Battlestar Galactica 13 - Apollo's War

by Glen A. Larson

  The capsule had already ascended to such a great height that intense cold traveled his blood. He glanced downward. The battle was now far below him. He could not make out any of its detail. All he could see was a mess of movement and smoke and laser beams. It looked like a puzzle whose pieces had not yet been put together. For a moment he was fascinated by the view, then he realized, as the puzzle appeared to fall away from him, that he was ascending at a terrific speed. And accelerating.

  In another rush, terror took him over. Not only was the air cold, it was getting thin. He could feel himself gasping for it and was not sure whether the gasps were caused by the atmosphere content or his own natural fear. If he kept going upward, he would be unable to breathe at all.

  He pushed against the netted side of the capsule, to see if he could alter its course, force it to start its descent. At first he pushed lightly to make sure the wall was secure, then he tried to exert strength against it. He couldn't budge it.

  His fingers were numbing with cold. At the same time another frigid patch crept up his legs. He reached back into his memory for the ice-planet training he'd once endured. He recalled an instructor telling a class about the importance of the shallow-breathing technique in rarified air. Shutting his eyes, feeling the floor of the capsule continue to push up against his feet, he tried to control his breathing. At first he couldn't get the hang of it, then he concentrated more fiercely, forced his body to relax and tried to ignore the growing cold, and soon he was shallow-breathing easily. He could still feel the sensation of rising and could tell that there was little air left, even for the restricted inhalation. The capsule was definitely slowing down now.

  Then it seemed to come to an abrupt stop and to hang in the air for an excruciatingly long time before beginning to fall. Apollo continued the shallow-breathing technique as he felt the capsule pick up speed downward. When he could feel sufficient air permeating the netting of the capsule, he slowly returned his breathing to a normal rate. It was all right. There was plenty of air.

  He looked down. The capsule seemed to be over a different part of the planet. There was no longer a battle below him. The terrain he did see was quite unfamiliar, dotted with a large number of lakes and abundant greenery.

  The capsule was falling faster now.

  "Great!" he muttered. "Now that I'm not suffocating, I can look forward to being smashed to pieces down there."

  The capsule had reached such a height that he saw he had plenty of time to wait before his death. He looked for an escape. If he could cut his way through the netting, then perhaps he could jump free. But, no, that was ridiculous. Free of the capsule, he would fall at the same rate, be smashed to as many pieces.

  Suddenly the capsule lurched slightly. At first he could not see what had happened. Then he saw a rip in the netting's fabric. Another lurch and another rip near the first one. The capsule pitched to one side, and Apollo fell backward against its wall. It pitched again, as if trying to dislodge him, and he was flung against the other wall, just next to the splitting fabric. The vent in the wall was larger now, he saw just before he was pitched the other way again. Before he could even attempt to regain his footing, the capsule tilted again and, his hands trying to grab at the rim of the netting, he plunged through the now enormous rip.

  He began a long scream as he tumbled head over heels downward. He tried to straighten out his body to get a better view of the ground rushing up at him. Ending his scream, he knew there was nothing to do but make his peace with the gods and accept his death. He had never figured it would come this way, but then how could anyone plan the nature of his own violent death? He could not help but be frightened, but he realized that such a death was the normal fate of the warrior. He had seen many others die, had lost half his family to the war with the Cylons, so what else could he do? Still, he regretted meeting his demise in a brushfire war instead of the war for which he had been trained. He felt himself about to black out. If only he could black out before hitting the ground . . .

  His eyes were on the verge of closing when he saw a new movement off to his right. There was something coming toward him. He couldn't make out its shape, but it was heading for him like a projectile. Perhaps it was a missile, about to blow him out of the skies. That might be a better fate than being killed by the fall.

  As the shape neared, he saw it was not a missile. It was a living being. It seemed humanoid in shape.

  For a moment the shape flew next to him, gently slowing Apollo's fall with his arms. When he had been safely decelerated, the figure took a tighter grip on Apollo's arms. Twisting his neck for a better view, Apollo saw, distorted, the figure of a blond-haired humanoid with pale shining skin and a sense of muscularity in his compact body.

