[Battlestar Galactica Classic 02] - The Cylon Death Machine Read online

  “Well, you’re going to have to take a few warriors off the flight roster. Let me take up a viper the next attack. I can—”

  “None of that. You stay here.”

  “I’m as well checked-out in a viper cockpit as any of those cadets you’re rushing into battle.”

  Adama’s shocked face cut off her little speech abruptly before she could get to the logical part.

  “One of those cadets, as you so happily informed me moments ago, performed that skillful double kill, Athena.”

  “All right. I’m properly chastened, Commander. But one lucky cadet is just a rationalization for your keeping me stuck at a console on the command bridge. I want my chance at—”

  Adama’s stern expression softened.

  “I promise I’ll give you your chance, Athena. But right now, back to duty. You are needed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tigh, the usual papers in his hand, returned to Adama’s side, and said:

  “Any estimate on time remaining until the landing party completes the mission?”

  “It’s irrelevant. We have to move forward in”—Adama glanced at his chronometer—“in four hundred and twenty centons regardless of whether they’re successful or not.”

  Gradually the activity on command bridge had stopped, stalled. Only the nervous agitated hand movements remained.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Croft:

  Clothes in pieces, shreds falling off my body. Ice-ax twisting and turning in the middle of a long slow bounce off a cornice. Bare feet getting number and number against the ice of the summit. Leda reaching for me. But without threat. Her outstretched hands are meant to comfort me. She wants to hold me. I slip and slide, trying to reach out to touch her. Her clothing’s ragged, too. Flaps and rips all over it. Flecks of ice clinging to her face. The skin of her hand turning black, leprous. Her feet are going out from under her. No, Leda, no! Still reaching out, she’s falling away from me. I start to fall, too, but grab an outcropping of ice and my body flaps like a flag in high winds. Twisting my neck, I look below me. Leda still stares up at me, her eyes pleading, her body gently spinning in a slow fall, doubling up as it hits the side of a ridge, then continues its descent. Beyond her, the ice-ax takes a high bounce off a serac. I am about to drop from the outcropping, dive after her, but I can’t make my fingers work, they seem glued into a permanent handhold. I start to scream but I can’t even hear myself above the howling of the wind.

  And then, suddenly, simply, noiselessly, I am awake.

  Where am I? I seem still in a dream. My body feels so numb, maybe I am. But why would I dream a place like this? And so placidly? This place is the stuff of nightmares. It’s a cave, I can see that. Several entrances. But what’s that war junk on all the walls? There’s a hatchway from a Cylon aircraft. A stock from a laser stun rifle. Bits and pieces of unidentifiable metal. Scanner screens. A bunch of metallic Cylon uniforms. Signs in the Cylon language. Half a control board. All this stuff is hanging on the walls of the cave like casual decorations. I get the name of their designer, I’m going to scratch him off my fall list. The stove in the center of the cave is jerry-built from a fuel tank. Stove! I’ve got to make my body work and get near that stove. Even at this distance from it, I can feel the side of my body facing it begin to thaw. But I can’t move yet. What’s that on the lower part of the walls? Furs. Mostly white and brown furs. There are animals indigenous to this crummy planet? What’s that junk in the corner, piled so high? I can make out—what?—that looks like snowshoes, and that like a mountain of skis, and I suppose those’re sleds, but they’re so inefficiently designed, so rough in construction, they might be a sideline product of the guy that decorated the cave.

  How did I get here? Last I remember, we were in the snow-ram and I was trying to get my fingers to work. Looking around me now, I can see the other members of our party, some of them still out, a couple beginning to stir. Apollo springs up suddenly, looks around. At the move, one of the fur bundles near the corner jumps up, runs over, and begins to lick Apollo’s face. It’s the kid’s droid. From the other side of Apollo, the kid himself jumps up, hugs his pet.

  “Muffit. You came back.”

  Apollo puts an arm around the kid, says:

  “Boxey…”

  The kid smiles up at Apollo.

  “You okay, Dad?”

  Apollo’s return smile is a bit weaker than the kid’s eager one.

  “I’m okay,” he mumbles.

