Battlestar Galactica 3 - The Tombs Of Kobol Read online

  "Therefore I have decided to grant your petition for stay of execution."

  "Stay of execution? Why not a full pardon?"

  "As you wish. I am not concerned with the terminology of your request."

  Of course he's not concerned with terminology, Baltar thought. He's double-crossed me once already, and here he is, high on his throne, pretending that it never happened. Well, he won't so easily find opportunity to order my execution from now on.

  "A base-star will be detached from the main force, Baltar, and put under your command. Lucifer will accompany you and be your liaison with me. We will leave strategy to you. But you must destroy the Galactica and its fleet!"

  Baltar strode arrogantly toward the base of the pedestal. Looking up at the gray, indistinct shape of the Leader, he bellowed:

  "I demand that a full complement of Cylon fighters and fully qualified personnel to fly them also be put under my command."

  Imperious Leader shifted a bit on his throne.

  "Granted," he finally said.

  "I demand luxuriant quarters and all the privileges to be expected for a base-star commander."

  "Our commander's needs are usually simple. We do not favor the elaborate symbols of power that humans seem to find so necessary. However, merely submit your requests through Lucifer and they shall be granted."

  "And about Lucifer. It is not full command if you have one of your spies looking over my shoulder. I demand that he be programmed to acquiesce to my leadership."

  "Now see here—" Lucifer started to say, but Imperious Leader silenced him by shouting ominously:

  "Granted."

  Lucifer seemed to sulk, his red lights fading to pink, his blue lights losing their radiance.

  "And one more thing, Imperious Leader," Baltar said. "In the command chamber of the base-star I want my own throne—"

  "Granted."

  "And a pedestal."

  "Granted."

  "One just as high as yours."

  "Granted."

  "I am satisfied."

  "I believe you are. Lucifer, transport Baltar to his ship."

  As he left the Imperious Leader's chamber, Baltar knew that the sound emerging from the area of the throne definitely was not a sinister chuckle, however much it may have sounded like one.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Even though he had been sitting in the dark compartment for a very long time, Apollo could not discern even the shadow lines of familiar objects. The only light in the room came from the illuminated configurations on his wrist-chronometer, a miniature display of the symbols of the twelve worlds.

  He became conscious of muscle aches in his shoulders and legs. He had been sitting in the same position for too long. Shifting a bit, he felt the weight of the portable recording device as it moved in his lap. He had forgotten all about it. Picking it up, he held it tightly a moment in hands he had not before known were trembling.

  Serina had said there were several recording crystals in a drawer somewhere. Crystals she'd used earlier, she said. He rummaged through several drawers in the storage area beneath the bed before locating the crystals in one corner. Holding them in his hand he muttered:

  "They're so small, all of them together. So much of her time compressed into these tiny globes."

  He realized he could wipe out all her work by merely closing his fist tightly and his hand shook even more, out of fear that he might do so involuntarily. Tenderly he placed the crystals on top of a desk and switched on a dim light. Each crystal was numbered and dated, organized by Serina for the archives.

  He was afraid to listen to them, to hear her voice again now. But he had no choice, he must listen. Slipping the earliest-dated crystal into the playback tube of the recorder, he pressed a button which, instead of working properly, flipped back to its original position. Touching it more gently, he made it stay down on second try. Serina's voice suddenly filled the small room. Too loudly—it sounded unnatural, as if she were speaking over a ship loudspeaker. He turned the sound down, and she seemed beside him. He switched off the light and, in the almost complete darkness of the compartment, listened.

  SERINA: . . . working now. If that button doesn't flip back into place again, we're in business.

  Okay. To business. Serina here. Those used to be the first words I'd utter once they pointed a camera at me. My trademark as premier newswoman back on Caprica. Strange they don't come as naturally any more. What do you think, Cassie . . .? A pause while Cassiopeia shrugs her shoulders. Try speaking into the mike, Cassie . . . C'mon now . . .

  CASSIOPEIA: I have nothing to say. When I have something to—

  SERINA: Surprised to see you of all people at a loss for words. Well, I think we should—

  CASSIOPEIA: Maybe it's the—

  SERINA: I'm sorry, Cassie. You were saying . . .

