Battlestar Galactica 1

by Glen A. Larson

  An Ovion stood in the casino entranceway. When she saw Serina approach, she started to back into the building. Serina called to her to wait, and the Ovion waited, dutifully.

  "Your name is Seetol, right?" Serina said. "You conducted us on that brief tour of the mining facility."

  "That is correct," Seetol said. "How may I serve you?"

  "Oh, you might just satisfy a former newswoman's curiosity."

  "Newswoman?"

  Serina had extreme difficulty explaining to the alien what a newswoman was. Seetol seemed to think reporting the activities of others a bit sinful, however newsworthy.

  "I was fascinated," Serina said, "by the, well, the order of your society and I certainly couldn't help but be impressed by your industry, your complete dedication. I've never seen anything like it. I mean, one gets the impression that those people in the mines work until they simply drop."

  She wondered if she was sounding too naive. Seetol's answer, however, was noncommittal.

  "We know no other way."

  "Well then," Serina said, edging close to her real question, "what of family institutions? I somehow sense that something is missing." Seetol appeared a bit ruffled. All of her four arms were in motion expansively as she spoke.

  "We are very complete."

  "What about males?"

  "Males . . ."

  Seetol seemed unable to cope with the subject.

  "Well, I don't mean to pry," Serina said, even though prying was exactly her intention, "but the Ovions are a female culture. Obviously. Surely there must be males someplace. You do have need of them, you haven't found the key to parthogenesis, have you? Perhaps you keep the males at home—"

  "We don't keep them at all."

  Seetol's high pitched voice had become quite toneless.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  The Ovion looked up at Serina with her spherical insectoid eyes and said, "You are correct. Males have their place until they have served their purpose. And then, in our society, they have no place. I am sorry. Have I said something wrong?"

  "No, not at all. I guess there are, well, value systems in your order worth looking into."

  Serina walked away from Seetol, wondering if the alien had meant that the males were simply disposed of. Sometimes having a newswoman's instincts had its drawbacks.

  Apollo was surprised to see only a token crew manning the bridge of the Galactica. His father engaged in a routine check of equipment with Colonel Tigh, turned to greet his son warmly. Apollo felt happy that he could be comfortable with his father again.

  "Tigh was just briefing me on current operations," Adama said. "He wants to be at the celebration planetside. I offered to relieve him for the night. Strictly as a favor."

  "You don't feel like seeing your son getting a star cluster then?" Apollo asked, puzzled.

  Adama smiled.

  "It's well deserved, Apollo. But there's more to this, this award ceremony than just honoring you and Starbuck and Boomer. My presence would somehow verify Uri's strategy, and that's all this ceremony is, just one of his ploys."

  "Ploy? That seems strange—saluting his greatest rival's son as a ploy."

  "It's exactly what it is, though. He'll propose destroying our arms at the celebration. He's hoping for a cascade of emotion that'll do the damage before anyone realizes what they've done."

  Apollo cursed his own stupidity—of course, anything that Uri had set up should have been suspect from the beginning. After observing Uri the previous night by the grog fountain, Apollo should have known the man was plotting something.

  "But you can stop him!" Apollo said to Adama.

  "Not anymore, I'm afraid. Haven't you heard the talk? The scuttlebutt? I'm the villain, at least to most of the population, who are willing to believe anything the handsome Uri tells them. I got us into this predicament, you see."

  "How could anyone believe that. Certainly not the majority . . ."

  "The majority, at least for the present, are with Uri. You must remember, Apollo, what they've been through."

  "I'm compassionate, Father. I inherited that from you. But this isn't the time, it's—Father, you've got to speak out, to the people."

  Adama took a deep breath before responding to Apollo's plea.

  "I'm retired, Apollo. Except for running this ship and certain phases of the total operation, I'm—"

  "I don't believe you're saying that! This isn't you. What's happened? Help me understand."

  It was all he could do for Adama to maintain an aloof official stance, when he wanted to embrace his son.

