They came to a ridge overlooking a bleak deep valley. In the distance a rock wall, sheer and high, towered over the valley's other side. Staying low at the crest of the ridge, Boomer studied the rock wall through his binoculars. At first it seemed to be normal, then he perceived the flaw in its surface.
"Pods," he muttered, handing Jolly the binoculars.
Jolly stared at the rock wall for a moment, then gave Boomer a puzzled look.
"I don't make 'em," he said.
"They're there. It's like one of those academy test questions where one picture contains another one, hidden."
"I never did well on those."
"No kidding. Look at the hairline aperture running from the rock wall and the floor of the valley."
"I would have missed it," Jolly said, when he finally did see the lines that marked the immense rock-formation portals now closed over the pod's launching area.
"Cylons," Jolly said, giving Boomer back the binoculars. "No doubt about it. And we could have missed it so easily."
"I know. If we miss just one of these Cylon outposts, and then they make us . . ."
"Yes, but are you sure it's operational? We've already come across several that were deserted."
"No, this is a working launch station, I'm sure of it. They're inside there, like spiders ready to draw us in when we come within range."
"Let's take a closer look, see how many ships are inside the—"
"No. Too dangerous."
"Boomer, aren't you being a just a bit too—"
"Look, Jolly, it doesn't matter how many ships are stationed there. It only takes one to notify the Cylon capitol where we are. Our best shot is to get out of here, alert the fleet. Let war-room solve this problem. C'mon."
As Boomer started to edge back away from the crest, Jolly grabbed his arm, whispering:
"Hold it!"
Across the valley the rock wall shuddered and the lines marking the entrance took on a red glow before easing open and sliding back with a grating roar into the dark interior of the station. The entranceway was dark and silent for a moment, then there was a great tremulous rumble. With a burst of brilliant light two Cylon raiders hurtled through the opening and headed skyward. Then, with another ear-splitting and wracking blast of sound, the portals in the rock wall glided shut again. The low whistle of the cold driving wind replaced the harsh, loud noises of the launch station.
Jolly, who had maintained surveillance of the Cylon patrol ships, commented:
"Looks to me like their course won't take them anywhere near the fleet."
"Good," Boomer said. "At least we can warn them to change course. Let's get out of here." After they had crawled a sufficient distance away from their reconnaissance post, Boomer and Jolly stood up. Boomer's hands felt dripping wet from the cold, pervasive moisture that clung to the rocks. Looking down at his hands, and seeing that Jolly's hands were equally bare and equally wet, Boomer cursed himself for removing his gloves when he'd had to crawl along the asteroid's surface. Ah, well, he thought, as he tried to rub the moisture away, it's only water. Probably nothing dangerous in it at all. Still he shuddered involuntarily.
Lucifer enjoyed the dangerous game he was playing. Resenting the Leader's order to program himself as Baltar's completely subservient second-in-command, he had made that personality a mere overlay which could be canceled out at any time by a stronger, more assertive programming of traits. He had already spent too much of his short existence being completely responsive to any Cylon officer with enough rank to use him recklessly. The Cylons were not aware of the separate internalized consciousness he had developed as a defense. He needed to be able to countermand their stupidity whenever and wherever it occurred.
He was quite proud of his present strategy. Not only could he simulate a second or third brain, he could formulate any number of personalities. He could, in a way, outdo the real Cylons, who had never been capable of more than a pitiable three-brained existence.
It was possible that, with all his concealed abilities, Lucifer could eventually rise in the Cylon political hierarchy and become powerful, maybe even the first fully computerized Imperious Leader. But such thoughts, he knew, must be kept to himself. Cylons could not for the moment be let to suspect the subtle and devious undercurrents of his circuitry. He felt that he had now achieved something more than the mere soul (which he housed in a compartment in his right shoulder) that had taken up so much of his creative time in assembling after he had first become aware of his emerging consciousness. With each improvement, Lucifer's awareness increased—and he was sure that, with each new part of himself he made, he became more like a sentient being.
