Battlestar Galactica 3 - The Tombs Of Kobol

by Glen A. Larson

"I don't get it. Why release me?"

  "You are a gesture to display the integrity of my intentions, and to show how much I've been misunderstood. It is imperative for the survival of your fleet that my offer of peace be accepted."

  "Well, old man, you might just run into one or two obstacles there."

  "I'll handle that. I just want you to realize the importance of my freeing you."

  Starbuck squinted.

  "I'll report fairly, Baltar. I promise you that."

  Baltar smiled. His voice became smooth and a bit slippery.

  "That is all I ask of you, Lieutenant. Fairness, a fair report. All I ask."

  "I copy."

  "Good. Lucifer, prepare the craft that will carry Starbuck to Kobol."

  Baltar swept out of the room with a certain magisterial dignity. Lucifer looked at Starbuck, trying to see what the lieutenant was up to behind his bland smile and calm blue eyes.

  "I'm very good at reports," Starbuck said. Lucifer could not penetrate that observation any more than he could discern the meaning in the man's smile.

  Descending in her viper toward Kobol, lulled by its steady interior sounds, Gemi lost herself in a fantasy so real to her that, for a time, she was quite removed from the small, cramped cockpit.

  She was in a land so lush, so rich in tropical forestry and sleek-feathered colorful birds, so beautiful, that it seemed like a dreamland designed especially for those who had somehow squirmed free of the conflict with the Cylons and its everpresent dangers. Looking up at the sky, she was surprised to see no guardian battlestars or even roving scout ships. There were no fellow warriors slicing through the undergrowth with laser pistols drawn, looking for enemies hidden in the placid, secure scenery.

  There were so many things to do on this unusual pleasure planet. She took a trip down a wide river in a boat propelled by churning wheels. She took the paws of two furry, almost manlike animals and skipped down bright paths toward a hovering golden sun. She brushed the tops of trees with a free hand as she flew above them in a small, unviperlike chugging aircraft with massive, clumsy wings. She swam in a warm, velvety pool beneath a gentle waterfall that was a series of steps leading up to thick clumps of fruit bushes. Each bush held red and pink fruit that tasted so sweet they were more aroma than substance.

  The best part of the whole fantasy was that no one else was around. There were no women more beautiful, taller, more efficient, slimmer, or more loved. There were no men to look at her and not look at her at the same time. There were no friends to measure herself against. There were no officers to give her orders she had no desire to follow.

  She felt better skipping along a forest path than she had felt before, ever. Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a groan off to her left. Parting a pair of splintery surfaced fronds, she looked into a clearing where she saw a wrecked viper, its delta wings separating from its body, its tail split off, its cockpit canopy crushed inward. The groaning came from the other side of the wrecked spacecraft. Walking tentatively toward the sound, she passed around the remains of the viper and saw, in a clump of tall grass, Starbuck lying unconscious. The groans came at intervals from deep in his throat. She ran to him and put his head in her lap. His skin felt quite warm. His breathing was regular in spite of the groans. She ran her fingers through his hair. It felt soft and silken. She could nurse him back to health in this unpopulated outpost, win his undying gratitude, make him notice her for once. The groaning stopped. He muttered, "I am about to open my eyes, lovely, whoever you are," and her heart began to beat wildly.

  "Level off, child. You're sticking to me like a third wing."

  It was Dietra, her wingman, speaking, demolishing her fantasy into a thousand unreclaimable fragments. Why couldn't Dietra have waited a moment longer?

  Below them, the planet Kobol was nearing. It looked arid and a bit forbidding.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  SERINA: Serina here. Some of this will have to be rushed and whispered, as I'll have to sneak off by myself to record. I don't wish to disturb the proper business of the expedition.

