Cain's Command
By Lee Gaul and Sharon Monroe
Collective Copyright 1988. Used with permission.
Collective Copyright 1988. Used with permission.
Only the first three stories in this book are posted on this site.
To read the entire novel, download the epub file by clicking here.
Epub files can be read with most ereaders and free software programs like Calibre and Adobe Digital Editions.
You can also find the entire book at Sheba's Galaxy.
134 pages.
Escape of the Pegasus
"All squadrons, return to your home battlestar."
Major Electra banked her Viper in an easy curve to swing near the Pegasus, waiting her turn as other ships dropped into swift landings in the battlestar's bays. She watched the departing turbos
of the Galactica's squadrons with some unease. She wouldn't admit it to anyone,
but the three Cylon basestars ahead had her worried. Thank the Lords it was Cain
in command! His plans always worked, and he'd pulled them out of worse
situations, from the Colonies to Molecay and Gamoray.
Her turn. She dropped landing skids and hit her breaking turbos as the deck floated to meet her. Electra's ship
stopped, and was rapidly shuttled aside to a maintenance cradle.
"What's the story?" she called to Cicero, head of the Viper maintenance team.
"Refuel and rearm, fast as you can. Don't leave your ship. Might be launching again soon. We'll have you at your
launch tube in two centons."
That was Cicero, as few words as possible. Electra sighed and ran a quick check of her instruments as several
techs swarmed over her ship.
Another centon and they were finished. Her ship dropped neatly into its slot. Now, all she could do was wait.
On either side of her, there were other pilots doing the same thing.
The launch bay seemed to shudder a bit.
"Wonder what's going on out there," somebody muttered.
"Don't know, Sergeant," was the answer, in a familiar voice.
She nodded to herself. Orestes was her brother. Maj. Electra and Capt. Orestes had been the most successful strike team on the battlestar Britannica, until the battle of Molecay. Then they'd
taken refuge with the survivors aboard the Pegasus. Now, as the surviving
ranking pilots, she was the flight commander, and Orestes was a wing leader in
Silver Spar, under Sheba. They were still among the best pilots in the fleet.
Sheba. Her wounded friend was on her way to the Galactica in one of those shuttles. Electra hoped her injures
weren't serious.
There was a rumble that announced missiles were launching. Electra looked cool, but one finger tapped nervously against her control stick as she ran one last check on her instruments.
More missiles.
What was going on out there? She waited, tempted to chew on her nails.
* * * * *
"Yes!" Cain exulted, slapping his swagger stick on the console. In space on either side of them, explosions rocked two Cylon basestars, and debris and eerie fire lit space everywhere they looked. "Two down, only Baltar to go!"
"Sir," Tolan said worriedly, "we've taken some damage."
"How bad?"
"Doesn't appear to be serious, but it'll take a little time to repair. And I doubt Baltar will give us that time."
"Perfect!"
The flight officer blinked.
"Move away slowly, Tolan. Look worse off than we are. The more damaged Baltar thinks we are, the faster he'll
come for us. His Raiders are still en route from Gamoray. Without them, our Vipers will take him out like nothing, as soon as we're out of range. Alert the squadrons."
Tolan released his pent breath. Commander Cain was one wily adaka! How could Baltar resist such a tempting piece of bait?
* * * * *
There was ugly anticipation in Baltar's smile as he ordered his basestar closer to the apparently helpless,
almost drifting Pegasus. Her sluggish motions would never carry her to safety.
"Ah, Cain," he cooed. "In the end, you're the fool. Sending your fighters to protect the fleet, while you take me
on three to one. We'll yet retrieve victory today. With you destroyed, we'll
return to Gamoray and save the Imperious Leader. I may even end your precious
Galactica, and that twice-damned Adama. Without your protection, I can pick off
the fleet as I choose. I may even spare some of them, if I have such a whim.
What do you think of that?" He gloated, not yet realizing the Pegasus was
maintaining a respectable distance.
"By your leave, Baltar, but we will have to increase speed to catch the Pegasus. She appears to be speeding up."
Baltar glared at Lucifer for intruding on his moment of triumph. "Then increase speed! I want Cain's head!
They can't make enough repairs to escape, with us attacking – and if they could fight, Cain wouldn't be running!"
"Very well. By your command."
Baltar continued to watch the private scanner in his command chamber. He was irritated at Lucifer, and eagerly
anticipating a glorious victory. After a few moments, he felt annoyance at the
rest of his Cylon crew as well. They weren't closing on the battlestar; it was
maintaining its distance, though not leaving them behind.
"By your leave, Commander Baltar."
He whirled on Lucifer. "What now?"
"We have increased speed to follow the Pegasus. Reports from our returning Raiders indicate the passage of several squadrons of Vipers, and a number of shuttles. However, at our present rate of speed, our Raiders will not be able to catch up to us."
A horrible suspicion began to grow in Baltar's twisted mind. Several squadrons of Vipers? Not many squadrons? Could Cain still have ships and pilots? If so, and their own defensive squadrons couldn't catch up....
No! Cain was doing it again!
"Retreat!" Baltar roared.
"But the Pegasus–"
"Damn the Pegasus! Damn Cain! Damn the Galactica and Adama and the entire human fleet!"
"Baltar, sir?"
"Get us out of here before she turns on us! She still has fighters!"
"By your–"
"Get out of here, you twisted piece of scrap metal, and sound retreat!"
Lucifer bowed rapidly out of the command room.
Rage and fear played on Baltar's face, twisting it into an almost inhuman mask. He breathed heavily, pounding one fist on the command console, the other clenched tightly on the arm of his chair.
"Cain, you don't how I hate you...."
* * * * *
Commander Cain watched in silent fury as Baltar's base ship turned away from its pursuit.
"Sir?" Tolan asked, almost afraid to break his commander's concentration.
"He figured it out, Tolan, that goll-monging, tin-boot-licker. Increase speed, take us out of his scanner range
so he can't track us when his fighters are back –he'll have surviving fighters
from three base ships, and I don't think we're ready for that just now. Get all
maintenance crews to work, and release Silver Spar and Copper Keel to the ready
room for some rest. Squadron rotation in six centars, if there's no trouble."
"Yes, sir."
"Briefing tomorrow, if there's no change in ship's status. Inform all department heads."
"Yes, Commander." When Cain gave no further orders, and appeared to dismiss him from his thoughts, Tolan scurried to his tasks.
Cain leaned against the command deck railing. He was almost surprised to have time to think of his next course
of action.
Baltar figured it out. And he's running. But he's still alive, still with the Cylons, still around to
hurt us. How can I go back to the fleet and leave him to work his mischief? But I don't have the capability, just now, to take him on....
But I can't leave them alone, almost besieged as they are, when Baltar could attack at any time, and send his
fighters against unarmed civilians because there aren't enough warriors and ships to protect them all, every micron of every day. I won't be remembered as the man who ran out on our people when they needed me most.
Being apart from the fleet gave the Cylons two targets, kept them off guard. Staying with the fleet would give the Cylons one target....
A woman entered the bridge and joined him.
"Welcome back, Kleopatra. Where've you been?"
The colonel spoke quietly. "I was in the bay. I've got some first aid training, and half our medical staff is on
the way to the Galactica. I thought I could do more good with Helena's people
than standing around here in the background. We've got more injured, between
those fool-hardy warriors of ours, and the technicians who put out the fires and
patched the holes in this old iron lady."
"Do you think we made a mistake in taking on Baltar's force?"
She released a peal of laughter, and sounded relieved for it. "No. It was probably the only thing we could do.
And only you could have played touch-and-run well enough to get the fleet and the Galactica and us safely out of his reach. Our people did their jobs magnificently, as they always do, for you."
He saw a shadow in her eyes when she mentioned the Galactica, but saw her dismiss it firmly, and was satisfied.
