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

  “Naturally.”

  “Why don’t you let the poets write their work down?”

  “It is custom, and has been custom since times more ancient than your puny race has apparently existed. Poets do not write down their poetry. It would be unseemly.”

  “Unseemly? Why unseemly?”

  “Poets are not… not among the most desirable elements of our society. They are misfits, often criminals. We have found that assigning them to the poetry enclaves defuses their dangerous criminal traits that threaten the order of our society.”

  “You said defuses.”

  “I believe I did, yes.”

  “That was a metaphor. Figure of speech, Imperious Leader. Dangerous. Watch yourself.”

  “I should order your beheading.”

  The Starbuck laughed heartily.

  “Try it. I’d like to watch the blade slip through my neck. It would be like a viper sliding through the clouds. Pardon the figure of speech.”

  Imperious Leader reviewed the annoying conversation, found his way back to the point of the discussion.

  “We were talking about Ironhull. Your commander.”

  “Yep. Ironhull just means he’s tough and not always penetrable to ordinary human eyes like mine. Around the crew, sometimes we call him Ironhull. Especially when we don’t understand what’s going on in his head. Is that any clearer?”

  “It is clear enough. Commander Adama—is he likely to detect the outline of our plan? Will he know that our pursuit is a way of directing him toward a destination that we have chosen?”

  “I think he might.”

  “Why?”

  “You guys are hardly the subtlest creatures in the universe. You manage to be insidious, I’ll give you that, and there are areas of, well, alien psychology in your makeup that keep throwing us for loops. But you are not especially subtle when it comes to warfare. You like the big moves, you like to display the heavy weapons, you prefer to destroy by outnumbering your enemy, depending on numbers instead of intricate strategy, you prefer direct attack to sleek aerial maneuvers—all of these things have often given us the edge in battles.”

  “In some battles, yes. But you should remember that, overall, we are the victors. Our methods have brought us the near-destruction of your military might, have brought us the annihilation of your twelve worlds, have given us the domination of the universe.”

  The Starbuck stopped smiling and nodded gravely.

  “Yes, you’re right there. By sneak attacks, torture, and a total lack of mercy you’ve nearly won it. But not quite all of it, bug-eyes. We’re still there, and we’re on the run now. But someday we may turn and face you, and then you’ll…”

  “You hesitate. Why?”

  “Your data banks here cannot provide me the words that would effectively allow me to speak the disgust I feel for you.”

  The Starbuck sounded almost mechanical. The edges of the simulacrum seemed to blur.

  “I believe, Lieutenant, that your day to turn and face us will never come. Your commander is headed on a course that will result in the final annihilation of your race. When it comes into range of our weaponry upon Tairac—”

  “We’ve beaten you before. We’ll do it again.”

  “This trap, Lieutenant, is what your people call foolproof.”

  The Starbuck’s eyes seemed to narrow as he said:

  “Well, with any luck, Imperious Leader, perhaps you can catch yourself a couple of fools.”

  Pressing a button on the side of his throne, Imperious Leader made the Starbuck simulacrum disappear. Its vague outline seemed to remain for a moment even after the image had abruptly vanished.

  FROM THE ADAMA JOURNALS:

  I never knew Lieutenant Starbuck during his cadet days. However, stories—myths and legends of the academy—have come back to me. I can’t verify their truth.

  I heard that, on off-duty hours, he would often unlock the war-game room (with “borrowed” keys, of course) and turn the area into a vast amusement arcade, conducting lotteries on how many hits could be scored within specified amounts of time by a mock-flight vehicle shooting at images of Cylon ships, hiring the best hand-to-hand fighters to hold matches under simulated battle conditions (again, a certain amount of gentlemanly wagering was supervised by Starbuck), and using the numbers of randomly selected spot quiz questions of a testing computer for some sort of roulette-styled game. Even though he conducted the arcade with a clientele of about one-third of the students attending, nobody on the teaching staff could ever nab him. They tried. But each time they tried to catch him in the act, they entered a war-game room that was dark and silent.

