Battlestar Galactica 8 - Greetings From Earth

by Glen A. Larson

  "Why would these neighbors of ours do that?" asked Michael, looking at the android.

  "I don't understand," said Vector. "The Morelands were never friendly, even when Miss Sarah's father was alive. They're very anti-machine in outlook, but they've never resorted to out and out damage."

  Apollo said, "I'm not sure it was them who did all this."

  "Who else then?" asked Cassie.

  "We can talk about that later," he said. "Right now let's go see what sort of mess Starbuck's gotten himself into."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  There were five of them in the underground room.

  Starbuck never did learn all their names.

  "Here he is," introduced Scrapper, giving him a shove that propelled him over the threshold and caused his dead cigar to pop out of his mouth.

  Three of them were young men; two were young women. Most of them smiled on seeing Starbuck come stumbling into their meeting place, but not in ways that seemed cordial.

  "Pleased to meet you," he said. "Let me explain how you can help out. First, I'm looking for . . . oof!"

  "What did I tell you about keeping quiet?" Scrapper hit him again in the back with his metal fist.

  The second blow sent Starbuck smacking into the nearest wall.

  "Don't hurt him too much," urged Queenie.

  "Why not?" growled Scrapper.

  "Because," said the redhead, "he maybe knows lots of interesting things. We can learn stuff from him."

  They were in the basement of what must once have been an office building. Old dented filing cabinets were stored here, festooned now with spiderwebs. A broken computer terminal lay on its side near a scatter of ancient office chairs.

  Starbuck leaned against a battered desk. "Look, folks," he said. "I'm not here to make trouble. As Queenie pointed out, I can be of help to you."

  "That seems highly improbable, old chap," a bald-headed youth in a one-piece green worksuit told him. He was crouched next to a nest of wastebaskets.

  Starbuck continued. "You're not the only gang that haunts this city, right?"

  "Ain't you never going to pay attention?" Scrapper raised his fist. "I want you to keep shut up till—"

  "Let him talk." Queenie rubbed her fingertips along the side of her head. "I got the feeling he can help us in fighting some of our rivals."

  The bald youth snorted. "Dubious at best, child."

  "Let him mouth off awhile anyways," suggested a fat girl who sat in a swivel chair with a blaster pistol resting on her broad lap. "We can kill the slug soon as he gets boring."

  "We don't have to kill him at all." The red-haired girl eased nearer to him. "Go ahead, Starbuck, talk."

  "Okay, if you're through debating my future," he said. "As I was saying, dear friends, I come not to—"

  "This bird's near as windy as you are, Big Words," observed a bearded young man.

  "Hardly, old chap," said the bald youth.

  "The thing that'll give you an edge," continued Starbuck, "is weaponry. That's true in any sort of conflict. Now, ladies and gents, I happen to have arrived on your fair planet, the pearl of the universe as I like to think of it, with a shipload of the latest stuff in weapons. State of the art, if you know what I mean.

  "Malarkey," said the fat girl.

  Starbuck pointed at Scrapper. "This gent took charge of the pistol I was carrying," he said. "Look it over, folks, and then try to tell me it isn't superior to the venerable junk you've been depending on."

  "Perhaps we'd better take a close gander at the bloody blunderbuss," suggested Big Words, idly holding out a hand toward Scrapper.

  Reluctantly the leader drew Starbuck's pistol from his belt. "Here. It don't seem all that great."

  "If you'll allow me to demonstrate the distinct advant—"

  "We aren't that dumb," the fat girl told him. "You take the gun and use it on us."

  Starbuck tried to look shocked. "Wow, that's what I get for lending a helping hand," he said. "Okay, examine it on your own. Just be careful you don't blow your respective or collective brains out with it."

  Big Words was holding the gun close to his face. "Ah, yes, it is of rather smart design," he muttered. "Considerably more settings than anything we've been accustomed to."

  "On the lowest setting," said Starbuck, "you can deliver merely a mild shock."

  "Who wants to do that?" asked the fat girl, causing her swivel to squeak as she shifted her bulk to get a better look at the gun. "We want to fry every slug who's not on our side."

