"Then who does?"
Apollo's voice was quiet but intense. Ravashol started to speak again, but before he could get a word out, there was a thunderous pounding knock on the laboratory door.
"Cylons!" Ravashol said, checking a monitor beside the large heavy door. Springing quickly into combat position, Apollo and Ser 5-9 drew their lasers. Ravashol, clearly frightened by the appearance of the weapons and the men holding them, hesitated a moment, then said:
"Shooting now will just bring more Cylons. Hide behind the research stacks." He guided Ser 5-9 toward the stacks, telling him: "In the equipment cases . . . hide under the panels."
With Apollo safely behind the research-library tape cases, his body surrounded by cases and one over his head, Ser 5-9 chose to hide in an alcove near the bookshelves. Another knock resounded throughout the room. Knocking before charging in isn't the usual Cylon style, Apollo thought. The third Cylon knock had a sense of urgency about it. Still, Ravashol waited a couple of beats before responding in an annoyed businesslike voice that displayed no trace of tension:
"Enter!"
He pressed a button releasing the door lock. A Cylon foot patrol entered.
"Why did you keep us waiting?" its leader asked.
"Did I keep you waiting? I didn't notice. My work must occupy all my concentration. Would you prefer I ruin my experiments? These are delicate compounds."
"Search," the Cylon leader ordered his soldiers.
"The garrison commander will hear that you have interfered with my valuable time," Ravashol grumbled.
"We have orders to search."
The troops overturned a couple of packing cases situated very near Apollo's place of concealment. Apollo tensed his body, ready to jump out at the enemy if discovered. Another Cylon awkwardly brushed against a bookshelf, sent a few volumes tumbling to the floor.
"This is intolerable," Ravashol said.
"Our orders are to—" the leader said.
"We'll see about that." Ravashol activated a telecom beside his worktable. "This is Dr. Ravashol. I wish to speak to the command centurion."
The image of First Centurion Vulpa appeared onscreen.
"Dr. Ravashol," Vulpa said in a voice that sounded respectful and almost friendly.
"Why is my work being disrupted?" Ravashol complained. "There is a patrol here in my laboratory. In my laboratory. And they're—"
"We are searching for human invaders," Vulpa said politely.
"Humans? Here in the village? Are you sure?"
"We have one of their pilots as prisoner already. We are looking for others."
"I know nothing about humans. My experiment is waiting, so please order your centurions to leave and let me continue my work. I need to—"
"First Centurion Vulpa!" the patrol leader interrupted.
"Yes, centurion?"
"We have found a subhuman, a worker clone, hiding here."
At a gesture from their leader, a pair of Cylons brought Ser 5-9 forward.
"Wait," Ravashol said. "He's helping me."
"Only planners are permitted to visit you," Vulpa said coldly.
"He is here because I needed a strong back to move some equipment immediately."
"Nevertheless, Dr. Ravashol, the use of a worker clone by you without my express authority is a violation of our agree . . ." Vulpa stopped talking, as his attention was diverted by a command-room centurion.
"We have captured another human—in the corridors of the village," the warrior announced.
Vulpa returned his attention to Ravashol.
"You see, doctor? I can't allow any divergence from normal procedure, not now. Centurion?"
"Yes, Commander Vulpa?" said the patrol leader.
"Leave Dr. Ravashol to his research."
"Should we let the worker clone remain here, sir?"
Vulpa thought for a moment.
"No. I can't allow such laxity. Punish the worker clone."
The screen went abruptly dark as Ravashol protested:
"But he is here on my orders. You can't—"
Before the Cylons dragged him out, Ser 5-9 said in a calm, reverent voice:
"Please, father-creator, I am satisfied to be punished. It is correct. I should have obtained the necessary clearance before coming here."
"But—" Ravashol said. The door closed behind the Cylons and Ser 5-9.
"Did you see who they hold prisoner?" Apollo said, climbing over the wall of cases. "I think one of our cadets—"
"No," Ravashol said, his voice collapsing in agony. "No." The doctor's eyes, when he looked at Apollo, were deeply pained. "Why couldn't you have left us alone? If you and your battlestar had not intruded upon this quadrant, all would be peaceful."
"You harp on the word 'peaceful' as if it has some magical qualities. Peace isn't brought about by magic, or even magical thinking. We didn't have a choice about coming into this quadrant, Dr. Ravashol. Father-creator! The Cylons forced us here. They are out to exterminate every human in the universe." He searched for any remnants of mercy toward his fellow humanity that might remain in the scientist's eyes. "Eventually, doctor, even you will go."
Ravashol seemed surprised by that idea.
"They let me live! They could have killed me, but they let me live."
"And undoubtedly they'll preserve your life even longer, so long as you keep producing your little peace weapons for them!"
"Captain, I cannot abide—you mustn't—they are . . ." He paused, and when he spoke again, it was in a near-whisper. "Understand my work. All you want to do is destroy what I have created."
"Sir, with all due respect, I have to say that something's gone haywire in your mind. Your creation deserves destruction. It's an instrument of destruction."
"But it's capable of carrying communication units all the way across—"
"And maybe it will still be later, when the theory is refined, when the machine can no longer be adjusted for use as a weapon. Please, sir, we must act, and soon. Our people are being captured, yours are being punished for—"
Ravashol waved a hand for Apollo to stop.
"Before you came," he muttered, "everything was in its proper place. Planners to think. Workers to work."
"I've got a couple pieces of news for you, doctor. The order you revere is that of the Cylons, an order based on the extermination of all species that do not conform to their specifications. Secondly, your planners are such evolved thinkers they can no longer allow themselves to come to decisions. And your workers are thinking . . . and breeding."
"Impossible."
"Their children are hidden in the village."
Ravashol, stunned, started to pace again.
"Children!" he muttered over and over.
"If you won't help me to save the lives on the Galactica and the ships of the fleet, if our participation in a war not of our own making so repels you, then do it for the Thetas. In a sense, they are all your children."
As soon as he'd said it, Apollo felt embarrassed at using such a cheap sentimental tactic. But, sentimental or not, it reached the doctor with the twisted body.
"I . . . I used some cells from the members of our teams, the ones who were later slaughtered by the Cylons, used their cells in my first experiments. I altered the structure of the cells, yes, to try to develop a more perfect style of human being. None of my experiments really worked, I thought. The clones' appearance was right, but they've never seemed quite human. I never saw them as quite human. I adopted the Cylon line to comfort my own failure, saw my creations as subhuman. I was wrong. I ignored the occasional flash in their eyes, the infrequent move of a hand, that reminded me of my dead colleagues. You're right, Captain, in a way they are my children. And, more than that, they are human."
Moving faster than his body seemed capable of, Ravashol hastened to his worktable. He began to press buttons furiously on a small console beside it. On its screen, complex and intricate diagrams began forming. Ravashol explained that the picture depicted, in blueprint
style, the installation atop Mount Hekla.
"There are two chambers on the mountain itself, one housing the pulsaric laser unit, the other a small garrison maintained there to guard and operate it. On the other side is a small airfield big enough for one ship. The ship occasionally brings up supplies that cannot be transported by the single elevator the Cylons have constructed inside the mountain."
"The elevator? Could we get to it, use it to get our team up to the cannon?"
Ravashol thought for a moment.
"I would recommend against that plan. Too risky. The elevator, besides being rather small, is heavily guarded. Even if you could get your team crowded into it, your presence would have been detected before you finished the long trip to the top. The Cylons would be picking off your people one by one as they got off the elevator."
"There may be some way we can use it. Go on. What about the supply ship? Can it be hijacked?"
Ravashol gave this idea as careful consideration as he'd given the earlier one.
"No. You could hijack it, yes, at the airfield below, but the landing strip is so narrow the ship has to be guided in from a control tower in the garrison. It's doubtful you could surprise the Cylons, and surprise is essential to make your plan work."