  Another time, it’s said, a cheating ring developed among many of the cadets who were under so much pressure to succeed that stealing tests or sending in better students as substitutes to take the exams began to seem like the most reasonable way out of their plight. They figured that Starbuck, with his reputation for engaging anyone around him in a con, would go along with their plan and help them.

  “Sure,” he said, I imagine with that sometimes irritating sly smile on his face. “What do you need, chums? What’s coming up? Let’s see—Intermediate Military Strategy I, am I right? Tomorrow? Okay, you guys meet me in the Cylon throne room just before the test, I’ll have copies of the answers ready for you there. No sweat. See ya around, kiddies.”

  (“Cylon throne room” was an academy euphemism for the communal bathrooms at the academy.)

  The next day the cadets in the cheating ring showed up in the throne room and, sure enough, Starbuck was there, a twinkle in his eye and a set of answer papers in his hands. He told the cadets that this first instance of the answer service would be free of charge, they could discuss terms when the students had evaluated the worth of the service.

  I don’t know how the cadets got the answers into the testing rooms. Perhaps they merely memorized them, or sneaked them into the place in some ingenious cadet fashion. Anyway, the tests were fed to each individual testing cubicle by the exam-transmission system. The tests had been kept under lock and key, and guarded, since the previous morning when instructors made them up. The examiner who told me this anecdote said there was no way any intruder could have gotten near the exams or discovered the answers. At least the staff thought so.

  The cadets from the cheating ring eagerly set to work, marking answers with their electronic pencils at a rate that no monitor had ever before seen from a cadet class. It looked like many of the students would finish the test way ahead of time, something of a phenomenon with the monstrously difficult academy tests. A feeling of great confidence swept among the cadets who’d received the answers from Starbuck.

  Then they turned to the last page of the test booklet. At the bottom of the page was scribbled a note which was unmistakably in Starbuck’s handwriting. This note appeared only in the test booklets of the cadets who were part of the cheating ring, another maneuver which led the examiner to tell me he believed the story might be apocryphal. Anyway, the note read:

  All of the answers which I supplied you in the throne room are incorrect. If you filled in each and every one of them, you just achieved a zero on this exam. However, since this is a test of intermediate military strategy—a fancy term for grace under pressure or the successful use of reason and instinct to stay out of trouble—those of you who deserve to pass, who deserve to succeed beyond cadethood, have this option: there is sufficient time for you to rush back through this exam, change your answers, read the questions properly and choose the correct answer, and—if you got my kind of luck—successfully achieve a passing score on this exam. But, before you do that, first erase this note. Bless you all. S.

  The examiner who told me this story swore up and down that it couldn’t possibly be true.

  I have observed Starbuck closely, ever since he came aboard the Galactica as a green but crafty young ensign. I have watched him starbuck everybody in sight, including myself.

  I believe the story.

  CHAPTER
THREE

  If the tension on the command bridge had been flammable, one spark could have destroyed the entire Galactica. Athena, in an instinctive affectionate move, edged closer to her father, just out of range of his peripheral vision, simply to be there in case he needed her for anything.

  Starbuck’s hands had nervously fumbled with his flight helmet as he and Boomer reported in to the commander. Their words, although properly formal and military in phrasing, came out in angry bursts. At one point, Tigh put a calming hand on Starbuck’s arm to steady him. Apollo could not stand still and he paced a small area of the bridge, sliding one hand along a railing as he walked. At the end of Starbuck and Boomer’s report, Adama broke the shocked silence by saying to Athena:

  “Show the tape of what Starbuck picked up from Cree’s scanner.”

  Everyone on the bridge cringed visibly when the pictures of Shields’ viper being blown up were shown. Then, as Cree faced his ship toward the summit of the mountain and the awesome laser cannon was revealed, everyone inhaled sharply or swallowed hard or simply gaped in wonder.

  “Good Lord!” Adama cried. “Athena, freeze on that weapon.”

  Quickly Athena stopped the tape and reversed it a few frames, then adjusted the resolution of the picture. Knowing her father would want figures about the weapon, she worked out the calculations immediately.