  "There are times," said Starbuck, "when stunning is wiser than frying, young lady. For instance, you take—"

  "Keep still for a minute," advised Scrapper. "Big Words, what do you think? Is he full of crap?"

  "On the contrary, old chap, this weapon is of decidedly superior workmanship. I'd venture to conclude that a goodly supply of these would give us a distinct advantage over our foes."

  Nodding, Scrapper nudged Starbuck. "How many more you got?"

  Starbuck grinned. "How many do you need, old chum?"

  Colonel Tigh said, "Frankly, sir, I don't know exactly what to make of it."

  The commander was sitting in an armchair, going over the sheaf of data sheets the colonel had brought him. "We have to assume, judging from this," he said, "that the communication units in both vipers have been deliberately destroyed."

  "Yes, that much seems clear." Tigh was sitting on the edge of his chair, watching Adama. "Our probe instruments, of course, aren't sophisticated enough to give us any specific details. Not at this remove from Paradeen, at any rate."

  Resting the sheets on his knee, Commander Adama steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "We can also conclude that there's been some sort of trouble involving both Apollo and Starbuck."

  "There's no way of determining the nature of the trouble."

  Adama picked up the papers again and leafed through them. "I'm also concerned about this part of your report, Colonel," he said, tapping a paragraph in midpage. "Can you give me any further details?"

  "Again, sir, we're at too great a distance for detailed information," answered Tigh. "All we know is that a large alien space craft seems to be heading for Paradeen."

  "Cylon?"

  "No, that much we're sure of."

  Thought lines formed on the commander's broad forehead. "Who then?"

  "That we don't know," said Tigh. "I'd venture to guess that whoever it is might mean more trouble for Apollo and Starbuck."

  Gathering up the data sheets, Adama stood. He crossed to his window and gazed out into the immensity of space. "Thank you for bringing this to me," he said finally.

  "Are we to take action?"

  "Not yet."

  "But—"

  "Yes, I know," said Adama. "But I believe we have to give them more time. If I change my mind, I'll contact you."

  "Very well, sir." The colonel rose up and left the commander's quarters.

  A moment later a speaker announced, "Councilman Geller to see you."

  Scratching his chin, Adama replied, "Tell the councilman I'm not at home."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  "Humdingers!" said the red-haired Queenie in an unhappy voice. "I shouldn't ought to be doing this."

  "Aw, a short side trip isn't going to matter," Starbuck assured her.

  The two of them were making their way along a narrow underground passway, one that branched off the larger tunnel the girl had guided him through earlier. The stone walls were damp, streaked with purplish mildew, and the sound of dripping water could be heard off in the shadows.

  "You're darn lucky," said Queenie.

  "Meeting you, you mean?"

  "I mean being able to con Scrapper and Big Words and the rest of 'em," she told him. "All that guff about bringing back all sorts of guns for them."

  "Would I tell an untruth?" he asked innocently as he followed her over the damp stone walkway.

  "Tell 'em you'll get 'em guns and I'll go along to see you come back with the stuff," she said
disdainfully. "You plain forget I got me a few extra knacks, Starbuck. I pretty often get awful strong hunches about what folks are thinking."

  "Got to be careful with a gift like that."

  "The point being, I got an awful good notion you came up with this scheme just to get yourself out of a jam."

  "Me?"

  "On top of which, I was scouting outside the City," she continued. "Been doing that since you arrived on Paradeen."

  "That's good, travel is always broaden—"

  "I saw your ships, Starbuck. They ain't what I'd call loaded up with guns."

  He slowed, shrugging one shoulder. "With all these suspicions, why'd you agree to go along and keep guard over me?"

  "Because . . . well, I don't see any sense in letting 'em kill you," Queenie said quietly. "Although I'm going to be in real trouble when I get back without one single new gun or anything."

  Starbuck said, "You don't necessarily have to go back."

  "Oh, so?" She laughed. "I sure ain't going to live out in the woods from now on, like that old coot Kurtiz the Hermit."

