Unity Page 3

  The simple phrase, said in Lee’s straightforward manner, had gone straight through Kara and stabbed a red-hot nerve she hadn’t known existed. It brought up strange feelings, confusing emotions, difficult memories.

  You’re worthless, Kara. No one loves you. You’re just a worthless piece of trash. Her father’s voice, the one that brought up hatred, fear, and a strange desire to please, still echoed in her head sometimes, and Lee’s words brought it back again. It all confused her, scared her, and she retreated into easy flippancy.

  “Lee Adama loves me,” she sing-songed at him. Her tone made him turn away, clearly sorry he had said anything. She pressed the advantage, taunting him with playground banter until he had slouched out of the locker room wearing a “Yeah, sure” expression. Neither of them had referred to the incident since, which was just the way Kara wanted it.

  Didn’t she?

  Lee shuffled his feet, looking like he was about twelve. Kara looked at her nails. Tyrol fussed over the Viper.

  “Crack in the main manifold,” he muttered, “scoring on the cabin, and what the frak happened to the landing gear?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary for Lieutenant Thrace,” said Specialist Cally Henderson. She had short brown hair, a round face, and an enormous clipboard. The paper on it was already half covered in notes. Kara waggled some eyebrows at her and Cally shook her head in mock sorrow.

  Two elevator pads descended side by side. One bore the Search-and-Rescue Raptor. The SAR Raptor was larger than the “normal” Raptors and sported equipment that let it haul in ships, pods, or other objects in distress. The other pad bore the escape pod. It was large enough to hold over thirty people, if they were friendly. It had two portholes, but Kara couldn’t see inside it from where she was standing. The marines quickly stepped up and trained their weapons on the airlock door with the various clacks and clicks of ready weapons.

  “Everyone stay back, please,” bellowed the Sergeant Major in charge of the platoon. “We’re not expecting trouble, but you should remain at a safe distance.”

  Kara snorted. If “not expecting trouble” meant pointing a dozen pulse rifles and readying a handful of grenades, she was dying to see what “expecting trouble” looked like. She continued to lounge against her Viper, seemingly unconcerned but actually crawling with curiosity. It was sheer coincidence that the Viper’s wing was providing a nice bit of cover between her and the pod.

  “Where the hell did it come from?” Lee asked beside her.

  She shrugged. “Maybe a Colonial ship we don’t know about survived the Cylon attack and passed this way.”

  “Not likely. We’ve been in this system for days. We would have picked up the distress signal a long time ago. Has to be from the basestar.”

  “You said that earlier,” she pointed out. “Why would a Colonial escape pod be on a Cylon basestar?”

  “Maybe we can ask the guy you saw, if the marines don’t blow him away.”

  The wheel on the airlock turned all by itself. The marines remained outwardly impassive, but tension thickened the oily air. The flight crew stopped all pretense of work and stared at the slowly moving wheel. Most had obeyed the Sergeant Major and moved away or stolen behind some kind of cover. The wheel made the familiar cricket-chirp sound that Kara heard every day from doors all over the Galactica, and the door swung outward. She tensed, ready to dive fully behind her Viper.

  Nothing happened. The doorway stood empty, the inside of the pod completely dark. Kara narrowed her eyes. Someone in there had shut of the light. Why?

  The marines stayed in attack formation around the door, their expressions tense. Still nothing moved.

  “Attention rescue pod,” the Sergeant Major barked. “We have you surrounded!”

  Kara pushed back a laugh. Yes, the rescue pod was armed and dangerous. Any minute it would—

  Movement exploded from the doorway. Kara caught a glimpse of a woman with long black hair and almond eyes. She wore a green jumpsuit and she moved faster than any human had a right to move. Before the marines could react or even blink, she stiff-armed one of them so hard that he flew backward and crashed into one of his compatriots, bringing both of them down. The woman didn’t stop moving. She grabbed a rifle barrel with impossible speed and yanked. The marine holding it left his feet and smashed straight into the heel of her hand. He dropped to the deck and the woman whirled the rifle into firing position. Kara recognized the woman’s face and gasped just as the rest of the squadron opened fire. Needles and bullets tore through the woman. She jigged in place as bloody holes ripped through her skin and clothes. Then she dropped to the deck, rifle still in her hand. It clanged against the deck plates.

