Battlestar Galactica 2 - The Cylon Death Machine

by Glen A. Larson

  The chamber was quickly filled with the blazing light and floating steam of the attack. Fire and crossfire obscured any sensible view of the action for Vulpa. To his left, one of his guards fell, his uniform on fire. For a moment Vulpa was fascinated with the corpse, clearly dead but with the red light in his helmet still actively piercing the layers of smoke. The humans, always more agile than Cylons, seemed to be leaping everywhere, taking up new positions behind new pillars. Gunners and warriors were falling at a rate near that of the now accelerated pulse rate of the laser cannon. The reserve squad of warriors from the garrison rooms joined the battle.

  Vulpa's center bodyguard fell. The remaining guard pushed his commander back against the wall and started firing at anything that moved toward him, as if he did not care whether his target was human or Cylon as long as they did not endanger the commander. But a line of laser fire hit the last bodyguard at neck level. Sparks shot out from the wiring leading to his helmet and he tried to get off one more shot before dropping heavily to the floor. Vulpa, clinging to the wall, started easing his way along it, toward the elevator.

  The smoke cleared momentarily and he saw that three of the humans were now gathered around the elevator, fending off attackers. Vulpa, drawing his pistol, tried to take aim on the tall young man who was the apparent leader, but one of his own warriors got in the way. Vulpa had to retreat. This was no time to get into the battle. His ship, he must get to his ship, alert the rest of the garrison at the command post, bring them back here to repel this strange quartet of human attackers. What were they doing here anyway? he thought as he ran toward the tube leading to his aircraft. Why did they want to destroy the small number of Cylons at the gun? The gun! Were they going to try to do something to the gun? They could not stop it so long as it was set on automatic. Only Vulpa or the gunnery master could do that. And the gun could not be destroyed—Ravashol had stated firmly that the material composing the gun was indestructible. The mechanism was too complex for them to tamper with in any way. Ravashol had provided the factor that allowed only specially imprinted gloved Cylon hands to operate the shut-off plate which would stop the gun's automatic steady firing. Ravashol had vowed that—but Ravashol was also responsible for the clones. He had been their protector, in fact, when the Cylons had wanted all batches destroyed. And now two of Ravashol's clones were involved in this sneak attack! If he had lied about the clones, then perhaps he had lied about the gun.

  Vulpa felt an impulse to protect the gun, but the battle raging behind him was too fierce. He risked too much—his squadrons of warriors, the gun emplacement, himself, his ambition—to chance getting killed checking out such a suspicion. The important goal was to board his ship and gather troops to return here and vanquish the humans.

  He looked back. How could only four attackers do so much damage? Cylons had fallen everywhere, it seemed. Smoke and fluttering sparks flew up from their bodies. Their red lights dimmed and went out. But this was no time to mourn the fallen. The official mourning would come later, in proper organized ceremonies. Vulpa turned to run through the gangway tunnel to his ship.

  And found a short stocky human blocking his way and aiming a laser pistol at him. Vulpa threw himself against the wall as the human fired.

  The light-spears were now coming toward the fleet with shorter time intervals between them. A supply ship had been hit and apparently swallowed up by the powerful beam. By quick alterations of course, the Galactica had missed being hit twice.

  Athena studied her father's grim face. He stood at his post, gripping the railing that ran in front of him, and seemed stymied by the laser cannon's fierce attacks.

  "Is there anything we can do to counter the force of the pulses?" he asked Tigh. The aide shook his head no.

  "We've analyzed them from every angle, looked for some way to anticipate them, but we simply don't have sufficient data. If only the expedition had been able to—"

  "Don't give up hope yet. The expedition may still be functioning."

  Tigh seemed about to protest, but instead returned to duty. Athena knew that the colonel, knowing the efficiency with which Apollo worked, did not expect her brother to stretch out the mission time to the last possible micron. She hoped Tigh was wrong. But she could not help but feel despair over the mission. If they were going to destroy the cannon, they should have done it by now, they should—

  Her thoughts on the subject were rudely interrupted by a light-spear that passed so near the Galactica that Athena was certain that, if she had time go out and check the superstructure surface, she'd discover singe marks there.

