Turning, he started walking toward the command-post building. For the first time he saw the dying fire inside its portals. Suddenly he understood everything. While the bomb-planting team had attacked the summit station, another group of humans, perhaps also aided by Ravashol's deceptive clones, had attacked the command post and probably the underground complex. That was why the Cylons at the gun had lost communication contact with the headquarters in the Hekla foothills.
Vulpa wanted to run wild with rage. Running wild was a rarity among Cylons, but not unknown. For the first time Vulpa understood what rage was all about. This infernal small group of humans had not only wrecked his garrison and blown up his gun, they had also exploded his life. There was no more point to his ambition. He would never return to Imperious Leader's base ship. He would be shifted from one exile post to another. He would never succeed Imperious Leader. His life had become as useless as a street poet's on the home planets of the Alliance.
Inside the command post, he surveyed the damage. The humans had almost totally wrecked the place. Their attack and the subsequent fire had transformed everything into smoldering wreckage. He touched the activation button of the transmitter, hoping to see the shape of Imperious Leader form bit by bit on the cracked screen, but there was no response to his pressing of the button. The only piece of furniture still intact in the room was his command chair. He slumped into it.
Using the meditative factor of his second brain, he was able to put himself into a kind of trance that not only calmed him, but mercifully removed awareness of his surroundings. He did not know how long he remained in this state. When he came to, he was immediately aware of danger. He looked out the command-post window. A large ship had just come out of the clouds, followed by an escort of fighters. Vipers. Human ships. What were they doing here? To rescue their invasion force? Or complete the destruction of his unit here? No matter. What did he care what the humans' motives were anymore? The only instinct left in him said to destroy them, any of them. He would start with this rescue force.
Slipping out of the command-post structure, he made his way to the airfield without being blocked by any of the enemy. The first ship he came to was one of the Cylon fighters that were equipped to guide the ghost ships that were positioned in the front ranks of the airfield. He could control five ghost ships from this guidance craft. It was just what he needed. The humans would think an entire Cylon squad was attacking them, when it was only Vulpa and a quintet of ghost ships. He looked up at the human ships. There might be too many of them, but he would give them a good battle before going down.
Pressing a control-panel plate so that the imprint of the glove on his right hand was recognized by the scanning equipment, he brought the fuel-activation level to full power. To his left, he saw some children, reacting perhaps to the sudden noise of his aircraft, crawling out of the fighter next to him. Children? What would children be doing in a Cylon fighter, especially children who vaguely resembled Ravashol's cursed clones? Everything, it seemed, was going crazy around him. No matter. The destruction of human ships would bring back his sanity. He pressed the plates that powered the ghost ships. Ahead of him, five ships stirred quickly to life.
Starbuck helped Apollo climb out of the elevator shaft. A meter and a half below, on the floor of the shaft, Croft still knelt by the body of Leda. The man just sat there, as if he were willing to wait through eternity for a flicker of movement from her. Starbuck considered going down there, convincing him to leave her, telling him that they could arrange a proper disposition of the body, burial or flames, later. But he decided to leave Croft alone with his sorrow for a couple of moments longer.
"She did a good job up there," Starbuck muttered.
"Both of them did," Apollo said. "By the way, thanks for being here."
"Told you not to worry about my timing. Though the Cylon guards put up so much resistance, they darn near were your welcoming committee, Captain."
"Any Cylons left in the garrison?"
"No," Boomer said. "They seem to be wiped out."
"We'll have to regroup now. Boomer, you go back and get Haals and the wounded, bring them back here. Take a squad of Ser 5-9's people to help you."
"Yo," Boomer said. He turned militarily and strode away.
"Starbuck, you go get Boxey and the children."
"Right, Captain. Hey, Cadet Cree, come with me."
Cree—or at least a gaunt version of the formerly cocksure cadet—appeared from a shadowy niche and weakly saluted Apollo, who returned the courtesy.
"I didn't expect to see you, Cree."
"Never said a word to them, sir."