  “Frak,” Lee muttered. “Sharon.”

  Kara nodded. One of the five versions of Cylons Kara—and Lee—had encountered took the form of Raptor pilot Sharon Valerii. Sharon had been a “sleeper” agent, a Cylon who had been programmed with false memories to make her think she was human. Her mission had been to assassinate Commander Adama, and she had nearly succeeded. Her corpse still lay in the morgue. On Caprica, Kara had come across another version of Sharon. This copy had known she was a Cylon, but she had helped Kara on her mission, and Kara brought the Cylon back with her to Galactica. Caprica Sharon currently occupied the brig, and although she had helped Galactica fight the Cylons on numerous occasions, it sent cold shivers across Kara’s skin to see “her” out in the open.

  This version of Sharon was clearly dead, another one for the morgue. Kara pushed through the gathered crowd and saw for herself. Sightless eyes stared at the ceiling, and one of her legs was bent beneath her. Kara pursed her lips, then looked at the pod. It was still dark inside it.

  “I saw a man in there,” she called to the marines. “Before I came in to land. He’s probably still there.”

  The marines who weren’t down or attending to the wounded turned away from Sharon’s corpse and trained their rifles on the pod again.

  “You in there!” barked the Sergeant Major. “Hands on your head and come out!”

  Long pause. Then, “I’m coming. Don’t shoot!”

  A shadow moved, and a figure stepped slowly out of the pod and into the light, his hands on his head. He looked out at the marines and technicians with an uncertain, hesitating expression. Every marine rifle instantly snapped around to train on him. Kara felt her eyes widen. Frak, the man was gorgeous. His golden hair shone like sunshine in the harsh light of the flight deck, and his eyes, blue as a Caprica lake, looked out from a smooth, square-jawed face. He wore a blue short-sleeved shirt cut tight enough to show off an arresting build and arms that begged Kara to run her hands over them so she could feel their corded muscle. She remembered her earlier thoughts on the Viper and felt a little flushed despite the weaponry that bristled around her.

  “Don’t shoot!” the man said, and his voice was smooth and light, almost boyish but still fully a man’s. “I’m not a Cylon!”

  Kara stared at him. His voice sounded familiar, and the more she looked at him, the more it seemed like she should know him. But she couldn’t put her finger on why.

  “Lie face-down on the ground,” the Sergeant Major said. “Now!”

  Slowly, the man obeyed. He looked alone and vulnerable in front of the pod. Kara felt sorry for him, though she knew full well that he could be another Cylon. The Fleet had been tricked far too often to trust a newcomer easily.

  Two marines put a set of heavy shackles on the blond man. He didn’t resist. He also didn’t speak. Two more marines disappeared into the pod, rifles at the ready, and reemerged to report that no one else was inside. The Sergeant Major hauled the blond man to his feet. He still looked familiar.

  “Oh my gods!” Cally said abruptly. She was clutching her clipboard to her chest. “That’s Peter Attis!”

  And then it clicked for Kara. Peter Attis. Rock star. His image had graced posters and album covers and magazine pages all over the Twelve Colonies. He had started his career when he was sixteen, and
his song “My Heart Has Eyes for Only You” had soared to the top of the charts. Kara, then thirteen, had decorated her bedroom with his pictures and collected every single song. In school she had doodled in her notebook every possible combination of her name and his—Kara Attis. Peter Thrace. Kara Attis-Thrace. Mrs. K. Thrace-Attis—accompanied by the required heart over the i in “Attis.” Thank the Lords of Kobol she had outgrown that phase right quick and that no one had ever seen those notebooks.

  A murmur went through the assembled group. Several had recognized him, too. Peter’s music had matured along with him, which garnered him fans from every part of the age spectrum. He had even gone through a brief but intense grunge phase, which Kara still listened to.

  Leaving Lee behind, Kara stepped forward to get a better look. The prisoner was shackled and Kara outranked the Sergeant Major, so the marine didn’t object. Peter looked at her with the bluest eyes Kara had ever seen. For a moment, Kara was thirteen again, and her heart was racing with a strange thrill.

