Battlestar Galactica 10 - The Long Patrol Page 3

  The ship really was a relic, its hull pitted and dented. Two booted feet stuck out from beneath the shuttle. The banging came from there. An open tool chest sat near the protruding feet.

  "You just drop in to gawk?" asked the owner of the feet. "Or are you maybe going to pitch in and help?"

  Starbuck took a step back. "Help," he managed to answer.

  "Then hand me that damn deltoid spanner there, will you?" From beneath the ship slid a tall, slender young woman of twenty-two or so. Her trousers were splotched with white paint. A patch of tanned skin showed through a hole in her tunic, and her jacket looked as though it had barely escaped a fire. She was pretty, though, with long dark hair. "Are you through ogling me?"

  Starbuck considered her question. "For now," he answered and passed her the tool she'd requested.

  The young woman wiped the heel of her hand across her perspiring forehead, leaving behind a fresh gritty streak. "That ought to do it. The damage done by my quick landing's all fixed up," she said, giving the shuttle a kick and then tossing the electrowrench she'd been using to Starbuck. "Pack that, will you?"

  "Who was that on your tail?" He deposited the wrench in the tool locker.

  She shrugged. "Pirate. Probably from the Hohne System," she replied. "They're all nasty, mercenary bastards thereabouts. I should've known better than to shortcut across this particular asteroid belt." She held out a grease-stained right hand. "By the way, my name's Robber."

  "Robber? That's not the most feminine name I've—"

  "What's yours?"

  "Starbuck."

  Robber gave a left-shouldered shrug, then brushed her dark hair back. "Your name's not all that nifty either," she observed. "Anyway, thanks for scaring that pirate bastard off." She yanked the door of her shuttle open and reached inside.

  Automatically Starbuck's hand swung to his holster.

  "Relax, Starbuck," the young woman said, laughing. "I've got no designs on your person. Care for a drink?"

  "Well, I suppose after our shared ordeal . . . what the heck's that?"

  She'd produced a flask of amber liquor from her cabin. Unstopping it, she took a swig. "Ambrosa," she answered as she wiped the flaskmouth with the tattered sleeve of her jacket. "Don't they have it where you hail from?"

  "We do, sure, but it's sort of expensive and . . ." He accepted the bottle and drank. "Hey, this stuff is aged. Where did you get hold of—"

  "Oh, just a little bonus my boss gave me," Robber told him. "And now, Starbuck, I'd better finish hauling this load of agritools to the farmers on Croton. Otherwise, no more bonuses."

  Starbuck took a further sip. "This stuff is amazing," he said.

  "Keep the bottle."

  "Well, thanks."

  "After all, you sort of saved me from being highjacked," she said. "Or worse. Some of these pirates are in cahoots with slavers." She flipped him the flask stopper.

  "I'm curious about—"

  "You know, Starbuck, I think I have time to take a quick look at your ship," the young woman said. "I only got a glimpse, but it seemed like nothing I've ever run into."

  "It's different, all right, but . . ."

  Robber laughed again. "Don't trust me?"

  Starbuck said, "Okay, c'mon. I'll give you the short tour."

  He noticed, as she walked beside him toward his Viper, that she was as tall as he was.

  When they passed the abandoned mine, Starbuck asked, "Does this particular asteroid have a name or—"

  "Got me, Starbuck. I'm merely passing through."

  "But you knew where to land."

  "Hell, you have to with an old clunker like mine," she explained. "I've got emergency landing spots charted all over my run," Robber said. "But I can't fill you in on the local history of a damned one."

  They reached the Viper and Starbuck opened the door. "Welcome to my humble home." He gestured at the interior with his hand.

  She moved up beside him, glancing inside. "Damn, that's really something," she said admiringly. "Latest stuff, all in perfect shape."

  "Before you rush back to your shuttle," he said, "I'd like to ask you a few questions about—"

  "I don't have much time for small talk," she said. "Tell you what, though, walk me over to my crate and I'll dig out another bottle of Ambrosa for you."

  "Another one?"

  "You might as well have it, as a souvenir of our chance meeting."