  Others begin to stir. I can move now. I crawl toward the stove, try to lap up its heat like it’s flowing water. As I stand up and turn around to warm my backside, I see an extremely large furry bundle that is definitely not Muffit standing beside an entranceway to this cave chamber. This is one big fellow! Taller than any of us, he’s got that noble look that blond, blue-eyed types often have as a matter of course, even when they can’t lick an intership postal stamp. Not that this guy is a coward. Not in any way. Muscles like that, he’s a fighter. He looks almost superhuman. He’s the kind of guy that, when you’re assembling a team for mock hand-to-hand combat, you pick first for your side.

  Everybody’s noticed him now. When he speaks to us, his voice is so stentorian I’m not sure he’s quite real:

  “You are fortunate your daggit found our hunting party. You were on Deathpoint Plateau. Nothing survives there for long.”

  Well, he speaks our lingo, even down to such slang as deathpoint. It seems I was just talking about deathpoint to someone. But who? I can’t remember. It’s like my mind froze along with my body.

  “We’re grateful,” Apollo says, moving forward, assuming his right of command in his usual smug way. “Who are you?”

  “Simple hunters,” the noble type answers.

  “Then,” Apollo says, glancing around the cave, “I assume you’ll return our packs. And weapons. And that we are free to go.”

  That’s it, Apollo. What a master strategist you are. Get to the point. Don’t bother feeling out the intentions of the guys who rescue you, just start making demands. I consider pushing Apollo out of the way, taking over, employing a little smooth con on this fur-clad hunk, find out what’s up.

  “Go?” the hunter says. “Where would you go? The storm continues. The di-ethene has left you dehydrated. I will see that you receive liquids. Then, we can talk of your going.”

  With a regal turn, he leaves the cave through the nearest dark opening. Slowly, like wild animals circling a fire, the rest of the expeditionary team, except for the incapacitated wounded trio, comes to the stove. Starbuck is still looking back over his shoulder at the place where the hunter made his exit.

  “I don’t like the way he said that,” Starbuck mutters.

  Apollo, glancing around the cave interior, suspicion in his voice, says:

  “Something’s odd about this setup. Humans surviving on a Cylon outpost? I don’t know anything about humans in this sector at all. Doesn’t make sense.”

  “Something else doesn’t make sense,” I say. Both Starbuck and Apollo gawk at me. “They’re not just hunters. Too heavily armed.”

  “And have you noticed the walls?” Boomer says. “They’re studded with wreckage. Over there, that’s Cylon armor.”

  Starbuck stares where Boomer points.

  “With scorch marks from combat lasers,” he says.

  “I say we jump him and get outta here,” Wolfe says.

  Good old Wolfe, always right there with the sensible solution.

  “I agree,” Leda adds.

  What’s in her head?

  “Wait a moment,” Apollo says. “If it’s the Cylons they fight, and those’re mostly Cylon souvenirs all over those walls, then maybe they’re on our side. We might be able to use their help.”

  “I’m thirsty,” the kid says, and his lousy mechanical pet growls. We all turn toward the kid.

  Behind Boxey, coming through an entirely different entranceway, the noble leader seems to have returned. He picks up a fur-covered pack, then stares
over at us. Starbuck whispers:

  “How’d he get behind us?”

  Apollo approaches the hunter, puts on his best friendly voice:

  “The water? Could we—”

  “Silence,” the hunter barks.

  Starbuck rushes forward.

  “Look,” he says, “the boy and the wounded need water. You said—”

  “I said, silence.”

  Apollo stares at the man, then remarks:

  “Something’s wrong.”

  Boomer, moving to Apollo’s side, says softly:

  “The hair on the back of my neck is starting to crawl, guys.”

  “Here is the liquid I promised, and some food,” says the voice of the noble leader. But it’s not the noble leader we’re all looking at. We whirl around as one. The voice had come from the opening through which our hunter had originally exited. Now he’s there again, holding packets of food and animal skins filled with water. Two other hunters are coming through two different cave openings.

  “What the—” Boomer says.

  “Didn’t we just talk to that guy?” Starbuck says.