  “Peter Attis?” she said. The teenaged fangirl inside her jumped up and down and said, I have all your records. I think you’re the greatest! Kara told it to shut the hell up and instead said, “Hell, I used to listen to all your stuff.” The half-quashed teenager put a little too much enthusiasm into Kara’s voice, so she added, “But that was a frakking long time ago.”

  “Thanks,” Peter said, and flashed a wide smile that went straight down to Kara’s toes. “It’s always nice to meet a fan—or former fan. Uh … even when I’m chained hand and foot.”

  All at once, Kara was aware of her surroundings. She cleared her throat and backed up a step. “Just a precaution,” she said. “Though I’m sure you couldn’t be a Cylon.”

  “And why is that, Lieutenant?” asked Colonel Saul Tigh behind her.

  Kara bit the inside of her cheek and turned to face him. Tigh was somewhere in his sixties, with a short fringe of white hair surrounding his bald pate. He wore his navy blue Executive Officer’s uniform stiffly, as it were filled with wood and wire instead of skin and muscle, and his face was screwed into a permanent mask of disapproval. Behind Colonel Tigh stood Commander Bill Adama and Dr. Gaius Baltar. Adama’s craggy, acne-scarred face looked grave. He and Tigh were of an age, but Kara thought Adama wore his years far better. Gaius Baltar was much younger, a genius with computers, physics, and some areas of biology. He was also the vice president of the Colonies.

  “Peter Attis can’t be a Cylon because his history is too wellestablished, sir,” Kara said to Tigh, keeping her dislike out of her voice but not bothering to disguise a small sneer. “He’s been a star since he was sixteen years old, and lots of people recognize his face. He has family—or he did. A brother and two sisters and parents.”

  “They all died in the attack, though,” Peter said softly.

  “So there’s no way to verify his identity,” Tigh said. “He came from a Cylon ship, and I’m thinking he needs an introduction to the nearest airlock.”

  “I’m not a Cylon,” Peter repeated. His voice was calm but his face was pale. “What can I say that might convince you?”

  Kara gave Adama a desperate look. “Commander, shouldn’t we—”

  “We’ve been bitten by too many snakes, Lieutenant,” Adama said. “I think the Colonel may be right.”

  “Isn’t he handsome?” Number Six whispered in Gaius Baltar’s ear. Her breath was warm and wet on his skin, and her slender hands lay hot on his shoulders. He could see her out of the corner of his eye, though long practice had taught him not to spin around to look at her. He was standing at the back of the crowd, but someone might still see, and people looked at you funny when you acknowledged the presence of empty air.

  “If you go in for that type,” he said softly. “And before you ask, I never have done, thank you.”

  Number Six smiled. She was a tall, heavy-breasted woman with pale blond hair, gray eyes, and full, red lips. At the moment she was wearing a pale blue dress that flowed in some areas, clung in others.

  “Jealous?” she said.

  “You can’t be serious,” he responded. The second word came out more like cahnt. “He’s a singing ape with the IQ of a trained poodle.”

  She ran a finger across the back of his neck, sending shivers down his spine. He half closed his eyes in catlike satisfaction. No one could see—or hear or feel—Cylon Humanoid Model Number Six except him. Back home on Caprica, he had thought she was a real human woman, one genuinely attracted to his natural charisma, brilliant mind, and well-toned physique. She was the most inventive lover he had ever taken to his bed, and Gaius’s bed had been a playground for more years than he cared to count. Only later had he learned how she had tricked him, seduced him into giving up the secrets to Caprica’s computerized defense network The Cylons had penetrated the Twelve Colonies moments later, and Gaius himself had barely escaped death. No one on the Fleet knew about his treason—except Number Six. He had seen her die on Caprica, but now she appeared to him like some strange ghost, able to touch him, push him around. Seduce him. She had initially claimed to be a hallucination created by a chip the Cylons had implanted in his head, but Gaius had gotten his brain scanned, and no chip had turned up. He had since given up trying to define what she was or where she came from.

  “Looks like you won’t have to worry about him for long, Gaius,” Six murmured. “They’re going to toss him out an airlock. Typical mistrustful behavior.”

  “Yes, you and your kind have given us so many reasons to trust everyone.” But the rebuke was mild, almost habitual.