  "Haven't had the pleasure of meeting the gent, but there are other places to live," he said. "Our friends Michael and Sarah could put you up. Or we might be able to squeeze you in one of the vipers and transport you back to our battlestar. A battlestar, in case you're wondering—"

  "Is a viper what you call those dinky ships you came here in?"

  "That's right. And a handsome name for a—"

  "Climb up on that." She pointed at a metal ladder they were approaching. "It'll take us to the street level."

  "Okay, sure." He took hold of one of the rusty rungs and started climbing upwards. "Why were you asking about our vipers, Queenie? I detected an odd note in your voice."

  "I was over there, having me a look," she said as she followed him up into the shadows. "Middle of the night it was."

  "And?" He jerked his head back when a fat white rat went scurrying along a ledge he was passing.

  "Saw somebody messing around . . . Push up on that hatch above you."

  He complied and the metal trap door lifted. Starbuck pulled himself up into a small, grey-walled room. "You saw somebody tampering with our ships?"

  Queenie ignored the helping hand he extended, boosting herself into the room unaided. She then dashed across it to a dusty round window and stared out. "Looks okay outside," she announced. "The dang library you're so anxious to poke around in lies right across the street. I'll doublecheck that it's safe outside and then we'll run for it."

  He caught her slim arm. "First finish telling me about our ships."

  "I saw somebody smashing the works with a wrench," the redhead answered. "A blonde woman it was, sort of pretty."

  Starbuck's mouth dropped open and all he managed to say was, "Huh?"

  "She banged up the controls in both your vipers or whatever you call 'em," Queenie went on. "Then went in and messed up the control panel on that bigger ship."

  He shook his head. "That blonde girl must've been Sarah," he said, puzzled. "But why in the devil would she do something idiotic like that?"

  "Well, if you ever get back to her, you can ask," said the girl. "Right now, though, let's concentrate on avoiding the rival gangs and getting you inside that stupid library."

  "I don't sense a trap," whispered Vector.

  The search party was crouched in the brush near the edge of the City. In the waning light of the late afternoon they could see the other hovercraft and the other android slumped in the pilot seat. A half-dozen small yellow birds were hopping around on the hoverer and another was perched atop Hector's plastic head.

  "No sign of Starbuck," said Apollo.

  "We'd best," suggested Vector, "move ahead and investigate."

  Nodding, Apollo tapped Cassie on the shoulder. "Stay here and back us up in case something goes wrong."

  "Will do," she said.

  The yellow birds went scattering up into the new twilight, the one on the android's skull taking flight last.

  "Hector?" said Vector, reaching up and tapping his mechanical colleague on the chest.

  There was no response.

  Circling the craft, Vector climbed aboard and sat in the front passenger seat.

  "Ground's trampled all around here," noticed Apollo. "Somebody besides Starbuck was here. Looks they headed into the City together."

  "Don't be stubborn now, Hector," the android was saying. "If you can talk, talk."

  Silence.

  Giving a rattling sigh, Vector reached in and opened a compartment in his side. From it he drew out a small compact tool kit. "I believe I can fix him in a jiffy," he said confidently. "My guess is someone used a disabling beam on the poor lad."

  While Vector tinkered, Apollo scrutinized the area around the hovercraft. There was a definite trail to follow here, but he was near certain it would die once they reached the City itself.

  Who the heck had grabbed Starbuck? And why?

  If they'd just wanted to murder him, they'd have done that on the spot. But there was no evidence of bloodshed or even a scuffle.

  "These gangs that roam the City," he asked Vector, "would they be likely to kill Starbuck?"

  "They'd kill anybody," replied the android. "That's why it was highly thoughtless of Hector to—"

  "Gee, Pop," said Hector as his eyes popped open, "you're forgetting that I am designed to aid humans. Therefore, albeit reluctantly, when—"

  "Do you have any idea what happened?" Apollo came up clpse to the repaired and revived mechanical man.

  "Of course. I have a crystal-clear idea of all that transpired. Because, you see, although I was incapacitated and unable to move, my sensory equipment continued to function. I couldn't aid the lieutenant, yet I saw and heard all that went on."