  "You'll understand, son. In time, you'll understand."

  Apollo started to speak, then thought better of it, and walked away from the bridge.

  Tigh came to Adama's side.

  "That wasn't easy for you, not telling him," Tigh said. "Perhaps—"

  "No. I need him down there at the ceremony. If I told him, he'd insist on staying at my side. The gamble is mine. If I win, we all win."

  "But if you're wrong, Uri will have your head on a platter."

  Adama looked out at the starfield. He felt confidence returning to him for the first time since he had assembled the ragtag fleet.

  "I am not wrong," he said. "The Cylons lured me into their malicious deception once." His eyes narrowed, and he looked like the old Adama of galactic legend. "Never again!"

  He turned to Tigh, his eyes glowing with eagerness to act.

  "Report. The livestock."

  "All being lifted off the surface of the planet now. No interference."

  "Report. The agricultural project."

  "Everything harvested, sir. The project will be completed soon."

  "Report. The fuel."

  "Another token load just arrived. Barely. Darn near exploded when the pilot set it down on the deck a bit too heavily. Other loads seem ready to be launched from the surface, but the Ovions're stalling."

  "Don't make them suspicious. But get as much Tylium from them as you can."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  "Hop to it, Colonel!"

  Tigh was already in action. As usual. Around them, the crew seemed to respond to the commander's newfound and boisterous energy. Adama remembered some story from his childhood about a sleeping giant awakening.

  Apollo, waiting with Serina for the guest elevator to take them to the casino, could not stop thinking of his father's refusal to bring his case to the people. Something had to be done about Uri, or they would suddenly discover that the shrewd politician had eased himself into a position of absolute power.

  "Write me a poem!" Serina said suddenly, clearly to break him out of his mood.

  "I couldn't," Apollo said, stirred out of his reverie. "You don't know what you're asking."

  "Oh, I do. It would mean a lot to me."

  She leaned toward him and kissed his cheek, muttering, "I'll do better in private."

  Apollo was about to suggest something even more specific for their later privacy, when he was distracted by a passing man who wore the dress uniform of the Galactica. The man, whose collar was clearly too large for his neck and whose sleeves seemed to hang down past his knuckles, seemed a shade too old for combat duty. Apollo's scrutiny was so obvious that the man noticed. He turned away uncomfortably and headed for the nearest corridor, as if to escape.

  "What is it?" Serina asked.

  "That man's insignia is Blue Squadron. I thought I knew everyone in it. Don't recall ever seeing him before."

  "Maybe he transferred in from one of the other units."

  "I know most of them also. And did you see the fit of the uniform?"

  "Well, how often do you guys get to wear your dress blues? He probably bought it when he was a couple of sizes larger and hasn't worn it for years."

  "I hadn't thought of that."

  "In any case, the guest of honor fits into his uniform quite neatly—and looks delicious, I might add."

  He squeezed her hand. But, in spite of her glowing smile, he could not get the sight of
the officer in the oversized uniform out of his head.

  The Ovions, as anxious to serve as ever, had rearranged the whole casino for the award ceremony. Colored lights had been arranged in flowerlike patterns to add to the festive atmosphere. Acrobats and entertainers of many species performed their acts at one end of the massive room. The men in full military dress uniform completed the decorative picture.

  Starbuck could not get his shoulders to relax. As he and Boomer waited by the podium for the celebration to begin, he couldn't stop fidgeting. Boomer appeared to be equally uncomfortable.

  "Have I ever told you how lovely I think you are in a dress uniform?" Boomer said, in a strained attempt to be cheerful.

  "Just get me out of here," Starbuck said irritably. "Starfighters don't mix with all this pomp and—"

  "Careful. Guests of honor don't curse. It's not etiquette."

  Sire Uri, looking every inch the man in control, swaggered up to them.

  "I don't see Captain Apollo. I trust he's well . . ."

