[Battlestar Galactica Classic 02] - The Cylon Death Machine

by Glen A. Larson

  “Is that any way to greet a fellow warrior?”

  Apollo looks disgusted at Starbuck, says:

  “I thought I left you in charge.”

  “I made a command decision to reconnoiter.”

  Starbuck edges into the room. He’s wearing a clone worker outfit, and it’s filthy with dust. Apollo reaches out and touches the fur, then examines the dirt that comes off on his fingers. Ser 5-9 and a couple of the Tennas follow Starbuck into the room, looking quite downcast.

  “What happened?” Apollo asks.

  “Didn’t you hear?”

  “I thought I heard something when I was rushing back here through the corridors, but—”

  “It was a big explosion. Thane’s work. He’s dead.”

  I glance at Wolfe and Leda. None of us speak. The old code: never show emotion when you hear one of your kind’s been killed. Apollo studies all our faces for reactions to Starbuck’s news. I’m glad we don’t show him anything. We all learned long ago you get no prizes for compassion.

  Starbuck tells about the explosion. I have to say I’m impressed. I always knew Thane had no regard for human life, but I always thought he had some regard for his own. Still, he’s dead by his own choice, and that’s the kind of control he always demanded.

  “One thing sure,” Starbuck finishes, “he didn’t betray us on the mission.”

  The mission. I almost forgot that part of it. I counted on Thane to help me lay the solenite. He knew more about the stuff than I do. Without him, that puts us all a couple of steps closer to our own deaths. In the mission plan Leda’s backup to Thane in helping me with placing the demolitions. That should be cozy. Well, she may kill me while we’re working together, but she does know something about laying down the solenite.

  “We’ve got a problem,” Apollo declares.

  “Tell me something I—” Starbuck starts, but gets a mean look from Apollo and stops. “Yes, sir. A problem.”

  “Ravashol says our best chance is a—”

  “The father-creator helped you!” Ser 5-9 blurts out, astonished and pleased.

  “Yes. We’ve worked out a simultaneous-attack strategy. It’s our best chance.”

  Using maps supplied by Ravashol, Apollo explains the layout at the top of Mount Hekla and at the foothills garrison. Then he gets down to brass tacks:

  “There’re three phases to the assault and they must be coordinated precisely. Croft, Wolfe, Leda, and myself will make the ascent up Hekla. After we reach the top, Croft and Leda will take care of planting the explosives. At the same time, Wolfe and I’ll take on the small guard stationed there, and keep them out of the way of Croft and Leda, then—”

  “You’re taking Wolfe in with you, Captain?” Starbuck asks.

  “That’s right.”

  All of us look toward Wolfe. He looks as mean and surly and insubordinate as ever. I were Apollo, I wouldn’t take him anywhere.

  Starbuck doesn’t know where to turn.

  “But, Captain, respectfully, I think Wolfe should be assigned to another part of the assault. I’ll go with you up the mountain.”

  “No, Starbuck, you’re in charge of attacking the main garrison, so they can’t respond to any calls and interrupt our little task on Hekla.”

  “But, Captain—”

  “No more buts. Wolfe has extensive climbing experience, you don’t. And don’t hand me any of that bilge about you and Boomer being stationed on some ice planet somewhere. You and I both know how that little detail found its way into your records. This mission is too important for me to have to be crawling down crevasses to get you out. Your job will be to strike the garrison—with the help of Ser 5-9 and a contingent of his best fighters. You have to render any Cylon rescue teams inoperable, especially keep them from launching an attack on us from the airfield. Then, you have to get to the underground complex below the garrison, and get through the tunnel there and encounter the Cylon troops guarding the elevator. It’s located at this point on the map. Our best escape route from the emplacement is down that elevator. If we try to go down the mountain, we’ll more than likely be killed by the explosion or buried in its debris. I don’t want any Cylons waiting for us by the elevator when we get down there. Okay, Starbuck?”

  “We won’t let you down.”

  “I’m counting on your success. The survival of the rest of us depends on your gaining control of that elevator.”