He had lately become quite annoyed with Baltar. The human had become too smug, too arrogant. Like most humans Lucifer had encountered, Baltar had a tendency to hide behind facial expressions, the most overbearing of which was his smile, an enigmatic smirk. Sitting atop his preposterously high pedestal, his face cast in shadow by the dim floor-lighting of the command chamber, Baltar always appeared to Lucifer as a grotesque figure, a live mask animating a dead man. However, his dissatisfaction with the human traitor was only a small vexation, an almost undetectable burnout in the vast Luciferian mechanisms. Still, he detested having to approach the command pedestal so formally and then obeying the command of his overlay-personality programming forcing him to address Baltar obsequiously:
"By your command, Baltar."
As usual, Baltar let along moment pass while he calculatedly ignored his second-in-command before saying:
"Speak."
The Baltar that Lucifer had so methodically trained had not seemed capable of such awesomely imperial tones. That Baltar had been whining and complaining, a good servant to Lucifer's harsh taskmaster. Now their roles had reversed.
"I bring good news. We believe we are on the verge of locating the Battlestar Galactica."
When Baltar displayed only a quizzical reaction, Lucifer felt disappointed.
"Oh? Report, Lucifer."
"A scouting patrol of colonial vipers, two of them, was detected landing on a listening post in the Quadrant Otarsis. Although we could have captured or killed them, we allowed them to flee . . . as you instructed."
"How far is this outpost from us?"
"One point five hectares. Since Galactica is kept to minimum speed by the slower vehicles under her protection, it would not take our raiders long to catch her."
"Is she aware that she has been detected?"
"No. That is the advantage we have. Our fighters, if launched immediately, will take her by complete surprise."
"As they did at Carillon?"
Baltar shouted this last insult. Lucifer, who had missed the Battle of Carillon, could not answer. He knew that no post-battle study had arrived at worthwhile explanations for the small human combat force's victory over a much larger Cylon unit in the skies above the mining planet Carillon. Apparently Adama had been well prepared for the ambush. His son Apollo, together with the infamous pilot Starbuck, were known to have performed heroically in the battle. Nevertheless, they should not have won, and their repeated skill at defeating the enemy baffled Cylon strategists.
Baltar arose from his throne and glared down at Lucifer. In the somber light, with its distorting areas of shadow, the man looked at least double his height.
"One base-star is not sufficient to assure victory against the Galactica. Its commander has displayed an almost occult power to anticipate us."
Lucifer saw nothing occult in Adama's prescience. He believed Cylon battle plans were so out of date they needed a complete overhauling.
"I conclude," Baltar said, "that our forces at the present time are insufficient."
YOU conclude? Lucifer thought, what right have you to conclude? A human had no conception of how to process data. Neither did Cylons, really. Both races merely took in information and thought they had sufficient brain-power to reach logical conclusions in a logical way. The truth was that, in both races, their conclusions were a
s illogical as the methods they used to reach them. It continually amazed Lucifer how confident Baltar could be, when it was clear that all his mechanisms worked inefficiently. Again, he rankled at the programming which forced him to remain servile to Baltar.
"For the moment, Lucifer, our mission is to find the Galactica, then follow just beyond her scanner range, preferably in our own base-star."
"Do I understand you to propose that we would then call in reinforcements?"
Baltar sighed. To Lucifer, a sigh was the most maddening human sound of all.
"Such a call would surely be picked up by the Galactica. She would be alerted. We'd be showing her the way to escape."
"But if we cannot call for assistance and you will not attack, is not the end result the same? The Galactica escapes."
Lucifer felt as if he were discussing command logic with a child.
"Have faith, Lucifer. Have faith. I have a plan." Lucifer realized he had no sudden surge of desire to hear the smug human's plan. Still, he must listen.
"All I need is the opportunity. And that will come."