  "Business aboard the Galactica." Starbuck said. "He'll be along."

  Uri regarded the roomful of people, which was dominated by the Galactica's dress blues.

  "From all the uniforms, I'd deduce that most of our warriors are here," Uri said. "Other than your captain, of course."

  "Well, Sire Uri," Starbuck said, "I'm always a big draw."

  Uri, not certain how to take Starbuck's sarcasm, strode away, seeking another detail to attend to. Boomer pulled at Starbuck's sleeve.

  "Don't spoil the crease," Starbuck said. "What is it?"

  "Those three guys over there, watching the acrobats, can you tell me who they are?"

  Starbuck studied the three men, all of whom wore ill-fitting Colonial fleet uniforms.

  "Nope, Boomer. Darned if I know. Sure have lousy tailors, or else all the fun and games down here's tiring them out."

  "Starbuck, you should know them."

  "Why in hell should I know them?"

  "They're wearing insignia from our squadron."

  Starbuck peered at the oddly attired trio. Suddenly he started walking toward them, shouting back to Boomer, "Don't let them start the festivities without me."

  One of the three men saw Starbuck coming, and he pointed to him for the benefit of the other two. Immediately the three began to walk toward the elevators. Starbuck picked up his pace, trying to close in on them.

  Getting off the elevator, Apollo was bumped roughly by a man in a Galactica uniform. He was about to dress the violator down but the elevator doors closed in his face. There had been something odd about the man and his companions. Shrugging his shoulders, he turned to Boxey and said:

  "The Ovions've really fixed up this place attractively, haven't they?"

  "I don't like them," the boy said laconically.

  Serina whispered to Apollo, "Boxey's a little miffed because some Ovion tried to prevent him from bringing Muffit to the celebration."

  "I see he won the dispute."

  Apollo gestured toward the daggit-droid in the boy's arms.

  "Of course he did," Serina said. "He's in training to be an officer of the Galactica, isn't he?"

  Starbuck came running up to Apollo, saying, "Captain, those men that just got on the elevator . . ."

  "Yes, I have a strong tactile impression of one of them, but what's it all about?"

  "Something's going on around here, and I don't like the feel of it at all," Starbuck said. "I think those three were imposters. Somebody else wearing our uniforms, or duplicates of our uniforms. Can we talk?"

  "Of course. Serina, will you excuse me?"

  "Sure, but not for long, okay? I'll take Boxey and get something to eat."

  Muffit Two sprang out of the boy's arms and ran into the main room of the casino, Boxey running after him.

  "Gotta go," Serina said. "But you two, don't be long. You don't want to miss your own honors ceremony."

  As she walked off, Starbuck took Apollo to a quiet corner.

  "Now what is this about imposters," Apollo said, remembering the man in the ill-fitting uniform he had spotted aboard the passenger shuttle.

  "I don't know," Starbuck said. "I've been running into people all night who aren't from our unit. But they're in our unit's clothes."

  "Yes, I saw one myself. We'd better find out what's going on."

  The elevator door slid open and the two men rushed into it.

  It took a long time for Cassiopeia to find a dark place where she could get away from the crowd of people. A dark place for her dark mood. When she had arrived at the casino, Starbuck had been distant with her, and she did not care for the young lieutenant's mercurial moods. Then the wretched and lecherous Sire Uri had made about twenty indiscreet proposals to her, following her around while she denied him his every wish until he finally gave up, muttering that no damn socialator should dare to insult him like that. Finally, the festive atmosphere had depressed her more, and she knew she needed to sulk for a while, work some of the sadness out of her system.

  What she found was a plush chair which had been placed behind an ornate screen. She flopped down onto it and shut her eyes. The darkness did not enclose her as it should have, as it usually did when she employed the meditation techniques she had acquired in her training as a socialator. Too many other scenes intruded.

