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The Caprican refugees were stunned
into shock, but still a tremulous voice asked, “What do we do
now?” There was no hope of a miraculous rescue; every pilot with
wits would have broken atmosphere after the first mushroom cloud flared
in the clear blue sky. Helo was their authority now; a last, faint hope
that would soon fade away just like the thunder of the Raptor's engines
had faded, leaving an eerie silence in its wake.
Helo didn't answer at first. Instead, he looked out at the burgeoning
clouds on the horizon, wondering what was left to destroy. He would
have returned to Galactica, would have fought the destroyers, if he
hadn't seen the need for a greater mind to survive. The Colonials had
never been able to comprehend Cylon thought processes, and he hoped Dr.
Baltar could make the breakthrough, learn why his home would soon be
reduced to a radioactive ball of slag. He'd meant it when he told
Boomer that the clouds heralded the end of everything, the eradication
of Colonial civilization. Whoever survived had to be the best of the
best, the ones who could defeat the Cylons with no resources, no hope.
The Colonials had abandoned thermonuclear bombs after Helion had
discovered how to create fusion reactions without a fission starter. He
had taken his call sign from his ancestor's involvement in the project,
when the discovery of tillium had galvanized scientific advancements.
He remembered studying their efforts, learning how they'd made
radiation sickness, lethal dosage and safe levels obsolete. The
Raptor's sensors had shown the Cylons had resumed the old ways. They
were using nuclear fission to prime the fusion bombs, tremendous
amounts of heat and pressure forcing hydrogen atoms together to release
their deadly explosions.
The dirty grey stems of the clouds on the horizon meant that deadly
levels of radiation would reach them within hours – the earth
sucked up into the fireball then dispersed by winds. If the Cylons
didn't decide to drop a bomb on all life signs and end it quickly, the
fallout plumes would still ensure their destruction. There would be no
chance to evacuate to a safe zone, with bombs lighting the entire
surface like horrific firecrackers. Now he would die as if Helion had
never found anything. He considered the options: death by radiation
sickness, death by torture, death by thermonuclear heat, blast, and a
torrent of neutrons and gamma rays. Actually, death by blaster beat all
but one of those options in the mercy sweepstakes.
He thought about telling the refugees there was nothing they could do,
but didn't want to panic them further. The man he'd shot off the air
vent of the Raptor had died a moment ago. “Let's walk to those
trees and regroup.”
“There's nothing to regroup. We're all dead,” a voice close to his elbow muttered.
Smart boy, he thought, but didn't say anything. They needed
a goal, no matter how small, to keep them from their earlier panic.
“Come on,” he said and started limping towards the tree
line, trying to ignore the painful wound in his thigh. He wasn't used
to being blind to his surroundings. The Raptor was an all-seeing eye
for the Viper squadron. Now there was no way to reconnoiter but his
pitiful human senses.
There had been no sign of Cylon ground soldiers as they entered
atmosphere. The machines were here to destroy humanity, not conquer it,
and a fifty megaton warhead over Caprica City had started that easily
enough.
Sometimes, when the liquor had been flowing and Starbuck wasn't around,
Colonel Tigh had told stories about the war. Helo's blood had curdled
while hearing about prisoners treated like cattle, experiments in
vivisection, and bizarre rituals of torture. He'd always wondered what
happened to those who were left behind. Tigh's stories had removed any
speculation and replaced it with nauseating fact.
“Death was merciful,” he remembered the Colonel saying.
“Those metal bastards with that sweeping red eye . . .”
Tigh had broken off, but Helo had understood the visceral fear conjured
by the machine soldiers. His history classes in school had glossed over
the terror, but military training was explicit about Cylon atrocities.
He hoped Boomer got the Raptor to safety, even if she would be facing
trials not seen since the exodus from Kobol.
Low words occasionally broke through the sound of swishing feet wading
through grass, but mostly they walked in a stupor. The day was clear
and beautiful but for the mushroom clouds on the horizon. They could
have been a group of bird watchers if not for the pitiful piles of
possessions and the signs of injury.
He would get them to the trees, past the ridgeline, and then he would
watch and wait. His blaster had enough charges for all of them. He
could wait until night if need be, or encourage napping. Fatigue was
unavoidable, but if they started complaining of nausea or started
vomiting, if he saw sloughing skin, if he saw Cylon transports, he'd
know to start.
They reached the trees and found a small stream over the ridge. He
quashed his instinctive objection to drinking water that was probably
contaminated. Let them quench their thirst. The shade from the pines
was welcome shelter after the heat of the sun.
Some of the more resilient refugees began to inventory their scant
supplies. They'd run from the attack with nothing but what they could
grab in an instant. Even if they managed to escape, their personal
treasures were lost forever. Most hadn't thought of necessities, and
all else was meaningless if not used for survival.
Helo waited.
As the sun set on the horizon, he saw a narrow trail of fire descending
from space, heralding another bomb directly over their position. Gasps
of fear burst from the group, but he was calm. The explosion seared his
eyes and consumed his body in an instant. His last thought was
gratitude that he hadn't had to make a choice.
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