How can he be so sure? Lucifer thought. However, Baltar was looking so arrogant, perched high upon his throne like a caged bird who disdained showing himself to an audience, that Lucifer felt now was not the time to question the human leader's ability. It was best, after all, to give Baltar every opportunity to fail—which, given his head, he would most assuredly do. Lucifer merely bowed, uttered the ritual, "By your command," and glided out of the command chamber.
Starbuck, who was usually not subject to feelings of depression, could not analyze the source of his present gloomy mood. It had attacked him suddenly, just after he had completed the preparations for Apollo's bachelor party by sending Ensign Greenbean and a squad of irregulars on a mission to appropriate some ambrosia and ale from stores. The naive ensign had not been eager to steal the beverages, but Starbuck persuaded him by invoking the ancient military code of borrowing, especially as it applied to hungry and thirsty fighter pilots.
He was very close to indulging himself in a quiet and fleeting moment of despair, but the overwhelming sense of hopelessness was extremely troublesome. Inside, he felt like a puddle of melted felgercarb. Why should he be so down? Why did it suddenly occur to him that being a fighter pilot, even one of the three best fighter pilots in all the squadrons, was somehow a demeaning and unfulfilling job? Pushing back on his chair, and placing his feet on the ready-room card table, he tried to shake the mood. From his shirtsleeve pocket, he took his pack of lucky playing cards and started to ripple them. Rippling and shuffling cards had always been good for his concentration. Placing one card delicately on the back of his hand, he executed his favorite sleight-of-hand trick, making the card flip as if by its own accord, catching it in his palm, twisting his wrist and making it seem to disappear when in reality he had already secreted it in his other hand. Revealing the vanished card to his nonexistent audience, he replaced it in the pack.
No good. He still felt gloomy. Why? Piloting a viper was considered a noble profession, and Starbuck was known throughout the fleet as a hero. And, as Councillor Anton was forever saying, one thing the human race needed at this time was heroes. Before, Starbuck had been inspired by that thought. Now it seemed false, the clever words of a politician. What good were heroes? A hero was a fool whose only distinguishing accomplishment was the blind urge to march, fly, or crawl in front of everybody else. Nothing more, nothing less. No, that wasn't true. It not only reeked of self-pity, as an idea it insulted real heroes like Apollo and Boomer.
Yet, there was something foolish in heroics when viewed objectively. Something odd about risking one's life continually when self-protection seemed the sensible motive. Still, Starbuck never really felt the risk—or, for that matter, any sense of heroics. Hero was just a name they pinned on him like a medal. Sure, he got a thrill or two from hitting a Cylon raider amidships, watching it explode and briefly light up the sky. And he did feel pride when an act of his had allowed the fleet to escape from a trap, or to put more distance between itself and its Cylon pursuers. On the other hand, how long could he derive satisfaction from another in a long series of escapes, especially when no end to the Galactica's quest was foreseeable? There had to be hope, even if couched in Adama's incessant refrains about the shining planet called Earth, but it was certainly difficult to sustain such hope when each escape was only followed by another crisis to escape from.
Ah, well, Starbuck thought, this is all stupid. I'm just idling my engines to no purpose. Anyway, none of these stray thoughts really explain my miserable mood. Rearranging his cards, he replaced them in the shirtsleeve pocket, zippered up his combat jacket, and proceeded to the launching bay to join Apollo for the duty mission they had been assigned at Daily Briefing.
Lounging beside a delta wing of his sleek, glittering vipercraft, Apollo looked much too joyful for his own good. He grinned broadly and his eyes seemed a brighter blue than usual. The grip of his handshake was annoyingly firm and confident. His voice seemed about to break into laughter at any moment. After they had finished a quick inspection of the superstructure of each of their ships, Starbuck muttered:
"It's kind of sad."
Stopping by the cockpit of his viper, Apollo asked:
"What is?"
"Oh, nothing . . ."
Starbuck wished he had not spoken up. What right did he have being a drag on his buddy's happiness?
"Come on," Apollo urged. "What is it?"
Starbuck sighed, smiled.
