdrawal, dengue hemorrhagic fever,” Cottle was muttering. “Epilepsy? No, not with a fever.” He pried up one of Hyksos’ eyelids and shined a light on the eye. The pupil contracted normally.

“Is whatever it is contagious?” Tyrol asked nervously.

“How the hell should I know, son?” Cottle said. “If it weren’t for the fever, I’d say his mind snapped. All I can say right now is that if you get the sudden urge to babble, haul your sorry ass down here before you hurt someone.”

Tyrol hesitated. “I’m from Geminon, you know.”

“Uh-huh. So?” Cottle wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Hyksos’ arm and pumped. Gaius rolled up the sleeve on Hyksos’ free arm and swabbed the inner elbow with disinfectant. He was a biologist by training, with extensive knowledge of microbiology. He wasn’t a medical doctor, but much of the training overlapped. Drawing blood and running some tests were no challenge, but his curiosity was aroused. Besides, Number Six had hinted a visit to sickbay might benefit him, and he was hardly going to pass up the chance that she was right.

“My mother was an Oracle,” Tyrol continued. “And sometimes the Lords of Kobol would… they would enter her body and make her speak. Sometimes she would say something understandable, but most of the time she sounded like Hyksos here.”

“Speaking in tongues as the result of divine possession?” Gaius scoffed. He inserted the needle into a vein and popped one of the ampules into the other end. Scarlet blood streamed into the little container. “Grow up, Chief. There’s clearly some microscopic agent at work. Since he was on Planet Goop when it happened, it seems logical to start there. Perhaps something in the algae.”

“Then why haven’t more people come down with it?” Tyrol countered. “Captain Demeter said no one else has been acting strange.”

“Any number of reasons,” Gaius said. He finished the current blood ampule and started another. “It might be an allergic reaction. Or perhaps it’s a combination of substances that only Hyksos has encountered.”

“How many of those you going to fill?” Cottle demanded.

Gaius looked down. He was working on his seventh ampule of blood. Grimacing, he pulled the syringe free, disposed of it, and handed three of the ampules to Cottle. “Can you get me urine and stool samples as well?”

“Why the hell not? You’re the vice president of the Colonies.”

 

The back of Helo’s head itched but he was standing at attention, so he forced himself to ignore it. The bustle of CIC swirled around him like a sandstorm, and the continual growl of the dradis sounded like a restless lion prowling the room. Tigh gave Helo a hard look.

“Captain Demeter reports that the harvest is complete,” Dualla said from her station. “The Monarch’s holds are completely full, and she’s commenced cleanup procedures. They should be ready to leave by the end of the day.”

“Thank you,” Adama said. “Send a report to the President. Lieutenant Gaeta, how much material did we end up with?”

“Once it’s processed, we should have enough to make current food stores last an extra two months,” Gaeta said. “We’ll also have more than enough antibiotics to end the strep breakout and restore the radiation meds to full supply.”

A ripple of applause and a few small cheers went through CIC. Adama broke into one of his rare smiles. Helo, who was still under the harsh light of Tigh’s glare, remained at attention despite the good news.

“What’s the status of the Cylon prisoner?” Tigh asked him.

“Nothing new to report, sir,” Helo said. “She’s still at large.”

Tigh continued to stare at Helo, who kept his face impassive. “Then keep looking, Lieutenant. I want that frakking Cylon found!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

Helo turned and stepped smartly out of CIC. The moment he was out of sight, he let himself sag against a wall for a tiny moment. Exhaustion pulled at every pore. When had he last had a good night’s sleep? He couldn’t remember. Four days ago, Sharon had escaped. Two days ago, he had brought Tyrol and that guy Hyksos back from Planet Goop. Tyrol had been injured, Hyksos had been unconscious. Rumor had it that Hyksos was now in sickbay, under restraint. When he was awake, he babbled, spouted nonsense, and tried to attack the doctor. As a result, he spent most of his time under sedation. Helo envied him. The day before yesterday, Tigh had announced that Helo knew more about “that frakking toaster” than anyone else on the Galactica, which meant Helo was now in charge of the search teams. The stress of his new duties combined with the worry about what would happen to Sharon if she got caught and what would happen to him if she didn’t get caught kept him awake long into his normal sleep cycle. Helo was caught between two rocks that were steadily rolling together. If Sharon was caught, Adama would no doubt order her immediate execution, baby or no. If she wasn’t caught, Tigh would make Helo the scapegoat. Becoming Tigh’s scapegoat was way better than Sharon dying, but Helo still lost. He and Sharon both.

This was, he acknowledged to himself, the reason he was searching for Sharon by himself instead of with a party of marines. If—when—Sharon turned up, the marines were likely to shoot first and ask questions later. Helo wanted to ask questions first. He had no intention of shooting.