"Take command, Colonel. I'm going to take a little inspection tour of my old iron lady, see how badly off we
really are, and do some thinking."
She raised her eyebrows, but made no comment as he stalked off the bridge.
* * * * *
It was a day and a half before the briefing could be convened. Cain studied the faces of the officers present.
Col. Kleopatra, his second-in-command since just before the Fifth Fleet was sent to Molecay – a
slender black woman, the best executive officer a commander could ask for.
Besides her wide experience from various Colonial military bases, she brought a
variety of skills and knowledge from a background that varied from ethnological
studies to first aid. She knew when to speak and when to be silent, when he
needed to talk. He suspected she sometimes studied him as she would study the
culture and ways of an alien race.
Maj. Cicero, the master mechanic –
a man of few words, he could double as an engineer at a micron's notice, but his
primary purpose in life was to keep Vipers flying. Sometimes it was better not
to ask how he did it; he wouldn't always tell if he was asked, just stared until
one felt uneasy for prying.
Maj. Sherlock, engineering chief. His most valuable quality was a mind that could absorb anything, and put it to
use. He knew everything there was to know about the Pegasus, probably more than
the men and women who'd designed her first proto-type, centuries before. His
piercing black eyes glittered like coals when he was alert, which seemed to be
constantly; those eyes could burn to the heart of a problem or through a man's lies in a micron.
Capt. Veleda, in charge of repair and damage containment. An aristocratic brunette who took damage to "her" ship as a personal insult. She completed the triad of personnel he trusted implicitly
to keep his lady prepared for anything he or the Cylons might throw at her.
Capt. Graham, supply chief – a short, pudgy, cheerful Libran, almost unflappable, so even-tempered that Cain
knew bets had been made and lost on several individuals' ability to provoke him.
Maj. Electra, flight commander since Devon's death at Molecay – tall, tawny-golden, stormy-eyed and drawing
eyes. She was one of the best on a ship full of the best. He knew, too, that she
was deeper than the easy, flirtatious smile she frequently flashed. If not for
memories of Cassiopeia, he might have expressed a more personal interest in her
himself; as it was, enough of the male warriors found her irresistible.
Lt. Tolan, his aide, general assistant, and flight officer. Someday, he'd make a fine commander, with Cain
training him. He'd known the youth to take four or five duty shifts straight;
when he was needed, nothing kept him from his commander and his post. His
loyalty was absolute and unquestioning.
"Well," Cain said crisply, rising to his feet.
Talk subsided, and every eye turned to him.
"How are repairs coming along?"
"Good as done."
"Well, that's concise, I'll admit, Cicero. Anybody care to elaborate?"
Sherlock delivered the report. "Engineering completely functional again. Structural damage on Alpha, Gamma, and Epsilon decks, all sections repaired. One fuel tank ruptured; we lost fuel, but fortunately, it didn't explode. The hole has been patched. Damage to Beta Bay was more serious than expected, but air loss has been controlled, and teams are still at work on final clean-up. Vipers can safely take off and land, but we've
closed down the worst sections as a precaution, until repairs are completely
finished, which should be no more than three or four days. We're spaceworthy
again." With a nod at Veleda, the tall, thin man sat down again.
"Sir?"
"Graham?"
"Repairs used a great deal of our extra supplies, metal, sealing materials, and such. If possible, I'd recommend
we pick up more before any long voyage."
Cain nodded, a slight frown furrowing his brow, as he considered.
The door opened, and a silver-blonde woman slipped into her place at the table.
"Dr. Helena. Welcome. Sounds like our ship's in good shape. How's the crew?"
"With the reduced medical staff you left me, we've done a good job. Six dead, two still in serious condition. The
rest will be fine. How long until I get my people back?"
"Maybe quite some time."
Puzzled glances fixed on him. Helena's question was one Cain had hoped to answer in his own time. It had taken
some thought, and he'd planned to explain the decision when he made the announcement. Now would have to suffice.
"We're not returning to the fleet. At least, not yet."
Blank astonishment showed on several faces. Other officers broke into a babble of questions and complaints.
He raised his swagger stick. All ears and eyes locked on the commander.
"We have another job to do."
"But the fleet needs us! They need you!" exclaimed Tolan.
"And we need them!" broke in Dr. Helena.
"Yes, the fleet needs us. But not the way you're thinking. Commander Adama made it clear the Cylons have been
tagging him all along. His fleet can't maintain light-speed. He hasn't had the
chance to really give those goll-monging tinheads the slip – and Baltar isn't
likely to give him the chance now.
"So we're going to give him that chance. If I know Baltar, he's going to try to getus first. The Cylons in
this quadrant are out for human blood. They want a target. We're going to be that target.
"We're faster than they are; we're better pilots; and we're going to be fighting in ways they'll never understand,
for a purpose they can't comprehend. We're going to be the bait, the lure
that'll keep the Cylons off Adama's trail long enough for our people to escape.
We'll decoy the Cylons, tease them along, then disappear ourselves."
Cain looked around at his group. Several still looked stunned. Sherlock wore a slight smile; trust him to
understand, and even to relish the thought. Electra looked confident; she trusted his plans and her own skills. Tolan, his aide, stood very tall, looking inspired.
"You heard everything I heard, in the fleet. Adama's been able to keep his fleet together and move out of our
space because the Cylons had to divide their efforts, going after us. That's a
slim advantage for what's left of our people, and I'm not going to take it away
from the fleet. We'll give Adama all the time we can, any way we can. With our
lives, if that's what's needed. But I don't think it'll be necessary. We're too
good. We'll leave the Cylons in a tangled mess, then slip away. We'll always be
between the fleet and the enemy. Anybody here who can't deal with that?"
There was silence as his finest officers digested the idea.
"Anybody here think your departments can't deal with it?
Nobody raised a hand or opened a mouth.
"Good. If there are any questions, feel free to bring them to me. For now, inform your people of our assignment.
Dismissed. Oh, Electra, I want to see your new squadron assignments."
In a centon, the room was empty of milling officers except for Cmdr. Cain and Maj. Electra.
"I've consolidated the squadrons, to make the best use of our remaining pilots and ships. Three squadrons. I'd
expected we'd be pulling a fourth squadron together from the injured pilots we
left on the Galactica, and her cadet-trainees. But I think it'll work anyway.
Captain Elaine retains Copper Keel. Captain Heimdal has Bronze Wing. Captain
Orestes is in charge of Silver Spar, in Sheba's absence. Will those be
satisfactory, sir?"
"Fine, fine." Cain paced the room
"Is there perhaps another reason we aren't returning to the fleet after giving the Cylons the slip, Commander?"
Cain frowned, then had to laugh. "You're observant, I'll grant you. Adama and I have been friends for yahrens. We just have different ideas on how best to run the military aspects of the fleet.
This way, we both do what we do best. I'll guard the fleet as I see it, from the
outside, a fast military strike force. Adama will be the inner guard, our
wisdom, leading our people on to safety. It's better that way. He has a goal,
and he's always seen things beyond other men I've known...."
Cain sat down, trying not to remember the two women left behind with Adama's fleet, women who would be far
safer where they were than with him.
Electra nodded. "I understand. What will our first action be?"
"You heard Sherlock. We're low on fuel, thanks to some sharp-shooting Cylon, and our supply section is running low on inventory. We'll have to hit Gamoray again, to stock up for a lot of dodging and a long trip.
Electra chuckled. "You keep this up, and we're going to teach the Cylons the meaning of paranoid, if they haven't
already learned it.
"That we are, my girl, that we are. Strange, there was a warrior in Captain Apollo's squadron, reminded me a bit of you and your brother. Same attitude about life, or something.... Hmm, let's see those assignments."
She smiled and handed him a computer roster sheet.
