Battlestar Galactica 13 - Apollo's War

by Glen A. Larson

  "Yes?"

  "Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine. You're brave, all three of you."

  "We're stupid, is what it is," Croft said.

  "You are heroes."

  "Heroes are just guys who don't know when they're losing."

  "Oh, shut up, Croft," Sheba said. "This isn't the time for your jaded cynicism."

  Croft's leathery skin seemed to redden slightly. He said nothing to Sheba, which intrigued Apollo. Croft was usually quick with a comeback when he was attacked. Yet at times like these, he could be distractingly human, even likable.

  "Sorry, folks," Croft said, after a moment. "My brain's still a little loose from being knocked against the wall."

  "Sorry I exploded, too," Sheba said.

  Another minor miracle, Croft and Sheba apologizing to each other. They turned away from each other and sat down on their respective bunks. Apollo noticed a certain weariness in the way they settled onto the bunks. Their strength seemed to have been sapped. He didn't feel too strong himself. Had their battles on this strange planet taken that much out of them?

  His thoughts were interrupted by the raucous ringing of a loud klaxon. The prisoners stared in puzzlement at one another. The klaxon rang again and a massive door at the end of the barracks was flung open. A long-necked creature strode in, followed by the lizardlike being from the ship.

  "Off your butts, bozos," the long-necked one shouted. "You all look like swamp mud with fungus growing on it. A truly ugly sight. Stand up straight, scum. You're in the army now."

  The long-necked creature's orders drew many moans and groans from the prisoners, many of whom were quite slow too stand up. The long-necked creature glanced shrewdly around. He selected Beskaroon as a prime troublemaker and glided toward him.

  "Sarge," he said, addressing the lizardlike being, "I do believe we have a prime-grade specimen of vermin here."

  Sarge growled something out of the side of his mouth. His nostrils vibrated fiercely.

  "I can squash you, melonhead," Beskaroon growled. In exaggerated response, the long-necked creature put his hands on his melon-shaped head.

  "Melonhead?" he said. "Oh, Sarge, we got a mean one here, for sure."

  "Take care of him, Barra."

  "Right."

  "Right, melonhead, take care of me."

  Barra's quick jabs and almost invisible kicks had Beskaroon on the floor and in a daze in a moment. Croft took a couple of steps forward, leaned over Beskaroon, and said, "You squashed him good, Besky."

  Beskaroon growled, then passed out. Barra turned his attention to Croft.

  "And you, soldier. Would you like to try to squash me?"

  Croft backed away, showing Barra the palms of his hands.

  "Nope. I like the look of you, fella. Nice clean lines. And you're graceful. Very graceful."

  Barra was not too strong on subtlety and could not figure out what Croft's mocking protest meant. Ignoring him, he began barking orders at his captives, telling them to form into two lines. The lines were shabby and Barra did his best to straighten them out, then he led them out of the barracks.

  While the prisoners had been in their windowless hovel, day had come. It was a bright day, and rays of light glinted harshly off hundreds of metal surfaces. Nearby a platoon of mixed species was marching smartly, kicking out their legs with a sudden jerk, swinging their arms like stiff pendulums. In a field other soldiers trained with weapons. Apollo did not recognize some of the weapons.

  As the double line of captives passed the marching platoon, many of its soldiers looked at them with scorn. Although it was difficult to discern words, several of the soldiers made sarcastic remarks, apparently criticizing the look and manner of the new recruits. Sheba, marching just behind Apollo, whispered to him, "What is this place?"

  "Looks like a training camp to me."

  "Training? What kind of training?"

  "Basic training, from the look of it," Croft, who was marching in front of Apollo, said. "I think we're rookies again. Recruits. If you like, draftees."

  "But that's insane," Apollo said. "They can't force us to—"

  "We're here, aren't we? We've been recruited."

  The prisoners were taken into a large building which turned out to be a single big room on the inside. They were led to a crude setup of chairs and ordered to sit. As Apollo settled onto his hard chair, he noticed a screen at the front of the room. On it now were flashing images which he soon recognized as war scenes. He'd never before seen so many different species at war with one another in mixed groups. It was even hard to tell which soldiers belonged to which side. Members of the same species were fighting each other. Instead of reptiles against amphibians, or humans against insectoids, each side appeared to be armies in which all the species were represented.

