I try to take my mind off it. Looking up, I can see the rescue ship hovering beneath the cloud cover. Dimly outlined in the darkness, it seems like a somber queen bee, with the smaller vipercraft buzzing around it like drones.
I have to put on an extra rush to catch up to Apollo and Ser 5-9. Just ahead of us is the Cylon airfield, next to the wrecked command post. A group of the clone children are gathering at the edge of it. Apollo runs up to them, shouting:
"Where's Boxey?"
There's a desperation in his voice I've never heard before. A child answers:
"We don't know. He told us to hide in the ships. He went on ahead there."
The child points to the front rank of Cylon aircraft. Suddenly a fighter behind us starts throbbing with power. Ahead of us five ships in the front rank rev up. Apollo runs toward them, Ser 5-9 and I following a few steps behind. As we get near the five ships in front, the hatch of one of them squeezes open and what comes out of it but the kid's daggit-droid! The hatch springs shut behind it, as it scampers up to Apollo, barking loudly. Apollo seems to understand the bloody droid-animal.
"What is it?" I ask Apollo.
"Boxey's in there, I think. He must be, if Muffit was. In that ship. It's a ghost ship."
"What's a—"
Before I can finish the question, Apollo whirls around and starts running toward the ghost ship—just as it begins to lift off the ground. We're all forced backward by the swirling tornado in its wake.
I'm recovering my balance as Apollo grabs my arm and starts pulling me toward the nearest Cylon fighter. All of the ghost ships are in the air now. Stopping by the fighter, he turns to Ser 5-9, yells:
"Throw your mountaineering equipment aboard, then get to Ravashol! Have him send a message to that shuttle that Boxey's in one of the ghost ships. Hurry!"
Ser 5-9, reacting immediately, is hurling mountaineering equipment aboard the Cylon ship before Apollo finishes his orders. First there's his pack, then his ice-ax, then a whole package of pitons—he must have been hoarding them. Apollo, after dumping his climbing material onto the pile, pulls me onto the fighter. Ser 5-9's coil of rope follows me aboard; then the clone turns on his heels and sprints off. He is surprisingly agile for a big man running on an ice surface.
Apollo is busy monkeying with some wires beneath the control panel of the Cylon craft.
"You can really fly one of these things?" I yell.
"In theory."
"In theory! You mean you've never—"
"No."
I glance around me. The insides of the ship are weird, all pinwheels and improbably rounded gears, and other things I can't begin to make out. I turn back and stare at Apollo, trying to keep my mouth from hanging open.
"There," he says, getting up and taking the pilot seat.
"There what?"
"The controls are easy, but they're keyed to imprints of electronic wiring inside Cylon gloves. Fixing those wires should inform the monitoring devices that I'm a Cylon."
"Listen, Apollo, you're so alien to me right now, you're beginning to look like a Cylon."
He doesn't bother to respond, but fingers a couple of buttons and levers. The fighter kicks into action. I find myself falling into a copilot seat at the upward thrust of the ship.
Above us, I can see a ghost ship in the middle of blowing up. I glance over at Apollo. The strange controls are keeping him busy; he hasn't time to comment. I wonder what I'm doing here, and why he'd insisted on shoving me into this ship. His eyes look insane with desperation. What in bloody Scorpia is he planning? I think I don't want to know.
As we zoom upward, I watch two ghost ships, apparently guided by the fighter that's staying to the rear, suddenly zero in on the rescue shuttle, one from above, the other from below. The one going after the shuttle's underbelly is knocked out by a pair of vipers, but the other one very nearly succeeds in blowing up the rescue ship. It's stopped by two vipers, who are themselves caught and destroyed by the subsequent explosion. Other vipers seem on course to attack the remaining two ghost ships.
"No, don't, don't . . ." Apollo mutters.
Suddenly all the vipers peel away from the shuttle.
"Ser 5-9 got through to Ravashol," Apollo shouts. "They know Boxey's in one of those last two ships."
I almost don't want to say it, but I do:
"How do you know Boxey wasn't in one of the ships that went down?"
"I've kept track of the markings on the ship he was in. It's the one up there on the right."
I look where he points. That particular ship has left the other one now and is heading right toward the rescue shuttle. For a moment it looks like it's going to crash right into the front of the shuttle, but at the last moment the shuttle dips and flies under the ghost ship. The ghost ship flies up into the cloud cover. Just before it enters the clouds, its course is already being redirected by the guidance ship.
"Okay, good," Apollo says. "Whoever's flying the shuttle's an expert. That was precision flying!"
"I'm sure it was. But what good's it going to do? If I get you right, that Cylon thing's got a warhead and it's not going to stop searching out the—"
"We're going to have to stop it. We're going to have to get Boxey out of there."
Did I hear what I heard?
"Just how do you propose to—"
"Tell ya in a flash. Just let me take care of that other ghost ship before it gets the shuttle."
Manipulating the strange controls with a tense efficiency, Apollo heads for the other ghost ship, which is now bearing down on the shuttle. The shuttle has just pulled out of its dive, but it manages to veer off rightward to evade the attack of the warhead-equipped fighter. Before the ghost ship can have its course redirected toward the shuttle, Apollo dives our ship right at it, then pushes a multilined template in front of him. Laser fire shoots out from the front of our ship. A few tongues of flame, and the ghost ship is a real ghost now. I hope Apollo was right about which ship Boxey's in.
The last ghost ship comes back out of the clouds. It's heading directly for the highside of the shuttle. It looks like there's no chance the rescue ship can get out of the way, but at the last possible moment it surges forward with a blast of power and the ghost ship goes unsinged through its flaming wake. The ghost ship goes into a deep dive. Apollo mutters:
"No, it can't crash. It can't—"
It doesn't. The attacker is pulled out and buzzes the ground. If Boxey is really in it, he must be having one hell of a fun ride. That Cylon pilot's showing considerable skills at precision flying by remote.
Apollo turns to me, talks quickly:
"Okay, Croft, it's up to you now."
"Up to me what?"
"Listen and don't interrupt. The climbing stuff, you know how to use it. Anchor the rope here, and climb down to the ghost ship, get Boxey out with your fancy equipment. That's it. It's our only chance."
"It's not even a chance, it's—"
"Do it!"
The desperation in his voice puts an end to it. Sure, I'll do it, I say to myself even as I start gathering the equipment, what do I care? I might as well die, too, like Leda. Even as I contemplate my own death, I work out a plan. It probably won't work, it shouldn't, but I don't like to try anything this dumb without a plan. Why shouldn't it work? All I've got to do is work my way down to a ghost ship that's engaged in attacking a shuttle while the revered Captain Apollo keeps still another ship that he's never flown before steady enough for me to do my job without falling from the rope to the icy surface below. I can do that, can't I?
As I anchor the rope to an ice-ax which I've wedged between the base of the copilot seat and another jutting piece of ship whose function I can't even guess, I notice that the belay's no worse than some I've set up on mountainsides. I tell Apollo a few hand signals I'll be using that'll let him know how to fly while I'm operating below. Then I grab three molecular-binding pitons, and using my famous Scorpion slip knot on each, I connect them all with a length of rope. Attaching an
other piece of rope to a second ice-ax, I coil it and secure it on my shoulder. I check to verify that my laser pistol is still in my holster. Taking still more rope, and with a few more applications of my famous Scorpion knot-work, I jerry-rig several loops at the end of the climbing rope I'm going to use. Some of the loops are small enough to slip a boot into, which is exactly what I intend to slip into them. Another two loops are big enough to fit me rather snugly, albeit without much style, at chest and waist levels. I weight down the main climbing rope with a lot of junk I find around the interior of the Cylon ship. Apollo keeps looking over his shoulder, as if to say: Aren't you ever going to be ready?
"Good flying!" he shouts suddenly. Apparently the pilot of the shuttle has executed another great maneuver! Swell!