  CASSIOPEIA: Maybe it calls up memories of that last day when Caprica was attacked by the Cylon armada. You were on the job then, weren't you? Broadcasting, I mean?

  SERINA: You may have something there. Let's take it from the top, I'll edit later. One, two, three, clear my throat . . . go!

  Serina here, aboard the Battlestar Galactica. This is the first of what I hope will be several recorded crystals to be stored in our archives so that succeeding generations will know something of the history of the survivors of the human race after the twelve worlds' defeat at the hands of the Cylons due to a sneak attack occurring during the seventh millennium of recorded history. Till now, those of us aboard this battlestar, and the array of battered and often inefficient ships that form our fleet, have been too busy with the matters of survival and the battling of those Cylon forces that still pursue us. However, I thought it was time for me to resume my profession and do something for the archives.

  My biography: I was a newswoman back on Caprica. A Caprican native, although I traveled extensively throughout all the twelve worlds in search of stories. I might as well say that I was highly regarded in my profession and won a couple of the highest awards, even though I was forced to refuse them for reasons too boring and too political to go into here. My fiancé calls me reckless, but that's beside the—

  CASSIOPEIA: Fiancé? You mean Apollo finally popped the question? I don't believe—by all the heat of felgercarb everywhere, I thought I'd never see—

  SERINA: I doubt that the archives are very interested in my personal life.

  CASSIOPEIA: But I am. Anyway, this is just a practice recording, isn't it? Getting yourself into gear and all that. I mean, you're the newswoman and you just dropped the big scoop. I don't want to wait to hear. Tell me . . . Now it's Serina who's shrugging.

  SERINA: All right. I walked right into that trap. In the old days I had a better perception of my audience. I should have known better than to—

  CASSIOPEIA: Get to it, please.

  SERINA: All right. Let me get settled. I'll tell you and then we can reinsert the crystal and start all over. Wait while I turn the 'corder off. Frack, I can't get the button to work again.

  CASSIOPEIA: Let it spin. We'll fix it later . . .

  SERINA: What is there to tell, really? Apollo asked me to marry him. Last night.

  CASSIOPEIA: In romantic roomlight, with ambrosa at your side, flowers in your hands, the two of you alone—

  SERINA: No, he asked me right in front of his family. And Starbuck. After dinner, if you must know. He was forced into it, intimidated by his family. And by Boxey, who told me yesterday that he's now officially my real son and no longer adopted. And his first official act was to railroad me into marriage.

  CASSIOPEIA: You don't want to marry Apollo? I thought—

  SERINA: No, what I meant was that I didn't expect him to act like a little collaborator, the scamp. Anyway, I'm getting things out of order. Let me tell it as it happened.

  CASSIOPEIA: Direct from news central . . . Sorry.

  SERINA: We ate in the commander's quarters. Adama's claim was that he needed a quiet meal away from the pressures of duty. That was his s
tory, but I think he was part of the overall conspiracy. For all I know it may have been all his plot. Command strategy, you see. Anyway, Athena and I prepared the best meal we could out of rations. We were able to use some of that odd bluish meat the Ovions on Carillon shipped up to us before they started going around seizing us, and trying to kill us.

  CASSIOPEIA: My God, don't remind me. They almost had me in one of those awful pods, remember? Gruesome to even think of it.

  SERINA: My apologies. Anyway . . . when the meal was done, Adama took my hand in his and congratulated me on a wonderful repast. You know his fondness for the odd word. He told me I had outdone myself. That was a joke, believe me. As a cook, I just manage. So I told him that Athena deserved most of the credit for its success. And Athena, with that coy twinkle of hers, actually denied that. I think she was in on the conspiracy, too. Adama then made a big speech about how as an expert on culinary matters—his phrase—he found me to be a real master. I had to admire him there. Most of the men in this battlestar would've said something like mistress of the kitchen. Well, that's neither here nor there. The commander kept complimenting me, finishing up to say I was a real find whom he'd latch onto if he were significantly younger. Suddenly I realized that Adama and Starbuck—and Boxey, too—were all gaping at Apollo, who looked quite uncomfortable, let me tell you. Then Adama leaned back in his chair and said, I swear these were his words:

  "Yes, sir, some young man is really going to find himself in the lap of early glory."