"Well, that might earn you a bit of metal, Cree."
"A... bit... of metal?''
"An award, Cree, a medal."
"Oh, yes, sir."
"Go help Starbuck."
Apollo went back to the elevator shaft and descended to Croft.
"We've got to go now," he whispered. "I'll send someone back for Leda."
"I should have saved her, shouldn't have let her drop, shouldn't—"
"Take it easy, Croft. We have to go."
Croft stood up, looked down at Leda's body.
"I wanted to get back together with her," he said. "I was thinking of that, back on the elevator. Well, that was probably just so much bilge. She'd never've come back to me. But there were so many things I—"
"Let's go."
"Right."
They climbed out of the shaft, Apollo giving Croft the final hand up. Ser 5-9 approached them, saying:
"Dr. Ravashol told me to tell you that he's established contact with the Galactica. They're sending down a rescue unit. It should arrive anytime now."
Apollo told Ser 5-9 to take him to Ravashol. With Croft following, they made their way through labyrinthine corridors to Ravashol's quarters. Ravashol smiled when he saw Apollo.
"Your rescue ship's just outside the cloud cover now. It should be coming through momentarily. Are you all right?"
Apollo glanced at Croft, whose eyes seemed vacant.
"Well enough," Apollo said.
"My clones have been conducting a celebration in the main hall. Look."
Ravashol pointed toward the telecom screen. Apollo looked. The clones were, indeed, making merry, he thought.
"Emotion has been alien to them," Ravashol commented. "It is good to hear it again."
"The Cylons will come back," Apollo said.
"We will be ready for them. You have saved us. You've saved my children."
"I might suggest you stop calling them children, sir. You may be having a little trouble with them from now on. They seem to be getting more and more human."
"I am glad."
The handshake between Apollo and Ravashol was interrupted by Starbuck bursting into the room.
"Captain! Boxey and the children. They aren't there! One of the Tennas told me the Cylons came, and the children ran away in the confusion."
"Send everyone you can to search the corridors," Apollo commanded. "You come with me, Croft. You, too, Ser 5-9. I'll need your help getting around out there."
Croft followed Apollo and Ser 5-9 out of the room and down a long corridor. Finally catching up to them, Croft said to Apollo:
"Where we going?"
"To the airfield. The children might be wandering around out on the surface. The cold or the di-ethene could kill them!"
"But why the airfield?"
"We're going to hot-wire a Cylon ship and go off looking for them."
"Oh."
"That all right?"
"Sure. I just thought you wanted us to do something difficult."
Boxey had been awakened briefly by the sound of loud explosions and the lighting up of the sky. Muffit had barked. Boxey had told the daggit to be quiet and gone back to sleep.
Now he was awakened by the lurch of the ship in which he slept. A rumble from the front of the ship sent tremors through its walls.
"We better get out of here, daggit," Boxey sai
d, but he had trouble getting his body to move. It felt numb all the way through.
"Go get Dad, Muffit... or Starbuck!"
The daggit barked again, seemed to hesitate, then shoved its snout against the exit hatch of the ship. It came open narrowly, and Muffit squeezed out. The hatch slammed shut behind it. Boxey could hear Muffy's barking outside. He tried to force his body toward the hatch. It was no use. He couldn't move fast enough. Just as he'd reached the hatch by crawling, the ship started throbbing and Boxey could feel it lift off the ground.
Boxey didn't know whether to be thrilled or scared. He'd always wanted a ride in a Cylon ship, he just wasn't sure now was the time.
Athena steadied the rescue shuttle just below the cloud cover and ordered a crewman to establish contact with the expedition. After a brief colloquy with a strange-looking man named Ravashol, who told her that Apollo, Starbuck, and Boomer were safe, she set the crew to their proper tasks. The medical officer reported ready. The pilot who'd be driving the snow ram reported ready. The warrior contingent, brought here in case any Cylons attacked during the rescue operation, reported ready. As she was about to set the rescue mission going, the communications officer reported:
"Activity on the airfield below. Cylon ships revving up."
