Battlestar Galactica 3 - The Tombs Of Kobol

by Glen A. Larson

  Lucifer glided out of the command chamber, wondering just how he could fulfill one of Baltar's orders without jeopardizing another. Craftily, he suspected.

  The excited clamor of voices in the Galactica officers' club sounded like the raucous din of an off-limits cabaret. Gemi, in the rare times when she said anything, could not hear herself speak. Ever since they had returned from battle, the trainees could not stop talking about their own individual achievements. They seemed intent on turning the episode into fleet legend immediately.

  "I popped the first one rising up," Dietra was saying, "then did an alpha turn and came back in on a second."

  "That's when I did a half-roll and my second volley blew his outer tip off," Carrie interjected, her boast overlapping Dietra's.

  Serina joined the chorus:

  "It all happened so fast, I forgot about deflection and hyper boosters, I just kept firing."

  Gemi wondered why she could not participate in the fugue of joy and braggadocio. She must look pretty silly, sitting here quietly and listening to the others rhapsodize about their flying skills and kills. Gemi had flown well, Serina had told her that, but nevertheless she felt disoriented, and more than a little disappointed. Every nerve in her body seemed to have divided like an amoeba, just to make her doubly jittery. The battle, for her, had been essentially no different from a simulator session. All she really cared about now was whether she had done well, whether her grades were good or not.

  Starbuck and Apollo joined the group and appeared to derive some amusement out of the noisy battle chatter. Gemi kept sneaking looks at Starbuck, hoping he would smile over at her and say she'd done well. She needed no more attention from him right now than that. But his glance kept sweeping casually past her, and he addressed specific remarks only to the others. She felt lost in the oversized chair and wondered if she should stand on its seat to attract attention. Once Apollo grinned her way and reached over to pat the back of her hand. Starbuck didn't even notice the captain's action.

  Looking at her fellow warriors as they gabbed away joyfully, she began to hate feeling like an outsider. Who were they anyway, these hotshot skypilots? People who were sculptured beautifully, who could talk smoothly, who could move like graceful jungle animals? She often wondered what it would be like to go inside them and feel things the way they felt them. Could they go inside her, understand and perceive the way she felt? Perhaps they could not. They knew what it was like to be attractive, top of the heap, skilled beyond normal expectations. It was conceivable that they could not begin to understand someone who did not have these traits. Maybe the gleaming facets of their lives were so well defined that they could not understand lives that begged such definition. She wondered if she should envy them for the clarity of their existences or condemn them for not being able to perceive entities who lived in darkness. She should probably not do either. She should probably drink her drink and try to create some joyful banter of her own. If she could not really be one of them, she could be a copy of one of them.

  Why didn't Starbuck ever look her way?

  "I was confused, you know?" Brie was saying. "There were vipers and Cylons everywhere. I was afraid to fire my lasers for fear of hitting one of you. Then this Cylon passed me inverted. Doing a high drop toward the surface. Before I knew it I was on his tail . . . and zap!"

  "Zap," Gemi muttered.

  "What was that, Gemi?" Dietra asked.

  "Oh, nothing."

  "Speak up, child. You're a part of the team, you know."

  "Yes, I know."

  "Don't be shy about it. Bellow it out!"

  "YES, I KNOW!"

  "That's more like it, baby."

  And it was.

  The organism inside Boomer had no awareness of its own decline. It did not even feel weak as the numbing substance injected into the host's body infiltrated the outer membranelike layers of the organism. It merely became numb, weakened, then lost all awareness as it died, its last moment having no more significance than any other of its living moments.

  It was a long time after the cold gases had been withdrawn before Boomer became aware of the fact that he had been stored in a cryo-tube. Even Cassiopeia's softly whispered explanations of his disease and its treatment did not really get through to his brain the first times they were spoken. The story of Dr. Salik's detection of the organism's existence on the asteroid, of his quick, frantic researches into its characteristics, and of the almost accidental discovery that it could be destroyed by a simple potassium-based compound, all seemed to Boomer a disconnected dream. The only part he really responded to was the description of how Apollo, Starbuck, and a contingent of inexperienced cadets had performed the lifesaving flight. When he passed out again, it was to dream of those adventurers. He watched Starbuck, his sly, impish glance darting everywhere, lead a part of the squadron. Then his dream became confused as Starbuck's voice intruded upon it.