  Well, I was beginning to feel as twitchy and on display as Apollo appeared to be. He just looked back and forth at everybody, as if he hoped for a black hole to suddenly appear so that he could quick dive into it. Starbuck and Adama smiled, well, peculiarly. And Boxey, the little—Boxey just gave Apollo the dirtiest look imaginable. Then he muttered:

  "I was told in instructional period that some people are just naturally slow."

  I could have served Boxey's head up parboiled at that moment. I guess he could read my mind, because he tried to weasel out. He said it doesn't mean they're actually stupid, but were just a little slow, and he shot Apollo another dirty look. You seem to be enjoying all this, Cassie.

  CASSIOPEIA: Immensely. Go on.

  SERINA: Let's see. Yes. Then Starbuck tried to ease tension with a joke. He said, if he kept getting meals like this, a couple of times a day, a fellow wouldn't be able to climb into his cockpit. But Adama, not one to be shaken from a subject, talked about how long we'd all been gorging ourselves—and he paused before saying—waiting. Everybody froze, as if we were onstage and it was time to go into the meaningful tableau. When Apollo scowled at his father, Adama retreated a bit by saying of course he meant waiting for all the courses of the meal. And Athena gave off this extraordinary chuckle, and by that time everybody in the room knew what everybody else was up to. I felt really embarrassed, even though I hadn't been part of their conspiracy. I certainly didn't want Apollo to think that my participation in cooking the meal was part of a trap to force him to propose. On the other hand, whether or not I was an active conspirator, I have to admit the trap worked rather well. And now I'm just a bit ashamed of myself for feeling good about it.

  Anyway, Apollo recognized the import of the long silence and all the stares directed at him. He glanced over at me, raised an eyebrow a bit, and stood up. He adjusted his dress cape as if to make a formal address. I was afraid there'd be a long prologue, but thank Kobol he decided to choose a simpler method. He just straight out asked me to marry him and I just straight out answered yes. It was as if we'd rehearsed it. We had, in a way—in our dreams, our imagination. We kissed, a rather formal kiss—what with his family gaping at us and all. Then Apollo turned to Adama and said he could not be as glib as his father and had always been quite slow at getting around to things, especially important things. He said he had to be sure Boxey was in favor of our alliance. He actually called it an alliance, as if I were the other party in a peace treaty. Well, there may be something in that, have to think about it. Anyway, Boxey was the picture of happiness, a bit smug about it perhaps but genuinely happy. I was crying, I have to admit. Looking into Boxey's eyes, I couldn't help it. I realized he'd found new parents and was rather happy they were Apollo and me. What can I say? It was the happiest moment of my life. I'm still feeling very happy and it's been so long since.

  Athena embraced me and, with that sly, insinuating tone she sometimes uses, she said she was happy for us and that she thought we'd never get around to it. There's not much more to tell. I asked the commander for his formal blessing, which he readily gave. Then he congratulated his son and said he'd made him a very happy man. Next thing I knew Starbuck was blushing a bit and making up some excuse about arranging a bachelor party for Apollo and how he had to get started on it. You'd think we were going to be married right away or something. Really, what Starbuck wanted to do was escape because Athena was smiling at him. Rather prettily, as I recall. As soon as Starbuck had left the commander's quarters, Athena turned to the rest of us and said:

  "All I did was smile."

  Adama said that Starbuck had a well-honed sense of what lies in waiting, an ability he'd acquired running so many of the advance patrols. What's the matter, Cassie?

  CASSIOPEIA: You forget I'm running my own little advance patrol to gain the favors of Lieutenant Starbuck.

  SERINA: Cassie, I'm dreadfully—

  CASSIOPEIA: It's all right. Athena and I are friendly enemies, anyway. Or rather vicious friends. I'm not sure which. I just wish she didn't have the command advantage.

  SERINA: You mean by being Adama's daughter.