  "That's mighty thoughtful of you." He turned, ready for the return trip.

  That's when she hit him behind the ear with something cold and metallic.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The dark-haired young woman stepped back from Starbuck's sprawled, unconscious body. Hands on hips, she said, "Sorry, since you don't seem like a bad guy. But Croad is most likely still hunting for me out there and I need something a hell of a lot faster than my old shuttle."

  Bending, she grabbed him under the arms and dragged him across the rocky ground until he was a safe distance from the Viper. She turned and walked over to the ship.

  Robber climbed into the cockpit. After brushing cigar ash off the seat, she settled in at the controls.

  Before shutting the door, she took a farewell look out at Starbuck. "You'll be okay here till we come back for my cargo," she said. "Right now I have to concentrate on ditching Croad."

  Hunching in the seat, she studied the controls. Brow furrowed, she drummed her grease-stained fingers on the dash. "Sure, I can handle this thing," Robber decided after a moment or two. "Got a voice-activated computer, too. Hey, wake up!"

  Cora said, "Are we ready to go, Starbuck?"

  "Can you fly this crate?"

  "Who the dickens are you?"

  "Never mind. Just—"

  "Where's Starbuck? What've you done with him, you floozie?"

  Robber made an exasperated noise. "Forget it. I'll do the flying myself."

  "I should've known. I let him out of my sight and he takes up with some featherbrained—"

  "Off. Turn yourself off."

  "First, sister, you tell me exactly what—"

  "Off."

  The computer, since she was programmed to obey verbal orders, turned off.

  Robber rubbed her hands together. "Now, let's see if I can really handle a first class ship."

  Commander Adama moved through the bridge of the Galactica until he stood beside Athena. "What's the latest word on Lieutenant Starbuck?"

  "The short-range marker indicates Recon Viper One is climbing back into orbit."

  "Very well," the commander said to his daughter. "Maintain tracking. He may be on to something."

  "Probably a blonde."

  "What's that?"

  "Thinking out loud, sorry. I didn't mean . . . wait. Something new is happening."

  Resting a hand on her shoulder, he leaned closer to the screen. Frowning at the information that was being displayed there, he said, "I don't quite understand this."

  "Long-range transmissions are being sent from Starbuck's Viper."

  "Long-range?"

  "Narrow-beam," she replied. "It . . . seems to be some sort of code. But not scrambled."

  Colonel Tigh came over. "What the devil is Starbuck up to?"

  "Perhaps," suggested Adama, "his short-pulse transmitter is inoperative."

  "That's possible," said Athena, stroking her cheek as she watched the console screen. "But why would he use an unknown code? And why send the message unscrambled?"

  "I suggest," said Tigh, "that we check the Cylon codes."

  Nodding, Adama said, "We have to check every possibility."

  Athena punched instructions into her machine. A moment passed and then her answer appeared. "Whatever the code is, it's not in any known Cylon pattern," she said. "Which means Starbuck's ship hasn't been grabbed by any enemy—"

  "We still have to assume," said the black colonel, "that someone has taken over Starbuck's Viper. Cylon or Cylon sympathizer, we don't know at this point. The important thing to keep in mind is that Starbuck isn't in
control."

  "It could be Starbuck," said Athena, "who's sending this message, Colonel. True, we don't know why he's using this particular code, but maybe—"

  "If that isn't a message to the Cylons, Athena," said Tigh, "it's at least a beacon that can lead them to this galaxy."

  "I just think it's too soon to jump to the concl—"

  "We have to stop that transmission," said Colonel Tigh quietly.

  Athena said nothing, glancing up at her father.

  Commander Adama said, "Alert Apollo."

  Lieutenant Boomer came hurrying along a launching area walkway to Captain Apollo. "What the hell is going on?"

  "We've got us a somewhat tricky assignment," answered Apollo.

  "Yeah, that I know." The black lieutenant glanced at the two Viper ships that were being readied for takeoff. "What kind of mess is Starbuck in this time?"

  "That's what we can maybe find out."

  "Yeah, but they got to be kidding about our orders, huh?" said Boomer. "We're supposed to be prepared to destroy Recon Viper One. What if Starbuck's still in the damn thing?"

