The sound that came from Apollo was somewhere between a sigh and a groan. The more he tried to help Croft, the more exasperating the man became.
"Croft, I don't know how we'll get out of this. And I have no big plans. But I know we'll make it."
"Sure, faith. Faith can burn fireproofing, that sorta thing."
"Never heard that one."
"You weren't born on Scorpia."
They stopped talking, each convinced there was no use trying to communicate with the other. Staring steadily ahead, they waited for the weird shapes in the mist to materialize into the enemy.
Sheba and Xiomara hadn't spoken since their arrival at this position. Each was poised, ready for combat. Xiomara wore a battle helmet low—purposely, so that it covered much of her face.
On Sarge's communicator, a small hexagonal metal device whose technology was mysterious to his squad, a signal sounded. An odd scrawl went diagonally across a square screen at the center of the communicator. It seemed to mean something to Sarge, for his body immediately tensed. He crawled forward to Apollo.
"The front lines will form a series of wedges against the enemy," he said softly. "We're to slip through our own wedge and take out an artillery bastion that is supporting their left flank. It is tricky. The bastion contains amoebic diffusion-ray lasercannons set up in series. We're to go in low and kill all the operators of the artillery, then bring back a report on the weapon."
As Sarge spoke, Apollo's sweatband provided him the necessary information to comprehend Sarge's instructions. He recalled that an amoebic diffusion-ray lasercannon had beams that separated like the one-celled organism they were named for as they struck surfaces instead of passing through them. Each beam left the barrel of the cannon in a straight line; however, once it hit any hard surface it doubled, sending off rays in two directions. The lethal qualities of each ray were slightly diminished but still deadly after bouncing off the first surface. The newly formed beams would again divide as they hit other surfaces. Each time a beam was doubled, it lost some of its force, and frequently the beam which finally made contact with a living being was not deadly, but it was often disabling. Some rays which had been divided too frequently left little more than a brief numbness in their victims. At any rate, the hundreds of beams crisscrossing during a battle tended to stall forward movement.
"Squad, move out," Sarge ordered. Staying low, they moved toward the battle. At first they saw only soldiers moving cautiously. It was difficult to discern what was happening, but Apollo did see one soldier fall, apparently dead. The noise of battle increased as they proceeded further. Off to their left there was a fierce hand-to-hand battle going on. Just beyond that, a group of soldiers appeared to be pinned down by ordinary crossfire.
Suddenly an enemy soldier jumped down from above. He had been crouching in the dense branches of a massive tree. Both Apollo and Sarge whirled to confront the attacker, both firing simultaneously. The rest of the squad fired a split second later. The soldier, a thick-bodied creature with a birdlike face, fell dead. Sarge was proud of the quick reactions of his special squad. He had chosen its personnel well.
"Good shooting, Apollo," he said.
"Nothing to it. I didn't even think. It was automatic."
It occurred to Apollo that his choice of word was right. His reaction had been automatic, the response of a seasoned soldier to an ambush. He'd fired without a thought. The control exerted from the belt made his actions so much easier, a simple stimulus response. He could not have refrained from shooting even if some illogical prod of free will had cautioned him. The shooting had been necessary to protect the squad. However, the incident made Apollo uneasy.
The squad moved slowly forward through a foggy area. They heard troop movement on both sides of them but could see nothing. They could not even be certain whether the sounds came from their own soldiers.
They walked out of the fog so suddenly that they were taken by surprise. They had been prepared for the slow dissipation of the fog but not its abrupt end. It was hard for everyone to adjust to the new brightness, except for Sarge, whose vision could adjust instantly to any environmental change. After a moment, Apollo realized that the intense light wasn't daylight. It came from the maze of laser beams arcing and snaking across the battle, originating from the turrets of the slowly moving artillery bastion. Ahead of them soldiers attempted to close in on the bastion, but they dropped quickly, either killed or stunned by the intricate web of laserfire. The troops manning the bastion were able to pick their targets as the bastion edged slowly and relentlessly forward.