  The two new hunters are exact duplicates of the guy carrying the rations. Apollo and I turn around again. The one at the far wall looks like the other three! They are all blond, blue-eyed, heroic-looking types. Apollo, stunned, whispers:

  “They’re clones!”

  “Actually, we prefer the name Theta Class life forms,” says a voice whose sultry softness in no way resembles the voices of the quartet of blond hunters. Through still another entranceway, one concealed by piles of fur, a woman has entered the cave chamber. And she is some impressive vision of a woman! Her lovely face slightly resembles the faces of the cloned men—at least she has the blue eyes and blond hair, but she looks more like a goddess than a huntress. Her snow parka and leather leggings, together with her arsenal of weapons (including a laser rifle slung over her shoulder), do not in any way conceal the superbly formed body underneath all that junk she’s wearing. Starbuck stares at her as if one of his dreams has suddenly materialized.

  “This mission is looking up!” he says to Boomer. The first hunter who addressed us introduces himself as Ser 5-9, and the woman as Tenna 1. The others have similar names. Ser 5-9 distributes the food and water. We all fall on the stuff like a pack of ravaging monsters of prey. Ser 5-9 and Tenna take seats on a slightly raised platform and watch with interest our eager devouring of the rations. Ser 5-9 asks how we come to be on their planet. Apollo, before I can suggest to him that he use a little caution, gives them a quick briefing on our mission. He’s apparently bought their act lock, stock, and barrel. I wish I could be so sure. Interrupting Apollo’s statements, Ser 5-9 says:

  “You came to destroy the Ravashol pulsaric-laser communication wave unit?”

  “Ravashol?” Apollo asks.

  “Dr. Ravashol,” Tenna says. “He is human.”

  Starbuck, irritated, glances toward Tenna and says: “Human, you said? A human created that monster up there for the use of Cylons?”

  Tenna, though clearly on the defensive, shoots back: “If it were not for Ravashol, we would not exist.”

  “He is the father-creator,” Ser 5-9 says reverently. The kid, who’s been taking all this in, pulls at Apollo’s sleeve and asks:

  “Is Ravashol God? I’d like to meet him.” Somehow Apollo’s face manages to cross a half-smile with a whole frown.

  “No, son,” he says. “He’s not God. Not if he’s with the Cylons.” He turns back to Ser 5-9. “Why does he work for the Cylons?”

  None of the reverence leaves Ser 5-9’s voice as he says: “They let him live to experiment. To create.”

  “To create weapons that destroy other humans!” Starbuck says sardonically.

  Tenna, addressing herself mainly to Starbuck, voices a warning:

  “I would be careful what I said about the father-creator.”

  Ser 5-9 seems to come down from the clouds as he addresses Apollo:

  “The pulsaric laser cannot be destroyed. The emplacement is guarded by Cylons. Still more Cylon soldiers are stationed in the garrison at the foothills to Mount Hekla. Even if you could get past them, the weapon itself is constructed of magna—practically indestructible.”

  “We have solenite,” I interject quietly, then watch them for the reaction. They react as I expect, with a moment’s silence to assimilate the information. When Ser 5-9 speaks again, it is with the same awe with which he speaks of Ravashol:

  “Solenite. Ravashol explained solenite once.”

  It’s always useful to use technical words when you’re dealing with what appear to be primitive tribes. Well, the word ‘solenite’ can give me a couple of shudders. I’ve used it before and I’ve found I can never feel quite calm about it. The name derives from the use of solenoid, the magnetic coiled wire that, when activated as the major part of the explosive’s ignition system, clings to almost anything. Including magna. Easier to place around the objective than normal explosives requiring bore holes or the attachment of high-resistance wires by embedding them in plastic substances or through soldering, solenite need only be secured to the magna surfaces of the cannon and then connected to the equally magnetic base-charge materials at strategic points. (So long as you know where the strategic points are—which, come to think of it, we don’t about this damn cannon.) Because of its high degree of water resistance, it is safe to carry solenite up the ice mountain, especially since its combination of chemical and plastic explosive substances is stable to lower temperatures than even humans can stand. Further, solenite has the most efficient pressure effect of any explosive I’ve ever used. Its density is such that its velocity of detonation is phenomenal. A good explosive’s got to have shattering power; solenite’s got that and then some. It blasts in all directions like an exploding star. That’s why it’s the safest and most dangerous explosive of all. Safe, because it’s so transportable. Dangerous, because if you don’t get out of its range pretty quick, you’ve had it. I can understand Ser 5-9’s awe, because it’s the natural reaction of anyone who’s heard of solenite.