  The figure guided him toward a mountainside. They were flying slowly now. A section of the mountain opened up into a hole, or more likely a concealed cave. Apollo's rescuer slowed up their flight even more. The cave came up at them, and suddenly they were inside it, surrounded by darkness. Apollo recalled his entrance into the Sweepers' ship, which had also been a trip from brightness to darkness. This time the dark period was brief, and soon they were in a lighted cavern. Below them, other figures watched their approach. The blond figure gently settled the both of them onto the floor of the cavern. When his feet made contact, Apollo stumbled a bit, gained his footing, then turned to look into the eyes of his rescuer. His savior turned out to be a tall human who was already taking off the mechanical wings that had allowed him flight. His face would have been striking, except for the grim expression that seemed permanently etched there.

  Ignoring the others, all of whom were watching Apollo intently, he approached his savior, hand out in greeting.

  "Thank you, buddy. You saved my life."

  The figure merely stared at the outstretched hand, his grim eyes seeming to disapprove of it. One of the people in the crowd stepped forward and said to Apollo, "He is mute."

  Apollo turned toward the man. He was kindly looking, with deepset and intense eyes and a long, flowing dark beard with tiny streaks of gray in it. The robes he wore seemed to carry on the flowing lines of the beard. To Apollo, the man's most interesting physical feature was the way his skin appeared to be composed of patches of normal human skin that blended in graded shades to scaly areas that were as varicolored as mosaics. The mosaic patches might even have been aesthetically appealing except that their shapes were too odd and they were not placed artistically on the face. A mosaic area just under his jaw looked like the scar from a disease. It was certainly a strange face, compelling and repulsive at the same time.

  "He can make sounds," the man explained, pointing to Apollo's savior, "but his people never developed a language and have shown no interest in learning speech. He is called Tren. Welcome to our settlement. My name is Razi Balzet."

  Apollo stepped forward. Again he held out his hand and again it was ignored. Perhaps handshaking was not a custom with this group.

  "Apollo. Captain Apollo."

  "You do not wear the insignia of captain."

  "I was not a captain in this particular army."

  Razi Balzet watched Apollo drop his hand, then stared into his eyes. The look was complacent, as were the looks of others in the group, all of whom stared at Apollo laconically. Some of them wore outfits he recognized as enemy army uniforms. The sight of the clothirig set off something in the belt, and he had an urge to attack that was difficult to control.

  Razi Balzet apparently saw the tension in Apollo's body and realized where it came from. He turned and barked something in another language at a trio of the men in uniform. Immediately the soldiers began to move menacingly toward Apollo. He backed away, ready to deflect any attack.

  "Don't be frightened," Razi Balzet said. "We want to remove your hostility toward us by removing the belt that controls you. Try to relax, make it easier for us."

  "Stay away!" Apollo shouted.

  The fierceness in his voice made the soldiers hesitate. Tren pushed past t
hem. His face still grim, he walked to Apollo. Apollo was not sure what to do. He trusted Tren, yet the belt urged him toward his murder.

  Tren lightly touched a point at the rear of the belt, a move that made it separate easily. Apollo remembered all the struggles he'd gone through trying to remove the belt and was amazed at the ease with which Tren had detached it. The mute man also, by reaching to a rear point, flicked the sweat-band off Apollo's head. It drifted to his feet like a party ribbon.

  With the two control garments gone from him, Apollo felt his body and mind relax. The weight of control seemed to leave him. He felt dizzy.

  "The dizziness will stop soon," Razi Balzet said. "It has taken a great deal of power to control you. I judge you were not an easy subject. Most star travelers are not."

  "Star traveler?" Apollo asked. His mind was slowly clearing.

  "You came to Yevra from elsewhere. You and your . . . allies. In a very impressive trio of spacecrafts. We were just a fraction late in locating you. The other side claimed you first. The Sweepers, as they've come to be called. At any rate, they stole your vehicles as well as your souls. Too bad. If we could have studied your technology, it might give us an edge in this war. Well, no matter now. What can we do for you, Captain Apollo? Food? Rest? A woman of your species for your recreation?"

  The dizziness made Apollo's speech a little fuzzy.

  "I don't . . . don't understand why you saved me, why you would . . . would do anything for me. I come from the enemy."

  "But you are not the enemy. An important distinction. You were recruited into their side, made to fight for them. Now you are on our side."

  Apollo didn't like this last revelation and his anger was clear in his voice.

  "What makes you think I'll fight for you?"

  "We have our own . . . styles of persuasion, Captain. Not to worry. Accept the benefits we now offer."

  Apollo surveyed the scene around him. He was surrounded. He remembered his own story of Starbuck's escape from the cave of giants. Could he find his own way out now? He had to. He had no desire to get embroiled in this stupid war again, not with either side. But he couldn't simply walk out of the cave, or even fight his way out. He couldn't do anything that foolish as long as there were larger concerns. Somehow he had to find an escape, go back, rescue Croft and the others, find their Vipers, and get off Yevra. The problem was complex. He had to wait for his opportunity to escape, and then seize it. In the meantime, he might as well cooperate with these people until he saw what they were up to.

  "Well," he said amiably to Razi Balzet, "as soon as that belt came off, I started feeling this enormous hunger."

  "And no wonder. The Sweepers feed you as inadequately as possible. Just enough to keep the fighting edge, not enough to keep you healthy. They don't give a hang about your health. All their soldiers eventually—when their fighting spirit is gone, and it always leaves them—become cannon fodder. Soon you also, Captain Apollo, when you had no more value to their war effort, would have been shoved to the front of the front lines as waste material to protect those warriors who still functioned efficiently. It is a blessing that we Pelters are not so cruel and dispassionate. We take care of our own."

  Apollo knew that what Razi Balzet said about the Sweepers was true. Now that he was out of the belt, it was quite clear to him that, for the Sweepers, all war-weary soldiers were expendable. Each soldier was used by them till death. He would have died soon enough if he had not been captured. He would die as long as he was on either side of this vicious war.

  It seemed to Apollo, who had lived all his life in times of war, that wars never ended anyway.

  Razi Balzet gestured elegantly, the movement of his arms sending ripples through his flowing gown. In answer to his gesture, servants came from the rear of the cavern, each of them bearing a tray of food. It was a feast. The food steamed, sending misty waves toward the ceiling of the cavern. It looked better than anything Apollo had seen in centons, or at least since his arrival on Yevra.

  Razi Balzet clapped his hands three times.

  "The feast will begin now. Come, Captian Apollo."

  He led Apollo to a vast low table made of a dark-brown, smooth wood. Apollo was seated at the head, with Razi Balzet on one side of him, Tren on the other.

  "Try some of this," Razi Balzet said, handing Apollo a plate of reddish-brown stew. "It is a Yevran specialty, a delicate blend of native fruit, vegetables and spices." Apollo took a taste. It was delicious. "And this to make it go down easily." It was a subtle wine. Apollo had never tasted anything like it. "We have more culinary wonders. Enjoy, Captain Apollo."

  Apollo, not even conscious of the picture of voracity he was creating for the others, began to gorge himself on the wonderful Yevran food. Razi Balzet excused himself from the table and met with one of his aides.

  "The food for the captain was prepared properly, I can see that."

  "Indeed, sir."

  "A couple of meals like this, with the conditioning drugs for his special ingredients, and we will be able to drug him properly, make him one of our own."

  "Yes, sir."

  "I think we can use this warrior to our advantage. Yes, very much to our advantage."

  Razi Balzet recalled watching Apollo's arrival on Yevra, plus the several times he had observed the admirable warrior in the midst of battle. He had ordered Apollo's capture to use him for his own devices. The officers in the command bastion would be satisfied with his work, he knew. He was sure he would be promoted to a post in the bastion.

  He strolled over to Apollo and bent down.

  "Try some of the soup. It is superb, Captain Apollo."

  He was overjoyed at the eager way the captain started spooning the soup into his mouth. Glancing over Apollo's head at Tren, he smiled with satisfaction. The ever-serious Tren showed no response to Razi Balzet's obvious happiness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Each time Hera moved, she detected a new ache in her limbs. She'd been crouching so long, her arms pressed hard against her chest, that she didn't know whether she could straighten out at all. But she didn't want to shift her position too drastically and alert Starbuck.

  Starbuck sat on the edge of his open cockpit, staring over his shoulder toward the launch tube. He was as sad as ever, as sad as he'd been since Hera had initially started observing him secretly, but in his face there was now a new determination. She was sure he was ready to make his move. At any moment, he might jump in that cockpit, rev up the Viper, and slide down the launch tube before anyone on the bridge could stop him. When he tried that, she would be faced with the hardest decision of her life. She was not sure where her strongest duty lay—to Starbuck as a pal or Commander Adama as her superior officer. Just thinking of having to decide frightened her. Ordinarily Vaileans believed that an individual should be given free rein—to follow a star, seek a goal, go for a victory—but this situation did not fit regular Vailean ideals. Starbuck's star was a futile one, the seeker was too valuable to the Galactica and the fleet, and there was no victory to go for.

  Suddenly Starbuck shifted off the cockpit rim and jumped down to the launch-bay floor. He began to walk around his Viper. It was clear to Hera that he was inspecting it, perhaps for flight readiness. He stopped at the laser generator compartment, opened it, seemed to study the gauges inside. Shutting the compartment door with a satisfied look, he strolled to the other side of the vehicle. Hera couldn't see him anymore. She had to risk detection and move out of her hiding place. Edging cautiously along the wall, she tried to be as silent as possible.

  She nearly jumped to the ceiling when, while passing a dark alcove, a hand reached out and grabbed her.

  "Wha—?"

  "Quiet!" a deep voice whispered. She turned and saw that her arm was being held by Lieutenant Boomer, Starbuck's wingmate and friend. Peering further into the alcove she saw that it was densely populated with Galactica flight personnel. Ensigns Greenbean and Giles, Lieutenant Jolly, Bojay, even Jenny, the ground crew CWO for Starbu
ck's squadron, all of them were hiding in the alcove.

  "What the hell are you guys doing here?" Hera asked.

  "Same as you," was Boomer's laconic reply.

  "We're concerned about Starbuck, too," said Giles, who always spoke with youthful eagerness in his voice.

  "We've been following him, too," said Jolly, his face for once not as cheerful as his name suggested.

  "We seen you keeping track of him, too," Giles said.

  "We've been watching you watch Starbuck, in a way," the petite but lithe Jenny said.

  "The man is lucky to have such loyal friends," Hera commented.

  "Yes," Jenny said, "but what good is it doing?"

  "He's just been a-sulkin'," Greenbean said. The even-tempered ensign seemed unusually nervous.

  "None o' us have been able to get a rise outta him," Giles said.

  "He's in bad shape," said Jolly.

  "You ask me," Boomer said bitterly, "he's about to fly."

  "When?" Hera asked.

  "Any time now. I've been his wingmate, know his moves. He's ready to disobey all orders, take off after Apollo. I can see it."

  "Yeah," Hera agreed. "Me, too. I think he's ready. What should we do?"

  "I say, go to the commander," Giles said, poking Boomer in the arm, "have Starbuck restrained."

  "That wouldn't be—" Hera began, but Boomer read her thoughts and said, "I agree. We've got to stop him ourselves. We go through channels, he'll just go over the top, get mad and try again. Maybe we can talk sense into him."

  "You ain't been able to do that up to now," Giles said. "How can you—"

  "Can it, Giles," Jolly said angrily.

  "Yeah, can it," said Greenbean.

  "Ah," Giles scoffed, "you two guys always agree with each other."

  "I'm with Lieutenant Boomer on this," Hera said. "Maybe, if he sees us, he'll at least think about what he's doin'. Honor of the corps and all that."

  "Yeah," Jenny said enthusiastically.

  "It's worth a try," Boomer said. He gave Hera an admiring look. "Now, do you think?" he asked her.