  Sarge and Barra took up their positions on a podium in front of the screen, watching the rest of their captives file in.

  "What do you make of those pictures?" Apollo whispered to Croft.

  "Well, I don't think they're entertainment tapes, if that's what you mean. They need music for that."

  When all the captives were seated, the pictures abruptly stopped and Sarge and Barra came forward to the edge of the podium.

  "All right, scum," Barra shouted. "Button up."

  It seemed strange to see such a comical-looking creature bark out orders. Perhaps that was why the noise level in the room did not decrease. Barra surveyed the chatting, whispering group for a moment, then he touched an area of his belt, which had on it more studs, buttons and other devices than the belts the prisoners wore. The talk in the large room abruptly ceased. Apollo realized that Barra had somehow made everyone stop talking. The controls in the belt could even do that. He tested it, tried to say something to Croft, and he found he could not utter a word.

  "Okay, Sarge," Barra said, and the Sarge came forward. Barra shouted, " 'Tenshun!"

  As one, the captives stood and came to attention. Apollo could feel his body stiffening as the belt not only tugged at him but also tightened around his body. Barra surveyed the obedient group, and a grotesque line that resembled a smile crossed his face.

  "At ease, scum!" he yelled.

  Apollo felt the belt release his body and he abruptly relaxed. Standing at the edge of the stage, Sarge looked awesome. He had changed into a crisply tailored uniform on which was a colorful array of medals. On the screen behind him a set of circular and oblong symbols that Apollo thought might be a flag dominated the screen. When Sarge spoke, his nasal voice filled the room.

  "I will be brief. You are all volunteers in the Army of the Rightful Destiny. Our training period is brief. First you will be outfitted in proper uniform, be issued weapons, be given your training assignments and be initiated into basic training."

  "Told you," Croft muttered out of the side of his mouth.

  "Give up all your scumlike cowardly instincts. You are now warriors and will behave like warriors. Anything less will be considered treason. Some of you have obviously had experience in warfare. Your puny skills may do you some good in survival, but you must adopt our ways of combat. And you will."

  Apollo thought he felt a slight tug on his belt, as if the article of clothing was deliberately agreeing with Sarge.

  "You will remember that this is war! This is war! Every fiber of your being, every muscle in your body, every synapse in your brain will now be devoted to war! Don't expect a soft life and good food. I will work you so hard you'll want your eyes to fall out. I will demand so much of you, you will decide I am your new god. By the time I get through with you, you'll want to climb out of your skin and bury the rest of yourself. Those of you who have known suffering in your life, you don't even yet know what suffering is. I'll teach you suffering. You will hate me immediately, but it won't be hate yet. You will wish my death in thousands of repulsive ways, but you will not hate me enough. When I get through with you, then you will truly hate me, and then you will also be a soldier in the Army of the Rightful Destin
y."

  He stared balefully at his audience for a long while, a time during which the beginnings of the hatred he was demanding were surging within the new recruits. Then he turned his back on them, saying to his aide, "Barra?"

  Barra snapped to attention himself while shouting, " 'Ten-shun!"

  Apollo tried to resist the order but, as before, he felt his body stiffen. A few rows ahead one of Beskaroon's men managed to wrench his belt off his body. He climbed onto his seat, looking to left and right, trying to figure out what to do. Barra stepped forward, his stun-gun drawn. Coolly he took aim and shot the rebellious recruit. The man fell, knocking several chairs over. Soldiers rushed into the row, gathered the man up, and rushed him out of the room. Apollo noticed that the man was still alive. He glanced toward Croft, at least as much of a move as the belt seemed to allow. Croft looked worried, as worried as Apollo felt. Sheba, on the other hand, seemed quite relaxed. Xiomara seemed to stare at Apollo, but in that strange face of hers the meaning of the look could not be interpreted. Her face was twisted into an expression that could frighten children. Apollo wanted to reach out to touch her, but the belt prevented any kind of free gesture.

  "Troops!" Barra called. "Left turn! March out by rows, back row first!"

  The recruits were soon out of the building and on their way back to their barracks. Each was made to stand at the edge of a bunk. When the at-ease order was given by Barra, most of the recruits sank back wearily onto bunks. Croft came to Apollo, saying, "Well, Captain, what do we do now?"