"Well, we've been through a lot together."
Apollo nodded.
"We really have. I was thinking of it myself, you know, while you were hustling me at cards last night. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be here."
"Look, that goes for me, too. So many times I can't count them. I'd be drifting space-waste if not—"
"Hey, what's going on in your head? You sound like it's all coming to an end on this patrol. I mean, it's only a patrol, a foray to see what's out in front of the fleet, an advance—"
"It's not only a patrol, don't you see? It's like the last of a line of them, the last duty we'll ever have as—as—well, you know. The way we are."
"The way we are? That's absurd, Starbuck. I mean, it really is."
"Sure, 'course it is. Forget it. Let's get started."
"No, wait, I—Starbuck, do you think—do you really think that Serina's going to make that much difference? I can't believe this, it sounds like you're jealous or something."
"Well, yeah, in a way I guess I am. Don't tell anyone else, huh?"
Starbuck couldn't figure out why, but having this conversation with Apollo seemed to be relieving his gloom. The truth he could not see when he'd been brooding seemed much clearer now. Jealousy might not be the right word, but it came close. He was extremely fond of Serina—hell, if he didn't have enough trouble already with his romantic balancing act, juggling both Athena and Cassiopeia, he might have been attracted to her himself—but she definitely changed the shape of the comradeship he and Apollo had known together as warriors and wingmates. Even though he knew the two of them would continue flying patrols together after the marriage, Starbuck felt it could not be the same. A certain edge of recklessness, the instinctual moves of a pair of pilots who risked anything for success of a mission, might just be missing. The efficiency of a mission could be seriously affected. Domesticity, and especially his deep love for Serina, might make Apollo overcautious, might make him fire a moment too early, retreat a moment too soon. That's the real source of my gloom, Starbuck thought. I'm reluctant to part with the way things are. It was a selfish and foolish idea, he knew that, but it made him fear for the future. Apollo deserved his chance at happiness. Just because Starbuck was a roving womanizer who would never settle down, he had no business disapproving of sensible domestic urges in another. As these thoughts whirled in his head, Starbuck was no longer sure what he believed.
Apollo, detecting some of Starbuck's confusion, clapp
ed a hand on the lieutenant's shoulder and said:
"You know something? I think I see something of what's on your mind. I don't agree, mind you, but I think it's pretty nice anyway, what you're trying to say. And we have had a lot of good times. Look, we'll probably have a lot more of them."
"Sure we will. I'm just mouthing off. A little boring duty should clear my head. Let's get to it."
Even after he had cleared launch tube and thrust his viper forward, Starbuck still felt peculiar. He wondered if what he really feared was change. Not the state of the fleet, not even the intervention of Serina in Apollo's life, but the change in all of their lives. A series of changes, really, that originated with the sneak attack of the Cylons that destroyed the twelve home worlds. Everything since that disaster was, in a way, a struggle to cope with the unexpected, a shifting of hopes and dreams, a confrontation with the persistent threat of sneak attacks. From day to day, from mission to mission, nothing remained the same. There was always something changing, there was always uncertainty. Sometimes a fellow needed sameness, an uninterrupted cycle of dullness, to steady him. Well, he thought, I'd probably go bats if such a cycle did come, wondering when and from where the next sneak attack was coming.
Apollo flew the reconnaissance patterns ritualistically, trying to keep the business of the patrol uppermost in his mind. However, he could not stop thinking of Serina and how beautiful she had looked last night when they had discussed the final arrangements for their wedding, and had together written the vows they would share after their marriage was declared as sealed by Adama. Remembering how sad and despairing she had been in the first days they had known each other, when she had first come to him to cheer up the child Boxey, he was happy to see that her eyes glowed with happiness and that her smile now came readily, even eagerly. He would be glad to finish this patrol and start on the tense but joyful round of events that would lead to the final blending of vows in the wedding ceremony itself.
Battlestar Galactica 3 - The Tombs Of Kobol Page 3