  “And you’ll never get the chance to learn what he’s really about.”

  Here he did turn his head. Fortunately, he was at the back of the crowd and no one noticed. “What do you mean?”

  “It doesn’t matter, does it?” Six nodded at Adama and Tigh. “Look at them. They’re going to have Peter killed. And his secrets die with him.”

  “Why would I care about his secrets?” Gaius snorted, though he found himself staring at Peter Attis.

  “You won’t,” Six said. “He’s going to die before anyone even knows he has secrets. Too bad. There’s glory in working out a puzzle like his.”

  “Commander,” Gaius called out. He wormed his way through the crowd of people gathered around the Raptor. “Commander, if I may?”

  “What is it, Doctor?” Adama said in the tired tone he often used with Gaius. It was a tone Gaius found immensely irritating. He was the vice president of the Colonies and the single most intelligent human being in the Fleet, yet Adama insisted on treating him like an annoying flunky.

  “I think it might be best if we—if someone—interrogated this man first. If he’s a Cylon, it would benefit us to learn all we can from him. If he’s human, he clearly lived among the Cylons as their prisoner for quite some time, and he might have valuable insight into their thinking. He could hardly be a threat in the brig, in any case.”

  “I think Doctor Gaius is right, sir,” Kara Thrace said.

  “Which means we should definitely toss him,” Tigh growled.

  Adama’s face remained impassive. He looked at Kara, then at Tigh and Gaius. Gaius held his breath.

  “Toss him,” Adama said shortly, and turned to leave.

  CHAPTER 3

  The marines dragged Peter away. An expression of terror twisted his handsome face and he was shouting incoherently, struggling against his bonds.

  “Commander, please!” Kara and Baltar said simultaneously. Their words tumbled out in an overlapping rush.

  “You’re making a terrible mistake! Who knows what he might know? There’s no proof he’s a Cylon. You could be executing an innocent man. How could it hurt to put him in the brig? We’ve had Sharon on board for weeks, and she’s only helped us. Peter might be able to tell us about the Cylons, things we’d never find out on our own.”

  Adama remained silent.

  “I’ll interrogate him myself, Commander,” Kara added. “If there’s any hint that he’s a Cy
lon, I’ll space him myself. Please.”

  “Yes, please,” Baltar added.

  Adama looked at them both for a long moment Kara held her breath. It seemed like she could already hear Peter’s silent scream as his tortured body floated through harsh vacuum. When she was drawing hearts and combining names in her school notebook, she had never thought she might be involved in trying to save Peter’s life. His music had gotten her through some tough times. When she was young, the bouncy pop rhythms created a safe space far away from her father, and she fantasized that Peter might sweep into her life and take her to safety. As she grew older, Peter’s music changed. His brief grunge phase had produced two albums that had spoken to Kara at a time when her emotions had been as thick and black as the music Peter produced. The albums he had done in adulthood hadn’t grabbed her as much, but she still remembered how his voice had reflected her own mood and the sympathy she had found there.

  “All right,” Adama said at last. “Take him to the brig. I want both of you to interrogate him. Have Lee there, too.”

  “Thank you, sir!” Kara said over her shoulder. She was already sprinting after the marines. She didn’t see Lee watching her with an odd look on his face.

  Peter sat, pale and stunned, behind a table bolted to the floor in the brig. He had already thrown up twice, but he had assured Kara that the nausea had passed. She hoped so. The sour smell of vomit wasn’t something she enjoyed, especially when it was someone else’s.

  The brig interrogation room was chilly. Bare blue walls, a single metal door with a thick glass window, and a set of chairs bolted to the floor were all that greeted “visitors.” Kara faced Peter with Baltar beside her and Lee standing behind. Peter was still in chains. He also looked … different to Kara. It was subtle, but noticeable. His hair was disheveled, and he needed a shave. Fine lines radiated away from his eyes, lines that didn’t belong on a man barely over thirty. His lips were thin with fear. The Peter who appeared on vids and posters and album covers was smooth and perfect—handsome, but in a plastic sort of way. This Peter was real, a man who breathed and sweated and chewed his nails. And he was all the more attractive for it. As a child, she’d had a crush on dream. As an adult, she wanted something more solid, and this Peter looked pretty solid.