[Battlestar Galactica Classic] - Battlestar Galactica Read online

  BATTLESTAR

  GALACTICA

  Battlestar Galactica Classic - 01

  Glen A. Larson &

  Robert Thurston

  (An Undead Scan v1.5)

  FROM THE ADAMA JOURNALS:

  More than a thousand years ago, the war with the Cylons began abruptly—without warning, without even a formal declaration that war was to be. Like pirates, showing no threats and cowering beneath false colors, the Cylons opened fire on our merchant ships without even an invocation to heave to, or a cautionary blast from a laser cannon. They came to destroy, and they destroyed our ships by the thousands. A fleet of their warships, base stars as they are sometimes called, headed for the twelve worlds. Arrogant beings that they were, the Cylons did not anticipate that we would be ready for them. We were ready for them and for the next thousand years we continued in battle readiness.

  But a thousand years is a long time, even when the duration of some years is compressed by the time twistings of space travel. We forgot the extent of Cylon treachery. Instead, we became slaves to our own myths. We could not be subjugated, we were resourceful people who loved freedom, we welcomed adventure. When the Cylons offered peace just as abruptly as they had initiated hostilities, we had forgotten that they were not to be trusted. We embarked on the peace mission with hope, with the expectation that ten centuries of unceasing warfare would finally be ended. Peaceably we had explored myriad diverse worlds of the universe, peaceably we had established the system of twelve worlds that became our main colonies, peaceably we would live again. Joy grew in our hearts. Those of us whose lives had been totally committed to the war should have known better, should have perceived that the joy in our hearts had a strategic significance. The more we moved away from the facts that formed the structure of our design, the more we became like the politicians who governed us, men and women who had so clouded their minds with the words of power that they misunderstood the words of the powerful when they smilingly offered peace.

  I keep saying that we should have known better. That is the fallacy of the democratic instinct. I should have known better. Coping with an alien mind that was not understandable had always been my special ability. For once it failed me. Afterwards, I vowed it should never fail me again.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The contact sensor implanted in Zac’s jumpsuit at mid-back sent waves of tingling impulses up and down his spine. The sensor system detected an anomaly in this sector of space; its mild pulsing stings notified Zac to check it out. Excited anticipation joined the induced impulses as he keyed in the automatic search and watched data, both in numbered and diagram form, accumulate on his scanner screen. When he had first returned to the battlestar Galactica as a green ensign grown overconfident with the informational input of space-academy training, Zac had been counseled by his father. Commander Adama, not to become too excited about the war or anything connected with it. The war had been going on for a thousand years, Adama had said, no need to welcome it as if it were your best friend. However, Zac had never been able to lose the thrill of zooming through space in his very own sleek-lined fighter plane and blasting Cylon craft into pieces of infinity. Now that he was a lieutenant, at 23 years old way past his majority, he still felt the same eagerness for battle he had known on his first launch from the Galactica’s spacedeck.

  His scanner now displayed the flaw that the warning system had located. Two unidentified aerial devices hanging near an old moon, called Cimtar on the star map, that orbited around the decaying orbit of the single planet of this out-of-the-way, never inhabited solar system. A perfect spot from which to ambush the Colonial Fleet. As part of a vanguard patrol for the Fleet, it was Zac’s duty to investigate this bizarre, lurking threat.

  “Something…” said the voice of Apollo. Apollo’s whisper was so sibilant, his words were so precisely enunciated, that Zac could have sworn his brother was right there in the cockpit with him instead of scouting in another fighter some distance away.

  “Yeah,” Zac said, “I see them. What do you think?”

  “We’ll think about it after checking it out. Might be a Cylon patrol.”

  “Maybe. Awful long way from home, though. Where’s their base ship?”

  “No base ship maybe. Long-range reconnaissance craft, refueling vessels carrying extra Tylium. Strange….”

  “What, Apollo?”

  One thing Zac had learned as a cockpit jockey was to listen to any of his brother’s suspicions.