  CASSIOPEIA: And Apollo's sister. And Tigh's chief aide. And the freedom to move freely about the ship without having to deal for a pass or—

  SERINA: I understand, Cassie, and I want you to know—what was that? . . . It's an alert. I'm sure it's another of Tigh's practices but we better get to battle stations anyway.

  CASSIOPEIA: What about the 'corder?

  SERINA: I'll take care of it later.

  Apollo let the crystal continue to run. He listened to the sounds of fading footsteps, followed by the clang of a hatchway shutting. Then there was only the noise of the recorder running. He looked down at the next crystal, now in the palm of his hand, and tried to decide whether or not to play it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Lieutenant Boomer was famous throughout the fleet for his caution. In his student days he had examined ideas from all vantage points before arriving at skillfully worded conclusions. Socially he was always aware of the angles of decorum that structured a situation. In command briefings he asked the questions no one else thought of. As one of the Galactica's top three viper pilots—an honor he shared with the brash Starbuck and the valorous Apollo (together known as the three heroes of Carillon for blasting their way through that planet's dangerous aerial minefield)—Boomer was known as the most methodical. He rarely shot randomly, and could rapidly line up a target in his sights with more accuracy than anyone else in the fleet's fighter squadrons.

  While he was proud of his reputation for intelligent circumspection, there were times when he secretly deplored it. Times when he found himself tempted by recklessness, desiring to let loose on a magnificent fling, fiercely wanting a brief moment when his mind could explode with wanton joy, allowing logic to escape from its confines like gas leaking out. When he strongly felt such cravings for recklessness, he wondered if he was indeed losing control mentally. It was not unprecedented, after all, for a warrior who was continually under the pressure of impending battle to crack up suddenly. Perhaps, he thought, the struggle to keep his emotions in check was becoming too much for him. In the old days, before the Galactica and its ragtag fleet had begun its desperate flight from the conquering Cylons, a pilot on the verge of combat fatigue could be given an R & R furlough to a leisure resort maintained for just such recuperative purposes. But there was no end to the flight from the Cylons, no interruptions, no furlough time in which to rest up and revitalize
.

  Well, he thought as his ship neared the isolated bluish asteroid which was the objective of his present patrol, maybe I can cut loose at Apollo's bachelor party. That'll give the gang a good laugh if nothing else. Old Boomer helpless, weaving, falling-down drunk—hell, even I can't picture that! Still, if a little ambrosa'd set me in orbit, it'd be worth it.

  The voice of Lieutenant Jolly, his wingmate this patrol, interrupted Boomer's pleasant mental images of himself on a tear.

  "Boomer, scanner probe shows an atmosphere on that miserable-looking asteroid."

  "Any dangerous elements?"

  "None I can tell, but—"

  "But who knows, right, Jolly? If only our instruments could be kept in absolute prime condition instead of being repaired by spit and flour paste, then we might be able to spot every little microbe, every drifting virus. Well, whatever the instruments say, I think we better use breathing gear down there. Okay, Jolly?"

  "Whatever you say, Boomer. You're the—"

  "I know. I'm the cautious one. I'm getting damn sick of hearing that, let me tell you."

  "Ah, you love it and you know it."

  "Maybe, Jolly, maybe."

  After coming to a smooth landing on the asteroid, and carefully placing his transparent breather over the lower half of his face, Boomer hesitated before pushing open his cockpit canopy. The asteroid, with its rock-strewn craggy surface, looked dangerous, threatening. Moisture on the rocks appeared to be viscous and oily. He felt vulnerable. No matter how much protective clothing they wore, no matter how firmly their breathers were attached, front-line viper pilots were always vulnerable. Boomer was scared each time he set foot onto a new planet or asteroid.

  Jolly was already out of his viper. Crouching, the overweight but agile young man moved toward a lumpish wet pile of rocks. He glanced back toward Boomer, as if to say, when are you coming? Boomer sighed and, opening the cockpit canopy, leaped out of his ship.

  For a long while Boomer and Jolly, slipping and sliding, made their way across the moist terrain. They found it necessary to remove their gloves in order to get more secure grips on the slippery rocks. The asteroid seemed populated only by treacherous fierce winds that whipped up suddenly. A lonely-looking place, Boomer thought, made even grimmer by the weak distant sun around which it orbited.