Battlestar Galactica 3 - The Tombs Of Kobol

by Glen A. Larson

Some of the sadness left Starbuck's face. Her jealousy pleased him, as she knew it would.

  "Jealous? Why?"

  "You and Athena. You'll be together all during classes, all during—"

  Starbuck roared with laughter.

  "I can see you don't know Athena very well. When it comes to something like this, anything tinged with the odor of duty, she's all business. No reason at all for you to be jealous."

  "But you do, I take it, allow for jealousy outside of duty situations?"

  "Don't try to catch me out. I'm yours forever, or until, or if. That's the best I can ever promise you."

  She suppressed saying, "Or any other woman." This was not the time for that kind of sardonic remark. Starbuck touched her cheek with the back of his hand, then left the room suddenly. She watched the door for a long time, hoping to see him return.

  Gemi was a short, young woman, standing at least an inch below the colonial-service height requirement. By smiling pertly and distracting the inspector, she was able to stand on her toes and be qualified. Although her vision was subpar, she parlayed a secret squint with a good memory to pass the eye test. She had an odd, hereditary nervous disease, common only to natives of Gemon, her home planet, which in periods of stress could cause her fingers to tremble uncontrollably. She told none of the examining doctors about it. She had a talent for taking tests and she was able to pass the pilot qualifier even though she understood fewer than half the questions. She should not have been accepted for training as a viper pilot replacement, but nobody knew that, since she had tricked and conned her way through all the preliminary screenings. They might have taken her provisionally anyway. Anyone who wanted to be a pilot that badly deserved special treatment—Gemi thought so anyway.

  The only matter that troubled her at all was that she could not figure a way to attract Lieutenant Starbuck's attention. She knew it was ridiculous to have a crush on the dashing and popular young officer but, for her, affairs of the heart had never followed accepted logic. Her chief obstacle to amatory success was that so many of the ladies had fallen for Starbuck that she was already lost in the crowd. The worst irony for all the female cadets in the new viper piloting classes was that Starbuck, defying his notoriety as fabled womanizer, had turned into an all-business instructor and was not giving any of the girls a tumble. In her moments of despair Gemi felt that he'd never notice her, not with all the competition. What would he see in her tiny, heart-shaped face?, she thought. Her chin came to too sharp a point and her forehead was much too wide. If only she had been blessed with the kind of wide blue eyes that men so annoyingly notice. Instead, her eyes were small and a dull brown. Her facial lacks might have been salvaged if she could have presented a slimly attractive figure, but hers was compact and chunky, the kind of sturdy body that was good for playing a tough game of triad or riding a wild mount, but not the silly sort of curvaceous frame that titillated men. Although she was reasonably successful in the love wars that occupied so much of the nonbattle time aboard the ships of the fleet, she was discouraged that she too often had to settle for swains whose standards of ethical conduct were not always acceptable to her, or for that matter to any woman who could assemble a set of two or three standards for her own use. The men of the fleet were not always, as she might have put it, representative of the ideal in human life. Far from it.

  She set her cap for Starbuck anyway. The first day of training she asked every question she could think of, until the rest of the class groaned every time she held up her hand. But no matter how perceptive or well-phrased her question, Starbuck answered in an occupied manner, hardly ever looking away from his clipboard at her. His indifference to her intellectual display would not have been so irksome if he had not been willing to banter after class with every other female—at least, every tall, well-formed, pretty female—in the class.

  Well, she vowed, if intelligence didn't catch his eye, she'd try skill, and she began to apply her considerable energies and talents to becoming an adept pilot. Perhaps, she thought, the way to a man's heart is through his viper.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SERINA: I'm so all-out exhausted I don't even know if I'll be able to finish this report. Anybody who thinks training to be a combat pilot is the least bit romantic is welcome to take my place in cadet class. At this point I've been shot down so many times in simulated battles that, what with the numbness in all my muscles, I am beginning to think I really am dead. I can't quite master the knack of shooting off laser fife in conjunction with the accelerative thrust of the viper. My thumb on the joystick just doesn't make the proper instinctive moves in the correct rhythm. Athena says it's tough for all beginners. You've got to act before you can actually think of the action itself, she says. She runs a tough drill, but I think I'm learning. Still, I keep thinking I'll never really get the hang of it. Not really. Not that feel a real pilot gets when everything's buzzing and the ship skims like a sailboat. I've got to get it. If only to prove something to Apollo.