  "I wish I knew, Croft. I sure as hell wish I knew."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Adama spent most of his time by the starfield, looking out. All of the search parties had returned now, all empty-handed. There hadn't even been a sign of Apollo's lost patrol, not even a pile of wreckage on some distant planet. Apollo was out there somewhere, with Croft and Sheba, and they would never be found. He had to accept that, he knew.

  No one came near the commander. His subordinates who had had to approach him on routine matters had found him brusque and distracted. While they all knew why, and sympathized, it was easier to let him stand by the starfield while they took care of the Galactica's normal functioning.

  Finally, the one man who always faced his commander fearlessly, Colonel Tigh, walked slowly to him and stood beside him quietly.

  "What is it, Tigh?"

  The commander's voice was toneless.

  "Lieutenant Starbuck has requested permission to organize a new search party and go out again."

  "Tell him no. We've done all we can do. We have to go on."

  Tigh wondered if he should advise Adama to let Starbuck have one more try. The brash young lieutenant sometimes had phenomenal luck. If he needed to, he could find a daggit hair in a pile of thread. At least, that's what they sometimes said about him. He also wondered if Adama was, as usual, putting too much store in regulations. Or was it the quest for Earth that was so preeminent in his mind? Must even the best men be sacrificed for it?

  Adama seemed to read his aide's mind, for he said: "Our duty is to the fleet, Colonel. No single person, not even our quest, is more important than that. We must go to the planet Starbuck's squadron discovered and replenish both fuel and supplies. There's no other choice."

  "We could still send out limited search parties, sir."

  Adama's smile was bitter.

  "To what purpose? To disappear themselves? We can't afford to be so frivolous with the lives of our pilots, Tigh. They're as valuable as the fuel, the—"

  "But Lieutenant Starbuck—"

  "Is needed for the mission just like any other skilled pilot. He's taken the same vows to serve the fleet as we have, Tigh."

  "Yes, sir. But he does bend a rule once in a while."

  "He's hot-headed, all right. Well, this time he's got to keep a cool head for a change."

  "Aye, aye, sir. I'll tell him straightaway."

  Tigh strode away in his usual crisp fashion. Glancing at his chronometer, Adama started his mental countdown of time elapsed before Starbuck confronted him. He decided it would be better for everyone if he met with the volatile lieutenant in his quarters.

  Starbuck stormed into Adama's antechamber just as the commander settled into the chair behind his desk. Adama, noting the time on his chronometer, remarked, "You got here faster than I expected, Starbuck."

  Ignoring Adama's pleasantry, Starbuck, in characteristic fashion, got right to the point.

  "Colonel Tigh says I can't go out again."

  "That is correct, lieutenant."

  "But, Commander—"

  "Believe me, Starbuck, I can figure this conversation out before you even try to speak your part. You demand to be allowed to continue the search for Apollo. There is still time. There are still planets to be checked out again. You will go out alone, if that's necessary. You won't rest until you can find Apollo. You request permission to be detached to search-party duty. Does that about cover it?"

  Starbuck looked away, some bitter tears in his eyes.

  "Just about, sir."

  "Good. Permission is not granted. Will there be anything else, lieutenant?"

  Starbuck started to say something, then he stifled it.

  "No, sir."

  "You are excused then, Starbuck."

  Starbuck strode angrily to the door, his back stiff, his body rigid. Adama called to him, "Lieutenant?"

  Starbuck turned around, confronting his superior with angry eyes.

  "Yes, sir."

  "I am grateful for your devotion to Apollo. You have been a good friend to him."

  The words did nothing to diminish Starbuck's anger. The two men merely stared at each other until Starbuck finally said, in a cold distant voice, "Will there be anything more, Commander?"

  Adama wanted to say more but knew it would do no good. Not now, not while Starbuck was so bitterly angry.

  "No, Starbuck. Dismissed."