  Her ritual defloration, which occurred at the age of twelve following her vow to enter the socialator ranks. He was a handsome older man. Like Sire Uri. Since he was associated with a pleasant memory, she should like Uri, but she did not.

  Her winning of the highest academic honors and the awarding of the golden fringe which she was allowed to wear along the neck and hem lines of her street-robe. The award required Gemonese males to treat her with a special dignity.

  Her selection as a socialator officer and its accompanying privilege of teaching the young.

  Her long intermittent love affair with a Gemonese artist, his kindness to her, the way she had felt when he had not turned up among the refugees.

  Her one disastrous night with Starbuck, the only man who had treated her with any extra kindness in a long time. Why couldn't he?

  An Ovion, apparently stepping out of the wall, interrupted her thoughts. Before she could say anything, the alien had placed one of her four hands on Cassiopeia's mouth and started dragging her to a concealed pod-elevator in the wall.

  Serina responded to Sire Uri's gesture to approach the podium. He asked her where Captain Apollo was.

  "He'll be here in a moment," she said, "I'm sure."

  Uri looked toward Boomer, the only one of the three awardees on the platform.

  "I suggest you find your two friends and tell them we're going to begin," Uri said. "With or without them."

  Boomer snapped to and jumped off the podium, a weak smile on his face.

  "I would like to speak with you later," Uri whispered to Serina. "Alone."

  "Drown yourself in the grog fountain," Serina said sweetly and moved off.

  Seetol could not figure out why she was disturbed about the operation that seemed to be progressing in the casino and within the several levels of the Ovion colony. The Colonial warriors, most of them, had been assembled for the award celebration. They would be easy targets when the proper time came. Her troops were successfully abducting humans who wandered away from the main body and taking them to the lower levels. Everything she had been ordered to see to had been done. Still, she felt troubled.

  The Cylon centurion walked arrogantly into the throne room and both she and her queen automatically bowed.

  "By your command," Lotay said.

  "Speak," said the centurion.

  "The humans are in full attendance."

  "How many warriors?"

  "We have counted more than two hundred."

  "My reports indicate that number as very near the full complement. A very good effort, Lotay."

  The centurion's condescending compliment sent a shiver of distaste through Seetol's body, agitatin
g all four of her limbs.

  "We are, but to serve," Lotay said in her soft deep voice.

  "You have served well. See that the humans remain entertained until the end."

  "How will we know—"

  "When the Galactica is destroyed, the night will be as bright as a thousand suns, for a quick moment, then there will be darkness. Eternal darkness for the humans. And their remnants will be yours, for your lower chambers."

  "We are very grateful, centurion."

  "As you should be."

  Lotay and Seetol bowed and backed out of the throne room.

  Imperious Leader sensed that the time for action had finally arrived. His centurion on Carillon had reported that the human warriors were collected in one spot. The battlestar Galactica and the rest of its fleet were being operated by token crews. They could not launch counterattack craft, nor could they adequately fight back with their artillery. An attack could be initiated now, both against the ships in the sky and the trapped humans on the ground. He ordered the Supreme Star Force out of the ambush screen, where they had hid themselves upon arrival in Carillon Sector, and toward the planet. At the same time, he activated another force to head for the ships that Adama had left behind. They could be wiped out in one sweep of fighters, they were so weak. Then all humanity, except those whom the Ovions claimed for the pods in their lowest levels, would be finally annihilated.

  The leader allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, the kind of joy he felt when conducting such a multi-faceted campaign. He would be both relieved and happy to rid himself of the human pest. He had been fighting them so long he had begun to think like them. He was glad there would be no more of that.

  Apollo and Starbuck could find no trace of the three strange men in Galactica uniforms on the guest accommodation levels.

  "They've got to be down here someplace," Starbuck muttered in frustration. "If they aren't here, they must've reached another level."

  "The other levels aren't accessible to humans."

  "They are to Ovions. Maybe somebody gave them a free trip. You know, I've been wondering: just how inaccessible are the other levels?"