  Apollo asked, "What happened?"

  "A red-haired girl," answered Hector.

  "Yep, that sounds like something that'd happen to Starbuck," said Apollo. "Details?"

  "She was lying in wait for us," Hector recounted. "Lieutenant Starbuck had stepped off the craft and I was about to. Then, without warning, a strange feeling swept over me. I was all a-flutter, filled with—"

  "Quit embroidering the story," said Vector. "Just give us the facts."

  "I can't help it if I give facts in a colorful way, Pop," said Hector, pouting slightly. "After all, if you hadn't wanted me to be glib and—"

  "Never mind. Get on with it."

  "That's what I'm trying to do. At any rate, this girl did not, I'm willing to swear, use a weapon on me," he said. "No, I do believe the lass is possessed of psi powers. That she's able to put the whammy on a highly complex mechanism simply by willing it. Well, be that as it may, she surely put some sort of whammy on me. I was paralyzed, stiff as a board. Well, not exactly a board, since I went limp like a noodle. Anyway, while I was in that state, she appeared in the clearing here and pointed a nasty looking pistol at the lieutenant. He tried to be glib and charming, but she was having none of it. Although I did sense she found him charming. The problem was, she was on orders from others. A clear-cut case of love versus duty, which we so oft see in—"

  "She took Starbuck?" asked Apollo.

  "Led him away to their lair," answered the android.

  "Were they planning to kill him?"

  "It's my impression they wished to question him first," said Hector. "After that . . ." He shrugged.

  Apollo said, "Any idea where this lair of theirs is?"

  "I should be able to use my sensors to get a fix on where Lieutenant Starbuck is at the moment."

  "Okay, do that." said Apollo. "Michael, you stick here to see that nobody sabotages our hovercraft. The rest of us'll go hunting for Starbuck."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The place was immense—a huge dome of a building with ramps and rows of shelves rising up all around and crisscrossing.

  "This is a library, sure enough," observed Starbuck, gazing up at the tiers of books. Slowly and thoughtfully, he took out a cigar an
d lit it.

  "Find what you want and let's get clear of here," urged Queenie, glancing back anxiously over her shoulder. "This is pretty much Commando territory. We don't want to linger."

  There was dust thick on everything and the high, round windows let in little of the thin twilight. The smell of mildew and decay was strong, and sprawled on the floor were tumbles of books and readspools and papers. Near the foot of one of the climbing ramps, someone, long ago it seemed, had built a bonfire of books and papers.

  After taking a puff of his stogie, Starbuck asked, "Who're the Commandos?"

  "Another gang," she said. "A lot nastier than any of us."

  Starbuck started up the nearest ramp. "Doesn't look like they hang out here much."

  "Nobody likes this place," the red-haired girl said, following. "Some of them figure it's maybe . . . sort of haunted."

  "Good," said Starbuck, grinning. "That way they're less likely to come barging in."

  "The Commandos'll come in if they get wind we're poking around in here."

  "I'll hurry," he promised, striding toward a catalog area.

  The three squat rows of file cards were decked with spider webs and dust. Three chittering black mice went scurrying out from between the rows as he approached.

  "Your Commando buddies don't keep up their buildings too well."

  "I told you they never come in here unless . . . unless it's important," said Queenie. "And killing us'd be important to those louts."

  "I was merely making a quip," he explained, brushing the dust and webbing off a cabinet. "To lighten the mood of things."

  "Nothing's going to lighten my mood except getting out of this place."

  "Soon," he said. Narrowing his eyes, Starbuck tried to make out the inscription on the file drawer. "DAV to HOB. Then Earth must be in this drawer." It took two strong tugs to get the drawer open.

  A mouse leaped free, trailing a confetti of file cards. "Damnation," said Starbuck, "these critters've been munching on the file cards. What a way to run a library."

  "What's so all-fired important about Earth, anyhow? I never heard of the place."

  "We want to find it," he said as he flicked through what was left of the cards in the musty drawer. "To settle there maybe."