  "It looks sort of like he isn't."

  "Meaning what?"

  Apollo started walking toward the nearly ready ships. "I wish I knew," he said. "But it could be . . . could be he's dead. That somebody took over his—"

  "C'mon. Starbuck's not that easy to kill." Boomer walked alongside the captain. "What we got to do is try to establish communications with the ship when we find it—see what's going on."

  "The best we can do, good buddy, is give him a chance to identify himself," said Apollo. "If he doesn't, then the assumption has to be that the Viper's been taken over. We have to destroy it."

  "Somebody could have taken it over and still maybe have him in there. We destroy—"

  "I don't like this any better than you," said Apollo, stopping next to his craft. "If Starbuck's not in the ship and if we destroy it, we may never learn where he is. Unfortunately, being warriors, we have to follow orders."

  "Listen, that Viper isn't even armed. So if somebody's using it, they can't really—"

  "It wasn't armed when it left the Galactica, Boomer. We don't really have any idea what state it's in now."

  "Seems unlikely anybody could've—"

  "We don't want the ship falling into enemy hands," said Apollo. "And if somebody's taken it away from Starbuck, we have to assume they're enemies."

  Boomer walked over to his ship. "Hell," he remarked.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Starbuck made a noise.

  It was a rude noise, suggesting disappointment with his current position in life. He had just awakened to find himself sprawled, face down, on the uncomfortable surface of a small-time asteroid in the middle of nowhere. And the back of his head hurt.

  "Darn that female grease monkey," he muttered as he pushed himself to a sitting position. His stomach started doing loops inside him.

  Spilled out beside him was the Ambrosa.

  After making another unhappy noise, Starbuck got to his feet.

  Slowly, he turned toward his Viper.

  "Frack," he remarked.

  The ship, Cora and all, was gone.

  Starbuck looked up into the dark sky. "Out of the kindness of my heart I stop to aid a damsel in distress," he said in a moderately self-pitying tone. "I try to do a good deed and what do I get? A bop on the head." Very gingerly, he touched the spot where Robber had slugged him.

  "Should've known better," he muttered, starting to pace, "than to trust a woman named Robber. I mean, now that I think about it, that's not a name to inspire confidence. But me, I open up my ship, show her its luxurious interior and then turn my stupid back on her."

  He kicked at the empty Ambrosa flask.

  "Behaved like a green rookie. Take a drink from a stranger, let her knock me out. Guess I'm lucky she didn't swipe my pants, too."

  The best thing to do, he decided, was to stop feeling sorry for himself, and quit being mad at Robber. None of that would get him anywhere.

  "She was sort of pretty, though."

  It was thoughts like that that'd got him in trouble in the first place. If Robber had been a grizzled male spacehauler, he'd never have turned his back.

  "Right now, hot shot," Starbuck reminded himself, "what we have to do is get off this particular chunk of real estate."

  He trotted over the rise to Robber's shuttle. At least that was still there.

  "Maybe I can track that lady down and retrieve my Viper," he said as he opened the door to the shuttle's cabin. "Yep, I'm going to have to do something like that. Because I sure as heck don't want to go limping back to the Galactica in this thing and tell 'em a girl barely out of her teens stole my buggy."

  The cabin wasn't much. It smelled of oil and fuel and old age. A clay flowerpot perched on the control panel, holding what might be a geranium. A length of scarlet ribbon was tangled around the talkmike.

  "Flying this clunker is going to be like taking part in a historical pageant on the early days of space flight."

  Starbuck lit a fresh cigar and sat in the pilot seat.

  The controls were simple, primitive in fact, and presented no problem.

  The only trouble was that Starbuck couldn't get the damn shuttle to start. It occurred to him that Robber, who'd probably been planning to steal his ship all along, had only pretended that the shuttle was fixed.

  "Conned again," he said, sighing out smoke.

  Starbuck just about had the damage to the engines of the ancient shuttle repaired. He came sliding from underneath the crate to get a new wrench.

  "I can still catch up with that . . . oops."