* * * * *
The attack on Gamoray went completely as planned. Still reeling from the Colonial attack a mere secton
earlier, the Cylons were again taken completely unaware, still in the midst of their own repairs. Cain did what he did best – struck without warning, took what he wanted, then vanished among the stars.
Surveying the damage later, a very weary Imperious Leader wasn't sure whether to call for an all-out hunt for the maddeningly elusive Cain, or simply to bid him good riddance and hope he was gone for good.
Aboard the Pegasus, elated warriors toasted yet another victory.
To read the entire novel, download the epub file by clicking here.
Epub files can be read with most ereaders and free software programs like Calibre and Adobe Digital Editions.
You can also find the entire book at Sheba's Galaxy.
134 pages.
Escape of the Pegasus
"All squadrons, return to your home battlestar."
Major Electra banked her Viper in an easy curve to swing near the Pegasus, waiting her turn as other ships dropped into swift landings in the battlestar's bays. She watched the departing turbos
of the Galactica's squadrons with some unease. She wouldn't admit it to anyone,
but the three Cylon basestars ahead had her worried. Thank the Lords it was Cain
in command! His plans always worked, and he'd pulled them out of worse
situations, from the Colonies to Molecay and Gamoray.
Her turn. She dropped landing skids and hit her breaking turbos as the deck floated to meet her. Electra's ship
stopped, and was rapidly shuttled aside to a maintenance cradle.
"What's the story?" she called to Cicero, head of the Viper maintenance team.
"Refuel and rearm, fast as you can. Don't leave your ship. Might be launching again soon. We'll have you at your
launch tube in two centons."
That was Cicero, as few words as possible. Electra sighed and ran a quick check of her instruments as several
techs swarmed over her ship.
Another centon and they were finished. Her ship dropped neatly into its slot. Now, all she could do was wait.
On either side of her, there were other pilots doing the same thing.
The launch bay seemed to shudder a bit.
"Wonder what's going on out there," somebody muttered.
"Don't know, Sergeant," was the answer, in a familiar voice.
She nodded to herself. Orestes was her brother. Maj. Electra and Capt. Orestes had been the most successful strike team on the battlestar Britannica, until the battle of Molecay. Then they'd
taken refuge with the survivors aboard the Pegasus. Now, as the surviving
ranking pilots, she was the flight commander, and Orestes was a wing leader in
Silver Spar, under Sheba. They were still among the best pilots in the fleet.
Sheba. Her wounded friend was on her way to the Galactica in one of those shuttles. Electra hoped her injures
weren't serious.
There was a rumble that announced missiles were launching. Electra looked cool, but one finger tapped nervously against her control stick as she ran one last check on her instruments.
More missiles.
What was going on out there? She waited, tempted to chew on her nails.
* * * * *
"Yes!" Cain exulted, slapping his swagger stick on the console. In space on either side of them, explosions rocked two Cylon basestars, and debris and eerie fire lit space everywhere they looked. "Two down, only Baltar to go!"
"Sir," Tolan said worriedly, "we've taken some damage."
"How bad?"
"Doesn't appear to be serious, but it'll take a little time to repair. And I doubt Baltar will give us that time."
"Perfect!"
The flight officer blinked.
"Move away slowly, Tolan. Look worse off than we are. The more damaged Baltar thinks we are, the faster he'll
come for us. His Raiders are still en route from Gamoray. Without them, our Vipers will take him out like nothing, as soon as we're out of range. Alert the squadrons."
Tolan released his pent breath. Commander Cain was one wily adaka! How could Baltar resist such a tempting piece of bait?
* * * * *
There was ugly anticipation in Baltar's smile as he ordered his basestar closer to the apparently helpless,
almost drifting Pegasus. Her sluggish motions would never carry her to safety.
"Ah, Cain," he cooed. "In the end, you're the fool. Sending your fighters to protect the fleet, while you take me
on three to one. We'll yet retrieve victory today. With you destroyed, we'll
return to Gamoray and save the Imperious Leader. I may even end your precious
Galactica, and that twice-damned Adama. Without your protection, I can pick off
the fleet as I choose. I may even spare some of them, if I have such a whim.
What do you think of that?" He gloated, not yet realizing the Pegasus was
maintaining a respectable distance.
"By your leave, Baltar, but we will have to increase speed to catch the Pegasus. She appears to be speeding up."
Baltar glared at Lucifer for intruding on his moment of triumph. "Then increase speed! I want Cain's head!
They can't make enough repairs to escape, with us attacking – and if they could fight, Cain wouldn't be running!"
"Very well. By your command."
Baltar continued to watch the private scanner in his command chamber. He was irritated at Lucifer, and eagerly
anticipating a glorious victory. After a few moments, he felt annoyance at the
rest of his Cylon crew as well. They weren't closing on the battlestar; it was
maintaining its distance, though not leaving them behind.
"By your leave, Commander Baltar."
He whirled on Lucifer. "What now?"
"We have increased speed to follow the Pegasus. Reports from our returning Raiders indicate the passage of several squadrons of Vipers, and a number of shuttles. However, at our present rate of speed, our Raiders will not be able to catch up to us."
A horrible suspicion began to grow in Baltar's twisted mind. Several squadrons of Vipers? Not many squadrons? Could Cain still have ships and pilots? If so, and their own defensive squadrons couldn't catch up....
No! Cain was doing it again!
"Retreat!" Baltar roared.
"But the Pegasus–"
"Damn the Pegasus! Damn Cain! Damn the Galactica and Adama and the entire human fleet!"
"Baltar, sir?"
"Get us out of here before she turns on us! She still has fighters!"
"By your–"
"Get out of here, you twisted piece of scrap metal, and sound retreat!"
Lucifer bowed rapidly out of the command room.
Rage and fear played on Baltar's face, twisting it into an almost inhuman mask. He breathed heavily, pounding one fist on the command console, the other clenched tightly on the arm of his chair.
"Cain, you don't how I hate you...."
* * * * *
Commander Cain watched in silent fury as Baltar's base ship turned away from its pursuit.
"Sir?" Tolan asked, almost afraid to break his commander's concentration.
"He figured it out, Tolan, that goll-monging, tin-boot-licker. Increase speed, take us out of his scanner range
so he can't track us when his fighters are back –he'll have surviving fighters
from three base ships, and I don't think we're ready for that just now. Get all
maintenance crews to work, and release Silver Spar and Copper Keel to the ready
room for some rest. Squadron rotation in six centars, if there's no trouble."
"Yes, sir."
"Briefing tomorrow, if there's no change in ship's status. Inform all department heads."
"Yes, Commander." When Cain gave no further orders, and appeared to dismiss him from his thoughts, Tolan scurried to his tasks.
Cain leaned against the command deck railing. He was almost surprised to have time to think of his next course
of action.
Baltar figured it out. And he's running. But he's still alive, still with the Cylons, still around to
hurt us. How can I go back to the fleet and leave him to work his mischief? But I don't have the capability, just now, to take him on....
But I can't leave them alone, almost besieged as they are, when Baltar could attack at any time, and send his
fighters against unarmed civilians because there aren't enough warriors and ships to protect them all, every micron of every day. I won't be remembered as the man who ran out on our people when they needed me most.
Being apart from the fleet gave the Cylons two targets, kept them off guard. Staying with the fleet would give the Cylons one target....
A woman entered the bridge and joined him.
"Welcome back, Kleopatra. Where've you been?"
The colonel spoke quietly. "I was in the bay. I've got some first aid training, and half our medical staff is on
the way to the Galactica. I thought I could do more good with Helena's people
than standing around here in the background. We've got more injured, between
those fool-hardy warriors of ours, and the technicians who put out the fires and
patched the holes in this old iron lady."
"Do you think we made a mistake in taking on Baltar's force?"
She released a peal of laughter, and sounded relieved for it. "No. It was probably the only thing we could do.
And only you could have played touch-and-run well enough to get the fleet and the Galactica and us safely out of his reach. Our people did their jobs magnificently, as they always do, for you."