Sarge guided his squad around the right flank to an area untouched yet by the combat. From this new angle, Apollo saw the bastion better. It was mounted on several large wheels, whose rims bent easily as they went over rough terrain. The flexibility of the wheels kept the bastion upright. The barrels, which appeared when the pumping action of the guns projected them briefly forward through three narrow-slitted oblong holes at the front of the vehicle, were dark and shiny with no visible battle scars. The guns were fired in a steady rhythm, only one appearing out of each oblong window at a time. Croft crept forward to Sarge and Apollo and said incredulously, "We're gonna take that?"
"Yes," Sarge said. "Do you have doubts?"
"Doubts? Are you kidding? With you and Apollo leading the way, the rest of us can get our hammocks and swing and watch."
"I gather, from my study of your odd linguistic usages, that what you just said is sarcasm."
"Sarcasm? Me?"
"At any rate, I do not like it."
"I'm sorry. I was just named cynic of the month back at barracks, and I have to live up to the title."
Sarge eyed Croft suspiciously, wondering once again if the man, in spite of his considerable combat skills, belonged in the elite squad. It might be better merely to order him into the center of battle and let him absorb a full-impact beam. However, Sarge's training would not allow him to waste a soldier for such a skimpy reason. He had to use Croft until Croft was no longer usable. The way the man's personality was oozing out of him, that might be soon.
Sarge gestured his squad to crouch low, and then he led them around the bastion. The crouching kept them out of sight, and out of range of the laser beams, which could not hit low targets except on random deflections. It couldn't really zero in on any attacker who got close. Few ever got that close.
Sarge gestured to Xiomara, her signal to go forward. She hugged her demolition kit close to her chest. Since there was no entrance to the bastion, it had to be blown open. The gun operators, all of whom were the smallest soldiers among the enemy, squeezed in and out through the oblong gun windows. While the bastion was thickly constructed and could not be destroyed by explosives, Sarge had calculated that there was a good chance that a sufficient crack could be opened up in the bastion's side, at a point where the structure's two sections met in a seam.
Working swiftly, Xiomara planted the explosives and quickly retreated. When he was sure all members of the squad were ready, Sarge directed a thin blue ray at the line of explosives Xiomara had placed snugly along the seam. The bomb's action was slow and quiet. A slow-acting explosive was necessary for the materials with which the bastion was constructed. A fast one would have merely popped off, leaving only some black marks on the bastion surface. The slow action of this bomb, however, dissolved intervening material before opening a hole in the side of the bastion.
The bomb went off with a soft pop, and the squad watched as a narrow crack slowly crept up the side of the bastion. Apollo was surprised that the line was so straight and even. He had expected it to be jagged. The seam had parted enough for the members of the squad to squeeze through one at a time. Guided by Sarge's orders and the urgings of his control garments, Apollo ran to the bastion and, holding his body sideways, got through the opening. The room inside was eerie. Gun operators, who were just now becoming aware of Apollo's entrance, were extremely pale and emaciated figures. Their eyes were large and bulged out from their
round bald heads. Their limbs were slim and delicate, looking like branches about to break. While they operated the guns with skill and strength, they looked like phantoms.
Apollo didn't have time to appreciate the scene's eerie aesthetics. The belt forced him to raise his gun immediately and start blasting away. He killed the entire battery of the middle lasercannon himself, while the rest of the squad, each coming through the hole shooting, took care of the rest. The driver of the vehicle, an especially emaciated fellow seated in the room's center, stood up, a weapon in his hand. Xiomara's shot tore open a large hole in his chest, and he fell over the octagonal wheel that steered the bastion.
Soon all the ghostly enemies were dead on the floor. Apollo, stunned, thought these so-called enemies seemed fragile, peaceful looking. He could hardly believe he'd killed beings so beautiful. Sarge clearly read the dismay on Apollo's face and recalled the man's compassion over dead animals. Would he always have this difficulty with downed enemies? If so, would he become as good a soldier as Sarge had expected? He crossed over to Apollo, stepping lightly over a pair of the bodies, and said to him, "They are Meyllians. Don't be fooled by their fragile appearance. They are a tough and hardy fighting breed and would have killed you in an instant, if you hadn't had the advantage of surprise."
Apollo looked up at Sarge, his eyes dazed.
"I understand, Sarge. It's just that—"
"Yes, I know. I had similar feelings once, before the war—well, before I saw what the war was all about."
"What is the war all about?"
"Winning. Let's get out of here before the soldiers outside recover and try to attack us in here."
"Too late for that," Croft yelled. He stood by one of the oblong windows and pointed out. Looking over his shoulder, Sarge saw enemy soldiers advancing toward the bastion.
"Is there any way we can get out of here?" Croft shouted.
"No," Sarge replied. "The way we came in is the only way out. It is the only way they can get at us, too."
"We can just pick 'em off then," Sheba muttered. Sarge was pleased by the fierce warlike enthusiasm in her voice.
"No," Apollo said. "We don't even have to do that. This is a simple vehicle. I can get us out of here."
Without asking permission from Sarge, he pushed aside the vehicle's dead driver and took up position in the driver's seat. Putting one hand on the steering wheel, he pushed forward a likely-looking lever on the vehicle's tiny dashboard. He guessed correctly. He could feel the vehicle lurch forward. Outside, the closest enemy soldiers quickly leaped out of the way.
"Look at 'em scatter!" Croft shouted.
Croft ran to one of the guns, studied it briefly until its principles were obvious to him. Sitting in the tiny gunner's seat, he began to operate the weapon. With one shot several enemy soldiers fell.
"Kobol bless me," Croft yelled. "I just knocked out seven with a single shot. This gun is astonishing!"
Apollo was disturbed by the fierceness of Croft's words. He was really caught up in this stupid war now. In one way or another, they all were. Croft's face looked insane, as he sat in the gunner's chair and squeezed off shots at the enemy. Xiomara, seeing the distress in Apollo's eyes, walked to him. The uneven and bumpy ride that Apollo was providing made her walk a bit wobbly.
"There's no way to stop him," she said. "He's not himself. He is controlled. We all are."
"I know," Apollo responded bitterly. "You think I enjoy zapping those guys?" He nodded toward the corpses on the floor. "Look, Xiomara, I've been in a lot of battles, but I always knew what I was fighting for, always understood the value of the war. But this war, it's—"
"Hush, don't excite yourself. We have no choices in what we do."
"There are always choices. We just have to find them."
"Then we'll do just that."
There was a hint of a smile on Xiomara's deformed face. He blinked and could almost see her real face. He wished they were alone together. He was drawn to her, in spite of the face her people had grafted onto her.
"Faster, Apollo," Sarge ordered. "There's smooth terrain ahead, and hundreds of the damned Pelters in between."
"Yes, Sarge."
Even as he responded to Sarge's order, he was disgusted with himself for his eager obedience to this bizarre reptilian leader. Nevertheless, as ordered, he pushed the vehicle to its limits and tried to ignore Croft's happy screams that followed each time he made a kill.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The battle was too large. It seemed to spread over too enormous a field. And Apollo stood right smack in the middle of it, gun in one hand, sword in the other, shooting in one direction, slicing in the other. Croft, Sheba and Xiomara all stood nearby, fighting their own battles. Their movements appeared to Apollo as slow, almost ritualistic. Sarge was at Apollo's side. Sometimes he picked up enemy soldiers by the throat and strangled them with one reptilian hand. They were a great team, Sarge and Apollo. If the enemy had any sense, none of them would come near the two superb warriors. Having Sarge next to him was like fighting side by side with Starbuck again.
Apollo shot down several enemy soldiers. They fell to the ground almost gracefully. Suddenly, as if emerging from the soil, an enormous creature materialized in front of Apollo. The creature was tall and wide, with a snout for a nose and reddish-brown fur all over its body. Its body was encased in a shiny armor and it wielded clubs in both its humanlike hands. It waved the clubs at Apollo, who felt a gale from the passing swipe. He tried to shoot it with the gun in his right hand, but the rays merely deflected off the creature's armor, so he started swinging at the attacker with his sword. The creature seemed to have no interest in the sword and didn't even react as Apollo ran the sword through the creature's leg. No blood or other interior substance appeared. The wound gaped open for a moment then seemed to reseal itself. Small bursts of steam squeezed out from the seam of the healed wound.
The monstrous creature now gaped at Apollo with hatred in its eyes. It reached for Apollo. Sarge tried to intervene but was quickly swiped aside by the creature, who grabbed both of Apollo's weapons right out of his hands and flung them away. Apollo, helpless, tried to retreat, but the creature picked him up and held him high above the ground. After letting some more hatred seep out of its eyes, it hurled Apollo up in the air. Apollo felt light as he reached the zenith of his arc, then fell into the creature's waiting hands. Again it tossed Apollo into the air and caught him. Apollo realized that the monster was merely toying with him. Then the creature threw Apollo as hard as it could and it was clear that he was going to let Apollo drop to his death. The ground rushed up at Apollo's face.
His scream as he awoke from the dream echoed back at him as he struggled to orient himself. He was sweating. For a moment he couldn't believe it had been a dream.
Xiomara sat on the edge of his bunk.
"Bad one, huh?" Xiomara asked.
"Afraid so."
"Anything I can do?"
"Get inside my head, fix the dream controls."
Her abrupt scornful laugh startled him.
"You don't want me inside your head," she said. "Enough monsters in there already."
"Don't say that. You shouldn't—"
She touched his forehead. Her fingertips were soft and warm.
"Shush. Don't trouble yourself trying to comfort me. Others've tried, nobody succeeded."
"Xiomara—"
"You say my name so beautifully. Nobody ever said it like that before. It has a sound, I don't know how to explain it . . ."
"Xiomara . . ."
"You don't have to keep demonstrating it. Go back to sleep. We'll all be getting up soon. Another day, another battle."
She stood and started to walk down the aisle between the double row of bunks. The sounds of everyone's sleep was a soft but irritating undertone of noise. Apollo sat up, swung himself off his bunk and ran down the aisle after her. When he caught up with her, he took her by her shoulders. He felt her tense up at his touch. He wondered if the flinch
could be perceived in her face and what it looked like.
"I want to hold you close, Xiomara. I want to—"
"Let go of me."
She remained tense, her neck stiff, refusing to turn her face toward him.
"Xiomara . . ."
"That sound again. I could easily succumb to that, hero. Easily."
"Then—"
"Let me go."
The tone of her voice was so firm, so angry, that he released her at once. Slowly she turned around. Her body relaxed and she merely stared at him with no emotion in her face. He found he couldn't look at her. Even after all this time, the face was disturbing. He had not had a glimpse of the beautiful visage underneath for some time.
Xiomara spoke quietly, her voice a lovely counterpart to the unpleasant and unsettled noises of sleep all around them.
"Touch my face. Anywhere."
Apollo was startled by her words.
"What?" he said. "Why—"
"Just do it."
"I don't understand."
His arm raised, but too slowly and too weakly. She stared at his hands, which were now trembling. With a new strong effort he raised his hands toward her face, but she backed off abruptly.
"Don't bother," she said. "You hesitated. That was enough. I'd like to . . . to accommodate you, Apollo. But, funny thing, I don't like to be used. Really funny, huh? Sorry."
"Used? I didn't—"
"Maybe. Not in your mind. But, see, you didn't really want to touch me, not my face. You could touch the rest of me. I know I'm desirable that way. You could keep your eyes shut, see, you'd never know that—"
"Stop, Xiomara."
Apollo reached out, almost touched her. She saw his move and delicately stepped out of his reach.
"Say my name as beautifully as you can, it won't change anything. I won't be used, you have to know that. Don't worry, we're still friends, comrades in arms. I'd have liked to be . . . used by you, but I just can't. Get some sleep, hero. I'm going to."
As she started toward her bunk, the alarm klaxon blasted through the room. The discordant sound was a warning of impending battle.
Battlestar Galactica 13 - Apollo's War Page 12