  A lanky, weatherbeaten man in russet clothes was standing beside the shuttle. There was a silvery star emblazoned on the left breast pocket of his jacket and a laser pistol in his right hand. "You're a new one," he said.

  "I am, yes. A tourist actually, simply passing through your galaxy."

  "Where's Robber?"

  "I wish I knew, Mr . . .?"

  "Croad's my name. Enforcer Croad."

  "I'm Starbuck," he said, attempting a friendly and cordial smile. "See, I set down here in my own ship to see what was wrong with this shuttle and . . . well, what with one thing and another I ended up somewhat stranded. So I've been putting this crate back into—"

  "Where's Robber?"

  Starbuck said, "As I told you, I don't know."

  "Maybe when you get to Proteus you'll be in a more talkative mood."

  "I sort of doubt that," said Starbuck. "The lady borrowed my ship. I haven't, really, much of an idea where she's gotten to. You're the local law, huh?"

  "Are you pretending you don't know that?" Croad's laugh was cold and thin.

  "Well, as I explained, I'm only passing through, Croad, and I'm not up on the—"

  "Enforcer Croad."

  "Enforcer Croad. The point is, I'm a stranger here myself," said the lieutenant.

  "And I suppose you don't even know what Robber's tub is hauling?"

  "Oh, that I know," said Starbuck, brightening. "Farm implements."

  "Inside." Croad gestured at the shuttle's open cabin doorway with his gun hand.

  "Sure, but—"

  "Get on in there, Starbuck. Fast."

  Shrugging, he complied. "Not all that cozy in here, is it? Myself I prefer—"

  "Open, very slowly and carefully, that door to the cargo chamber."

  "Okay." Starbuck crossed to the metal door and tugged it open.

  Inside the hold were dozens of wooden crates, each labeled Agritools.

  "See? Just like I said."

  "Bring one of those crates outside."

  Picking up a crate, Starbuck hefted it out into the open. "Funny that farm tools'd gurgle when you heft 'em," he observed, depositing the crate on the ground.

  "Use that crowbar from the tool chest there," ordered Croad, pointing with is gun barrel. "Open the thing."

  "You know, I've seen farm tools before," said Starbuck, hesitating,
"and they're not that exciting."

  "Open it. Quit stalling."

  "Okay, sure." He used the metal bar to lift the lid off the wooden box. "Darn."

  There were no tools inside. Instead he saw eight full bottles of Ambrosa resting on straw.

  "You know what the penalty for hauling this stuff is?" asked the lawman.

  "No, but I bet I'm going to find out," answered Starbuck.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Starbuck stooped and picked up the crate that didn't contain farm tools. "I suppose you'll want to take this along as evidence," he said, carrying it closer to the lawman.

  "Put it down," ordered Croad. "I'm sending a crew back here to pick up the whole damn cargo."

  "But don't you think we better take at least this one along in your—"

  "No. Drop it, Starbuck."

  "Well, okay." He appeared to stumble and when he dropped the heavy crate, he dropped it on Croad's foot.

  "Damn it to—"

  Dodging to one side, Starbuck then dived at him.

  Croad's gun had swung wide at the moment the crate hit him. Before he could swing it back toward Starbuck the lieutenant jabbed him hard in the stomach with an elbow. Then he grabbed Croad's gun wrist.

  "Hate to defy the law," said Starbuck apologetically, "but . . ."

  Using Croad's arm as a lever, he flipped the man to the ground.

  Croad's breath came wooshing out on impact.

  Starbuck wrenched the lasergun from his grip, tossed it aside. Then he delivered two impressive jabs to Croad's chin.

  The lanky lawman went slack, settled out on his back.

  After gathering up the gun, Starbuck dragged the unconscious man over to the shuttle. "Think I saw some rope in the cabin that'll do for trussing you up for a spell," he said. "Then, since borrowing seems to be so popular in these parts, I'm going to take your fighter and go find the dear young lady who started this whole darn mess."

  "What a clunker," remarked Starbuck as he set a landing pattern for the borrowed fighter.

  He'd been able to use the old-fashioned tracking gear in the lawman's ship to get a fix on his missing Viper. The craft had landed on a lush green planetoid.