  Imperious Leader was pleased with the progress of the attack. The trap was just about sprung. The Galactica had been forced into the quadrant where the pulses from the laser weapon would be most effective. He had ordered that the coordinates of the Galactica be transmitted regularly to Vulpa on the ice planet, then had continued the pursuit of his own fleet after the human ships.

  Just after the coordinates had been transmitted, the Cylon fleet had lost contact with the garrison on Tairac. That was an annoyance, but a slight one. The Galactica was definitely trapped between the pursuit force and the ultimate weapon. There was no way it could escape.

  Why was the Starbuck simulacrum, who had been informed of each phase of the action, and had to know that annihilation was imminent, grinning and keeping so quiet?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Croft:

  I don't expect what I see when I crawl out of the tunnel under the gun. Dead Cylons are lying all over the place. Apollo is gesturing toward the elevator. I start running toward it. Leda splits off away from me, toward the tunnel to the Cylon ship. I try not to look at her go. Then she stops running and yells:

  "Croft!"

  By the entrance to the tunnel, Wolfe is struggling with a Cylon. It's the officer, the chief honcho with all the decorations on his uniform. A section of his black-banded sleeve is sizzling—Wolfe's obviously fired at him, but missed. Now the Cylon creep's all over him. Wolfe still has his pistol, but it's pointing futilely upward toward the ceiling. He fires it once, and I hear the crackling of a destroyed light source above me. The Cylon picks Wolfe up, holds him with his feet dangling above the floor. My God! I never knew a Cylon could be that strong. He's Wolfe's match all the way. Leda tries to leap at the Cylon, but the louse seems to anticipate her move and slides out of her way while still clutching Wolfe. I start running toward them, laser drawn and pointed in the Cylon's direction, waiting for a clear shot at him. The Cylon's holding Wolfe in front of him now. If I shoot I'm more likely to get Wolfe. Leda, in better position, grips the handle of her pistol to get a steady aim, but the Cylon moves Wolfe's body a bit to the right toward her, blocking her line of shot. He's using Wolfe as a shield.

  Backing into a tunnel, he keeps his attention on both Leda and me. Picking up Wolfe even higher, he squeezes him in a fierce one-armed embrace. I can hear bones crack inside Wolfe's body. The Cylon forces his other gloved hand between himself and Wolfe's head. He pushes Wolfe's head backward, breaking his neck. Then he tosses Wolfe toward Leda, as if the body were a light bundle. For a moment, my reflexes go bad on me; I can't really comprehend what the Cylon officer has done. I never could beat Wolfe in a fight, except for that once. This Cylon creep has disposed of him in an instant. I start chasing after the Cylon finally, firing wildly. Ahead in the tunnel, the Cylon doesn't even look back. He's in his ship and the tunnel's closed off before I can squeeze off a shot at the ship's fueling area. The tunnel rumbles and detaches from the ship. I feel the floor slipping out from under me. I scramble backward, reach the main chamber just in time. I would've slid downward through the gangway tunnel and found myself back on the mountain with nothing to do but kill time and wait for the explosion to kill me.

  Leda is kneeling beside Wolfe, trying to find some miracle in her medical training she can use to restore him. I grab her arm, try to pull her away. She resists, and I can't budge her.

  "He's dead, Leda."

&nbs
p; "I know."

  "Let's go."

  She stands up, looks down at the corpse briefly, sadly.

  "He was a killer, Leda, just a—"

  "I know, and he was such a rotten bilge-rat I don't know why I'm sad, why—let's get out of here."

  We run to the elevator. Apollo pushes us inside, then he and Ser 5-9 back in, firing furiously at the few remaining Cylons. Tenna, firing off a few shots to the side, runs in just after them, and the doors close behind her. All of the technology on the elevator is of Cylon manufacture, but Apollo apparently knows something about it, because he pushes the right plates and we begin descending.

  "How are we for time?" I ask Apollo.

  "I'm not sure. Lost a little there at the last moment."