The radio clipped to his belt squawked out orders as the search parties continued their work. Their movements had become mechanical, almost perfunctory. They had gone over every inch of the ship to no avail, and Helo was almost considering ordering the men to suit up so they could search the Galactica’s outer hull. Maybe Sharon had stolen a vac suit and was—

He shook his head. No way. Even Cylons needed to breathe, and she stood an excellent chance of getting caught every time she cycled an airlock to board and refill her oxygen bottle. Still, his new situation altered the way he looked at Galactica. Every alcove, every passageway had turned into a possible hiding place, every shadow became a black blanket of suspicion. And every moment he was aware that eventually a choice would leap out of the darkness and tear him in two.

He scratched the back of his head. The itch had been bothering him a lot lately, and it helped keep him awake at night. Maybe he was getting a rash or something. That was all he needed.

Helo turned a corner, intending to head for the showers to see if washing would help, then abruptly changed course for deck five. He knew where Tyrol kept his still, and right now a good drink would settle his nerves. He was on duty, but it never stopped Tigh, and Helo was suddenly in a go-to-hell mood.

Deck five was in an unusual lull. Crewmembers were engaged in busywork—cleaning, sorting equipment, taking inventory. Off to one side sat the escape pod Peter Attis had arrived in. Tyrol was walking in a circle around it, examining with a critical eye. A slight limp hobbled his steps a bit. Helo wandered over.

“What’s going on, Chief?” he asked. “See something that’s going to explode?”

“No.” Tyrol wore a distracted expression. “There’s something about this pod that bothers me. Has since the day it showed up. But I can’t put my finger on it.”

“You’ve checked inside,” Helo stated.

“Of course. Thoroughly. With every instrument I have. Nothing.”

“Let me take a look,” Helo offered. “Maybe it needs a fresh pair of eyes.”

Tyrol gave him a look with hard brown eyes. The offer went a little beyond their shaky truce.

“Putting off looking for… her?” Tyrol said at last.

“Maybe.” Helo felt his face grow warm. “I haven’t had much luck.”

Tyrol flashed a grim smile of… understanding? He stood aside like a doorman. “Be my guest, sir.”

Helo stepped into the pod. It was basically a gray metal cube with rounded corners. Helo’s head brushed the ceiling, and he ducked instinctively. A simple control panel stood against the wall opposite the hatch, and two small ports looked out on deck five. A CO2 scrubber hung on one wall above a set of oxygen tanks. The interior smelled vaguely of machine oil. And that was all. Helo examined the controls. Environmental readouts, automatic distress signal, engine power control. Nothing else. The engine would shove the pod in one direction—forward. No way to steer. The pod was meant to be picked up quickly by a rescue ship, not to provide transportation. Helo stood there for a long moment. He turned in all directions. He pulled the front off the control panel and looked inside. He paced the walls and rapped on the ports. Then he went back outside. His head itched again, and he forced himself not to scratch.

“Well?” Tyrol said.

Helo shrugged. “Nothing. I don’t even get suspicious. Maybe you’re just reading too much into it because a copy of… of her was inside.”

“Maybe.” But Tyrol clearly didn’t believe it.

Helo’s radio squawked for his attention. “We’ve completed our search of the main galley, Lieutenant.”

With a sigh, Helo pulled the unit from his belt and spoke into it. “Continue on to the food storage area, then. And try not to die of boredom.”

“Roger that.”

He sketched a waved at Tyrol and started to move away, but Tyrol’s touch on the shoulder stopped him.

“Chief?” Helo said.

Tyrol leaned close. “I hope they never find her, too,” he murmured.

There didn’t seem to be anything to say to that, so Helo just nodded and continued on his way. Helo skirted the edge of the main deck and headed for the storage rooms, pretending he was going to look there. Instead, he waited until no one was looking and ducked through a particular doorway. Freestanding metal shelves stacked with meticulously labeled parts stood in neat rows. Helo threaded a path to the rear. Behind a shelving unit stood a tangle of coils and drums. There was no smell—Tyrol had built a fan and filter system into the device to ensure the odor wouldn’t give him away. Helo, however, walked past it and knelt in front of a meter-high grate set into the back wall. He tugged once, and it came away, revealing a small open space inside. Tyrol actually kept two stills. Commander Tigh had discovered the first one. Instead of shutting it down and ordering Tyrol’s arrest, he had wordlessly begun taking a percentage of everything Tyrol made in it. When the percentage climbed to one jar in four, however, Tyrol had taken steps. He had scavenged enough parts to make a second still, one that created higher-quality stuff, and hidden that one more carefully. Tyrol now only made what he called “single malt engine cleaner” in the first still, and Tigh hadn’t yet caught on to the ruse.

Helo poked his head into the space behind the grating. The still, compact and efficient, purred softly to itself beside a pile of jars filled with clear liquid. Helo reached for one—and froze.

“Hello,” said Sharon Valerii.