"You're right, doctor. Tell me more about the installation."
"What you really need to know is how to destroy it. Do you have solenite?"
"Yes."
"Then you can destroy it. Solenite's your best chance."
Apollo let out a sigh of relief as he realized that Ravashol was, after all, going to help them plan the actual destruction of the weapon.
"For total destruction of the pulsaric laser unit I suggest the jamming or reversing of the main pump. That can be accomplished by disintegrating the double turbo refractor. Here, on this diagram, that's the point you must reach, and you must allow yourself enough time to implant the solenite. It's not easy, but it can be done. Without the use of the internal elevator or a ship, you'll have to scale the mountain."
"We have the personnel for such an ascent."
"Skilled?"
"As skilled as we could pull off a prison barge."
Ravashol frowned but continued with his briefing of the young Galactica captain.
Starbuck kept an eye on Croft, Leda, and Wolfe. At the same time, he had the strange sense that each of them was keeping an eye on him, even though there was little actual eye contact achieved. Wolfe, especially, seemed agitated. Boomer eased next to Starbuck and whispered:
"Still think they might take off?"
"Don't know. Right now they're caged. They've been caged for a long time. This might get to them. Looks to me like Wolfe'd like to beat his way through the wall."
"Things're really switched around."
"Don't follow you, Boomer."
"Not sure what I mean, myself. But they've been imprisoned for a long time, each of them. Been under the thumb of jailers, and who knows who else. Now we need their skills. They've got the upper hand. We have to rely on them. It's like we're the prisoners now."
"The strain's getting to you, old buddy. Nobody can turn us into prisoners. Nobody. Get loose. Go play with the kids for a while."
Boomer laughed. Both men watched the children at play. Boxey seemed to thrive on the attention of the clone children and especially their interest in Muffit and the daggit's extensive repertoire of tricks.
Suddenly the door to the secret chamber started to open. Both Starbuck and Boomer, on alert in case Cylons were on the other side of the sliding portal, sprang up. But when the opening was wide enough, Tenna ran in, exclaiming:
"The Cylons have captured one of your party."
"Thane!" Leda said. "The poor—"
She started running for the entranceway.
"Where do you think you're going?" Starbuck said, blocking her way.
"I'm going after him!"
Starbuck almost let her, then it occurred to him that Leda might just be using the opportunity to split away from the main group herself.
"You're not going anywhere," Starbuck ordered. "We need you for the ascent of the mountain. Boomer, I'll take a look. You're in charge. If I'm not back in ten centons . . ."
Boomer's brow furled.
"I don't know, Starbuck."
"I do."
Boxey came running up to Starbuck, Muffit scampering behind him.
"I'm going, too. Dad told me to keep an eye on you."
"Oh, Dad told you, did he?"
The boy nodded yes. Starbuck put on a worried look and said:
"Look, Boxey, I'm counting on you as a young colonial warrior to keep these children safe. Now, your father also told you to obey orders. Right?"
"I guess so."
"Then snap to it, cadet." Boxey managed the stance of attention. "And stay clear of those women . . . you're on duty. Back in a flash."
Boxey returned to the clone children as Starbuck followed Tenna out of the chamber. In the outer room Starbuck said to her:
"Can you take me to where they have Thane?"
"The Cylons will recognize you."
"Not if I look like a Theta."
Going to the wall, Starbuck grabbed one of the worker clone uniforms hanging there, put it on over his own clothing, then gestured to Tenna to lead the way.
After they had gone a few steps, they spied a pair of Cylons walking ahead of them in the corridor. Not wanting to test his disguise with one of the red-lights, Starbuck cautioned Tenna to stay back. They hid for a moment in one of the many alcoves along the passageway. The closeness of the attractive tall woman sent a few thoughts not related to the mission sailing through Starbuck's head. He leaned closer to Tenna and whispered:
"Look, when we get out of here, maybe in some hidden chamber somewhere, we can find some, you know, privacy. You know what I mean . . ."