  Starbuck pivoted around in military fashion and left the commander's quarters. Adama sat back. He felt drained, and his sadness returned, as if flowing in to fill the empty emotional spaces. He wished he hadn't had to talk to Starbuck like that, like a commander to an ordinary subordinate. Starbuck was not ordinary. But it was necessary, in an emotionally charged situation like the disappearance of Apollo, to keep the volatile young lieutenant in check. Otherwise he would just find a way to go off on a personal search for Apollo. With Apollo gone, there was no better warrior on the Galactica than Starbuck. It would have been a shame to lose him, too, and especially on such a wild-goose chase. Responsibility had to win out. It superseded everything else, even personal quests and searches.

  Starbuck had seemed to understand how necessary it was to attend to duty. But it was difficult to be certain about Starbuck. He would still bear close watching.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  After the day's arduous training sessions with his platoons of raw recruits, Sarge found it necessary to relax. He relaxed as all members of his species did. He lay on his back, with only his well-articulated spine making contact with the floor. He had such a fine sense of balance that he could rest on his spine while rocking slowly from side to side. The rocking did much to induce the restfulness that he sought. While rocking, he spread his arms out in the air. They were not held there with tense muscles; instead, they were able to float in the air in much the same lazy way a swimmer allows his limbs to float on water.

  The movements of his head also defied gravity. Using his neck as a pivot, he was able to move his head slowly in a circle without making any contact with the floor's surface. This movement was also easeful.

  Sarge's species had practiced this type of physical relaxation for centuries. It allowed them to meditate on any subject. Sarge's meditation was so controlled that he could feel the air slowly rolling, it seemed, over his skin.

  He knew he must review the training tapes for the day. But, since it had been an especially hard set of training sessions, in which he had pushed the troops energetical
ly and relentlessly, he now had to work the tiredness out of his body before his review session.

  To get his mind off his job, he concentrated on images of his family back on his home planet. In his mind he formed a wide group picture, with his many children and several wives arranged around him. Such a picture existed, on a mantel back home, but he had not brought a copy with him to war. His species did not believe in carrying the symbols of sentiment into duty areas.

  He had not wanted to leave his family, but he had chosen the military as his career before his first marriage-triad and he had to go wherever his government sent him. His wives were wonderful ladies, cheerful and ebullient. He could not stand a female with moods, and there was some consolation for him to know that none of his wives were pining for him. They might think of him from time to time, and even send him a message through the proper channels of communication, but among the members of his species wives did not pine for soldier husbands. They had other husbands, after all, to occupy their social and reproductive times. Sarge had been told of cultures in which a single being was wed to another single being. It was a kind of marriage that he had much difficulty envisioning. Too many emotional ties could be attached to monogamous relationships. His species knew best. Every husband had several wives, every wife several husbands. It made the vagaries of life much easier to bear.

  Sarge recalled each one of his children. He had fifty-three of the little demons now, and would have had more, if he had not been away at war for so many long periods of time. He had younger brothers, all of whom had chosen planetbound professions, who had more than double that number of offspring. When he was on leave, they sometimes made sly jokes about his small family. The jokes were meant affectionately, but sometimes he wished he had been able to stay home and form the kind of family that, in his culture, brought high status to its patriarch.

  Sometimes he wished he could return home, collect his pension and live the sophisticated and uncomplicated life of a country patriarch. But his government was neither sophisticated nor uncomplicated. It pursued war rapaciously, wherever it could find it. Its leaders craved power. They loved the challenge of war and were willing to travel across half a galaxy to find it. Once there had been important goals, like the acquisition of territory and the bringing of primitive peoples into civilized society, but the goals were practically nonexistent now. The current war, at least, was like a game, the kind of game where unimportant pieces were pushed around a board in order for the important pieces to pursue certain strategies. The winning of a battle, a complete victory from a series of battles, these were now the important matters. The war now being fought on Yevra had started on another planet a few light-years away. That planet had been completely ravaged in much the same way Yevra would be by the time war left it. Sarge had been with this war since its inception, an inception that had probably taken place in a friendly back room agreement. He knew his side would pursue the other side to the end of the galaxy, destroying more planets along the way. Perhaps this time the war would reach the end of the universe. He had a recurring image of a battle at the end of the universe with its soldiers fighting their way into nothingness. Sarge no longer worried about the rightness or wrongness of the war. He could not even recall clearly the day when he had approached the subject of the war with any kind of intelligent thought. A large part of his life had been devoted to the war. He wished it could be over.