He saw a shadow in her eyes when she mentioned the Galactica, but saw her dismiss it firmly, and was satisfied.
"Take command, Colonel. I'm going to take a little inspection tour of my old iron lady, see how badly off we
really are, and do some thinking."
She raised her eyebrows, but made no comment as he stalked off the bridge.
* * * * *
It was a day and a half before the briefing could be convened. Cain studied the faces of the officers present.
Col. Kleopatra, his second-in-command since just before the Fifth Fleet was sent to Molecay – a
slender black woman, the best executive officer a commander could ask for.
Besides her wide experience from various Colonial military bases, she brought a
variety of skills and knowledge from a background that varied from ethnological
studies to first aid. She knew when to speak and when to be silent, when he
needed to talk. He suspected she sometimes studied him as she would study the
culture and ways of an alien race.
Maj. Cicero, the master mechanic –
a man of few words, he could double as an engineer at a micron's notice, but his
primary purpose in life was to keep Vipers flying. Sometimes it was better not
to ask how he did it; he wouldn't always tell if he was asked, just stared until
one felt uneasy for prying.
Maj. Sherlock, engineering chief. His most valuable quality was a mind that could absorb anything, and put it to
use. He knew everything there was to know about the Pegasus, probably more than
the men and women who'd designed her first proto-type, centuries before. His
piercing black eyes glittered like coals when he was alert, which seemed to be
constantly; those eyes could burn to the heart of a problem or through a man's lies in a micron.
Capt. Veleda, in charge of repair and damage containment. An aristocratic brunette who took damage to "her" ship as a personal insult. She completed the triad of personnel he trusted implicitly
to keep his lady prepared for anything he or the Cylons might throw at her.
Capt. Graham, supply chief – a short, pudgy, cheerful Libran, almost unflappable, so even-tempered that Cain
knew bets had been made and lost on several individuals' ability to provoke him.
Maj. Electra, flight commander since Devon's death at Molecay – tall, tawny-golden, stormy-eyed and drawing
eyes. She was one of the best on a ship full of the best. He knew, too, that she
was deeper than the easy, flirtatious smile she frequently flashed. If not for
memories of Cassiopeia, he might have expressed a more personal interest in her
himself; as it was, enough of the male warriors found her irresistible.
Lt. Tolan, his aide, general assistant, and flight officer. Someday, he'd make a fine commander, with Cain
training him. He'd known the youth to take four or five duty shifts straight;
when he was needed, nothing kept him from his commander and his post. His
loyalty was absolute and unquestioning.
"Well," Cain said crisply, rising to his feet.
Talk subsided, and every eye turned to him.
"How are repairs coming along?"
"Good as done."
"Well, that's concise, I'll admit, Cicero. Anybody care to elaborate?"
Sherlock delivered the report. "Engineering completely functional again. Structural damage on Alpha, Gamma, and Epsilon decks, all sections repaired. One fuel tank ruptured; we lost fuel, but fortunately, it didn't explode. The hole has been patched. Damage to Beta Bay was more serious than expected, but air loss has been controlled, and teams are still at work on final clean-up. Vipers can safely take off and land, but we've
closed down the worst sections as a precaution, until repairs are completely
finished, which should be no more than three or four days. We're spaceworthy
again." With a nod at Veleda, the tall, thin man sat down again.
"Sir?"
"Graham?"
"Repairs used a great deal of our extra supplies, metal, sealing materials, and such. If possible, I'd recommend
we pick up more before any long voyage."
Cain nodded, a slight frown furrowing his brow, as he considered.
The door opened, and a silver-blonde woman slipped into her place at the table.
"Dr. Helena. Welcome. Sounds like our ship's in good shape. How's the crew?"
"With the reduced medical staff you left me, we've done a good job. Six dead, two still in serious condition. The
rest will be fine. How long until I get my people back?"
"Maybe quite some time."
Puzzled glances fixed on him. Helena's question was one Cain had hoped to answer in his own time. It had taken
some thought, and he'd planned to explain the decision when he made the announcement. Now would have to suffice.
"We're not returning to the fleet. At least, not yet."
Blank astonishment showed on several faces. Other officers broke into a babble of questions and complaints.
He raised his swagger stick. All ears and eyes locked on the commander.
"We have another job to do."
"But the fleet needs us! They need you!" exclaimed Tolan.
"And we need them!" broke in Dr. Helena.
"Yes, the fleet needs us. But not the way you're thinking. Commander Adama made it clear the Cylons have been
tagging him all along. His fleet can't maintain light-speed. He hasn't had the
chance to really give those goll-monging tinheads the slip – and Baltar isn't
likely to give him the chance now.
"So we're going to give him that chance. If I know Baltar, he's going to try to getus first. The Cylons in
this quadrant are out for human blood. They want a target. We're going to be that target.
"We're faster than they are; we're better pilots; and we're going to be fighting in ways they'll never understand,
for a purpose they can't comprehend. We're going to be the bait, the lure
that'll keep the Cylons off Adama's trail long enough for our people to escape.
We'll decoy the Cylons, tease them along, then disappear ourselves."
Cain looked around at his group. Several still looked stunned. Sherlock wore a slight smile; trust him to
understand, and even to relish the thought. Electra looked confident; she trusted his plans and her own skills. Tolan, his aide, stood very tall, looking inspired.
"You heard everything I heard, in the fleet. Adama's been able to keep his fleet together and move out of our
space because the Cylons had to divide their efforts, going after us. That's a
slim advantage for what's left of our people, and I'm not going to take it away
from the fleet. We'll give Adama all the time we can, any way we can. With our
lives, if that's what's needed. But I don't think it'll be necessary. We're too
good. We'll leave the Cylons in a tangled mess, then slip away. We'll always be
between the fleet and the enemy. Anybody here who can't deal with that?"
There was silence as his finest officers digested the idea.
"Anybody here think your departments can't deal with it?
Nobody raised a hand or opened a mouth.
"Good. If there are any questions, feel free to bring them to me. For now, inform your people of our assignment.
Dismissed. Oh, Electra, I want to see your new squadron assignments."
In a centon, the room was empty of milling officers except for Cmdr. Cain and Maj. Electra.
"I've consolidated the squadrons, to make the best use of our remaining pilots and ships. Three squadrons. I'd
expected we'd be pulling a fourth squadron together from the injured pilots we
left on the Galactica, and her cadet-trainees. But I think it'll work anyway.
Captain Elaine retains Copper Keel. Captain Heimdal has Bronze Wing. Captain
Orestes is in charge of Silver Spar, in Sheba's absence. Will those be
satisfactory, sir?"
"Fine, fine." Cain paced the room
"Is there perhaps another reason we aren't returning to the fleet after giving the Cylons the slip, Commander?"
Cain frowned, then had to laugh. "You're observant, I'll grant you. Adama and I have been friends for yahrens. We just have different ideas on how best to run the military aspects of the fleet.
This way, we both do what we do best. I'll guard the fleet as I see it, from the
outside, a fast military strike force. Adama will be the inner guard, our
wisdom, leading our people on to safety. It's better that way. He has a goal,
and he's always seen things beyond other men I've known...."
Cain sat down, trying not to remember the two women left behind with Adama's fleet, women who would be far
safer where they were than with him.
Electra nodded. "I understand. What will our first action be?"
"You heard Sherlock. We're low on fuel, thanks to some sharp-shooting Cylon, and our supply section is running low on inventory. We'll have to hit Gamoray again, to stock up for a lot of dodging and a long trip.
Electra chuckled. "You keep this up, and we're going to teach the Cylons the meaning of paranoid, if they haven't
already learned it.
"That we are, my girl, that we are. Strange, there was a warrior in Captain Apollo's squadron, reminded me a bit of you and your brother. Same attitude about life, or something.... Hmm, let's see those assignments."