"No."
"But you brought up the subject of privacy yourself . . ."
She smiled at him.
"No. I did not."
"Sure you did. Back at the—"
"I know what you mean. But whatever was said, it was not said by me. Or to me, for that matter."
"But—"
"You think I am the Tenna who brought you to the children's quarters?"
"Yes, I—"
"Well, I am not. Wait! The way is clear. Come!"
As they crept out of the alcove, Starbuck finally got the point—this was not the Tenna who'd proposed the provocative ideas of warmth and privacy. This was the other Tenna, the one they'd seen in the—or maybe it was still a third Tenna, or even—no, he didn't want to think about it now. It was too confusing to sort out. It made no difference how many Ser 5-9's there were—but the number of Tennas was a subject worthy of further research. Studying the tantalizing shape of the one guiding him now, he realized it might just be fun sorting all of them out later.
Vulpa maintained a steady monitoring of the center mall area. After it had been cleared of the clone populace who generally milled about there, the execution platform was raised. The worker clones, now suddenly aware what was to take place, began discussing it actively among themselves. They seemed excited. Good, Vulpa thought. The execution would be a lesson for them. It should prod them into revealing the whereabouts of any other humans who might be concealed in the clone village. In time these human insects engaged on their tiny futile mission would be flushed out and killed, and Vulpa could stop feeling the vague itch inside his metallic uniform.
He glanced at another screen which displayed the entire underground chamber. Gloomy snow torches set in the walls projected the main light, together with reflections from the ghostly stalactites that hung from the high ceiling.
A centurion entered the command post, informing Vulpa that the execution ceremony would be initiated at his order. Vulpa waved a hand, so ordering. He turned back to the monitoring screen, where in a moment he saw a troop of his warriors lead the bound-and-tied prisoner to the execution platform. Along the way, they pushed clones aside. The
clones, cowering, gave the Cylons a wide path. The prisoner was marched up a set of steps, where an executioner stood by.
Vulpa beckoned to an aide to bring the other prisoner, Cree, to him. When Cree had been dragged forward, Vulpa pointed him toward the monitor, ordered that a close-up view of the new prisoner be placed on the main screen. He watched Cree for a reaction.
"Do you know him?" Vulpa asked.
Cree could barely keep his eyes opened, but he managed to focus on the screen.
"No, I've never seen him before."
"You are certain."
"Certain."
"For the last time, how many vipers are still operational?"
"My name is Cree, my rank cadet, my numbers are—"
"Quiet. Centurion! Remove him from my presence."
The centurion dragged Cree back to his corner of the command-post room. The cadet immediately slipped back to unconsciousness.
Onscreen the new prisoner was being given his final interrogation. He had been instructed by the Cylon officer in charge that he could save his life by answering questions in open forum—but of course, Vulpa thought, he would be executed no matter what information he provided. It was essential that the clones be given an object lesson in order to keep them contained at their subhuman level of subservience.
Vulpa studied the prisoner as he gave laconic responses to the Cylon officer's questioning. It seemed odd that the man had chosen to disguise himself as a clone. He was much, much too thin. His pale, gaunt face simply looked nothing like the healthy facial type that Ravashol had chosen for the male worker clones. Nor did he look at all subhuman. He did not look very human, either. There was something extrahuman in his blank eyes and nearly white hair.
"What is your purpose here?" the interrogator asked.
"Just visiting," the prisoner said in an eerily quiet voice.
The interrogator, who had been instructed not to react to the prisoner no matter what he might say, continued to his next question:
"How many of you are there?"
"I travel alone. I've always been a little . . . antisocial."
"You're from the Galactica, are you not?"
"Never heard of it."
All of the prisoner's answers were unemotional. The man must expect that he was going to die—why did he not show some fear?
Battlestar Galactica 2 - The Cylon Death Machine Page 15