  “I’m not picking up anything but static on the far side of those guys, Zac.”

  Apollo was right. Zac glanced at his scanner, saw only the two mysterious blips and an odd, steady field of static interference beyond them. The static appeared to indicate a storm, but no storms had been charted earlier for this sector.

  “See what you mean,” Zac said. “I thought there was something off with my scanner.”

  “Could be a storm, though that doesn’t make…”

  Apollo’s voice drifted off, leaving behind a note of puzzled concern in the staticky silence. After a moment, Apollo said, “If it is a storm, the Fleet’ll be coming right through it, and soon. We’d better go have a look. Kick in the turbos.”

  “But Apollo, the standing orders on conserving fuel specifically forbid use of turbos, except under battle conditions or making the jump back to base.”

  Zac could have predicted his brother’s irritated response.

  “Kid, don’t let that peace conference back of us interfere with your judgment. Until we get official notice of a signing, anything goes. These are still the front lines.”

  On his ear-receptors, Zac could hear the thunderous acceleration of Apollo’s ship as final punctuation to his rebuke. Okay, he thought, let’s get to it. Pre-battle tension enveloped his whole body. It felt good. Zac ferociously pushed the trio of turbo engagement buttons and shoved his foot down on a pedal. The resulting thrust drove him back against his seat.

  As they hurtled toward the old moon, Apollo felt uneasy that there should be any kind of disturbance within the unpopulated Lianus Sector. It just didn’t check out. The orders his father had sent out specifically commanded that all ships, whether war or merchant, should transmit their exact locations at all times. There was no reason that any of them should have forgotten, no strategic or trade reason for them to take the dangerous chance of hiding out. When you eliminated all the known twelve-colony ships, including outlaw craft, there was only one solution. Cylons. It wasn’t a solution Apollo particularly wanted to come to.

  Zac’s voice came through the com.

  “Hey, brother?”

  “What is it, kid?”

  “I know why I drew this duty. Tigh’s shafting me—no, mark that out—Tigh’s teaching me a lesson for that little rest-and-recuperation escapade with Paye’s chief nurse in sick bay. But how did you get stuck with this patrol?”

  Zac always had to know everything. Sometimes his youthful curiosity annoyed the hell out of Apollo.

  “Oh,” Apollo said, “I was figuring that, once the armistice is signed, they’ll be turning out all of us warriors, sending us to one of those planets where they force you into so much organized leisure you go out of your mind with boredom. So—I just wanted one last bite of a mission.”

  “Uh huh,” Zac said. “Say, it wouldn’t be because you wanted to ride herd on your overeager young brother, would it? I mean, watchdogging me for the duration of this—”

  “Stop that, Zac. I’m not watchdogging you. Not at all. Like I said, I—”

  “You sure, big brother?”
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  Apollo hated the sarcastic emphasis on the word big. Sometimes his kid brother could be a royal pain in the blastoff tubes.

  “Don’t be silly, Zac. You’ve got a fine battle record—not to mention the tiresome old datum that you came through with the highest marks in the history of the academy. I don’t need to ride herd on—”

  “Forget it, Apollo.”

  The com crackled in silence for a moment, then Zac spoke again:

  “Say, what’re you going to do when the armistice is signed? Really go to one of those boring leisure planets?”

  Apollo smiled. He was not sure that Zac, who always needed somebody around to talk to, would understand what he was about to say.

  “When the war’s officially over, I don’t think I want to settle down on any planet. Just long enough to refuel and relaunch.”

  More crackle from the com before Zac’s voice came through again.

  “Well, what are you planning for the postwar time, Apollo?”

  “Not sure. But there’s a lot of space still to explore. That’s the real challenge, Zac—deep star exploration. Who knows what we’ll find beyond the twelve colonies?”

  “Long as it’s not more Cylons. They give me the creeps. You looking forward to peace with them? I mean, really?”