She smiled and handed him a computer roster sheet.
* * * * *
The attack on Gamoray went completely as planned. Still reeling from the Colonial attack a mere secton
earlier, the Cylons were again taken completely unaware, still in the midst of their own repairs. Cain did what he did best – struck without warning, took what he wanted, then vanished among the stars.
Surveying the damage later, a very weary Imperious Leader wasn't sure whether to call for an all-out hunt for the maddeningly elusive Cain, or simply to bid him good riddance and hope he was gone for good.
Aboard the Pegasus, elated warriors toasted yet another victory.
The Way We Were
"Really?" Falstaff asked. "We're on our own again? The way we were before? Cain took us away from the fleet?
We're really not going back?"
"But...." Ptah began to object, then stopped, unsure what to say.
Trent just stared at Rissian, stunned.
Rissian nodded back at the younger warriors, jaw firmly set. "Warriors, we've handled it for two yahrens, we can handle it again. We'll do our job, the same way we always have," he told them firmly. He kept his feelings to himself – but inside, he knew he was a little bit pleased. The Cylons could never pay enough for the deaths they'd caused – and if the Galactica wasn't going to be fighting unless it had to, well, he'd rather be elsewhere, he admitted to himself. Somewhere like over Gamoray, as they would be again in the morning.
A moment of silence.
"I need a drink...." Falstaff finally said somberly.
"You got something hidden in your locker?" Ptah asked.
"No, I figured the O club, you know we're not allowed to keep–" The heavy-set sergeant stopped talking for a micron, then finished, subdued, "The O club will be closed, won't it...."
"Most likely," Rissian confirmed.
"Huh? Why?" Trent finally found words.
"Well, I mean ... Dionys was the bartender. That's not essential personnel – he'll have shuttled back to the fleet with the rest," Trent said, looking at Rissian.
"They wouldn't close the O club.... We need it! I mean, not that we need to get drunk, but we need the club...."
"Even with the club, it wouldn't be the same without Dionys...."
"Has anybody been there since we left the fleet?"
"Are you kidding? We've all been too busy patchin' things up after takin' on those two basestars...."
The warriors glanced around at each other again, then moved as one, heading for the officers' club.
* * * * *
The door was unsealed. That wasn't unusual.
Rissian halted in the doorway; the others were forced to stop behind him.
Three groups of warriors looked up expectantly at him. He saw their expressions fall and shoulders droop at seeing who it was.
"No Dionys?" he asked.
Wordless headshakes were the only response.
"Bar's open though?" Falstaff asked hopefully, peering over his shoulder at some of the tables, seeing the mugs and cards.
"It's intact, if that's what you mean...."
"Only water or caff, and serve yourself," Daystar called to them, holding up his mug and shaking his head.
"Believe me, it ain't the same."
The newcomers clustered around the conversation corner with Daystar and the others.
"Are we just waiting for Dionys?" Falstaff asked hopefully.
"Could be a long wait," the captain said, staring at the wall. "Cain shipped all the non-essential personnel back to the fleet."
"But ... but he's essential!"
"Oh, yeah? And what absolutely essential, can't-run-the-ship-without-it post does he fill?"
They all contemplated the thought, which only confirmed what they'd feared.
"So who's gonna run the bar?" Ptah asked plaintively.
"Don't know if anybody is."
After a few more centons of silence, Rissian raised his voice and asked the room in general, "Has anybody been here in the past few days, since we left the fleet? Does anybody know what the plan is for the bar?"
Nobody had been there in the last few hectic days. Nobody knew the plan.
"This isn't good," Trent muttered.
Martin sloshed his mug at them. "Fill 'em up and join us...."
They did.
"So what're we talking about?" Rissian asked. "Besides the absence of Dionys and the O club being about as much fun as the second day of an Otori send-off celebration."
That got a few half-hearted guffaws.
"Unfortunately," replied Daystar, "that was about the extent of the conversation so far."
"So let's change the subject. Gotta be something more cheerful to discuss."
There was a moment's silence.
"Well," one of the other pilots at the table said, with a bit of a grin, eager but almost unwilling and uncomfortable at the same time. "I found out I had family left in the fleet."
"Family? Really?" Trent asked. "That's great! Who?"
"Yeah. A couple of my cousins. Amerotke and Meren, and Meren's wife. They got a baby on the way. I'm going to be an uncle!"
"Here's to uncle-hood!" said Martin.
"Three cheers for Uncle Horus!" added Daystar, standing up and announcing it to the entire room.
They all raised their mugs and glasses in celebration with him, smiling. Nobody corrected the degree of kindred – of those in the Pegasus crew who'd actually had an opportunity to check the personnel records, very few had actually found any surviving kin or friends. The population of the Colonies had been in the tens of billions; less than a hundred thousand had survived the Destruction and reached a ship, then escaped the ambush at Carillon, and now lived in the overcrowded fleet. Any living relative or acquaintance was cause for celebration. There was pain and envy in some hearts, but these warriors had been together too long not to try to share the happiness of the lucky few. They clustered around, eager to hear of any links to their lost home. Hopeful voices spilled over each other.
"You had time to see the fleet roster? Did you happen to see anybody named Beka?"
"Maybe Teret and Sleera? From Aquara? That's my parents–"
"How about Karawin? Or maybe Herne? Or–"
"And Zander – did you see Zander?"
"Galadin, you'd know if you saw Galadin, he'da made it if anybody–"
"Whoah," Horus interrupted the sudden flow of names. "Sorry, guys, when I checked the records I only asked for Sagittarans, and I'm afraid I don't remember all the names – once I got past my family and saw my cousins, I kinda stopped looking, my turn was over...."
Half a dozen pilots seemed to deflate.
Daystar stepped in. "Hey, we know. We understand. Too bad there wasn't time for all of us to have a look at the roster, or enough time with the fleet for the people we know to call us and let us know...."
With a collection of sighs, the conversation died again.
After a moment, Trent asked, "So, did anybody here get a message?"
They all looked at each other.
"My brother Bronton's alive," Bori announced in his usual quiet tones. "He's a shuttle pilot now, civilian. He was able to call me from his shuttle, using one of our military channels, and he let me know about some other survivors to pass along. He knew about Lygia's parents being alive–"
"Probably why she let him through," Ptah mumbled in his generally cynical way.
"And med tech Twyla's two brothers."
"Hey, if they're anything like her, I wouldn't wanna be the Cylon that came up against 'em!" Rissian grinned.
It was a triple reason to celebrate.
"Here's to Bronton, a brother to be proud of!" Daystar announced, lifting his mug again. "Smart enough to get through to Bori and considerate enough to deliver good news for others of us!"
After that, things almost seemed to settle into their normal routine for the O club.
Almost.
* * * * *
It was about a centar later when the lean, middle-aged man came into the lounge, his riotously curly red hair as unkempt looking as ever. He scanned the room for a centon, sensing the environment, and was pleased with it.
At that micron, Trent saw him. His mug to his mouth, he suddenly choked and spewed water across the table, coughing.
As the others quickly turned to see what was wrong with their friend, Rissian glimpsed the newcomer. One hand jerked out to fasten on Daystar's wrist, tightening in a grip of tylinium that would leave a bruise.
"Hey, what–"
They all looked; they all saw him.
Silence exploded.
In the silence, Dionys strode to the bar and walked around it, then faced the room with a big grin.
"Okay, warriors – bar's open, come on up! Who's gonna be first?"
They stared.
"Now, come on, you can't all be in the mood for water tonight!"
"But ... but ... we thought ... you were gone!" Ptah sputtered.
"Now why would you think a thing like that?"
"Well, the Galactica ... the fleet ... we left the non-essential personnel behind...."
Dionys scoffed, looking a little offended. "And who says I'm non-essential personnel? You think I'm leaving this bird without me behind the bar?"