  Apollo.

  Really, he's been awfully sweet about everything. Yet—ever since training began I haven't been able to lose the feeling that he's always on my neck, hovering. I mean, he doesn't scream or criticize, and he really does try to help. Everybody adores him as a teacher. I just can't get rid of this dumb suspicion that he actually wants me to fail. It's hard to explain sensibly. He's proud, I know, when I do well in the classroom. (I've really proven to be much better at theory than combat practice.) But at the same time his pride is, I don't know, tinged in some way. While he takes some pride in my doing well, what he actually wants is for me to be safe here in my compartment on the Galactica, without any thoughts of lasers or vipers to interfere with my bridely perceptions. I mean, it's sweet really. He is not the sort of man who feels threatened by a woman's competition. At least I don't think so. He's just so caring that he doesn't want anything to happen to me, and no amount of arguing that it's for the good of the fleet can sway him. After all, he's a hero of the fleet. He knows he accomplishes enough for two and that no one would really blame him if he exerted command influence to ban me from all cockpits. Still, I'd like to show him. I'll never be as good a pilot as he is, I'm sure, but at least I can be a damn good pilot and that's what's important to me now. God, I never thought that the biggest thing in my life would become whether or not I could develop the skills to hold my ship on a steady course.

  The warrior I'd sometimes like to strangle is Starbuck. The man is incorrigible, I swear. Watching him supervise training, you'd think he'd achieved the major dream of his life. Maybe he has. Certainly he's never had this many women at his command before. And scuttlebutt has it that, before training, he held the record for holding women at his command. But now—now he's really in his element; after each session, he zooms from female cadet to female cadet. It can be really annoying sometimes, although I must admit that most of the young cadets seem to enjoy it immensely.

  That first day, when we were issued our uniforms, Starbuck was everywhere, adjusting straps, dusting insignia, straightening sleeves. He kept muttering how glad he was to be able to lend a hand. Dietra muttered to me that he seemed even gladder to lend two hands. He seems particularly eager to help out a cute little blonde named Brie. She's a transfer from Rising Star, the former luxury liner, some of whose facilities have been useful for fleet R & R. Rumor has it she was a hostess in one of its many lounges when the Cylon attack came. She can't seem to do anything right. During G-suit drill, she kept trying to fasten her pressure strap below her knee instead of above. Wouldn't you know, there was Starbuck, smirking at her and telling her it wouldn't do much good down there. Well, Brie gave him her wide-eyed little-girl look and he volunteered to readjust it for her. What he wanted to do in the first place, I expect. He made it look good. As he slid the strap over her knee and began to tighten it—taking his time, of course—he explained in proper academy voice that it was an electronic pressure pad designed to help her body withstand the enormous forces of rapid acceleration and deceleratio
n.

  Athena's furious with him, of course. Cassiopeia would be, too, if she weren't so busy at the life support station. Whenever Starbuck's around Brie or one of the others, Athena's usually watching him, even while attending to her teaching responsibilities efficiently. She has become quite adept at maneuvering herself between Starbuck and his momentary objects of attention. In a way, their rivalry has been good for the rest of us. They compete, try to outdo each other in their sections of practice, and we all learn from their sharpened concentration. Yesterday Athena beat Starbuck out in a simulated target run, and he said she'd been lucky—she'd started the run too early and, by all rights, should have so mis-timed her shot that it ought to have missed the target by a mile instead of splitting it into a million electronic bits. She kept her cool and merely replied that maybe her timing had been, well, anticipatory, but in this particular run her mistiming had saved him from being blasted out of the skies. He challenged her judgment, and they went to computer for settlement. The replay of the practice run, which analyzed each move and manipulation of the pilots, showed that Athena had been right. Her timing had saved Starbuck from a probable pinwheel attack from the simulated Cylon ships, one in which his chances for survival were not at all good. One thing I'll say for Starbuck, he may go after women with an annoying predictability, but he is not afraid to admit his errors. He was quite gracious in admitting before the class that Athena had won the challenge. There are times, especially when I notice a sad cast to Starbuck's eyes, that I believe his exuberance is a kind of compensation for his worries about Boomer.