After setting the rope to its stiffer cablelike tension and kicking open the side hatch of the Cylon fighter, I throw the rope out the hatch. The weight at the rope end keeps the rope from dragging directly behind the ship, but the angle downward still looks less than favorable to me.
"Check with you later, Apollo," I scream, and don't wait for his answer. Grabbing the rope and gripping it tightly, I hurl myself backward out of the open hatch of the ship.
As I descend I try not to notice the intense cold, the fierce wind, the memories of Leda clinging to the rope in the elevator shaft. The cold and wind are easy enough to ignore—they're no worse than on some mountains—but the memories of Leda are hard to dispel.
I reach the bottom weighted area of the rope and slip my booted feet into two of the loops I'd knotted. Looking down, I can see the ghost ship below me. It's heading toward the shuttle again. Somehow Apollo's keeping pace with it. Concentrating on the ghost ship itself, I'm only half aware of the evasion maneuver of the shuttle. Waving my hand in the gesture telling Apollo to descend closer, I then watch the ghost ship come toward me. Suddenly I'm right next to it. I have to act fast, since I don't know when the Cylon guidance pilot might pull the ship away from me. Checking that the chest and waist loops are secure, I quickly slip my body into them, thus freeing my hands to work. I gesture to Apollo to edge me closer to the ghost ship. He does. I jam the three pitons, set on metal penetration, into the side hatch of the ship. Just in time. Before I can do anything about attaching the ice-ax to the rope linking the pitons, the ship seems to drift away from me, the hatch now out of reach. That's okay; I figured on that. I take out my pistol and quickly but deliberately fire toward the hatch. Although I'm not up on the technology of the superstructure of this bloody ghost ship, I place the shots where the locking mechanism and single hinge of an ordinary Cylon spacecraft hatch should be. My shots seem to be accurate, at least the abstractly designed scorch marks at each area look right.
Well, lucky so far. The wind tearing at my clothing makes me realize just how fast we're going, and for a moment I am terrified. I'm putting my life on the line, just trusting Apollo's piloting skills. Well, he came quite well recommended, I try to tell myself.
As the ghost ship makes another run at the shuttle, it passes very close to where I'm hanging. I get a good view of the cockpit. The kid's in there, all right. He's enjoying himself! He's all wide-eyed and excited.
Apollo pulls up slightly and follows the ghost ship's run. Again the shuttle executes a smooth evasive action. Following the path of the ghost ship, I signal Apollo to lower and move to the left, which he does smoothly. This time the hatch is just out of reach. Okay. I slip the ice-ax in its coil of rope off my shoulder. Feeding out just a bit of the rope, I then fling the ice-ax toward the pitons on the hatch. First time, it just misses and I have to reel it back in like a fishing line. Taking a deep breath first, I then throw the ice-ax again. This time its point catches hold of the rope linking the pitons, its long surface hooked snugly onto two of the connecting strands. Replacing the coil of rope on my shoulder and taking a firm hold on my end of the section of the rope leading to the ice-ax, I signal to Apollo to slide rightward abruptly, away from the ghost ship. The rope jerks tight and for a moment I don't know if it's going to hold; then suddenly there is a loud cracking sound and the hatch pulls away from the ship, and begins to plunge downward. I shake the coil of rope off my shoulder before the heavy weight of the hatch can break off any piece of my anatomy, and don't even bother to watch it all hurtle to the ground.
The hole left behind in the ship is more jagged than I'd have expected. Apparently the hatch pulled away pieces surrounding it. Quickly I slip out of the chest and waist loops and grab onto the climbing rope. After signaling Apollo to head back toward the ghost ship, I grip the rope with both hands and release my boots from the footholds. As Apollo executes the sweep toward the ghost ship, I kick back with my legs as hard as I can under the circumstances, then forward. My aim has got to be just right. The side of the ghost ship comes close to me much too fast, and I don't have time to think. All I can do is swing my legs outward, aiming for the hole in the side of the ship. Apollo holds the Cylon fighter steady. I almost miss, anyway. My leg scrapes a jagged edge of the hole as both legs begin to go through. Letting the force of the swing carry me, I let go the climbing rope and plunge through the unevenly shaped but wide opening. I don't know why I don't break every bone in my body, as I hit the opposite wall and bounce back toward the other side, just missing going out again through the jagged hole which I'd so clumsily entered.
I lie on the floor of the ship, trying to catch my breath, trying to make some part of my body move. Suddenly the kid is standing over me, each of his eyes as large as the hatchway opening. Beyond him, I can see Apollo's ship hovering high above the cockpit.
"Where'd you come from?" Boxey says.
I reject all the bad jokes I could make for a reply to that question and just say:
"From up there, kid."
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
It was all Athena could do to keep from watching the rescue attempt of Apollo and Croft. Instead, she kept her attention on the controls, carefully timing her evasive maneuvers each time the ghost ship approached. It seemed that each escape from it was narrower than the one before. She could hardly believe she'd heard right when an officer reported that Croft had jumped from the rope and through the open ghost-ship hatchway. She now understood completely why the computer had kicked back Croft's name during the search for personnel. She was also glad that Apollo had worked himself onto the mission roster. There were a lot of good pilots in the Galactica squadrons, but with the possible exceptions of Starbuck and Boomer, only Apollo could have flown a strange ship with that much accuracy and precision. Well, as far as precision flying went, she wasn't doing too bad herself, she thought, as she plunged the shuttle downward to evade another diving attack.
"What's happening out there?" she asked the crew member who was keeping track.
"Nothing. No, wait. Something. The guy just made some gesture out that hole. Apollo's bringing his ship closer, the rope's right next to the hole. The guy's coming out. He's carrying something, like a big pack. It's Boxey, I think, it looks like Boxey, and they're both on the rope now, clinging to it."
"Confirm that it is Boxey, please."
The crewman squinted at a picture on the monitor, then shouted joyously:
"Confirmed! It's Boxey, all right!"
"How far are they away from the ghost ship?"
"Not far. No, wait. Apollo's ship is slowly veering to port. He's carrying them away."
"Are they out of range of any explosion?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Confirm they are out of range."
The crewman paused before answering.
"Out of range. Confirmed."
"Escort leader!"
The voice of the escort officer came over the commline:
"Yes, Ensign Athena?"
"Destroy that ghost ship. And the guidance ship, too. Both of them. Immediately."
She watched the ghost ship explode with great pleasure. Other vipers from the escort chased after the guidance ship, which now dived toward the ground. A shot from on
e of the vipers crossed the Cylon ship highside, and it began to wobble. Incredibly, the Cylon pilot was able to keep it steady for a crash landing on the Cylon surface. A clear view of the Cylon ship became lost in the swirling snow created by the crash landing.
In the distance Athena could see Apollo descending his ship carefully, delicately, toward the airfield, Croft and Boxey hanging from the rope. The rope seemed to just touch the ground when Croft, holding onto Boxey, jumped off and went into a gentle roll along the ground. After a moment of lying there, both Croft and Boxey stood up and shook themselves off. Boxey leaped up at Croft's chest and hugged him. Even from this height, it looked to Athena as if Croft didn't mind.
An aide distracted Athena's attention from the events below by telling her that Commander Adama was on the commline and wanted to talk to her.
"Yes, Commander."
"I just wanted to tell you—good work. We were . . . impressed with the flying skills of you and Captain Apollo."
"Yes, sir. I'm taking the rescue unit in now for a landing."
"You'll have to make it quick. The Cylon pursuit force is still on our tail, and we won't be able to keep them at a distance for long."
Athena resisted smiling until the image of her father had faded from the screen. The guarded praise he'd given her had been worth all the medals in the fleet.
"Prepare to land," she ordered her crew.
Beside the rescue shuttle, Ravashol gripped Apollo's shoulders and said his farewells.
"Peace be with you, Apollo. May you reach your destination."
"Peace be with you, father-creator," Apollo replied.
Apollo and Ser 5-9 embraced.
Battlestar Galactica 2 - The Cylon Death Machine Page 23