The warriors started laughing, unable to stop for their relief. Dionys's presence maintained a little semblance of normalcy and tradition in their world, which had turned upside down and then right side up again, over the past two sectons, leaving none of them the same.
"Well, we thought...."
Dionys waved a finger. "Now you listen here. From my first assignment on a little old warbird called the Hyperion, there's one thing I learned – it's essential that humans have a chance to relax, to get away from work and congregate and talk to each other away from ranks and rules and regulations. And I'm in charge of one of those places. Right here.
"So, warriors, what'll it be? Come on up to the bar. I hear you've got a meeting tomorrow at Gamoray, but tonight you've got a meeting here. We've got some new ambrosa shipped in from the fleet, thanks to the foresight of yours truly, and a fresh supply of Edric's special baharii, and even a little Sagittaran glenwater...."
They gathered.
* * * * *
"Now that sounds like you! So tell me, did you happen to catch the girl's name?" he asked as he handed over the refilled tankard.
Martin grinned. "Sorrell. Sweet wild Sorrell." He lingered over her name like a caress. "A Caprican planter's daughter. She became a shuttle pilot after Carillon, joined the squadrons at Kobol. Used to be an archivist, of all things."
"Ah! You got her name and biography!"
"Yeah. She says her favorite color's bronze, and I think blue's gonna be my favorite color from now on...."
"Mmm, yeah, you got the important details. But will you remember her a secton from now! That could be the question." Dionys leaned closer, winking, inviting confidences.
"I'll remember her," he answered with conviction, his smile and his eyes a quadrant away on another ship.
Dionys punched him once in the upper arm, lightly, to bring him back to reality, then heard another call for baharii, and waved himself off, leaving Martin to contemplate his current favorite lady. But he knew Martin pretty well by now – "sweet wild Sorrell" would be raised to iconhood in absentia; but when or if the battlestars rejoined, Martin would be looking elsewhere within a sectar – and he'd probably manage to convince the woman it was her idea for them to see other people, and still see each other for a while!
He shook his head and pulled out another bottle of Edric's best.
* * * * *
"No, it goes like this – ta da, da-da-da, ta-da-da, boom, boom, then into a crescendo!" Rissian insisted, waving his index finger, then bringing his fist down for the imaginary climax.
"Oh, come on," Daystar argued, "that's missing an entire fourth note! It's gotta be presto! Da-da-da-da, then ta-da-da-da." He gestured with his tankard, sloshing about half of it onto the bar.
"Hey, that's the way Gav always sang it, and if anybody knew their Libran opera, it was Gavain!"
"If that's the way he sang it, he sang it wrong!"
"Hey, quit wasting perfectly good baharii!" Dionys interrupted, passing by.
"Dionys, you know music," Daystar grabbed his sleeve. "You tell him!"
"What I know about Libran opera wouldn't make up the difference between what you had in that mug a centon ago and what you've got there now," he replied amiably. "Why don't you check the music databanks? I'm betting we got five recordings of that piece, at least – it was the most played piece of Libran music for about six sectars, a couple years ago."
"That's it!" Rissian said, one finger poking Daystar's chest. "That'll prove it!"
"It'll prove you're wrong is what it'll prove!" Rissian poked back. "Let's go...."
He watched the two men head for the door, grinning. "The problem with that proving anything," he announced to anyone who was listening, "is that half of 'em played it wrong, and none of 'em played it the same!"
Falstaff nearly fell off his stool laughing.
* * * * *
"I feel so alone!" Tamyris complained. "Darius is on the Galactica – we've been wingmates for four yahrens! How am I supposed to fly without him? Do you know how hard it's going to be to get used to not having him here?"
"You mean getting used to it again, don't you?" Dionys sent the mug of Edric's best zooming down the bar into Gemma's waiting hand, earning a bright, grateful grin from the petite pilot.
"Huh?"
"Well, he's not your first wingmate. Who did you fly with before Darius?"
"Uh ... well, Isis."
"And what happened to Isis?" Dionys had heard of Isis, he knew this wouldn't be opening too many old wounds.
"She ... got promoted. She became the exec for Ice Station Thule."
"Ooh, hated it, I'll bet."
"Loved it! How in hades a Sagittaran delta woman, who didn't even know what snow was until she went to the Academy, fell in love with that ice bucket, I'll never know!"
"But you survived when she left."
"Yes!"
"Didn't even consider going with her, did you?"
"Frak, no! Are you kidding?" Tamyris shot back, disbelief in her musical voice. "I prefer to have ice in my drinks, not my boots, thank you very much!"
"And you weren't leaving your ship, were you?"
"No, I wasn't...."
"So you resigned yourself to putting up with Darius, young egotistical punk that he was. Did he really try to set you up with his brother?"
"Yeah." She had to grin a little. "I remember I had to whip him into line...."
"And you don't think you can whip a new wingmate into line?"
"Of course I can!"
"Keeping in mind, of course, that it'll probably be somebody you've known and even flown with occasionally for the last two yahrens."
"Well, that's...."
"You just don't want to, because it won't be Darius?"
"I...." She closed her mouth. "Yeah.... I'm gonna miss Darius."
He touched her hand for a moment. "I know. We'll miss a lot of people...."
They sighed as one. Then she found a little smile.
"I think I'll go join Gemma and Elaine. See if I can talk the captain into giving me somebody good to fly with...."
"I think I'll go pour another round. I know it'll be good."
* * * * *
"Sure you don't want something stronger than caff?" Dionys asked as he poured the steaming liquid into the cup.
"I'm certain," Sherlock replied calmly. "We're busy tonight with some recalibration checks before ... tomorrow. I just needed a few moments away to think and stretch my legs."
"And you came here? Why not the mess hall?"
The chief engineer glanced around at the gathered warriors, talking, laughing, sharing, bonding anew with their diminished numbers.
"Because this is what I needed to see," was his reply.
"Say," Dionys asked before he could leave, "I know the senior officers had first crack at looking at the fleet survivor roster. Did you take the opportunity? Find anybody you knew?"
"I didn't look."
"Oh." Dionys tilted his head. "Why'd you pass?"
Sherlock took a sip. "I resigned myself long ago to the inevitability that my family was gone. Finding the fleet did not alter that. The odds were ... not in their favor."
"From what I'm hearing in here tonight, doesn't sound like most of the pilots share that fatalism. They all found a little hope when we found the Galactica."
"So I gathered. That's why I gave one of my techs my turn. He found a nephew on their orphan ship."
"Whoah. Must be hard for him to be leaving again...."
"He was non-essential personnel. He stayed with the fleet." Sherlock took another sip, nodded a farewell, and headed out the door with his caff.
Dionys watched him go. "Hunh," was all he could say. "An engineer, non-essential. Right. And they claim that man's got no feelings but impatience...."
* * * * *
"How about one for the future addition to the family?" Dionys asked. He could see that Horus wasn't looking particularly jovial.
Horus sighed. "The baby isn't here yet." He looked down into his empty mug – which had been empty, in Dionys's estimation, for nearly a centar, as the pilot sat off by himself in the most shadowed corner of the lounge.
"Do they think something might go wrong?"
"No." He sighed again, more deeply.
"Is it, that you won't be around to see them for a while, and you're gonna worry about them while we're gone?"
"Yeah...."
"And that as great as it is to have some family left, you'd really love to have found your parents and your little sister there too?"
Horus looked up at him, surprised.
"And," he continued more quietly, "you feel guilty for wishing that, like you're asking for too much, when you can guess what your cousins must have gone through to survive, and when so many of these guys don't have anybody left at all, except each other. And maybe, after the rush of that first centon's joy, you even thought that you'd have traded the cousins and that little baby on the way, for just one of the people you grew up with – and you hate yourself for even thinking that?"
"How'd you know?" All of a sudden, there were tears in Horus's dark eyes.
"Because you're not the only one," he replied equally softly. "I'm not gonna tell you to feel lucky because you've got somebody – you've already told yourself that. And I'm not gonna tell you there's something wrong with you for being angry that the people you most loved didn't survive – it's not wrong, it's natural. Survivors go through that."
"I feel like a monster ... a selfish, cruel monster.... Am I going to be able to be happy for them?"
"You're not a monster. You're human. You've got human emotions. You got a little grieving still to do for the family, but you'll get through it. And I guarantee you, when we hook back up with the fleet, and you see that little kid for the first time, and the look on your cousin's face when you walk in, you'll be fine."
It was a hard-won smile, through a few tears, but it came. "Thanks, Dionys," he said huskily.
"Any time. And now," he said more briskly, "I think you might have had enough. Think you can make it to your bunk yourself, or do you need a hand?"
"I'll be fine. You probably noticed, I haven't really been drinking...."
"I noticed. 'Night, Horus."
* * * * *
"It just won't be the same," the warrior grumbled.
"No, it won't," Dionys acknowledged practically, leaning on his elbows. "But look at it this way, it's a good thing we still got each other."
"At least as many of us as there are," Ptah mumbled back. "Seems like half the crew got sent back to the fleet as non-essential."
The bartender lowered his face almost to the bar to meet him eye-to-eye. "Eh, look at it this way, Ptah," he said. "You won't have to share a billet anymore, so you can put together a piscine tank any size you want. Raise Libran muddowners a metron long. Keep a half-dozen schools of rainbow stargleams. Breed some more of those delicate webtails you love."
One thing that could be counted on – mention of his fish could evoke a positive reaction from Ptah when nothing else could. One side of his lips twitched. His glum expression turned into a smile as he contemplated the possibilities.
Dionys moved down the bar.
* * * * *
Two bells. The traditional closing time. The absolute end of the evening, even if it ran into the following morning.
"All right, ladies and gentlemen," Dionys announced to the handful of stragglers who remained, "hate to throw you out, but you got a mission tomorrow, from what I understand. If you want to keep going, you'll have to do it over caff in the mess hall."
The last half dozen grumbled good-naturedly, then waved good nights to him and to each other, and headed out the door.
Alone for the first time that evening, Dionys moved out into the club and began cleaning up. He had chosen to stay, citing his personally determined essential status, but none of his assistants had. This place was his home and his mission to Dionys, and he wasn't leaving it; to the others who'd worked with him, it was mostly just a job. He gathered tankards and chalices of all types, lining them up at the bar to be run through the cleansing unit, then wiped down the tables and mopped up somebody's spilled, sticky baharii. He checked the inventory and made himself some notes on which to restock before opening the next day.
Finally drawing a drink for himself, he sank down into a seat, off his feet for the first time that night. He blew a heavy but satisfied sigh.
"I'm gonna have to get some help in here," he announced to the empty walls. "A couple days of this, I can handle, but not forever." He took a drink, enjoying the smooth burning down his throat. "Maybe some of the crew'll be willing to help me out, take turns. After all," he licked his lips, "some things are essential. A person just has to have his priorities."
And under the circumstances, he expected this place was going to be one.
Unhealed Wounds
Cain wasn't going back to the fleet. The Pegasus was on her own again.
"I have to assume he knows what he's doing," she muttered under her breath. "And maybe hope he doesn't do it too long. My staff's cut by two-thirds, and the personnel in some departments are reduced twenty-five to fifty percent."
They had sent away the injured, with medics to care for them on the trip, and all non-essential personnel who wished to accompany them. The vessel had been overcrowded before; she'd taken on many survivors at Molecay, and given them all duties. But now she was seriously understaffed, if Cain truly intended to remain apart, as he'd announced at the briefing.
Helena slid into her chair and sat up very straight, hands flat on the desk. After a moment, she reached up to brush a wave of platinum blonde hair higher on her forehead, then hit the computer file. She had to double-check the roster, see who was left, remember who'd been sent to the fleet with the injured when Cain led them on their suicide run against three base ships.
"Not exactly a suicide run. But we didn't know what he planned when we stayed aboard. He couldn't have known we'd survive; he must have had some suspicion what he was taking us into...." She felt a tic in her left cheek, and carefully relaxed the muscles, calling back her usual calm expression. It was a careful lack of visible emotion that had earned her the epithets of remote, frosty, heartless, and worse, from some of the crew. She couldn't let herself care about some of the words, the thoughts. She had a job to do.
Beej. The sandy-haired, mustached doctor from the Britannica. A good man, and a fine young doctor. Friendly, but quiet. He'd refused the fleet run. Just now, she could see him through the screen, bustling around beyond her chamber. He was checking Sif; the woman's husband sat at her side, as he'd been for the past two days. Sif had been badly injured; for two days, they had been afraid she would die. Beej had operated on her, then devoted almost constant attention to the slow turning toward recovery.
Rafael. Olive-skinned, dark curly hair, lean, sinewy build. He smiled too much for her liking, but he had a way with patients. He also had a way with the female med techs, especially Galswintha. At the other end of the main life center chamber, she could glimpse the two of them going over the equipment inventory; they would have to be very careful with supplies as well as personnel – human medical supplies were something they couldn't steal from the Cylons.
The med techs. Galswintha, the dark and lively Scorpian, whose very touch seemed to help some patients. Cadmus, a Caprican, so selfless and dedicated it hurt. Flora, a thin and fey-seeming Gemon, convinced that every patient healed faster with something growing at his bedside, who filled life center with the scent of herbs. Liber, another Gemon, who seemed to have more energy than any other two men. Twyla, as openly sharp-tonged and dark-featured as her superior was reserved and fair-complexioned, the daughter of spacers, who'd never spent more than a few sectons at a time on any world. Hypatia, the shy Libran who seemed to live to be of service.
A good team, and more than competent to care for the present situation, but if they faced another battle like the one they'd just come through, with days of hit and run fighting, or Sagan forbid, like the one at Molecay, they would lose patients. And it was only a third of the team they were used to working with; there would be gaps in experience and reaction that they would each expect someone else to fill. But that someone else wouldn't be there anymore.
Their loss was the fleet's gain, in experienced personnel; their people desperately needed those medical specialists. But what would the Pegasus do now?
* * * * *
"She'll be all right, Heimdal. The worst is over." Beej wasn't sure the captain even heard what he said, so he rephrased it. "Lieutenant Sif shows every indication of making a full recovery from her injuries, Captain. If you'd like to take a few centars, catch a little snooze...."
"I'll stay with my wife." He was silent for a moment, holding the woman's hand. He touched the long blonde braid that lay over her bare shoulder and the thermoblanket. She turned her head slightly to follow his touch, in spite of being heavily medicated and deeply asleep. "She should never have taken her ship out again. It was damaged; there wasn't time to repair it properly. She insisted on joining the spearhead, and staying with us. I should have ordered her back with the others, with the injured. She'd be safe with the Galactica now."
"Would she have gone without you, even under orders?"
Heimdal's blue-gray eyes flicked to him. "No."
"Would you be happy with her gone? Would she be happy without you?"
"No."
"Then I don't see the point."
His expression was dry. "You are obviously not a married man."
Beej winced; pain flashed in his eyes for a moment. He kept his voice steady as he replied, "Not anymore."
"We owe you much, doctor."
"I'd have done it for anybody."
"I'm sure you would have. But you did it for her. And I would not wish to live without her. Count on our friendship if you ever need it. And thank you."
The expression in his eyes deepened; the doctor turned away quickly.
Heimdal scarcely noticed his departure. His attention was on Sif, mesmerized by her hair, her peaceful, sleeping face, the translucent-pale skin of her forehead, neck, and shoulders. He worked loose the braid, and began to unwind her hair, spreading its wavy tendrils across the pillows and her body.
Her eyelids fluttered for a moment, and she half-smiled, a rosy blush on her cheeks. A light sigh, and she was asleep again.
Heimdal loved her more all the time.
* * * * *
"Status?" Dr. Helena asked briskly.
"Everything's good," Dr. Beej replied. "All our patients are showing strong signs of recovery. Even Sif will be ready to be released soon. She was the only one I really didn't think we could save. Many more miracles like that, and I'll start believing our own publicity!" He fingered the computer readout, playing with the tabs at the edge of the sheets.
"Then I think we can give ourselves a well-deserved rest," she commented. "We might as well recuperate a bit ourselves before the fatigue and stress set in."
The man's lips thinned as he nodded. "Bound to happen. We're apart from everything we knew and everyone most of us cared about. Won't be long before the oddball factor cuts in, unexpected emotional outbursts, depression, symptoms of neuroses...."
"I already wish Metus was here. But we didn't need a psychological specialist for the battle. So..... Actually, I'm surprised you decided to stick with us. You had leave to visit the fleet, one of the few of us who got the chance to leave this old ship. Why did you stay?"
The medic grimaced. "No reason to leave."
"She didn't survive?" The question was voiced almost softly, and Beej was startled for a moment, wondering if Helena was actually expressing sympathy.
"No."
"I'm sorry."
"Yeah. So am I."
She shuffled at something on her desk, then broke protocol, as Beej had been first in the short-lived furlon program. "You may as well take first leave. Things will get hectic here soon enough; I suspect we'll all soon be carrying double duty."
He laughed shortly. "As long as it doesn't get to us, and we go off the deep end with the lunatic pilots."
"We can handle it." Her brisk tone dismissed him; he'd heard it often enough in the past to know when Helena had other things on her mind. With a half-bow, he left her office.
Lt. Sif and Capt. Martin were the only patients in life center still requiring any kind of special care; the rest had been released, and the remaining two would soon be back on their feet as well. Beej saw med techs Flora and Twyla hovering over the handsome Martin, and Sif was sitting up talking to her husband and Dr. Rafael.
"What the frak, I've earned it," he muttered to himself. He negligently tossed his printout aside and marched from life center. There was bound to be someone in the officers' club he knew.
* * * * *
Boring, boring, boring. Being drunk was boring. And none of the booze was making memories go away. Beej wondered why he bothered. He'd spent two yahrens aboard the Pegasus since Molecay, wondering often if she'd made it, if she was still waiting for him. She hadn't been. She was dead. He thought he'd resigned himself to the fact, to both of them being gone. But then....
And it hurt the more, so much more, for knowing how it had been, and who....
"Well, why did I expect her to wait?" he asked with exaggerated precision. His three companions had long since succumbed, two returning to their own chambers, the third snoring on the table. The sleeping drunk didn't respond.
"I wasn't home much before Molecay, and she had her own career, things to do, people to meet. How could I expect her to wait for me, when everybody thought the whole Fifth Fleet was gone? And she was beautiful, had everything going for her. She shouldn't have had to wait for any man. Lords know half the men in the Colonies were willing to wait for her if she so much as glanced their way. Bartender, another!" He raised a fist at the man by the counter.
The man set something in front of him. The doctor didn't even care what it was. The Pegasus was already reduced to what its personnel could make on their own. The taste didn't matter, most of the time, as long as it did the job.
Somebody slid into the seat next to him. He stared blearily at a pilot far too neatly dressed and pressed. He couldn't believe it – not only did most warriors never look that way, but he knew this particular pilot didn't frequent the officers' club. He propped his chin on his hand and initiated conversation.
"Heimdal. You're having one, I hope. Good. I hate to drink alone," he said carefully. "So what brings you here? How's your lady?"
"Sif's fine." The bartender brought another drink for his new companion. "You did a good job."
"Just doin' my job." His pronunciation started slipping.
The redhead took a drink, studied him a moment more. "So what happened to your wife? Killed with the rest of the Colonies?" he asked abruptly.
Beej almost laughed, but thought it would turn into tears, so he held it back. "No, she survived to reach the fleet. That's where she ran into trouble. Her and the kid, my kid...." He took a long draw from the mug.
Heimdal seemed in a reminiscing mood. "We had a child, a little girl."
"Oh? Gone with the rest?"
The captain nodded. "She was with my family. They were raising her, like our clans always did. None of them made it. The whole clan...."
"So why bring up bad memories?" Beej demanded. "Have another drink and forget it."
"You saved my wife. We don't forget that kind of thing. I will never forget it." Heimdal finished his drink. For a man who didn't drink, Beej thought he'd finished it awfully quickly.
"Wonderful," he muttered.
He didn't realize Heimdal had ordered another until the bartender set drinks in front of each of them.
"What happened to her?" his companion prompted.
"Who?"
"Your wife."
"Why do you need to know?"
Heimdal almost smiled at him. "I'm curious. I want to know. And I think you need to tell."
"Oh. She decided to become a warrior. And so she did. And she was killed by the Cylons. End of story. Old story. Everybody's heard it before. Everybody knows a warrior who was killed by the Cylons." Beej sighed heavily, drink and emotion stirring up in him. He tried to stand up, and fell back, astonished at his own instability.
"I think you need sleep," the pilot observed.
"I think you're right. But I'm not sure I'd make it back to my chambers."
"Let me help you."
With an arm over the husky warrior's shoulder, Beej made a credible attempt at walking. Back in his own chambers, Heimdal let him spill onto the bunk.
Staring up at the ceiling, the doctor suddenly announced, "I'm not ever going back to the Galactica. Not even if we join the fleet again."
"Why not?" Heimdal inquired patiently, working at his boots.
"I might see him."
"Which him? There are a lot of men aboard that ship." One boot flew.
Tears were flowing too, rolling down his cheeks, dampening his mustache, dripping onto his pillow. "The man she married."
Heimdal stiffened. "The man she ... married? I think I understand...."
"Not all of it." The other man was shaking. "She thought I was dead. I can understand that. I don't blame her for marrying somebody else. And I was never there, I guess I shouldn't talk.... But you know the worst? The absolute worst?"
The pilot simply knelt and listened to the rhetorical question. In his drunken state, Beej just needed to talk, and Heimdal was prepared to listen.
"The worst is, I was aboard for a while. Y'see, I never thought she might be alive. But then I found out she had been, and I had to go see what had happened, how she had died. When I found out she was dead, and how she died, I learned our son was alive, with the man she married. I saw him, at school, wanted to talk to him, tell him I was alive, and we'd be together, that he wasn't alone. You know what? He didn't even recognize me! Was I gone so much?
"Then he showed up, and my kid.... My own kid's calling another man father!" He half-rolled and began pounding the bunk. "He's calling another man father! He didn't even know me! If I ever see that Apollo again, I'm gonna kill him! He's got Boxey. He's got my son...."
Beej buried his sobs in the pillow, working the blanket into a twisted mass.
"And he won't even know why! He looked at me, then looked right past me. He didn't know me either. Didn't Serina ever tell him? Didn't she even keep a picture of me that he might have seen and asked about? Didn't he know she was married before, that I was with the Fifth Fleet? It wasn't even in the personnel records! Her records....
"Dammit, I loved her! I loved Boxey! And he didn't even know me...."
Heimdal waited until the drunken sobs faded into occasional hiccups, then silence. Very quietly, he draped another blanket over the sleeping man and moved to the door to turn out the light.
"I understand you, Beej." The words were softly-spoken, but heartfelt and pained. "Our little Bryna didn't remember us either, the one time we saw her before Molecay. They speak of children being damaged by so much separation from their parents because of this war, but they forget how we hurt, being apart when duty has give other orders....
"I will not wish you forgetfulness, because you cannot forget a child, and I could not bear the thought of losing Sif, of having to face life without her. I wish for you that the sadness will fade, but not the memory. My friend, I hope you find another reason to live."