  We've shuttled down to the planet. Some of the party are establishing a main camp in the desert just outside an abandoned city that spreads out from the base of a massive pyramid. This architectural complex was located by Galactica scanner. Commander Adama believes its configurations, as reconstructed, match the records he has of the tomb of Kobol's last Lord. He and Apollo, with Athena trailing just behind, have gone off to take a closer look at our discovery. From where I'm now standing, on top of a rounded sand dune, I get a panoramic view of the imposing architectural complex and the surrounding desert whose dark sands form an eerie backdrop to the pyramid and the city. In the distance, a few sturdy palm trees have survived the planet's ecological decline. Some of the buildings in the city are intact, others are in ruins. The pyramid, a structure somewhat lighter brown than the adjoining sands, looks quite symmetrical from this vantage point, with an untoppled capstone that has beautifully survived the ravages of time.

  I have to go now, so I can catch up with the rest. More later.

  Just now my foot kicked up a potsherd which had been buried in sand. A broken piece of what might have been a very lovely decorated vase, perhaps in vivid colors although only bits of color still cling to the surface. The shard is now dulled to roundness and its design is pitted and obscured. I pocketed it anyway. I want to salvage something from all this, some piece of history I can look at and touch later. If it's a piece of pottery, fine.

  On our journey down here in the shuttle, the scanner detected the remains of a modern city located in another part of this continent. From what we could see on the small screen, it was completely in ruins, a lot of rubble and glass entwisted with heavy growths of junglelike greenery. Athena said she thought it would be worth studying but Adama, as obsessive as ever about his goal, rather grumpily commented that there would be scant time for research unconnected with our main objective. It was imperative that we leave the planet immediately after we had finished our principal tasks. There had been too many signs of Cylon ships catching up to us to dawdle around with inessential research.

  We have found a causeway leading into the old city. Much of its paving is cracked but, judging by the condition of the rest of the city, it's remarkably well preserved. One could drive a vehicle on it without appreciable damage to the roadway or the vehicle. Adama and Apollo stood and stared at the causeway for a long while. Perhaps they were awestruck by the sense of a mighty past, the feeling that the lines of the road, going off to a far point, are leading us back through time, perhaps even to a fated event.

  "It's incredible," Apollo said to me.

  I agreed it was beautiful. And noticed silently it was making me feel quite romantic, especially with the chance this place might offer for us to be alone for a change. A great change from the Galactica, in that respect. He kissed me as if to prove it.

  Instead of entering the city right away, Adama had us go back to main camp to assemble a support team. The team returned to the causeway and the commander had us set up a small camp beside the road. Dietra, who was in charge of setting up the camp, balked a bit when he ordered her to post a guard. She wondered against what, since the planet was supposed to be dead. Adama muttered that yes, it was supposed to be, but we had to be cautious. Then he ordered Apollo and me to come with him into the city. I was surprised to find that my first step onto the causeway felt quite tentative.

  After about half a kilometer of walking the causeway, Adama suddenly dropped to his knees on the roadside and started to brush and scrape away accumulated layers of sand. Madly, I thought at first, but when I went to look over his shoulder, I saw what he was up to. There was a mosaic there, its tesselated design gradually coming revealed through the frantic working of his fingers. It was a simple picture, one that would perhaps not bear up to an artist's scrutiny, but it looked lovely to me. In the midst of a many-colored concentric arrangement of circles was the image of a golden goblet, with a ring of
what appeared to represent emeralds around its rim. I stooped down to examine it closer. Around the outer edges of the design, some of the tesserae had come loose. I reached down and picked up one, dusted it off further with the fleshy part of my thumb. The stone was purple. I tried to place it back into its proper ring, push it into the stone base. It came loose under my fingers and would no longer fit the design.

  Adama said the goblet image was not intended as a work of art, but as a sort of road sign, telling the wanderer that he would be welcome in the city at the end of the causeway. Within the city, smaller versions of the sign would function as signals to the weary traveler of places where he only had tp ask to be taken in and fed.

  Next, we crossed a dry riverbed alongside a heap of rubble that had once been a causeway bridge. On the other side we entered the city proper.