  When Apollo was giving us the lecture about the pressure suit, explaining in detail the G-force differences between shuttle and viper flight, he caught my eye. I had, after all, placed myself right in front of his lectern. I formed the words, I love you, and pantomimed them in his direction. He got very red, and nobody else knew why. I enjoyed that. Later, when we were in the simulator, he sneaked up behind me and put his arms around me, said loudly that I was overcontrolling and should relax—hold the stick lightly, lightly. Then he leaned in to whisper:

  "I love you, too."

  Sometimes the training is worth it, after all. But, God, I do hope I can get the hang of those controls before I have to take a real viper onto patrol. I wish I—I'm too tired to continue, I think I'm going to fall asleep right now. Serina, signing off and nodding off.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Lucifer was finding it extremely difficult to keep his real self submerged under the overlay personality. He did not like maintaining a subservient attitude to Baltar, and especially detested having to suppress his commentaries about his commander's observations and opinions.

  Accompanied by a Cylon warrior, especially detached to guard him, Lucifer glided into the command room. As usual, Baltar, sitting in the pedestal throne, faced the wall. To get his attention, Lucifer said:

  "By your command."

  Slowly the command chair swung around and Baltar peered down at him. Was he mistaken or did Baltar's mouth now show distinct signs of contempt? The man became more difficult to deal with daily.

  "Yes, Lucifer? What little astronomical deviation or minor course adjustment constitutes your excuse to interrupt my meditational period this time?"

  The man was beginning to talk like a tyrant. Meditational period, indeed. Baltar was not capable of the kind of meditation that an imperious leader achieved. Not long ago he had been dispatched to a garbage chute; now he was becoming a full-fledged demigod.

  "I am sorry, the interruption is necessary. We have overtaken the Galactica and are trailing just beyond her scanner range."

  Baltar chuckled softly.

  "Excellent."

  "She has now veered away from the outpost asteroid."

  "Ah, yes, I anticipated that."

  "Certainly, on the face of it, it is not illogical. But their course is taking them into the Epsilon quadrant toward a magnetic abyss."

  First Baltar studied Lucifer's face silently, then abruptly he stood up and looked off toward his left, roughly in the direction of Epsilon quadrant.

  "A magnetic abyss? It couldn't be. Describe please."

  "A void, a navigational inferno. Our equipment does not reveal its dimensions, it could possibly be endless. It seems to me that, given the opportunity to proceed toward the abyss or to engage our forces at the outpost, they should have chosen the outpost."

  "Perhaps they know we are following, and the move toward the abyss is diversionary."

  "Anything is possible, but the odds—as I've computed them—seem astronomically against that possibility. I don't think we have been detected and their movement toward the abyss seems purposeful. Shall we launch our fighters against the Galactica now?"

  Baltar sat again in the command throne, put his hand up to his chin. Lucifer had to admit to himself that the man feigned meditation better than he might have expected.

  "No," Baltar finally said. "They do too well in open space. We have to get them confined, trapped in a corner. We'll wait. Have they sent out reconnaissance patrols?"

  "On occasion. They have tended to patrol forward and we have managed to drop back beyond the scanner range of rear patrols."

  Baltar nodded.

  "That's it then. That's what we'll do."

  Lucifer noted that Baltar, as always, was quite adept at stating the speculative as if it were factual.