  “If you mean, do I believe in peace with the Cylons, especially one that’ll last until the ink dries on the treaty, my only answer is, I don’t know. But I don’t think we’d better be discussing it over the com. If we’re being monitored, it might be a little embarrassing back aboard the Galactica.”

  “Yeah, how about that, Galactica? Your face red, Colonel Tigh, sir?”

  “Stop that, Zac. Keep your mind on the patrol. Cimtar’s just ahead. Let’s roll over and have a good look, huh?”

  “Roger dodger, old codger.”

  In an instant they were hovering over their objective, a space vehicle that was large and ponderous, wasted looking. It seemed to float aimlessly, bobbing like a baitless fishing lure in its own portion of the sea of space. Above it was the old moon, below it a purplish layer of clouds that Apollo did not recall as being a normal feature of the barren, uninhabited planet.

  “What is it?” Apollo whispered.

  “Tell ya in a flash,” Zac replied.

  * * *

  Zac punched out the combination that would identify the vehicle pictured on his scanner. The intensity of the scanner picture changed as various profiles of existing airships were compared with the antiquated conveyance under study. A match was quickly made and the identification appeared in printed form below the picture.

  “Warbook says a Cylon tanker,” Zac reported. “Scanner reads it empty.”

  Apollo’s voice became agitated.

  “An empty tanker? What in the twelve worlds is an empty tanker doing out here?”

  “And where’s the other ship, the one that—”

  “Screened off by this one apparently. Undercover, far as I can make out. Funny—wonder what they’re hiding.”

  “I don’t know, but it’s awfully close to those clouds.”

  Zac felt impatient, not ready to wait for his brother’s orders. When he made captain like Apollo, he could give the commands. Of course, by then Apollo would be an admiral or something, and probably still be telling Zac what to do. Even though he had looked up to his gallant brother since childhood, even though his own prestige at the space academy had been enhanced by the tales of Apollo’s heroism that he had recounted to his classmates, Zac was eager to get out more on his own, perform the kind of seat-of-the-pants flying exploits that had made Apollo so famous on all the battlestars.

  Why was he thinking like this now? Here his father and the other great leaders of the twelve worlds were on the Atlantia working out a peace agreement, and Zac was still hoping to become a great war hero. Something askew in his thinking there. He would have to talk it all out with Apollo later, when they got back to the battlestar and had their regular post-mission talk.

  “Well, kid,” Apollo’s voice whispered softly in his ear. “We came to look. Let’s get up closer.”

  “Be careful, Apollo,” Zac said, and was immediately astonished by his own uncharacteristic caution. “I have a funny feeling about this.”

  “Funny feeling, eh?” Apollo’s voice was now warmer, touched by a note of brotherly affection. “I always told Dad you behaved more like a native of Scorpia, that you didn’t seem to belong on Caprica.”

  “Still, I have this funny feeling….”

  “You’re not old enough to have funny feelings, pilot!” Zac nodded even though Apollo couldn’t see him. It wasn’t unusual for him to have such an immediate physical reaction to a rebuke from his brother. “Anyway,” Apollo continued, “while we’re stuck out here on patrol, Starbuck’s pulled a couple of those Gemons into a card game, and I want to get back before he cleans out those suckers.”

  Looking out his sideview, Zac watched Apollo’s viper peel off in order to sweep around the ancient freighter. Feeling very much the younger brother, Zac set his flight pattern to follow, hitting at the course buttons angrily.

  Commander Adama’s angular cheekbones seemed the work of a skilled diamond cutter. But his cold, penetrating eyes could not have been designed by even the finest of artisans. The members of his crew feared Adama as much as they loved him. There was a popular superstition aboard the Galactica that, when the commander became angry, those powerful eyes retreated into his skull and gave off rays that made him look so inhuman he might have just materialized as a god from some new alien mythology. Although tall and strong, he had none of the muscular man’s typical clumsiness in normal movement. His gestures were smoothly graceful, and there was an ease in his bearing that made even his enemies comfortable with him—at least when he was comfortable with them.