  "Won't the blast cut the cable if we don't reach the lower level in time?"

  "It might. We'll find out."

  I'll say one thing for the Cylons, they sure know how to build elevators. This one moves downward so smoothly, it's impossible to tell what our descent speed is. I hope it's fast, I surely do. Leda has folded her tall broad body into a back corner of the elevator car. Her eyes are vacant, her mouth slack. Tenna whispers to her, evidently trying to say something comforting, but Leda isn't having any, and she regally gestures Tenna away. Taking off her gloves, she wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, dabs at her cheeks. Sweat is running off her. Running off all of us, in fact.

  Apollo keeps his gaze fixed on the old chronometer. I try to interpret the strange flashes of light on the hexagons of the elevator control board. There's no way of telling whether or not we'll make it to the bottom in time.

  "How much time?" I ask Apollo.

  Without taking his eyes off his timepiece, he says:

  "Ten microns."

  "You have any idea whether this elevator's out of range of the blast?"

  "Can't say. Maybe."

  "Hopeful, anyway."

  "Eight microns."

  Copying Apollo, I set my jaw at grim. The only sound in the elevator car is Apollo's whispering countdown. He reaches one, and we all tense. There is a long silence.

  "Maybe I did something wrong with the—" I say.

  But I am interrupted by the explosion. It's a deep rumbling blast followed by a series of increasingly louder ones. The chain-reaction effect of the solenite is proceeding according to plan. I can interpret the sounds of solenite as precisely as an average person can detect changes in a melody.

  At the loudest explosion, the elevator stops abruptly. My legs feel like they're being pushed through the floor. Ser 5-9 does fall, knocking against Apollo and Tenna. Apollo grabs at the control panel and steadies himself.

  The explosions stop. We all take a simultaneous deep breath and I seem to feel the floor of the elevator swaying beneath me.

  "Are we falling?" I ask Apollo.

  "No. But something's loose somewhere. I don't know if—"

  "Captain Apolllloooo!" cries a voice below us. The sound is faint but clear. Apollo, amazed, looks at me.

  "That's Starbuck's voice," he says, then crouches down near the doorway and shouts downward, "We're up here, Starbuck. Can you hear me?"

  "Pretty good, Captain. Think I can see you. You're about fifty meters above us. Looks to me like there's a maintenance ledge about . . . about twenty meters below you. If you can get to that, there's a sort of ladder."

  "Okay, Starbuck, thanks. We'll be right down. Keep your people out of the way."

  Apollo stands.

  "Okay, Croft, what do you suggest?"

  "Blast a hole in the flooring first, then we'll descend by rope. I mean, rope we got in abundance, right?"

  "Just about my idea, too. Stand back, everybody."

  Aiming his laser pistol at a section of flooring, he quickly carves out a rough circle of metal. Holstering the laser, he then taps that part of the flooring with his ice-ax. It gives way easily and falls down the shaft. We hear the clank of it hitting the bottom even sooner than we'd hoped.

  "Okay," Apollo says to me. "Who should handle the belay?"

  "No need for a belay, Captain. I still have some of the fancy pitons."

  "I don't understand. How are you going to get out there into the shaft and push them into the rock, how—"

  "They hold in metal, too. Watch."

  I set the molecular-binding scale on the top of the piton to metal. Kneeling down, I drive them into the thick flooring in a semicircle. Going in, they sound good. They should hold. Leda, thinking ahead of me, has rope ready and attaches it to five carabiners, then snap-locks them to the five pitons. I test that each carabiner is securely locked to each piton and satisfy myself that they should hold the rope.

  "Good work," Apollo says. "Okay, I'll go first, test the holding power of the rope and—"

  "No, Captain," Leda interrupts. "We appreciate your bravado but—"

  "It's not bravado, it's common sense, as the leader of—"

  "It's hardly common sense. You showed us on the mountainside how experienced you were when it came to climbing. All due apologies, but the same goes for descending, Captain. Croft and I have better experience, more training. We'll go first. Is that all right with you, Croft?"

  "Of course it's all right."

