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

“We are close to the village.”

  There is a wave of relief among our party. We’re all cold, colder than Thane’s eyes. Last time I felt this chilled was back on Kalpa, when we had to go in hand-to-hand combat across a series of snow bridges against a Cylon attacking force.

  “The entry hatch is at the end of this ravine,” Ser 5-9 says. “Wait here.”

  Edging his body away from the side of the ravine, Ser 5-9 descends a little ways, with Tenna following him. As I watch them go down, I feel a chill of suspicion go through my body. In spite of the irrational nature of that feeling, I have to ask Apollo:

  “Think they’re turning us in?”

  Apollo clearly doesn’t like that idea one bit.

  “No,” he says brusquely. “I don’t know why I feel that way—but no.”

  “Well, you got all the command insights, Captain.”

  He gives me his harshest stare, as we start to follow Ser 5-9 and Tenna down the rather steep slope. Starbuck comes immediately behind us, then the ever-reliable Boomer. God, Boomer’s hardly said a word since we settled down on this godforsaken planet, but I know I want him by my side if we get into any trouble.

  Ahead of us, both Ser 5-9 and Tenna stop abruptly, crouch behind a large rock. They talk together, then Tenna comes climbing up back toward us. Starbuck passes Apollo and me, and welcomes her:

  “I knew you missed me, but…”

  Some things never seem to leave Starbuck’s mind.

  “Cylon patrol!” Tenna whispers, then points upward toward the rim of the ravine. “Pass the word.”

  We all quickly find hiding places. Along the top of the ravine, the Cylon patrol can be glimpsed at intervals, metallic shadows that almost blend in with the ice of the surface, the only interrupting color being those blasted red lights on their helmets, sliding so sinisterly from side to side. Fortunately, no red light seems directed downward where we all crouch. Just as they are about out of sight, the dumb daggit-droid begins to growl, and the kid whispers:

  “Sssshh… good daggit.”

  The droid shuts up. A Cylon seems to glance downward, but apparently sees nothing. Good daggit. When we’ve seen no Cylon for a while and are about to become permanently ensconced ice statues honoring caution, Ser 5-9 laboriously works his way back up to us and says:

  “The way is clear now.”

  I glance toward him. His eyes are bright, concerned. All my doubts about him melt away.

  “So you’re not turning us in to the Cylons,” I say.

  “No,” Tenna mutters angrily. “We hate the Cylons.”

  Ser 5-9 crawls closer to me. His staring wrath-filled eyes alone could destroy me at this moment, I suspect.

  “Pardon me,” I say, “I’m not the most… not the most trusting person in the universe.”

  “We are Theta Class life forms,” Ser 5-9 says. “Considered by the Cylons to be… to be subhuman.”

  The bitterness in his voice convinces me of his hatred for the Cylons.

  “We were created for slave labor,” Tenna adds. “Most of our brothers and sisters are still slaves in the village.”

  “But you revolted,” Apollo says.

  Both Tenna and Ser 5-9 appear to be embarrassed by the implication of Apollo’s statement.

  “No,” Ser 5-9 says, “I’m afraid we did not. Evidently we are not perfect.”

  Apollo’s smile contains a great deal of sadness.

  “No,” he says. “Just human.”

  Ser 5-9 and Tenna appear pleased by Apollo’s understanding. They smile broadly.

  “Then,” Apollo continues, “as humans you’ll help us destroy that pulsar cannon.”

  Both smiles fade quickly from the clones’ faces.

  “First we must get into the village,” Ser 5-9 says. “Come.”

  Moving with a speed we haven’t been able to summon since the launch of the shuttle from the pod decks of the Galactica, we make our way down to the village entry hatch. Using a chipping tool, Ser 5-9 punches ice away from the hatch. Forcing the valve wheels, he pulls the hatch open. As it raises, there is the hissing sound of released pressure. Ser 5-9 takes us each by the arm and helps us down into the corridor below. Tenna takes over command of the expedition and hurries us along the subterranean tunnel corridor. Although the passageway glitters with frost, it seems much warmer than the outer surface of the planet. I am glad to be here.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  After angrily receiving the report of his scouts that the Cylon patrol ship assigned to kill the human intruders had been itself shot down, First Centurion Vulpa sent out foot patrols, with orders to hunt down the humans and destroy them.

  On one of the planets of the Cylon Alliance, there was a kind of insect—small, gray-bodied creatures with eight wirelike long legs and antennae that never ceased activity. They were not poisonous nor did they bite nor were they in any way destructive to the planet’s ecological systems. Their only drawback was that they were irresistibly attracted to the shininess of the metal in Cylon uniforms. All Cylons stationed on that planet, as Vulpa had been for a long time, came to hate these insects, because they were ingenious in finding ways to penetrate the Cylon covering and implant themselves upon Cylon skin, sometimes even shorting out a wire or two embedded in the middle layer of the uniform. Once on Cylon skin they became that terrible annoyance, an itch that could not be scratched. If several of them penetrated the uniform, even a normally unemotional Cylon could be driven mad. This expeditionary team of humans, Vulpa thought, seemed composed of that revolting kind of insect. They were making him itch considerably, and he wanted them exterminated immediately, so that he could transfer his attention away from this minor futile mission and back to the major goal of eliminating the Galactica and its fleet.

  “We found the wreckage of the humans’ shuttle,” a foot-patrol leader reported in. “The rest escaped in a snow-ram. We found the vehicle, broken down and abandoned on the plateau.”

  “You hunted them down?” Vulpa asked hopefully.

  “No. But humanoids cannot survive the plateau.”

  “I hope you are right.”

  Vulpa felt annoyed. The humans should be dead. Then why did he feel they were still skittering around like those insects beneath Cylon metal?

  The corridor down which Ser 5-9 and the other clones guided the expedition team proved to be one part of a vast subterranean system of caves. Apollo sensed that the dwellings which were placed within depressions and cliffsides along the high walls would be of great interest to geologists and archaeologists of Galactica’s space fleet—if they only had time for research these days. The clone habitations were carved out of the relatively soft rock. To Apollo, they appeared quite primitive, with their unevenly balanced windows and entranceways, their mottled surfaces of stone and closely packed mud. Their rich brown coloration suggested the dwellings had been subjected to a sun. Since that was impossible, Apollo wondered if the colors and textures were natural, or perhaps the result of some special treatment applied to the surfaces of the dwellings.

  Ser 5-9 halted the group, gestured that it should remain in the shadows.

  “This passage leads to the bottom of the research station,” he said.

  “Research station?” Apollo said. “How is it—”

  “Some time ago, a group of human scientists, fleeing from the war with the Cylons, landed on this planet and established an experimental research station whose purpose was to develop inventions that could be used to bring and sustain peace. After the scientists’ arduous work to build the station and begin their experiments, the Cylons came. They engaged the human group in battle, killed almost all of them, then took charge of this planet and powered it away from the sun system to which it had belonged. The ice formed, covered the caves, and even infiltrated areas of the research station itself. It is not used for scientific research any longer, but the planners meet there.”

  “Planners?”

  “The father-creator made two types of Theta life forms. We are hunte
rs, workers. The planners are thinkers. They will know best how to approach the pulsar weapon.”

  Ser 5-9 abruptly went to Tenna’s side and talked with her again. Returning to Apollo, he announced:

  “You come with me. Tenna will stay with your friends in the village.”

  “I don’t know if we should separate.”

  “Too many of you at one time may frighten the planners. They are not… especially brave.”

  “I think I understand. Back at the fleet we have a group like that which we call the Council of the Twelve.”

  Apollo led Starbuck into a different set of shadows, saying:

  “Our turn for a conference.”

  When sufficient distance from the others had been established, Apollo said softly:

  “Anything happens to me, you’re in command.”

  “All right, Captain. But remember command upsets my stomach, so don’t stay away too long.”

  “You love command, and you know it.”

  “When you get back, be careful you’re looking in the right place.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Starbuck glanced over his shoulder, as if he expected attackers at any moment.

  “Boomer and I have a wager going,” he said.

  “You surprise me.”

  “Which of our specialized team is going to jump us first.”

  Apollo stared at him questioningly.

  “You really think they’re going to go through with this mission?” Starbuck said caustically.

  “I had been counting on it.”

  “Our lives are on the line.”

  “So are theirs.”

  “And so’s their freedom. If we’re successful, we go home. They go back into chains.”

  “Not necessarily. The commander might—”

  “And you can stash that might in the deepest cargo hold of a straggler ship. Adama might be willing to take a chance on Croft, and maybe Leda, but do you see either Wolfe or Thane going the redeemed-hero route?”

  “They don’t have to be warriors.”

  “They’re always warriors, they wouldn’t know how to be anything else. No, they got to make their break. If not here, on this mission, then somewhere else on some other boondoggle. If I were them, I wouldn’t be taking the chance…”

  Apollo nodded, said:

  “I see what you mean.”

  “I thought you would.”

  “Watch yourself, you hear?”

  “Sure. Sure, skipper.”

  Tenna had assembled the rest of the group. Before taking leave of them, Apollo leaned close to Boxey and whispered:

  “Boxey, stick close to Starbuck.”

  “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll keep an eye on him for you.”

  Apollo tousled Boxey’s hair, then gestured for Tenna to take over the group. He felt a clutch of fear as he watched the team walk off. But why should I worry? he thought. Boxey’s safe, so long as Starbuck and Boomer are there to protect him. He nodded toward Ser 5-9, and the two tall men entered the passageway leading to the research station.

  The planners looked nothing like hunters, although as clones they all looked like each other. Planners were thin and fragile, adding to the intellectuality of their appearance. Their faces were gaunt and dominated by high-bridged noses. They were dressed in thick robes, their faces almost obscured by large-fold cowls. Five of them sat at a primitive conference table underneath the emblem of the Experimental Research Station, a weathered holographic mural-photo of the father-creator. Planner One brought the meeting to order by informing the others:

  “Worker Ser 5-9 is here, in the village!”

  Planner Two, incensed, slammed his fist on the table and stood up, shouting:

  “He was told to keep his marauders out of the village.”

  Planner Two’s voice was pitched the same as Planner One’s, but there was an added level of petulance in it. Planner Three, in a gentler version of the voice, urged him to sit down again, an invocation that Planner Two obeyed immediately.

  “I object to calling Ser 5-9’s hunters marauders,” Planner Three said quietly. “They are guerrilla warriors fighting for liberation.”

  Planner Three’s statement initiated an argument among all five planners. To an outsider, the sound of these clones would have been strange—like a person arguing with his five selves. Finally, Planner Five began rapping the table with a clublike gavel, screaming:

  “Order! Order!”

  The others subsided.

  “Bring them in,” Planner One said to a guard.

  Apollo and Ser 5-9 were admitted. They strode forward boldly and stopped in front of the conference table.

  “Members of the Planner Council,” Ser 5-9 said. His voice had taken on the impressive stentorian resonance with which he had initially greeted the expeditionary team. “We seek your wisdom. I have brought with me Flight Captain Apollo… from Battlestar Galactica.”

  “The Galactica,” Planner Three said, awed. The other planners displayed a similar surprise.

  “The Cylons have posted warnings against you throughout the star system!” Planner Five said.

  “Every outpost is on permanent alert!” said Planner One.

  “If he is discovered here, we’re…” said Planner Two, his voice trembling with fright. “This must be reported!”

  Ser 5-9 stepped forward, placed his huge hands flat on the conference table, his bare arms powerful with tightened muscles, and said:

  “Nothing will be reported.”

  Planner Two, though clearly intimidated by Ser 5-9’s physical authority, squawked:

  “That is not for you to say.”

  “Apollo and his team can—”

  “His team?” screamed Planner Four. “There are others?”

  “Yes. They have come to destroy the Ravashol pulsaric weapon.”

  All of the planners paled simultaneously, the effect looking to Apollo like a five-sectioned mirror.

  “Impossible!” Planner Two shrieked.

  “Impossible or not… we’re going to try,” Apollo said.

  None of the planners could respond. Instead they went into a huddle. Their discussion sounded like a covey of birds agitated by the suspicion of preying hunters. And these’re supposed to be the intellectuals, Apollo thought. I should never have consented to consult with these lunatics. Seems clear that Ser 5-9 and the other worker clones are making a mistake in trusting these planners. They couldn’t even plan the menus for a madhouse. Finally the huddle broke and Planner One said formally:

  “We will discuss your request and give you our answer shortly.”

  Apollo, furious, came forward. His upper legs collided with the table.

  “We don’t have time for bureaucratic discussions!” he hollered. “The fleet will soon be within range of that grotesque weapon up there! It must be destroyed!”

  Planner Three, in his best peacemaking voice, said softly:

  “We cannot rush into this. Such matters must be discussed.” He looked genuinely troubled, and seemed to Apollo the one planner with at least a degree of sense and compassion. “I am sorry.”

  However, apologetic or not, the planner’s sad plea only made Apollo angrier.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said, with disgust, to Ser 5-9. The two tall men started for the door.

  “We will give you our answer,” called Planner Four after them. “In time.”

  Ser 5-9 whirled around and faced the quintet of planners. He could barely suppress his indignation.

  “Just don’t betray us,” he said intensely, then strode out of the room, Apollo right behind him.

  At Ser 5-9’s advice, Apollo remained close to the corridor walls, moving from shadow to shadow, as they returned down the passageway. Once, when a worker clone passed, Ser 5-9 pushed Apollo into an alcove and they silently waited for the worker to pass.

  “Wait a moment longer,” Ser 5-9 said. After a short pause he spoke again: “I’m sorry, Captain. I thought the planners would help. I
should have known better.”

  Ser 5-9’s voice was filled with disgust. Apollo understood. To this worthy young clone, the planners must have seemed the height of mental achievement. He had now seen them for the muddle-headed cowards they were. It was a bitter lesson, and one that needed no reinforcement, so Apollo said soothingly:

  “No time for that now. We have to get to the top of that mountain.”

  Once the object of their mission was again put into words, Apollo felt a shiver of apprehension. It was easy to say: Get to the top of that mountain. But Croft’s caution—and he was an expert, after all—and the misfortunes in the mission so far had made Apollo realize what a formidable task they had undertaken. They were all experts in their fields, yes, but expertise was useless when frigid air was breaking off chunks of your fingers.

  Also, that last talk with Starbuck had unnerved him. If Starbuck was right, and the four criminals were about to bolt, then there was no way the rest of them could get to the top. They needed Croft and his collection of misfits. It seemed that the fate of the Galactica, of the fleet, of all the remnants of the human race, was now suspended on a very thin stretched thread.

  “But when we get to the mountaintop,” he said to Ser 5-9, “I’m not sure what to do. That cannon, according to our scanner analyses, is a multistage energy pump. We’re unsure of its design. I’d hate to blow the lens or focusing system, something that could be repaired.”

  Ser 5-9’s bright blue eyes narrowed, as if he were trying to reduce the lens system in his own head.

  “There is another who could help,” he said.

  “Who?”

  Ser 5-9, for a moment, seemed reluctant to answer; then he said:

  “The father-creator. Ravashol.”

  Apollo, amazed, asked:

  “He’s here? In the village?”

  The tall hunter shook his head no.

  “He lives at the base of Hekla near the Cylon command post.”

  There was a strange reluctance in the way the clone pushed out the words of his declaration.

  “You’re afraid of something,” Apollo said.

  “Yes.”

  “I find that hard to believe. What could you possibly be afraid of?”