  "Boomer? . . . Boomer, can you hear me?"

  He awakened suddenly and opened his eyes. There, standing above him—his form partially distorted by the leftover moisture from the cryogenic process that was still graying the window—was Starbuck, looking quite concerned and happy at the same time. Behind him stood Apollo, his face showing similar sympathy.

  "How do you feel, buddy?" Starbuck asked.

  It took a long while for Boomer's brain to make the synaptical connections that allowed him to discern any feeling at all in his body. Inside, he felt drained, hollow, as if there might be nothing left there.

  "I heard what you did, fellas. You . . . and the others . . . Thanks . . ."

  Starbuck and Apollo exchanged a smiling glance, then the captain said:

  "How do you feel?"

  He couldn't keep his eyes open as dizziness seemed to come over him in a wave.

  "Awful. I feel awful. But it beats being dead."

  He squeezed his eyes tight and slipped back to sleep.

  After the return of the squadron, with its heartening report that the mission had been successful, Tigh confronted Adama with his last impassioned plea to reconsider the command decision to enter the void. Adama listened patiently, then reminded his aide that the survivors of the Cylon outpost battle would alert every nearby enemy base.

  "At least the void will offer us some cover," he pointed out.

  "If there are any of us left to find," Tigh responded angrily.

  Adama glared at the colonel, then said softly:

  "We're going in."

  However, once inside the void, with its blackness surrounding them, even Adama began to have some doubts. He sent out a general order that the fleet maintain a tight formation. In spite of this directive, distress signals kept coming in from the commercial and transport vehicles whose panicked skippers were encountering difficulty maintaining their fix on the battlestar.

  "Navigation reports instruments fluctuating rapidly from magnetic interference," Omega said, his voice shaky as he tried to hold in his fear.

  Everybody, it seemed, was spooked by the occult suggestions of the void. There was a definite feeling of impending doom even among the sensible members of the Galactica's crew. Tigh couldn't get the worried look off his face and the usually impassive Rigel, a woman of few words outside her job, had become chatty and nervous. Whenever one of them requested a further verification of orders, Adama merely replied quietly that they would stay steady on course.

  Tigh gestured Adama to a scanner, saying:

  "Commander, could you look at this?"

  Adama joined him at the console.

  "What is it?" he asked. The screen was blank. Tigh looked puzzled.

  "I'm not sure," he said. "It was there, behind us, then it was gone."

  Had the eerie aspects of the void affected Tigh's powers of observation?, Adama wondered. Was he driving Tigh and, for that matter, the entire crew too hard, forcing them to do his bidding without the kind of explanations that would at least give them hope?

  "Field looks clear to me," Adama said gentl
y.

  "Now it does, but every once in a while—there, look."

  A small, fuzzy outline that might have been anything drifted in from the right side of the screen, then disappeared abruptly.

  "Meteorite track?" Adama asked Tigh.

  "Doubt it. It's always in the same quadrants. Delta nine. If it's a meteorite, it's following us. I think it's Cylons."

  Adama stared at the screen for a long while before replying. During that time the object appeared and disappeared one more time.

  "It may be," he finally said. "There's only one way to find out. Assemble a patrol."

  As Tigh followed orders, Adama stood at an observation portal, trying to perceive something in the overwhelming blackness.

  CHAPTER TEN

  SERINA: I can't work myself out of this peculiar mood. I don't know what to feel. Here Apollo and I are finally getting married and yet it's so spoiled because we don't know what's happened to Starbuck. Apollo believes he's dead.

  Maybe I better report all this chronologically. It's strange to believe it all happened over such a short period of time.