  “Sir, I have a fix on the scale. The ramparts are fourteen metrons high. Destructive power nearly infinite within two hectares.”

  “We’re just out of its range right now,” Tigh whispered, examining Athena’s figures. “It can’t zero in on us accurately, although a random shot could still hit us.”

  “It could destroy the Galactica in a single pulse!” Adama said softly.

  Apollo hit the railing beside him with a hard ham-fisted slap that rattled it on its moorings.

  “It’s fantastic!” he said. “The Cylons are a highly advanced, mechanized culture, yes, but their technology can’t have reached those proportions. Their weaponry tends to be less—”

  Starbuck interrupted angrily:

  “Can’t say it matters much to me who built it. It’s there, and it took two of my pilots!”

  Apollo and Starbuck glared at each other, each spoiling for a fight in their frustration over the deaths of Shields, Bow, and probably Cree. Breaking the line of sight between them, Adama stepped in front of Starbuck and said calmly:

  “Combat losses are my responsibility. You took the only course of action you could by returning to the Galactica with these scans.”

  “Tell that to Cadet Cree!” he shouted furiously. Then, catching the disapproval in his commander’s eyes, he added: “Sir.”

  Adama, his eyes saddened, nodded. Athena knew her father could always sympathize with insubordination that originated from anger over combat deaths. He turned to Colonel Tigh and said:

  “That’s it then—this is why the Cylons squeezed us into this course.”

  Apollo, leaning on the railing, said:

  “How long until their pursuit force catches up to us?”

  “Depends on where their base-ships are,” Adama said. “We have too much fire power for their attack squadrons. They’ll hang back, make their occasional sneak attacks. But you can wager it won’t be long until they bring up base-ships.”

  The officers of the bridge fell silent, until Starbuck finally spoke up:

  “Commander, Blue Squadron can take out that gun.”

  That’s Starbuck, Athena thought. Although he advises all cadets never to volunteer, he’s always the first to step forward when the Galactica is threatened.

  “To send in a squadron of fighters would be mass suicide,” Adama said. “You’ve seen what that weapon can do.”

  “Still,” Tigh said, pointing at the star map to the last known location of the Cylon pursuit force, “we cannot turn back.”

  “No,” Adama said.

  “What’s left?” said Boomer.

  Adama turned to Athena and ordered:

  “Put up the geologic scan of the asteroid’s surface.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Adama examined the subsequent picture for a long moment, then pointed toward it, saying:

  “We could land a small, highly specialized task force down on the surface. Find some weakness in their defense. Destroy the weapon.”

  Tigh, studying the geologic scan, said:

  “We can’t be sure there is a weakness…”

  Adama nodded, raised his eyebrows querulously.

  “Risk is high,” he said. “As always, it seems.”

  “But… but that’s suicide,” Starbuck muttered.

  Adama glanced at Starbuck, no anger for the young man’s outspokenness visible in his eyes.

  “I cannot see any alternative,” Adama said. “I am open to other suggestions.”

  All anyone on the bridge could offer were a few coughs and a couple of murmurs.

  “Program a search for qualified personnel,” Adama said to a communications officer. “Anyone experienced in ice-planet survival. Experts in mountaineering. Specialists in heavy demolitions. Once the readout is assimilated, we will convene in the Briefing Room. Until then, everyone not on duty right now return to your cabins and get in as much sack-time as you can. Once the mission is initiated, there might not be time for any of us to rest.”

  Athena exchanged a worried glance with Apollo, each of them sending to the other the message that the one person who should rest, their father, would be the only one to disobey that particular general order.