  Starbuck nods, but his face still shows concern. Can’t say as I blame him. I don’t even know if I could control Wolfe on a run-in like that. Apollo better keep all ten eyes on Wolfe.

  Ser 5-9 steps forward and speaks in his formal voice:

  “Captain. I can delegate someone to join the attack squad on the main garrison, and lead those troops of our people. My real usefulness to you is on the mountain. Tenna”—he points to the nearest Tenna—“and I have considerable experience on that mountain. We can help you cut your time in half.”

  “No, Ser 5-9, I don’t want to risk you on the mountain. Your people’ll need your leadership and—”

  “Captain Apollo,” I interrupt, “we do need someone of Ser 5-9’s abilities on Hekla. Remember, we’ve never seen it, never had a chance to scout the terrain up close. It’s like he said. He may know the trails, the chimneys, the easy slopes—he can save us a lot of time.”

  Apollo lets all this bounce around inside his head for a moment, then nods in agreement.

  “All right,” he says. “Let’s set our timepieces.”

  We all look at the chronometers supplied us by the Galactica quartermaster. I never could make out how to use one, but I fake the synchronization anyway, and I press my button when Apollo tells us to start timers. After the synchronization ritual, Apollo gets grim, tightens his mouth, and says:

  “We’ll reach the top and start our attack in exactly eighty-five centons.”

  “Captain,” I say, “it takes me eighty-five centons just to lace my boots.”

  God, the look he gives me is so hard I couldn’t drive a piton into it.

  “We must reach the top in eighty-five centons,” he says. “The Galactica will be moving forward after that.”

  “You say so, Captain,” I say, then mutter to Ser 5-9: “You guys don’t know any shortcuts, you’ll have to throw us to the top.”

  Ser 5-9 smiles. A revelation: clones have a sense of humor. I’m glad he’s joining us.

  “You’re the key down here, Starbuck, you and Boomer,” Apollo says. “We can’t get down the elevator, we blow up with the gun. For all our sakes, Starbuck, don’t be late!”

  Again Starbuck reacts to a mean look from the captain; then he says:

  “No, sir. We’ll be there.”

  As I test all twelve points of each crampon before attaching them to my climbing shoes, I feel the kind of fear I felt during my preparations for every tough climb I’ve had to make. It’s a good sign.

  Ser 5-9 brings us out a cave set in the foothills of the mountain. Surrounded by high boulders and snowdrifts, we can’t be seen from the main Cylon garrison. I turn around and look up at Hekla. Although not a high mountain in the usual mountaineering judgment of height, it is still awesome, since it rises from a relative flatland, with no easy smaller mountains or hills to make the approach to it gradual.

  Like the best mountains I’ve seen, Hekla looks designed. Its slopes and angles seem freshly handled by a master sculptor who’ll never grow tired of altering the look of it. Although this mountain’s surfaces do not change their colors with the seasons and the position of a sun in the sky, its dark gray cast is varied with mysterious, and mysteriously attractive, shadows. The howling winds and the irregular plumes of blowing snow make Hekla all the more mysterious and terrifying. As the bitter cold begins to penetrate the many layers of my clothing, I feel more confident about the whole escapade. Well, if not confident, at least more buoyant in spirits. Like all experienced cragsmen, I long for the challenge of a mountain such as Hekla. The pain it will cause, the imminence of sudd
en death, the possibility of exhaustion and defeat—they’re all part of the challenge. My body begins to long for the pain, the exhaustion, the cold. Maybe even the death, since I’d rather die huddled in the niche of a mountain than spread out in the most luxurious cell a prison has to offer.

  Silently we all work on readying the ropes and harnesses. I check out the pitons, carabiners, ice-axes. In spite of the clinging material of our parka hoods, intruding snow and ice start to form cliffs and overhangs on the geography of our faces. Breathers might have protected our faces more, but there was no evidence, or even likelihood, of di-ethene on the mountain, so I’d argued against them. Breathers could get too easily clogged in a mountainside blizzard. I remember long ago coming across a climber just resting against a rock, smothered because his breather had iced over.

  The storm noise around is so loud I don’t hear Wolfe and Leda approach me. When I glance up, the two are just standing there, examining me with looks that suggest they’ve already decided the answers to questions they haven’t gotten around to asking yet.

  Wolfe speaks first:

  “One of the clones told me there’s a supply ship at an airfield at the top of the mountain, behind the pulsar emplacement.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Apollo told me about that. He thought we might be able to make our escape in it but, since he didn’t know whether it would be there or if we could operate it, he’s put it in our plan only on a contingency basis.”

  “Well, I can pilot one of those Cylon crates. Remember, I learned for the platinum raid? I say, when we get to the top, we grab the ship.”

  “And go where? How long do you think it will be before the Galactica hunts us down?”

  “The Galactica is the hunted. Adama’s not going to waste a squadron trying to track down three escaped convicts.”

  “He knows that,” Leda says contemptuously. “You also know that, if we bug out on the mission, the chances are the Galactica’s not going to be in any shape to hunt us down.”

  “We can’t let them die, we can’t—”

  “Since when are your loyalties with your jailers?” Leda says. “The Galactica and the whole fleet are finished.”

  “They will be if we don’t knock that weapon out.”

  Leda steps back, looks at me as if I’m a painting that she doesn’t want to buy because its surface layer is cracking apart.

  “That’s right,” she says, “they’ll all be destroyed. And we’ll be free. Don’t give me any of that bilge about how this planet’s too hostile an environment—anything’s better so long as you’re free. We’ll find another planet. Starlos isn’t all that far. We can pick up food, water, fuel. Go anywhere. C’mon, Croft, are you with us?”

  All I can think is she really wants me to come with them. Maybe we can get together again. Maybe it’ll be like the old days—the cheerfulness, the joking around, the love. Looking into her gelid eyes, it’s hard to see any possibility of cheer, love, or jokes reviving there, but there’s always a chance.

  “Are you going to turn your back on freedom, Croft? Again?”

  Her words go through me more fiercely than the piercing winds of the mountain. She’s blaming me for my failure, my ineptitude during our confrontation with Adama’s warriors right before our capture. I had had their pursuing ship in my sights and had not been able to fire.

  “I couldn’t shoot down colonial warriors,” I say to Leda now. It was what I’d said to her then, too.

  “I know,” she says, hate in her voice. “The code. The bloodline. And for your compassion they chained you like an animal. Now’s your chance. Our chance. One last time, my husband.”

  What can I say to her? She knows if I don’t respond to that last plea, I’ll never agree to their plan. And she’s right, it is our chance. I thought I’d trade my soul to have Leda back. Now that the opportunity is here, and my soul isn’t even on the line, I am no longer so sure. Or perhaps my soul is on the line and that’s why I feel so empty.

  Wolfe leans toward me, says:

  “Are you with us?”

  If I say yes, I win Leda back. If I say no, I not only lose her but we’ll blow the mission—Leda and Wolfe’ll make their move without me, Apollo and I’ll wind up dead, and so much for saving the fleet from the damn laser gun. I can’t say no at all, whether it’s truthful or not. With a certain feeling of relief at postponing the real decision, I accede to their plan.

  “I’m with you.”

  As I look again up the majestic sculpturesque slopes of the mountain, and consider how futile this mission seems, I realize that maybe I am telling Leda and Wolfe the truth.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “It’s about time we moved out,” Boomer said. “We haven’t much time.”

  Starbuck, peering at his chronometer, nodded.

  “I’ll be ready,” he said grimly.

  Boomer frowned.

  “What’s on your mind, old buddy? You and Apollo’ve been about as tight-lipped as—”

  “It’s Cree,” Starbuck said. “The Cylon commander told Ravashol they had a prisoner.”

  “Sure, Thane, but he’s dead.”

  “No, this was before Thane was caught. They already had a prisoner. It’s got to be Cree, couldn’t be anybody else.”

  “You have any idea where they’re holding him?”

  “No. The maps Apollo brought back don’t indicate any prisoner-detention areas. But I’m going to find Cree somehow.”

  Boomer sighed.

  “Look, bucko, I know you’re upset about losing those cadets, but get it through your head it wasn’t your fault. There’s no reason to turn this job into a lousy crusade just for—”

  “He’s somewhere in the Cylon underground complex, Boom-boom. I’m sure of it.”

  “Well, let’s keep an eye out for him, then. The both of us.”

  Starbuck smiled at Boomer.

  “Thanks, old buddy.”

  “Forget the thanks. Let’s get hopping.”

  “Right. As soon as I give our rear-force officer his instructions.”

  “Our rear—oh, I get you. I’ll wait for you by the door.”

  Starbuck walked to Boxey and knelt beside him. Muffit tried to squeeze into the embrace the lieutenant gave the child.

  “Okay, Boxey,” Starbuck said, “as a colonial warrior, first class, I’m leaving you in charge of these children. They need somebody who knows the ropes. You and Muffit have to protect them by keeping them all together. Don’t make a sound, no matter what you hear.”

  Boxey frowned.

  “What will I hear?”

  “We’re going to be making some noise. Then we’ll be back for you. For all of you.”

  Starbuck stood up, started for the door.

  “Take care of my father,” Boxey said.

  “I’ll do that.”

  In the corridor outside, they were joined by one of the Tennas—which one, Starbuck wasn’t sure. He had seen so many of them now. When he’d dozed off once, he’d had a dream in which hundreds of Tennas seemed to be approaching him, all with their arms out, inviting him to love. This Tenna looked afraid.

  “Something’s bothering you,” Starbuck said to her. “What is it?”

  “I don’t wish to betray my people.”

  “I was right then. Something is wrong. Are they bugging out of attacking the garrison?”

  “No. They will help you destroy the Cylon garrison.”

  “Then what is it?”

  She paused, seemed to wish she could disappear into one of the niches along the corridor, then let out her breath and said:

  “The planners have been at them. Now they want to stop you and your team from destroying the pulsar weapon.”

  Starbuck nearly groaned in agony and despair. He had suffered the meddling interferences of bureaucrats before. They always seemed to come up with some reason for wavering from a goal; perhaps it was their specialty.

  “How will they stop us?” Starbuck asked Tenna. “Apollo and the others will be
setting the charges while we’re taking the garrison and the elevator.”

  “I’m not sure. I think they plan on using the elevator themselves, after you get control, then going up and talking Apollo out of the destruction of the gun.”

  “Then they have a lousy sense of timing. They’ll never be able to—”

  “Maybe, maybe not. All I know is that they’ll try to stop you by whatever means they can. Here, they’re waiting in this chamber.”

  “Well, let’s talk to them.”

  Starbuck’s voice was grim, determined. The room into which Tenna took him and Boomer was wide and high. Nevertheless, it seemed packed with planners and worker clones. A worker clone who identified himself as Ser 7-12 stepped forward, his feet planted firmly apart, appearing ready to confront Starbuck. Starbuck asked for the group’s attention and said:

  “Before we rush into anything rash, let’s understand what our objectives are.”

  “The Cylon garrison,” Ser 7-12 said.

  “That’s right. We have to knock it out and gain control of the elevator area within twenty centons or the Galactica is lost. We have to rescue our team from blowing up with half the mountain.”

  Starbuck took a pause, giving Ser 7-12 a hard stare, challenging the clone leader to reveal his mutinous attitudes. Ser 7-12 replied in a cautious and quiet voice:

  “We will help you attack the garrison, as we’ve agreed. Many of us here will be pleased to help you kill Cylons. But the pulsar weapon belongs to us and should be preserved intact.”

  “Keep that gun, and the Galactica will be blown out of the sky.”

  Behind Ser 7-12, a group of the planners kept a watchful eye on the confrontation. Suddenly they parted their rank, and another man, an older man, was revealed standing behind them. The old man’s attention seemed elsewhere. Starbuck wondered if he was some kind of older planner.

  “If the gun is destroyed, so are we,” Ser 7-12 said. “Once news of our revolt reaches a Cylon outpost or base-ship, they will come here in their fighters to destroy us. Our only hope is in turning the weapon against them. You of the Galactica and its fleet will have accomplished your heroics and will be gone. What’s left then to us? We will be here alone. Defenseless. Unless we have the pulsar cannon to repel them.”