  I wish I had time to convey my impressions of the city. Perhaps, in the repose of my quarters, I'll be able to file a more detailed report. It's a most impressive sight. There's a mixture of intact and crumbled buildings. Cracked roadways. Wall murals. Pictographic sidewall writings. For a long while I've stood here by myself, my foot on the cap of a column's base, and stared at a half-intact wall whose mural apparently depicts the planting of a field. All I can make out is ground, falling seeds, and what look like feet.

  This column must have been carved millennia ago. It has three slantwise cracks in it, and looks like three sections of stone carefully piled and balanced. It stands alone, attached to no building. Its vertical flutings are grooved deeply and I can put half my hand inside one. It feels pitted but otherwise smooth in the dark recess. I don't know what substance the column is made of, but it is hard. The surfaces are spotted with what appear to be red and white crystals.

  Adama is calling for me. I have to go.

  Apollo and his father are so intense about their search that I'm able to keep a distance behind them in order to record these observations.

  We rushed through the city streets. Adama is in such a tremendous hurry to reach the pyramid. He's taking no time to stop and admire the history around him. I've tried to sneak as many looks sideways as I can while maneuvering around the fallen debris, the treacherous piles of sand, and the cracks in the pavement, some of them deep enough to break a foot in.

  In some areas the city looks like it was just recently abandoned, I would not be surprised to find footprints not yet covered by sand. Inside buildings I can see furniture, appearing to be in good shape and just dusted off. Other structures, on the other hand, look like they've been hit with a major disaster. No one has walked here in so long, it seems a shame to just drop in and run. Each room should at least be looked at, if only as a matter of courtesy. If we do complete our quest for Earth, I must organize an expedition to return here for research.

  We're traveling through an immense colonnade right now. Pillars and columns rise high above us, with intervals evenly spaced between them. The end columns to our left and right support a massive entablature, and it looks from here as if some attractive frieze work has been performed on them. But all I can see beneath each cornice are provocative shapes distorted by shadows. First chance I get, I'm going to arrange to have some holographic studies taken here, with plenty of closeups on the frieze. My guess is it depicts people performing normal, everyday activities. So much can be learned about how they lived, worked, and played.

  Adama's stopped at the end of the colonnade. He stares up at the majestic pyramid, brushing away tears with his hand. I'm going up to him, see what I can find out.

  SERINA: Excuse me, sir, if I'm intruding I'll just—

  ADAMA: No, Serina, you're not intruding. I'm just—overwhelmed. I'd never dreamed of seeing this.

  SERINA: It's an awesome sight, I agree. This is a tomb, this pyramid?

  ADAMA: Yes. I'm sure it's the tomb of a Lord of Kobol.

  SERINA: Kobol was a monarchical civilization?

  ADAMA: Not really. Many methods of government flourished at different times in different areas. But the glorious years were overseen by Lords. It was not really a monarchy, however, not a hereditary one at least. The Lords, you see, were elected. To seven-year terms, usually, then reelected for as long as they satisfied the populace with their benevolence. There was a provision that, if a Lord failed to be reelected, he would be retired on a substantial government pension. Inordinate ambition was discouraged, and the people tended to choose leaders who were just, intelligent, and able to govern with tact and discernment.

  SERINA: One thing I don't understand. The civilization you describe seems, well, idealistic and quite democratic. Yet your so-called benevolent lords chose to be buried in such ornate circumstances. Certainly the common people didn't rate tombs like this for themselves.

  ADAMA: In a way, the form of the pyramid itself explains that, at least to me. The society here was pyramidally structured. The base suggests the common, or lower classes of men. They support the smaller class of nobles. At the top, the capstone, is the Lord himself or herself, the leader. Such an adherence to social structure was carried over to funerary customs. The Leader—who, incidentally, was to be a leader in afterlife—was allowed, even expected to have an ornate tomb. In the gloominess of our civilization, wracked and altered by our long war with the Cylons, we don't easily realize that our ancestors were basically a happy people whose views on life were joyous and optimistic. Their idea of afterlife was simple, direct. Life continued, as it had in the past, only better. If we had time to investigate a typical necropolis, you'd find the common man's burial customs similar to the nobles', if on a smaller scale. The burial code stated that every effort must be made to preserve the body, whether through special embalming processes or in some kind of airtight container. Further, everything was done to keep tombs and graves from being violated by robbers. And certain important material needs—food, drink, and clothing—were placed somewhere in the tomb or grave in order to felicitate the transferral to the world of the afterlife. Their spirits had to be sustained and protected so they could achieve eternity. Although I'd deplore the restoral of any kind of monarchy, or even of these elaborate funerary customs, I must admit, Serina, that I'm impressed by the basic logic and orderliness of it all.