  Light… red light… moving slowly from side to side against an icy metallic background… blurs… cold… intense cold freezing blood, stopping the flow of blood… the red light coming closer… Shields’ scream as the beam hit his ship… all the pieces of his ship… how many pieces… uncountable… could they be put back together like in a puzzle… Shields dead, Bow dead, no that can’t be… the red light up against my eyes, trying to draw me into it… red light, Cylons, the stupid red light on their helmets… cold… red light… cold everywhere… cold…

  Cree came awake suddenly. The red light interfering with his dream was on the helmet of a Cylon staring down at his prone body. Everything came back to him in a rush of memory. The beam of light, the destruction of his buddies’ ships, his own viper being forced down. The swirl of large-flaked snow as he climbed out of his ship and faced the four Cylons who surrounded him, their quartet of moving red lights alarmingly eerie in the cold gloom. One centurion had ordered him disarmed, and two others had performed the deed before Cree’s seemingly frozen arms had been able to resist. What was it the centurion in command had said before the others dragged him away and he had lost consciousness? “Take him to Vulpa,” the alien had said. He had definitely wanted Cree to understand, for he had spoken it in the language of humans and not of Cylons.

  The Cylon now examining him was different from the ones that had captured him. There were more wide black strips across the metallic portions of his uniform. The black lines indicated rank in a Cylon officer, Cree had been instructed back at the academy. Then this one was a leader of the Cylons on this icy world. A much-decorated Warrior of the Elite Class, if his instructors had been correct in their interpretations of alien heraldry. What was a Warrior of the Elite Class doing on a distant barren icy outpost like this one? And where was the fleet? And did they know Cree came from the fleet? Maybe not. A cadet’s uniform differed from a warrior’s, and there was no Galactica insignia on it.

  Quickly Cree reviewed in his mind the lessons he’d been taught about proper behavior in the event of capture by the enemy. Never give more than your name, rank, and classification numbers. Never succumb to the transparent attempt of an enemy to engage you in casual conversation. Always remember that you are a colonial fighting man and every kind of dealing you have with the enemy must be regarded as combat. Never speak at all unless there is no other choice.

  Cree remembered his instructor pausing at this point in the lecture. “
However,” he had said, “in the event of torture, the fleet does not require your compliance with any of these injunctions. We would prefer you to withhold information, but you will not be condemned if torture extracts it from you.” Another cadet had raised his hand and asked if perhaps suicide might be better than succumbing to torture. The instructor had replied, “It might, but choices like that cannot be dictated. The fleet recommends survival over suicide.” Cree vowed now to let the Cylons kill him before revealing anything to them—nevertheless, a voice deep within his brain seemed to whisper, don’t be so hasty.

  The Cylon commander identified himself as First Centurion Vulpa, then in a guttural brusque voice said:

  “You’re a colonial warrior?”

  Cree almost answered yes, and proud to be one—but that would be a response, a break in the armor of silence. Even though he greatly desired to stand up to this arrogant Cylon officer, he kept his teeth clenched and gave a hate-filled glare as his only answer.

  Vulpa didn’t seem at all disturbed by the cadet’s obstinacy. He rose calmly from his command chair and approached Cree, speaking briskly:

  “Only one vestige of your race remains, the battlestar Galactica and her fleet. Your insignificant, weak-willed, stupid, lice-ridden group of—”

  “Go rust yourself,” Cree interrupted, then cursed himself for breaking his vow of silence so soon. Such a childishly impulsive reaction did no honor to the cause of the captured colonial warrior.

  Keeping in his emotions had always been difficult for him. Back at the academy Shields was always dropping by his cubicle and giving him gentle lectures about caution, about not questioning the lecturers so much. But what did Shields know, he had always thought. Shields didn’t long to be a command officer. Like he said, he just wanted to fly the nuts and bolts off his viper.

  The smiling, chubby-cheeked face of Shields seemed to materialize in front of Cree now, as if replacing his own reflection in the shiny metal of the Cylon’s silvery uniform. Then he saw Shields in his cockpit, then he saw Shields’ ship exploding into a million disintegrating fragments, and his eyes filled with tears. He blinked quickly twice, hoping that the Cylon hadn’t noticed. Who could tell what Cylons noticed? What did they see with even? Was that red light drifting so lazily from side to side in his helmet an aid to Cylon eyes, perhaps a focusing mechanism that, in its scanning, brought a single vivid picture to the monster’s organs of sight?