  Yesterday, before going to the officers' club, I checked the duty roster and saw that Apollo and I were both on patrol alert. In the new roster I had been designated his wingman. For obvious reasons I was quite happy about it.

  At the club, it seemed everybody was still on the subject of the mission and all the brilliant maneuvers we pulled off above that Cylon asteroid. Dietra and Brie, especially, were holding forth enthusiastically. Just after I arrived, Apollo came in. He didn't notice me and joined Starbuck at the bar. I excused myself from the others and started walking toward them. At that moment Colonel Tigh came running into the room and up to Apollo and Starbuck. Although I didn't hear what he said at the time, I found out later that he was ordering them to launch bay. They were just leaving the bar when I caught Apollo's attention and asked him where he was going. He said there was just a routine matter that the three of them had to attend to. I felt definitely left out, and angry about it, so I followed them out to the corridor.

  I asked what was up and Tigh, with a cautious look toward Apollo, said:

  "I'm afraid this is confidential. It's a mission."

  Ah-ha, I thought, my turn to strike a blow for the cadet corps. I said to Tigh:

  "You've got the wrong pilot here in Starbuck for any mission. According to duty roster, I'm Apollo's wingman. If Apollo goes, I go!"

  Tigh looked surprised that anyone would question anything he did, while Apollo acted quite angry. I pointed out that the orders were posted and must be followed. Tigh reluctantly agreed and Starbuck said it was fine by him, he'd rather spend the time back at the bar. If only he had returned to the club, he'd still be around. If I'd replaced him properly, perhaps all of us would have survived the incident. Or I'd be dead instead.

  Anyway, Starbuck briskly trod off down the corridor, shouting back to us over his shoulder that we should have a nice, peaceful mission. As we accompanied Tigh to launch bay, he explained that scanners had picked up a possible pursuit force and that our mission was to verify its existence.

  As we waited for the elevator to launch bay, I was disturbed by the bizarre behavior of Starbuck. I commented to Apollo that we might have hurt Starbuck's feelings. Apollo said he doubted that, since Starbuck hadn't gone back to the officers' club. I didn't get his drift—that Starbuck must be up to something typically devious—until we arrived at launch bay and saw him in full gear climbing into his viper. Apollo did not appear too surprised to see him.

  Tigh shouted at Starbuck that he was violating orders, but Starbuck just smiled back and gave the signal to launch. His power had engaged before Tigh could order him off the mission.

  "What's he doing?" I asked Apollo, who replied that he was trying to protect one of us, or both. Apollo then kissed me quickly and ran toward his own viper. I tried to run after him, but Tigh grabbed my shoulders and held me back.

  "Wait a minute," I cried out, "I'm his wingman."

  Tigh told me to let them go, but I squirmed out of his grasp, raced to my ship and virtually leaped into its cockpit. I had all systems rumbling and ready to go in no time at all. I gave the signal to launch without looking back at Tigh who, I'm sure, must have been furious over the many acts of insubordination that he had witnessed in such a short time. The launch crew had no idea what was happening, but they activated the release and my viper went hurtling down the launch tube and out of the Galactica.

  I'm told there was considerable confusion on the bridge when it was realized that the normal two-ship scout patrol had been enlarged by one.

  I listened to Apollo and Starbuck over the commline as I caught up with them. Starbuck was going too fast, and Apollo cautioned him not to get too far ahead or he'd lose his fix. In the void, of course, that would have been a proper disaster. Starbuck eased up and let Apollo follow him more closely.

  As I reached Apollo's position, I thought it'd be exactly what he deserved if I pulled alongside him to officially announce, as it were, my presence. He was positively snappish when he realized there was a third ship and it was mine.

  "Serina," he shouted, "you get your tail back aboard the Galactica."

  I asked him, in as cool a voice as I could, was that any way to talk to an officer, and I threatened to have him up on charges as soon as we returned.

  "Or, at the very least," I added, "lock you out of my chambers."

  He said he had faith in my piloting abilities, such as they were (I resisted commenting on that), but that they didn't apply to the void.