  He stood away from the others, his fellow leaders from the Quorum of the Twelve. Their toasts to their new-found peace rang falsely in his ears. In front of him, as if arranged for his own private viewing, the millions of stars visible through the Atlantia’s starfield reminded him, as it reminded all contemplative men, of his own insignificance in this universe. And, even more, of the smallness of the historic event being enacted behind him. Men fought wars, cheered the coming of peace, then always seemed to locate another war to keep the peace from becoming too comforting.

  This peace, especially, disturbed him. There was too much strain to the enthusiasm, too much simplicity in the negotiations. He didn’t like the fact that the absent Cylons were controlling the event like distant puppet masters—sending a human go-between and arranging the ultimate rendezvous for treaty signing at their own chosen coordinates in space.

  President Adar, looking every inch the wise man of tradition with his long gray beard and flowing toga, had called the settlement the most significant event in human history. The array of candlelight on the banquet table, catching the blood-red jewels on his silver chalice, had lent a religious aura to the official toast. And the subsequent unctuousness of Baltar’s response to the toast left a bad taste in Adama’s mouth. Why had the Cylons used Baltar as their human messenger for this conference? Although a self-proclaimed count, Baltar was little better than a trader, a dealer in rare items. He was rich, yes, overwhelmingly so, but not a fit liaison between the humans and Cylons, not the proper carrier of sacred trusts. Why send a corpulent merchant whose unhealthy skin suggested the tarnishing of coin when power-hungry diplomats were available?

  Who could ever know what went on in the alien mind? There might have been some reasoning among Cylons that led to the choice of the overweight, soft-looking trader. And, besides, who was Adama to judge the facets of the peace? He had never known peace; he had geared his entire life to the fighting of the war. He knew nothing, factually or philosophically, about peace.

  Adama returned his attention to the celebration, which was in its final stage of formality. Adar embraced Baltar. The trader’s ornate, colorful garments, especially the long, flowing velvet cape, m
ade the president’s simple robes appear rustic. The two men seemed alike only in the high boots each wore—a bizarre link, since Adar’s boots clashed so strongly with the austere lines of his white silken toga. Even in this respect, Baltar’s footwear, with its scroll-like decorations, appeared more sumptuous. It was ridiculous, the President of the Quorum of the Twelve having to warm up officially to the merchant-messenger. Adar’s voice boomed across the Atlantia’s dining room:

  “You’ve done well, Baltar. Your tireless work has made this armistice conference possible. You have secured yourself a place in the history books.”

  A place in the history books, indeed! Adama thought. The man didn’t even deserve a decent burial within a footnote.

  It always annoyed Adama to hear his old friend Adar speak so officiously and with such an overtly political manner. They had gone to the space academy together, Adama and Adar. The alphabetical proximity of their names had continually thrown them together in classes, a solid example—they always claimed—of fate cementing a valuable friendship. Their comradeship had been secured later when they had both been assigned to the same battlestar fleet as fighter pilots. After being elected President of the Quorum of the Twelve, Adar had continued to rely strongly on Adama’s advice. Until now.

  The obsequious look of humility upon Baltar’s face forced Adama to concentrate again on the starfield. His shoulder muscles tightened as he heard the trader’s reply to Adar.

  “The Cylon’s choice of me as their liaison to the Quorum of the Twelve was an act of providence, not skill.”

  Party noises intervened and Adama could not hear Adar’s subsequent remarks to the trader. Good, he did not want to hear any more politicking. He had enough of that already today.

  “You look troubled, old friend,” Adar said. Adama had sensed the president’s approach, but he chose a bit of petty insubordination by not taking note of it. Suspecting Adama’s antagonism, Adar spoke with the patronizing nasality that was his trademark when he was opposed. Fussily stroking his full gray beard as if he were considering shaving it immediately, he said, “Well, I see the party isn’t a huge success with all my children.”