"Are you sure it's Cylons? Ravashol said the garrison was wiped out."
"I can't tell who's piloting the ships. It looks like nobody's in some of them, from the scanner probe."
"Ghost ships! Equipped with warheads maybe. Alert the escort force but tell them to hold fire until intent of attack is established."
Athena's brow furled. She tightened her grip on the controls of the rescue shuttle.
Five of the Cylon ships on the airfield below lifted off simultaneously, followed quickly by a sixth ship from a rear rank. Athena asked for a further scanner probe, and was told that the rear ship contained personnel; outline indicated a lone Cylon. The other ships were definitely of the designation ghost ship, and were warhead-equipped.
"Any hint of hostile activity?" Athena asked.
"Not yet."
A moment later one of the Cylon ships gave a sign of hostile activity. It flew right at a colonial escort viper. Reacting rapidly to Athena's hasty order of "Fire!" the viper shot at the ghost ship. Hitting it head-on, the viper's fire caused the Cylon ship to burst into flame and plunge toward the planet's surface. It exploded before hitting the ground.
"The other Cylon ships are maneuvering into attack positions," the communications officer said.
"Blast them out of the skies!" Athena ordered.
Vulpa had put the first ghost ship into operation too hastily. He should not have sent it up against one of the vipers. The human craft was too maneuverable, could evade the ghost ship too easily, explode its warhead before it could do any damage. Clearly, the better strategy, if he were to get any revenge at all, was to destroy the larger, less maneuverable rescue ship. Fiddling with the controls, he set the guidance system for an attack on the human rescue shuttle by two of the remaining ghost ships.
Boxey, feeling warmer now from the exertion, pulled himself forward into the cockpit of the Cylon ship. He realized his ship was part of a line of ships. Up ahead was what looked like a shuttle from the Galactica. He hoped it was from the Galactica.
Next to him one of the other ships flew forward with a loud surge of power. It ran right at what Boxey recognized as a colonial viper, the kind he hoped to fly someday. It looked like the fighter was going to crash right into the viper.
"No, don't," Boxey cried aloud. "Shoot it down, warrior!"
Which the pilot of the viper promptly did.
"Good shooting!" Boxey yelled, then watched two other ships pull out of the line and head toward the formation of Galactica spacecraft.
Athena recognized the move of the two ghost ships immediately. One would loop up and attack the rescue shuttle from above, while the other would zero in from below.
"Intercept!" she ordered.
Two vipers intruded themselves between the lower attacker and the rescue shuttle. Catching the ghost ship between two lines of fire, they set it aflame. Another shot and they got the warhead. The ghost ship exploded. The shock wave rocked the shuttle, and Athena was able to level it off again with extreme difficulty and quick reflex responses. She wished she were in one of the vipers. Any ship lighter and more maneuverable than this rescue shuttle.
"The other ghost ship!" her communications officer said. "It got two vipers. Blew itself and them right out of the skies. It's horrible." He turned to the console. "There's a message coming in. It's Dr. Ravashol again."
Ravashol's voice sounded strained, desperate. He asked to speak to the officer in command.
"What is it?" Athena said.
"The ships attacking you. They are nonpersonnel guidance-system craft that—"
"Yes, I know all that. Don't worry. Three of them are already destroyed. We'll get the others, then—
"No, you can't! One of them may have one of your people on it. A boy. A—"
"Boxey?"
Ravashol briefly conferred with a tall muscular blond man dressed in thick furs. Turning back to face the screen, he said:
"Yes, that's the right name. Somehow he got on one of the Cylon ships. Captain Apollo's on his way up in a Cylon fighter."
"All right, doctor." She turned to the communications officer and said: "Report."
"The other two ghost ships are closing in together. Looks like they're ready for attack. The ship in the rear is definitely guiding them."
"Can you tell which ship Boxey's in?"
"No. Scanner probe's not come up with that information."