  "The void can swallow up good pilots. So go back."

  Starbuck interrupted our little domestic spat with the news that whatever it was the Galactica had picked up on her scanners, it was still beyond our range. He couldn't go any farther without losing his fix on the Galactica. He suggested that Apollo maintain the home-base fix while he kept a fix on Apollo, thereby doubling the range. I saw my opening and rushed in. (Again, perhaps if I'd stayed out of it, Starbuck would still be with us, but . . .) I proposed that Apollo could lock on me while I maintained the Galactica fix, thereby tripling our range. Starbuck was so surprised to hear my voice, he almost couldn't follow the logic. He and Apollo had a little colloquy about who had the right to go forward, with Apollo arguing that as flight commander he should go on deep probe. Starbuck, however, had the dialectical advantage, since he was already out there. He zoomed ahead, telling us to consider his move as our first wedding present. (I suppose that now, if he could communicate with us, he'd say it was a genuine wedding present, since he saved our lives by giving up his own. Oh, Starbuck . . .)

  What light his boosters cast back to us across the void dissipated quickly. Apollo and I were left alone, with only the dim lights from our helmet rims and from the control panel to provide any illumination within the void's intense darkness. I reported back to the Galactica what we were attempting. Tigh, his voice still displaying a shade of anger at the precipitous actions of his trio of brazenly cavalier pilots, approved our plan. I told Apollo, who tried to communicate with Starbuck. Starbuck's voice came back too faintly and Apollo ordered him to diminish speed. We don't know if he followed that order or not. The next thing we knew he was shouting:

  "Targets!"

  Apollo requested further transmission, telling Starbuck to pull back and wait for him before engaging targets. Starbuck apparently didn't hear, for he said that he was practically on top of them. Then, suddenly:

  "I am on top of them!"

  There was a long, staticky silence, then his next communication:

  "Apollo, I'm in trouble!"

  Apollo asked what was happening but the response began to break up into sound fragments. I heard Starbuck shout Apollo's name and the word, "Communicate." Apollo repeatedly tried to get through to him. His last communication was the word, "Cylons."

  Apollo and I, hemmed in by the limitations of our double fix on the Galactica, waited a long while before we knew there would be no more
transmissions from him.

  Finally Apollo said it was no use, he'd been getting nothing but static and silence for too long now, there was no choice but to return to the Galactica. It had all happened so quickly, I couldn't believe there was nothing more to be done. When I tried to protest to Apollo, he merely repeated in a sterner voice that we were heading back to home ship.

  We flew back in a silence that seemed longer and darker than the void itself.

  Back aboard, our report properly filed, Apollo strode out of his father's quarters without listening to any of the commander's consoling words. He took up position by the scanners, his eyes squinting at their busy but uninformative grids and blips. I stood watch behind him, feeling both his sadness and my own—very, very deeply. We stayed like that for an impossibly long time, then I suddenly couldn't stand it any more. I put my arm around his shoulders and asked how long he would stay by the screen, staring at it. He said he couldn't believe Starbuck was gone. I knew what he meant. The two men had been together for so long, had fought side by side more times than they could count. I'm sure he was seeing the history of their comradeship as images replacing the grids and blips on the scanner screens.

  Suddenly I couldn't hold back my thoughts any longer. I said I understood what Apollo was going through and that we must get married immediately.

  "Now?" he said, "right in the middle of—"

  "In the middle of what?" I said. "A disaster. A void. An endless night. I don't care. I'm too scared to care. Look what happened to Starbuck. Next time around it could happen to you or me or both of us. I don't want to wait for a moment which may never come."

  He pulled out of my embrace and walked away from me. Then he turned back and just stared at me, obviously not knowing what to say.

  I asked him if he loved me.

  I felt the cutting edge of his words as he said:

  "Is that what it would take to prove it to you?"

  He was wrong, but I understood his doubts. I must have looked selfish to have said that. I went to him and stared into his troubled eyes.