  SERINA: Sir, one thing I—

  ADAMA: No time for further talk, Serina. Or recording, if that's what you're up to—

  SERINA: But how—

  ADAMA: We have to discover the entrance to this tomb. I suspect it's on the eastern face. Let's go.

  We're inside the pyramid now. Seems like we've been wandering down corridors for a long, long time. I'm quite properly tired. The chill air and the occasional dank smells are an upsetting combination.

  The Commander found the tomb's entrance rather easily. It was just about where he thought it should be. Behind a tall, squared stone very much like the rest of the limestone facing of the pyramid was a short tunnel to the actual entrance. Shining torchlight ahead of him, Adama led us down the passageway. We came to a stone door beside a well-ornamented stele, a flat slab that in addition to tendril-like designs around its border had a number of inscriptions on it. Adama studied the pictographic writing for some time. Apollo, looking over his shoulder, remarked how difficult the language seemed to be. Adama nodded and said he'd been losing sleep lately studying it. Then he explained that the inscriptions did indeed reveal that this was the tomb of a Lord of Kobol, quite likely the very tomb we were seeking. The seal beneath the inscription, the seal of the Lord, seemed to verify that.

  "Inside this tomb," he said, his voice low, "may be the answer we seek."

  I asked him what else the inscription said. He hesitated a moment, then said the writings also contained a threat to all potential visitors, promising death to all who entered the tomb. "Just superstition," he added. I was about to say something in favor of superstition, when I noticed the design upon the door itself. I looked from it to the medallion Adama wore on his chest. The design of each was the same, although the one on the door was recessed.
I told Adama and he said it was definitely the seal of the ancient Lords.

  He removed the medallion and slowly placed it against its twin on the door, gently fitting it into the recess. Soundlessly, the door swung open.

  Adama glanced briefly at each of us, his concerned look offering us a chance to return to camp. Both Apollo and I straightened our backs, I think, then followed the commander through the dark entranceway.

  Inside was a kind of crumbling stone lobby with tunnels going off from it in three directions. Before choosing which tunnel to use, Adama had us stop and check the storage cells of our torchlights. As I held mine up for examination, I flashed it toward a corner beside a tunnel entrance. I was not ready to view the object on which its beam fell. I looked into the dark, hollow eyes of a whitened human skeleton. In the unsteady light it seemed to move slightly toward me, and I caught my breath. Adama flashed his torch toward the same place. We saw there were two skeletons, lying placidly side by side. I said to Adama that they looked propped-up there. He said perhaps someone had arranged them in that way, as a warning to others who wished to go further into the tomb.

  "Who were they?" I asked, and he answered, "Tomb robbers." They might have been killed by the Lord's servants, he said, or starved to death while trapped inside the tomb. There was no way of telling how they had come to their grisly end. I shuddered and looked away, not wanting to think of these moldy skeletal objects as once living, if corrupt, beings.

  Adama took a step toward the skeletons. With a massive whooshing sound, a portcullis clamped down from the ceiling in front of us. It was iron and barred, a proper prison door. I stifled a scream. Apollo drew his laser pistol. Adama put a hand on his son's gun arm, saying that he shouldn't shoot; a single laser blast could bring the whole ceiling down on us.

  Looking to my left, at the wall nearest the iron portcullis, I saw the design of the Lord's seal, again recessed, this time into the wall. Adama pressed his medallion-seal into the recess and, as mysteriously as it had fallen, the portcullis disappeared into the deep-shadowed ceiling.