"All right. God, we might have killed—we'll have to execute evasive action until we're sure whether or not Boxey's in one of those two ships! Tell the fighter escort to pull away. They are officially out of combat."
"But—
"I can't have one of them going off half-cocked and shooting down the ship Boxey's in. As soon as one of the ghost ships makes a move at us, we're just going to have to evade it. Those are your orders."
"We can send one of the vipers after the guidance ship, then—
"No. That's risky. The guidance ship just might be able to explode the warheads on the ghost ships by remote. I don't even know if the lousy Cylon's aware of Boxey being in that ship."
Feeling her body tense, she gripped the controls as she heard the communications officer shout:
"One of them, it's coming right at us!"
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Croft:
The way Apollo skims across the fields of ice, you'd never think he just got done climbing a mountain and attacking a laser station a short time ago. He's even still wearing half his climbing equipment. An ice-ax in holster bumps against the side of his hip as he runs. Ser 5-9, keeping up with him and giving him directions, is even more loaded down than Apollo. The clone still has a full pack and all his equipment.
Anyway, how do I know it's only been a short time since we got off the mountain? I haven't been keeping track. I don't know how long I sat by Leda's body. It could have been centons. Leda. I don't want to think of her. I don't want to think of that. At every step I take, I seem to think Leda's dead, Leda's dead, Leda's—I've got to stop it. She knew the risk she was taking, she accepted it. I would've been the same. But Leda's dead. And I'm not. I should be. Leda's...
I try to take my mind off it. Looking up, I can see the rescue ship hovering beneath the cloud cover. Dimly outlined in the darkness, it seems like a somber queen bee, with the smaller vipercraft buzzing around it like drones.
I have to put on an extra rush to catch up to Apollo and Ser 5-9. Just ahead of us is the Cylon airfield, next to the wrecked command post. A group of the clone children are gathering at the edge of it. Apollo runs up to them, shouting:
"Where's Boxey?"
There's a desperation in his voice I've never heard before. A child answers:
"We don't know. He told us to hide in the
ships. He went on ahead there."
The child points to the front rank of Cylon aircraft. Suddenly a fighter behind us starts throbbing with power. Ahead of us five ships in the front rank rev up. Apollo runs toward them, Ser 5-9 and I following a few steps behind. As we get near the five ships in front, the hatch of one of them squeezes open and what comes out of it but the kid's daggit-droid! The hatch springs shut behind it, as it scampers up to Apollo, barking loudly. Apollo seems to understand the bloody droid-animal.
"What is it?" I ask Apollo.
"Boxey's in there, I think. He must be, if Muffit was. In that ship. It's a ghost ship."
"What's a—"
Before I can finish the question, Apollo whirls around and starts running toward the ghost ship—just as it begins to lift off the ground. We're all forced backward by the swirling tornado in its wake.
I'm recovering my balance as Apollo grabs my arm and starts pulling me toward the nearest Cylon fighter. All of the ghost ships are in the air now. Stopping by the fighter, he turns to Ser 5-9, yells:
"Throw your mountaineering equipment aboard, then get to Ravashol! Have him send a message to that shuttle that Boxey's in one of the ghost ships. Hurry!"
Ser 5-9, reacting immediately, is hurling mountaineering equipment aboard the Cylon ship before Apollo finishes his orders. First there's his pack, then his ice-ax, then a whole package of pitons—he must have been hoarding them. Apollo, after dumping his climbing material onto the pile, pulls me onto the fighter. Ser 5-9's coil of rope follows me aboard; then the clone turns on his heels and sprints off. He is surprisingly agile for a big man running on an ice surface.
Apollo is busy monkeying with some wires beneath the control panel of the Cylon craft.
"You can really fly one of these things?" I yell.
"In theory."
"In theory! You mean you've never—"
"No."
I glance around me. The insides of the ship are weird, all pinwheels and improbably rounded gears, and other things I can't begin to make out. I turn back and stare at Apollo, trying to keep my mouth from hanging open.
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