  "Give top priority to capturing one of those patrol pilots. If what I suspect is true, and Adama is off on this particular futile quest, then there is a definite chance we might get him to turn the Galactica over to us without firing a shot. All that is necessary is that I play the psychological part of the game efficiently. That will be all. Lucifer."

  "By your command."

  As he left, Lucifer remarked to himself that Baltar had a certain exploitable talent for the devious, all right. The only trouble was, he was so devious, even those on his side could not figure out what he was up to. For the moment, Baltar's fancy-stepping was useful, but it might have to be dealt with differently at a later time.

  Adama tried to make sense out of the void as it was now displayed on the central scanner screen. He wished it could really be seen and analyzed. But how could one see and analyze emptiness? All he could see were stars surrounding the immense blackness. Any analysis was speculative, dangerously speculative.

  Tigh, clutching a readout, came to his side.

  "Long-range scanners cannot detect an end to it," he reported. "It could be infinite."

  "No, not infinite, Colonel. I doubt that strongly."

  Tigh, clearly uncertain of whether or not his commander was mentally and emotionally stable, furled his brow and gave the documents to a crewman. Doctor Salik, rubbing his hands together as if to ward off any disease that might have infiltrated the bridge, approached Adama.

  "Doctor," Adama said, without looking up, "how soon can we expect our pilots to be returned to duty?"

  Salik's stare at Adama was, if anything, a shade less encouraging than Tigh's. Clearly both men were concerned about their leader's sanity.

  "Commander," Salik said, "two more men just went critical. I'm going to have to stack life support chambers in the corridors if this keeps up. So it's not a question of how soon they'll be back on duty, it's a question of how soon they'll die."

  Salik scowled at both men, a characteristic look for the overworked doctor, then he said in a lower voice:

  "I want permission to return to wherever those two lieutenants landed. If I can isolate the source of the infection—"

  "Negative, doctor," Tigh said. "That asteroid's behind us and has a Cylon sentinel post. There's no way we can risk any more personnel on that godforsaken place, especially with so many dangerous contingencies."

  "But if we don't—"

  "I appreciate your situation, doctor, but you must realize that, with most of our experienced pilots down with this disease, we cannot provide you with sufficient trained personnel to form a proper escort. It would be suic
ide to send out the personnel we have now."

  "Forget the escort personnel. My team and I'll take the chance. It's vital we—"

  "I'm impressed by your willingness to take such a risk, Doctor Salik," Adama interrupted. "But Colonel Tigh is right. I can't permit such a mission, even for such vital research purposes. Not without proper escort."

  Tears came into Doctor Salik's eyes as he pleaded:

  "Commander, going back there is the only hope those boys have. The only hope!"

  The word hope struck a responsive chord in Adama's breast. It was a word that had, after all, become something of a litany with him, a word he retreated to when all the other words were failing. The doctor may have invoked it with calculation, a desperate last-moment measure to support another desperate last-moment measure, but Adama knew he must give the doctor his due. A large measure of command responsibility rested in the ability to listen and respond to the judgment of other trusted professionals.

  "You're certain of that, doctor?"

  "I stake all my professional experience on it, Commander."

  Adama turned away from the doctor, glanced again at the image of the void on the screen, then turned to Communications Lieutenant Omega.

  "What's the present status, updated, of Blue Squadron?"

  "Simulator training continuing. Third-level combat situations being tried. First solos in viper already completed."

  "How are the proficiency ratings of the new cadets?"

  "Surprisingly high, sir."

  Glancing back at Salik, he said:

  "All right, doctor. So be it. You have your mission. Select and prepare a medical team, then report back to me."

  The doctor nodded matter-of-factly and left the bridge. Salik was not one to offer effusive thanks when he got his way. Tigh moved toward Adama, questioning his commander's decision with a worried look.

  "Let's hope and pray those cadets are ready," Adama said. "Call Captain Apollo to the bridge."