  I have to struggle to keep joy out of my voice. Leda's asked me to team up with her again, even if only for this one task. Of course it's all right.

  "Ready, Croft?" Leda says, as she flings the coil of rope through the hole, then sets it for the stiff cablelike tensility.

  Leda seems normal again, like in the old days. Efficient, steady, eager to attack a task without pause.

  "Should we rope together?" I ask her.

  "No. Better to descend one person at a time. Safer that way, in case the conditions on the mountain affected the rope at any point."

  "Shall we toss for who goes first?"

  "No. I'm going first."

  "Leda, I'll—"

  "Croft, it's my play."

  She's appealing to my sense of leadership. If I tell her not to go first, she'll defer to me. But, on the other hand, she's telling me she's not only got the right to go first, but she has the best shot at doing it right. She's angling for an unselfish command decision. I have to give it to her.

  "All right, Leda. Take care."

  She smiles.

  "Sure thing," she says, and has grabbed the stiff rope and started descending before I can come up with a clever good-bye. I lie prone by the hole and watch her descend in the dim light cast by our lanterns and the interior illumination of the elevator. A crack of light can be seen crossing the bottom of the shaft. It's not a long descent to the bottom at all.

  "It's an easy rappel," Leda hollers up to us. "Easy. All of you, just dig your crampons in the wall and let your legs do the work. I have to. I forgot to wear my gloves, they're probably up there on the floor somewhere, and this rope's as rough as a rasp file. My hands're gonna be as raw as daggit-meat."

  "The rock jutting out below you, Leda, it looks loose," I holler.

  "Right. I see it. Thanks, Croft."

  Bouncing her feet off the wall sometimes, at other times digging the crampons in for a few careful steps, she slowly makes her way down the rope.

  "I think you're just about there, Leda."

  "Yeah. About another half meter."

  When she reaches the ledge, she gives a good kick at the side of the shaft wall and lands, clumsily but firmly, on the ledge.

  "All right, Croft," she hollers up. "Nothing to it. Come on down. I can anchor the rope from down here, so it'll be even easier for you, cragsman."

  Reacting quickly, I grab a section of the rope and ease myself out of the floor hole. Leda is right. The rappel is easy. Having watched her rappel, I can do it even faster. The rock I shove my crampons into is firm and I get good friction all the way down.

  I am about three meters from the ledge when I hear a reverberating rumble above me.

  "What's that?" Leda calls.

  "Another explosion. Or on
e big avalanche or quake on the mountain."

  I start scrambling down the rope. When I am near level with the ledge, the shaft starts trembling in reaction to the blast. Some rocks fall right by my head.

  "Swing yourself this way, Croft," Leda yells.

  I swing toward her. She grabs my leg, eases me down toward the ledge. The noise in the shaft grows louder. More rocks break loose from the shaft wall. Leda grabs my left hand with her right. My right is still on the rope. As my foot touches the surface of the ledge, there is another frightening rumble and I feel the ledge breaking away beneath my feet. Clinging to the rope, I try to tighten my grip on Leda's hand. She tries to do the same, but neither of us can quite coordinate. Her hand, raw and bleeding, slips a bit in my glove, but she manages to hold on. She flings out her feet, trying to get them onto the piece of ledge that's left. I try to get leverage to help her swing, but can't. My arm feels stretched, hanging from the rope. Another try by Leda for the ledge fails, although her foot briefly touches its edge. Now she's hanging below me. Dangling.

  "Grab a piece of the rope!" I holler.

  She reaches toward it with her left hand, puts her fingers around it, seems to grip it.

  "Don't let go of me yet!" I cry, but she is already letting go. I don't know whether she intends to grab the stiff rope with both hands or whether her right hand, too raw to hold on, just slips out of my glove. Whatever, she has also lost her grip on the rope. She begins to slide downward. She makes a grab at the rope with her free hand, but misses. Then both hands are off the rope and she is falling.

  I remember her falling away from me in my nightmare. This fall is nothing like the one in the dream. It is quick, and her scream echoes through the shaft even after her body has struck the bottom.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX