Battlestar Galactica 2 - The Cylon Death Machine

by Glen A. Larson

  Adama watched Colonel Tigh trace a flight-path line on the starfield map. Tigh's long thin aristocratic fingers seemed to be about to create their own individual paths across the map. Long ago, during the thousand-year war that had ended so abruptly with the fake Cylon peace offer and their subsequent annihilative ambush, Adama and Tigh had been combat pilots together, sharing a reputation for bravado and accomplishment much like that enjoyed presently by the brash and daring young lieutenants Starbuck and Boomer.

  The two combat teams, one from the past and the other in the present, were alike in hundreds of ways. Both teams had distinguished combat records. Both were the obvious choices for the most dangerous missions. Both were even composed similarly, each containing one white man, one black. And (Adama would have been embarrassed to admit) there were distinct similarities in the personality makeup of the past and present duos. Although he would never have acknowledged it to Starbuck, Adama had been a similarly brash young man, plunging recklessly into risky exploits, especially if they seemed designed to test him. And, in many ways, Tigh had been Adama's Boomer, courageous and equally daring. Boomer and Tigh, however, both knew when it was time to apply the brakes to adventurers like Starbuck and Adama, knew when caution should replace bravado as the watchword. It was a pity that Tigh had not won the battlestar command post he so richly deserved. He had been, unfortunately, as incautious in speaking his mind in the wrong places as he had been wary in battle, and the result was that the command posts had been denied him. Adama had reminded him time and again to measure his words, but Tigh always blurted out what was on his mind, usually with some eloquence, without regard to the situation. On the Galactica command bridge, Adama valued Tigh's frankness, depended on it in fact. Still, he deserved that command post—and Adama would have obtained it for him, if there had been any more battlestars left to command.

  "We have our new flight path," Tigh was saying. "The corrected course is locked in."

  Adama studied the course and the change of vector that Tigh's hand traced.

  "I don't like it," he said softly.

  Tigh seemed surprised.

  "But it's the only course that makes sense, Commander," he said. "And look how it's keeping us even farther from—"

  "Still don't like it. Anything that dovetails this simply, this conveniently, must be examined more closely. For our own safety."

  One side of Tigh's mouth tilted upward in an ironic smile.

  "I thought you'd be jubilant," Tigh said. "We destroyed sixteen Cylon ships in that last assault."

  "How many of them were manned?"

  Tigh hesitated before answering:

  "We scanned five. No indication of Cylon pilots in any of those cockpits. But, Commander, in the middle of combat you know that scanners can't be accurate, can't be—"

  "Yet it is not unreasonable to assume that the Cylons are sending unmanned craft against us."

  "Well, as speculation, it's—"

  "They may want to have us destroy those attackers. To lull us."

  Tigh nodded.

  "That has occurred to me, I admit. You read my report. On the other hand, their task force has fallen back to"—he pointed to the starfield map—"that point. It's a considerable distance, and seems to indicate they've lost track of us again."

  Adama stared at the cluster of lights in the sector of the map which Tigh indicated.

  "No, I doubt that. I think they're still there, right behind us. Just keeping their distance. And so are their base-ships." He turned away from the star map. "One thing is sure, we can't go back."

  "When have we ever done that?"

  Adama understood the undertone of frustration in his aide's voice. Tigh often expressed his wish they could stop fleeing the Cylon task force, could just turn around, dig in, and blast the Cylon war machine out of the skies.

  "Look here," Adama said.

  Taking a small cylindrical tube out of his pocket and setting its laser-directed light for a thin line, he directed the ray toward the map, first raising it toward the top of the starfield.

  "Above us is the planet Cassarion, listed in the warbook as a Cylon outpost. We cannot move in that direction." He lowered the light, sent its beam toward the lower portion of the map. "Below us, the Sellian asteroid belt. Millions of fragments from the world the Cylons destroyed. We couldn't get through it. Apollo, Starbuck, and Boomer'd have no chance of blasting a path through that mess, as they did back at that Carillon minefield."

  "Our only course is clear then," Tigh said. "Straight ahead. The point scouts report a safe passage."

  "It was too easy," Adama said softly.

  "Commander?"

  Adama raised his voice.

  "That last defeat of the Cylon attackers, their sudden retreat . . ."

  "But the Galactica was bearing down on them."

  "Yes . . . so it appeared."

  A glimmer of understanding came into Tigh's dark eloquent eyes.

  "And what is the truth?" he asked.

  Tigh was challenging, demanding an absolute.

  "Not truth perhaps," Adama said. "More than truth. Instinct. I think we're being carefully maneuvered, herded toward that . . . that safe passage ahead."

  Athena, now standing by her father, suddenly spoke:

  "But why?" She glanced toward the starfield map, seeming to see in its lines, arcs, and flickering lights the black void with its few stars that was the reality represented by the symbols on the map. "What's out there?" she whispered.

  "I don't know, Athena. Ghosts maybe. Hostile planets, friendly ones. Maybe this time we'll stumble on Earth, if it's not, after all, the imaginary product of legend." He turned back to Tigh. "I think we should send out more scouting patrols. What is it, Tigh? You're reluctant. Why?"

  "Commander, we've pushed our star fighters around the clock. They're bushed."

  "We all are. You're worried about more than that, aren't you? Well, what is it?"

  "Sir, it's just that, well, we're having to throw in more cadets from the academy now. Too many. It's dangerous."

  Adama thought of the cadets he'd seen earlier, and the emotional exhaustion he'd felt from addressing them. He wanted to tell his aide to bring everybody in, recall all vipers. But that was impossible.

  "Of course it's dangerous. But we're somewhat lacking in alternatives for the moment, with a Cylon task force probably tailing us, and who knows what out there."

  Tigh nodded, the reluctance still showing in his saddened eyes.

  "Colonel, we must increase the scouting contingent, even if it means sending up cadets."

  "Dad?"

  Adama glared at his daughter, showing disapproval at her familiarity on the command bridge. She caught his meaning, drew her slim body to attention.

  "Commander. I'm checked out for scouting in a viper. Reassign me."

  Both Adama and Tigh smiled.

  "Athena," Adama said, "you're much too valuable here."

  "Yes, sir," she said, clearly disappointed.

  Tigh turned to a bridge officer and ordered that the duty roster be flashed onto the main screen, in order to see who was still available for scouting patrols. Starbuck's voice over the main commline interrupted Tigh's command:

  "Blue Leader to Base. We're coming up on a small planet. Dead ahead. Can you give us a quick scan?"

  Tigh nodded toward the scanner section leader, who immediately fed the lieutenant's request into the ship's computer system.

  "Base to Blue Leader. Scanner readout coming up." He turned to Adama, concern in his eyes. "Commander?"

  "What is it?"

  "An object in Sector Sigma."

  The officer switched the readout onto Adama's screen. Grids flashed and words appeared in the screen's corner. The shape of the planet reported by Starbuck came into resolution. Adama ordered a deeper probe-scan. The planet was so dark, so shrouded in a nearly black cloud cover, that only a slightly more detailed resolution could be managed. As each category covered by the probe flashed by in a cor
ner of the screen, the same conclusion was flashed: insufficient data.

  "Starbuck," Adama said into his commline mike.

  "Yo, sir."

  "Do you observe a sun or any other astronomical or geologic phenomenon around the planet?"

  "No, sir, not a blessed thing."

  Adama turned away from the console.

  "What is it, sir?" Athena asked. "Why doesn't Starbuck observe anything? It doesn't—"

  "Perhaps it does, Athena, perhaps it does. We need more data."

  "I don't understand."

  "We have a small planet here, not much more than an asteroid. It seems to be floating through space on its own, no sun anywhere detectable. It might be the remnant of some exploded planet from a star system long since disintegrated. Or it might be . . . something else."

  "Sir," Tigh said, "are you thinking what I think you are? One of the Cylon asteroids?"

  "Exactly, Tigh."

  "Cylon asteroid," Athena exclaimed. "I don't get it. An asteroid's a geological—"

  "That's correct. I forget, Cylon asteroids would be before your time. There was a time, early in the thousand-year war, when the Cylons discovered a way to power asteroids across space, sometimes at phenomenal speeds, for combat purposes. They became sort of geologically formed fighter craft. We were never able to discover how they did it, as we've been unable to discern a great deal about Cylon technology."

  "And this could be one of their—what would you call it, war weapons?" Athena asked. "This minor planet?"

  "Well, it's a bit large, but perhaps. This might be one of their abandoned units. Or maybe not abandoned."

  Adama's voice had become ominous.

  "We need more data. Probably it's just what it looks like, a drifting asteroid." Adama turned to a bridge officer. "What's the report on it show now?"

  "Structure: Crystalline elements table M-one."

  "Surface?" said Tigh.

  "Frozen seas. Fields of ice. Blizzard conditions marked by di-ethene storms."

  Both Adama and Tigh looked pained by the new information.

  "Di-ethene?" Athena said. "I never heard of—"

  "The word's a corrupted form of a much longer word," Tigh said. "One too long to memorize. It's a gas. A Cylon-manufactured gas."

  "If I remember correctly," Adama said, "di-ethene is often formed as a waste product from the style of laser weapon the Cylons've evolved. Their weaponry pumps out di-ethene, usually into the ground, sometimes into the air. It's very dangerous, especially if it escapes to a planet's surface in the form of clouds or mist. In the proper density, it can be fatal to us—one of the few instances I know where the discharged elements from a weapon can be just as dangerous as the firepower of the weapon itself."

  Athena hunched her shoulders.

  "That gives me the cold creeps."

  Adama smiled.

  "Cold is the word for it, all right, at least on this particular planet. What's your view, Tigh?"

  Tigh glanced briefly at father and daughter, then at the watching bridge crew, before speaking tersely:

  "Environment: Hostile!"

  When Starbuck finally got a good look at the dark cloudy planet, he felt his hands go cold. He wondered if he was reacting to the planet's spectral appearance or whether the intense cold that no doubt existed on its surface sent out actual penetrating waves of frigidity, perhaps to warn off intruders. He flicked on his commline to Galactica, and said:

  "Nice place. Didn't I see it listed in the R & R guide? You want us to orbit the equator or is there a torrid zone for—"

  "Keep out of its gravitational pull," ordered Tigh in a solemn voice. Tigh didn't like flippancy in transmissions to base, but had long ago given up ordering Lieutenant Starbuck to maintain the proper gravity while communicating.

  "Will do," Starbuck said. He cut off the Galactica line and switched over to direct-comm among the vipers in the formation. "Okay, guys," he said, "all youngsters move up ahead and lock in a holding pattern while Boomer and I get a closer scan of the surface. If you—"

  "Lieutenant Starbuck. Sir."

  The annoying squeak of Cadet Cree again.

  "Yes, what is it, Cadet?"

  "I made a first in Scanning Procedure finals at the academy. I could go along with you, get a little actual experience at—"

  "This is no time for practice, Cree. I'll give you a spot quiz later. Meantime, obey your orders. Your instructor did tell you guys about obeying orders, didn't he?"

  "Yes sir! Lieutenant, sir!"

  "All right then. You guys, peel off. Cadet Bow, you're in command."

  Starbuck could picture Cree choking at that last order. The overconfident young cadet obviously saw himself as command material. Well, he'd learn. Learn or catch a laser beam in the throat; there weren't many other alternatives for eager new cadets nowadays.

  The vipers broke formation. The three cadet ships moved ahead as ordered, although Starbuck thought he could detect a shade of recalcitrance in the way Cadet Cree executed the maneuver.

  "Let's go, Boomer!"

  The ships of the two experienced lieutenants arched away from the cadet ships and edged cautiously toward the asteroid. On the commline Starbuck heard Cadet Bow:

  "Shields . . . Cree . . . Keep visual contact. Hold formation, Cree."

  Bow's voice was deeper, more mature than Cree's, but there was still a cadetlike tentativeness in the sound of it.

  On Starbuck's control panel, the Galactica commline light flashed on. He flipped the communication switch.

  "Galactica, reading," he said.

  Adama came on the line.

  "Starbuck," he said, "the planet below you has an atmosphere. Some di-ethene content, breathable otherwise, although the cold can descend to unbreathable levels. I don't want you or any of your squad to get too close. The di-ethene indicates the possible presence of Cylons or other alien habitation. Be careful. Take a look and return."

  "About the di-ethene. It's in cloud form?"

  "Sometimes."

  "Dense?"

  "Sometimes."

  "You don't have to worry. We won't go anywhere near that planet. Right, Boomer?"

  "Do you have time to put that in writing?"

  "Boomer, sometimes—"

  Starbuck was interrupted by a sudden blinding flash of light that seemed to come from the other side of the asteroid. Where the cadet ships were.

  "Bow!" he cried into the direct-comm. "What was that?"

  "I wish I could tell you," Bow replied. "Biggest darn light show I've ever seen. I'm going to check it out."

  "No, wait for us," Starbuck said, but he could see on the control-panel scanner that Bow had already peeled away from the other two cadet vehicles and was heading toward the point where the light had flashed.

  "C'mon, Boomer," he said, "let's hop to it. That kid'll—"

  "Got you, bucko."

  Both flight-command vipers curved into gradual loops and flew toward the cadet ships. As the cadet fighters came into view, Bow speeding far ahead of Cree and Shields, a brilliant beam of light suddenly emerged from the planet's cloud cover. Throbbing and fiery, it soared skyward, almost with a gliding ease. It headed toward Bow's fighter. Too late Bow started to brake the ship and change his flight angle. The beam of light intersected Bow's foundry-manufactured viper, which now looked like a speck of dust dimly illuminated in the brightness of the gigantic light-spear. Bow's fightercraft was seared jaggedly down the middle before it erupted into a shapeless melting mass, then exploded. The explosion's flames seemed dim by comparison with the brilliance of the force that had destroyed it.

  The light-beam sailed off into space, as if launched on a steady even course, leaving no trace behind of the disintegrated craft.

  The words now coming over direct-comm from the remaining two cadet ships were jumbled, inchoate, hysterical. Both pilots had changed their courses to fly toward the area where, moments ago, Cadet Bow's ship had been.

  "Cree! Shields!" Starbuck shouted. "Ba
ck off! We're on the way!"

  "What happened?" Boomer said as he brought his viper up beside Starbuck's.

  "He was picked off!" cried Cree. "It's some kind of energy beam. Got Bow, wiped him out, came at him like a pulsar—only bigger, much bigger!"

  Remembering Adama's cautionary words, Starbuck said:

  "What do you think, Boomer? Some kind of laser cannon? With, say, a pulsar-styled beam?"

  "It can't be! We're way out of range. Never saw one that could pick off a target that accurately, from ground through a cloud cover. I never saw that good a tracking device, especially not for that distance and situation."

  "Okay."

  Starbuck flipped the communication switch to the Galactica and shouted:

  "Blue Leader to Base! We're under attack! Ready the landing deck. We've lost a ship and we're coming in!"

  As he began to set his viper for the return course, Starbuck checked the whereabouts of Shields and Cree. They were both heading toward the dark asteroid.

  "Cree! Shields! Set for return course. Now!"

  But both pilots, unheeding, headed their craft straight for the planet's cloud cover.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Silently, Apollo watched Boxey put Muffit through its intricate maneuvers. The furry daggit-droid was a manufactured replica of the animal the boy had lost during the invasion of Caprica. Actually, as Boxey had pointed out often enough, the droid did not replicate the original very accurately. The original Muffit, Boxey said, had been shaggy-haired and mostly gray. The reproduction's fur was thick and brown, and its body was larger. Larger, in fact, than any daggit Apollo had ever seen or owned. Nor did its visible metal patches add to the illusion. However, the lab that had manufactured this prototype had included the essential traits for any daggit model, affection and loyalty. In the time since Boxey had tentatively accepted the droid from the laboratory, he had come to love it as much as, if not more than, the daggit he'd lost.