  Ser 5-9 confers with Tenna for a moment. From his gestures I can tell he’s informing her that our possession of solenite immeasurably increases our chances to get the weapon. When they regally turn their attention back to us, Ser 5-9 says:

  “You can leave the injured members of your party here. They will be tended to. We will guide the rest of you to the village.”

  “And then?” Apollo asks.

  “You will see when we get there,” Tenna says.

  Apollo chews on this for a moment, then nods in agreement. The clones begin to assemble equipment for the trip.

  Apollo, crouching by the injured threesome, says to Haals:

  “I want you to stay here with Vickers and Voight.”

  Haals’ eyes look like they’re not quite functioning. I suspect that the dose of electricity he got on the snow-ram still has some residual effects. He apparently doesn’t think so, for he rises in protest and informs Apollo:

  “Captain, I’m fine.”

  Apollo, rather than disputing the gunnery sergeant’s bravado, gives him a tranquilizer of smooth talk:

  “I know. I want someone here who can defend himself. Just in case. We’ll be back for you.”

  Haals smiles.

  “Right, skipper.”

  After Apollo and I check out the equipment, we join the clones and the rest of the party at an opening to the cave chamber. Starbuck is engaged in small talk with Tenna. Of course.

  “I was hoping I’d have time to thaw out before we go out there again,” he says.

  “We’ll find a living compartment in the village,” she responds. “I can warm you up there.”

  “I’ll bet you can.”

  Double that bet, Starbuck. Wish I could have some of the action myself.

  Apollo asks if everybody’s ready. We all nod and head out of the chamber. Ahead of us is a tunnel. From the blast of harsh wind and the flurries�
�like thin, streaky clouds—of snow, it’s a good guess that it’s a short trip to the outside. Muffit bounds ahead of us with his usual eagerness. I hang back, ready to take the point-man position outdoors, when I notice that Wolfe is deliberately hanging back with me.

  “When do we break?” he whispers suddenly.

  An interesting sign. He’s still trusting enough to talk to me.

  “Don’t push it, Wolfe.”

  He glances around, making sure everybody else is ahead of us. From out of his jacket he takes a laser pistol. Must be the one he stole off Voight. Better I play dumb about it. I’ll have to control him if he goes berserk.

  “Just want you to know I’m ready,” he whispers.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “It doesn’t matter where. I can use it on the Cylons. Or anyone else who gets in our way.”

  I can’t argue with him. So long as he’s got the gun, he’s dangerous. I glance down at the weapon, gesture for him to put it away for the time being. He slips it inside his jacket and strides bullishly ahead to the others.

  Outside, both the winds and snowfalls have subsided. No di-ethene clouds in sight anywhere. But the cold remains. My God, does the cold remain.

  We proceed across the ice field very slowly. Packs weigh us down, our own weariness doubles the weight of the packs. Our walking boots, the best the Galactica quartermaster has been able to come up with, don’t grip as well as I’d like. The scree caps at the heels don’t provide the proper friction. Ah, well, just one small problem among many.

  Apollo gestures me forward. He and Ser 5-9 are conferring. Ser 5-9 says to me:

  “This is the edge of the ice field. We’ll have to follow the ravines from here.”

  I agree, happy that the clone shows the kind of smarts I can trust. His people obviously know their way around mountains and ice fields. They may prove useful as guides.

  We traverse the icy ravines, a tricky task. The three warriors from the Galactica have trouble maintaining their balance. I have to laugh a couple of times at their intricate slipping and sliding maneuvers. Ser 5-9 signals a stop, then explains: